amid debauchery, disputes, murder and suicide, McLaren discovered that Branson, to secure his investment, had excluded him from the management of the surviving group. ‘He’s a dangerous man in court,’ was Steven Fisher’s brief assessment. Rushing to court in August 1978 to protect his property, McLaren found himself outclassed by his partner. His losses were Branson’s profits, financial and tactical. The victor understood the commercial advantage of using the courts. It was part of the formula for survival and success.
During that period, Branson was also ‘piggybacking’ on the vogue for reggae music and welcomed the chance to distribute Atra records, a black label owned by Brent Clarke, a Caribbean. Reggae records had become profitable in Nigeria and Branson was particularly interested in Keith Hudson, a singer contracted to Clarke. By 1976, Clarke suspected that Branson might try to lift Hudson and feared that Virgin’s accounts of Atra sales were inaccurate. A crude check of how many records Virgin had sold suggested discrepancies. ‘You owe us money,’ Brent Clarke told the Virgin accountants to no response. Branson preferred not to take Clarke’s telephone calls. Irritated, Brent and his brother Sebastian called at Branson’s home. The businessman was assaulted and fled.
Branson was terrified. In agitated tones, he confessed to Al Clark, his sophisticated publicist, ‘I escaped with my life.’ To his closest employees, Branson appeared to be shaken and deflated by the rancour. But Branson was not prepared to concede defeat.
After complaining to the police, Branson arranged to meet the brothers at the Back-a-Yard café on the Portobello Road. In what seemed to be a stilted conversation, the brothers explained their case unaware that Branson was carrying a tape recorder provided by the police officers. After thirty minutes, a group of policemen charged into the café and arrested the brothers. Both were accused of demanding money with menaces. ‘You’re only accepting his word,’ shouted Sebastian Clarke, ‘because he’s white and we’re black.’ Branson smiled but by the time he arrived at the Old Bailey to testify, he seemed uninterested in the case. His testimony was rejected by the jury and the Clarkes were acquitted. The brothers’ euphoria was tempered by their financial plight. By then, Clarke’s business was bankrupt.
The ringmaster did not fear any criticism from his cabal. Most were unaware of the entrapment and prosecution of the Clarkes. In the social and economic misery created by the Labour government, Virgin was a sanctuary where music and enjoyment were a lifestyle. Those gathered around Branson were innocent and even unconcerned about his lurches from persecutor to poacher to self-professed victim. Virgin’s employees were simply grateful to the catalyst for their licence to play. Branson himself was, it appeared, preoccupied with winning the battle for financial survival.
Emboldened by his restored finances, Branson was searching for new acquisitions. Established stars were offered huge amounts to switch allegiance. The Marchess group, negotiating with Dave Robinson of Stiff Records, were told by Branson, ‘I’ll pay you double whatever Robinson is offering.’ Melody Maker featured his announcement that Devo, an American new wave band contracted to Warner Brothers, had signed with Virgin. The announcement prompted Warner Brothers to issue a writ seeking to restrain Virgin from inducing a breach of contract and infringing Warner’s copyright. The articled clerk employed to deliver the writ found Branson in bed with two girls. Five weeks later, Warner Brothers was awarded an injunction. ‘I just want you to know,’ smiled Branson at the end of the trial, ‘that you’ve hung me on a precedent set by my grandfather.’ In 1938, Warner’s lawyers discovered, Judge Branson had found against Bette Davis, the actress, in similar circumstances. His calm acceptance of defeat was impressive. Similar to his fearless approach to money and debt, Branson’s undaunted use of the law ranked him as a potential big player.
‘Injunct them,’ he announced in a humourless voice back on the houseboat. Rough Trade, he discovered, a small distributor of records, was selling bootlegs of a Virgin recording. ‘I’m going to get them. Put out a press release and call Harbottle’s,’ he ordered his assistant. The organiser of the Sex Pistols antics had forgotten that Virgin Records owed its existence partly to selling bootlegs. ‘Rough Trade will be ruined,’ his adviser mentioned. Branson paused. He gazed at his two other shabbily furnished barges moored nearby, The Arthur for parties and another houseboat as a private bolt-hole. He enjoyed the barges’ discreet testaments to his wealth. ‘It’s hardly good publicity,’ continued his adviser, ‘when The Sunday Times is preparing its first profile of you.’ ‘Okay,’ agreed Branson reluctantly. The writ was not issued. His attention had switched to The Sunday Times’ interview. He would, he decided, meet the journalist in jeans and barefoot on the houseboat.
The backdrop of Little Venice for a hippie millionaire was brilliant theatre for impressionable journalists and he agreed to meet only the most susceptible. He encouraged profiles of himself as the genial, happy-go-lucky face of capitalism, a ‘man of the future’, disguising his workaholic craving for success with the informal backdrop of his humble home. His genius was to disarm any accusations of disingenuity. A handful of sceptics were silenced by his unaffected warmth and the hilarious anecdotes repeated among his loyal employees about Branson’s parties and pranks, and about the spectacular antics performed on the unsuspecting on April Fool’s Day. Virgin’s association with fun won Branson admirers but, like so many clowns performing in the public arena, there were signs of the conductor’s deep-rooted unease.
A recent Branson performance – sitting naked on the roof of the manor to attract the attention of a TV cameraman away from XTC playing below to one hundred employees and friends – had aroused embarrassment but he had been oblivious to his guests’ sentiment. Frequently, he thrust his nudity and sexuality into the public arena. All his staff, he was certain, were enthralled by his regular bulletins to anyone passing through the office about his painful circumcision conducted after a misdiagnosed illness; and he delighted in the playground humour of secretaries leaving pornography on his desk or flashing their naked breasts. Attracting attention had become a balm to fill the vacuum of a failing marriage evident by the relationships which both he and Kristen were enjoying with others.
The marriage reached its crisis on his houseboat at the end of a drunken meal cooked by Kristen. Their guests, Kevin Ayers, an older, sophisticated rock musician, and Cyrille, his wife, had met Branson at a party, ‘a rich middle-class affair with all the usual drink, drugs and rock and roll’, recalled Ayers. After the meal, Ayers offered the Bransons cocaine. Taking drugs was not unusual for Branson: he had used marijuana and LSD, and cocaine might have been a predictable progression, although twenty years later Branson would deny taking the drug. Soon after, Ayers disappeared with Kristen into the bedroom while Branson stayed with Cyrille. Each would claim that the other partners had sex together but deny the same about themselves. Cyrille, however, complained afterwards, ‘Branson was so cheap, the bastard wouldn’t even pay my taxi fare home’; while Kevin Ayers delighted in stealing Kristen to embark on a long relationship. ‘Branson exploded,’ chortled Ayers later. ‘It’s pathological because he can’t stand losing. For a year, [Branson] kept up a battery of letters, telephone calls and chases across Europe pleading, “How can you leave me?”’ Branson loathed rejection. His unrelenting pressure to encourage his wife’s sense of guilt reflected the pain of his humiliation. At a concert in Hyde Park where Ayers was playing, Branson confronted the musician aggressively. ‘How could you do this to a friend, stealing my wife?’ he exploded, castigating Ayers as an enemy. Branson had forgotten that originally he had lured Kristen from another man.
Branson was lonely. Unsatisfied in his own company, he often telephoned Simon Draper late at night to discuss business or arranged breakfast conferences in Draper’s home in Holland Park for ten people. At weekends, he would drive to Draper’s country home, knowing that his cousin had a dinner party to which he was not invited, and impose himself. To avoid a moment’s solitude, he invited his employees to his mother’s house in Majorca. Branson demanded full attention from the Virgin family. He received nothing less. Few rejected their employer’s summons.
Solace was found among his employees. One-night stands with secretaries were the topic of constant gossip in his office about the ‘passing flavour’. Pretty young women were the common currency in the music world and the young, unmarried millionaire who enjoyed partying was a magnet for those seeking fun. Most remained discreet