“I always carry a mask of my own face in my back pocket,” he told me, rather bizarrely. “Think about it. If people are looking for you, the last place they expect to find you is behind a mask of your own face.”
Mask-free, we enjoyed a great day swimming, running and cycling around the capital alongside 14,000 other triathlon enthusiasts.
—
Marathons and triathlons aside, sports and exercise have long formed part of my daily routine. I start every day on Necker with a walk around the island, before heading down to the tennis courts for a game. We’re fortunate to have a tennis professional on the island to put me through my paces as well as to help guests improve their games.
One of the first coaches we hired was Arthur Hicks, who had impressed Sam while giving him lessons at Virgin Active in London.
“He sounds perfect,” I told Sam. “Offer him the job right away.”
Sam called Arthur up while he was driving home from the local supermarket in his banged-up 1972 VW Beetle, struggling to see through the torrential rain. He was approaching a roundabout as Sam phoned, and upon seeing his name on the screen, chose the only suitable option available to him if he didn’t want to miss the call: he drove straight onto the roundabout and parked. Rustling Sainsbury’s bags, driving rain on his metal roof, blaring horns and curses from passing motorists were just some of the things he had to contend with as he began a life-changing conversation.
“I was wondering if you have ever heard of Necker?” Sam asked him.
“Um . . . yes, I believe Muslims pilgrimage across the Sahara Desert to get there, don’t they?”
“Ha, ha! Yeah, sure they do! Well, would you be interested in working there?”
“Working there as what?”
“As a tennis coach.”
Arthur was confused. He had never been to the Middle East, and didn’t really know much about the region. However, leaving the wet London winter for the roasting desert sounded attractive. “Yeah, OK,” he told Sam. “I’ll do it!”
That evening, Arthur related his tale to his dad, who listened all the way through with a look of utter confusion on his face. With fatherly wisdom, he opened his laptop and typed “Richard Branson, Mecca” into the search engine.
“You, my son, are an idiot,” he laughed, showing him the screen where Google had asked, “Do you mean ‘Richard Branson, Necker?’”
Arthur did a great job coaching tennis on Necker for our guests, as well as improving my own baseline game. He kindly described it as “the best tennis-coaching job in the world.” Thanks in part to Arthur and his successors Mike and Josh, I’m still yet to lose a match to either Holly or Sam, despite their best efforts. I made a friendly bet in 1995 that they wouldn’t beat me before I turned sixty-five. Winning the bet was an especially happy birthday present. One day, kids, one day!
I love going to watch the world’s greatest tennis players battle it out on major occasions like Wimbledon and the US Open. I always look forward to visiting SW19, though usually fall foul of their rule-making. I had to borrow a tie a few years ago just to get into the Royal Box (since being knighted I am invited every year). As I’ve mentioned, as a rule I always avoid ties, but as I was Martina Navratilova’s guest on this occasion I had to tie the dreaded knot around my neck.
The UK has greatly benefited in recent years from the superb example set by Andy Murray, who has inspired so many people to pick up a racket. The past decade has been a golden age of tennis, and for a Brit to be fighting toe to toe—and reaching world number one—against all-time greats Roger Federer, Novak Djokovic and Rafael Nadal is incredible. But, watching him, I find myself recalling one huge opportunity that got away from us.
Eleven years earlier, I got a phone call from Peter Norris. A fellow tennis fanatic, he excitedly told me how he had just watched the best young player he’d ever seen. His name was Andy Murray, he was sixteen and he was convinced he would one day win Wimbledon. I immediately got in touch with Andy’s mum, Judy, and arranged to meet them both for lunch, with a view to Virgin Active sponsoring him. We went to a small restaurant we owned at the time in Oxfordshire called Le Petit Blanc and talked about Andy’s prospects over a delightful meal. He was quiet, respectful and very polite. I also had a quiet word with his mum at the end of the meal. I asked about Andy’s injuries—he had a lengthy layoff with a split patella—but Judy assured me they were simply growing pains. We got on very well and I went away determined to sign him up. I called up Matthew and Frank right away and urged them to do the deal. Somehow, as sometimes happens in these situations, it didn’t work out. However, it’s no surprise Peter went on to become Virgin Group chairman. If anyone can spot a future Wimbledon champion a decade earlier, his business intuition is fine with me.
I got a taste of what it’s like to be on the receiving end of Andy’s serves when I was invited to play a charity match at Queen’s Club alongside him, Tomáš Berdych, Tim Henman and Jonathan Ross. The then Mayor of London, Boris Johnson, was even on the court, dressed like a player from the 1920s, with a wooden racket to match! It whetted my appetite for more competition between the best players in the world and amateurs keen to take them on. However, rather than in the austere settings of professional sporting institutions, why not hold a tournament with a party atmosphere? I’ve always believed that if you see a way to improve on something, go ahead and do it yourself. With that in mind, we set up our own tennis tournament. While it wouldn’t have the ranking points or prestige of Flushing Meadows or Roland Garros (just yet!) it would have a few subtle differences: lemurs on the sidelines, parrots flying overhead and shots of tequila for the players!
The idea for our very own tennis cup on Necker came from Mike Richards, another former tennis pro on the island. “We can turn the idea of a tennis tournament completely on its head,” he explained, when pitching me his plan. “It will be a serious sporting contest, a family festival and a week-long party rolled into one. We’ll play by different rules on and off the court. Plus, we’ll raise lots of money for Virgin Unite and other great causes.”
Mike is the kind of entrepreneur I often gravitate toward—one who doesn’t even realize he is one until he starts a project. He was untried, or, as I like to think of it, uninhibited by too much experience, and full of fresh ideas. Mike told me he’d get ten top current pros and tennis legends signed up, but by the time the US Open came around in September we hadn’t secured any big names. At Flushing Meadows, I shared the idea with Novak Djokovic and his delightful wife Jelena; thankfully they loved it immediately. They kindly agreed to auction a package at the Djokovic Foundation’s New York event to play with Novak at the Necker Cup. One down, but we needed to sell another nine to cover our costs.
As we arrived at the Capitale Gala, we were (in Mike’s immortal words) “shitting a brick.” We needn’t have worried. Plenty of offers came in to play with Novak, and also to take me on.
“I’ll pay £140,000 to play with McEnroe!” shouted a guy at the back.
John McEnroe? We didn’t even know if he was there. Suddenly, the spotlight was on Mac, who nodded his head and said, “Sure, why not?”
The auctioneer kept it going, and I could hear excited yelps coming from Mike’s pocket, where his fellow organizers were listening in on speakerphone. “I think I’m melting into my chair,” he whispered.
I’m not sure what the likes of Novak Djokovic and Rafael Nadal were hoping for when they arrived for the Necker Cup, but I’m pretty sure we surpassed their expectations. The first night of the 2013 tournament started the day after the professional tour’s last event ended, so the players could let their hair down. I found myself standing at the bar with Boris Becker on my right and Rafa on my left. Before we’d dispensed with any pleasantries, tequila shots were being poured.
“So this how they do it on the ATP Tour?” We laughed before taking another shot.
One of the unique features
of the tournament is pitting members of the public, including Virgin Active competition winners, against the stars. The pros know just how to go easy enough to make it fun, but still keep it ultra-competitive. In my heart of hearts, I know the top players could swat me aside if they really had to, but I love competing with them on as level a footing as possible, and doing my best to hold my own.
After losing the first Necker Cup (I must admit that Djokovic is a very handy player), I was determined to win out in the second year. Jimmy Buffett challenged me to a special doubles exhibition match, with the loser donating a big sum to charity.
“Fine,” I told him. “Plus, if I win, you have to play a free concert here tonight. If you win, I’ll send you to space.”
Jimmy snapped up my offer. “One thing,” he added. “I’m picking my own partner.”
Jimmy brought in world number one doubles player Mike Bryan as his partner. I was worrying how I could compete, when I spotted Rafa Nadal walking down the beach. After I convinced the then world number one singles player to join me, I was more confident. The stage was set for an epic match. It was going well, with Boris Becker and the Cuban Brothers competing, much to the crowd’s amusement. The lemurs were hollering and the parrots squawking. I’m trying to get the macaws to say “great shot, Richard” rather than simply “hello,” but haven’t quite managed it yet.
On court, Jimmy and Mike had the upper hand, but we dug in. As with any great tennis match, it all came down to the final game. The ball dropped to my left, and for some unknown reason I tried a backhand volleyed drop shot. To my amazement and delight, it dropped against the line to win the match. If sport does reveal character, as Heywood Broun suggested, then I guess the fact that I took a risk-taking shot at such a crucial moment tells you plenty about who I am. That it went in tells you I really am a lucky bastard. The music was good that night!
CHAPTER 27
Dad
However important business is, family always comes first. Which is why, in early March 2011, I arranged my schedule so as to be able to fly from New York to England, to be there in time for my father’s ninety-third birthday.
The whole family was there for the celebrations at his house in Cakeham, Sussex. And while the weather made for an absolutely beautiful few days down by the sea, what I really remember is sitting around the fire in the evening as Dad regaled us with stories from his youth. He has always been a terrific storyteller, much like my Uncle Charlie, and could send me off to faraway places in my mind within a matter of moments through his wonderful wordplay. Whether it was thrilling me with accounts of landing on the beaches of Salerno during the Second World War, amusing me with tales of his early romances, or moving me with anecdotes about his own childhood, I’m sure I got my own love for sharing stories from him.
Dad’s life, like that of so many, had been shaped by the events of the day. He had a passion for swimming, representing Cambridge University in the pool, and was in line to swim for England when the Second World War broke out. Joining up, he was sent straight to North Africa, later seeing action in tanks in the Middle East, Italy and Germany. When he returned to England, Dad found it tough to get through his studies, but dutifully followed his own father and many generations of Branson men into the legal profession. What he really wanted to do was become an archeologist: while in North Africa he spent a lot of his time collecting fossils in the desert, hiding them before he shipped out for Salerno. Years later, we went back and collected them and I still treasure them.
Given how much he’d supported me over the years in pursuing my own dreams, I was delighted when I got the opportunity to return the favor. One day I got a call from a balloonist in Egypt, where we had launched the first hot-air balloon company flying over the Valley of the Kings.
“I’ve been flying across the Valley,” the balloonist shouted down the line, sounding incredibly excited. “I was about a hundred yards from the bottom, when I saw a ledge. There was a big stone blocking something and I think I could make out hieroglyphics on the wall. Richard, I think it might be an undiscovered tomb!”
I thought he was pulling my leg, but he assured me it wasn’t a joke.
“Get out here quick,” he insisted, “and I’ll show you.”
I immediately made two phone calls. The first was to the British Museum to speak to an expert in ancient Egyptian history. She assured me it was very possible there were undiscovered tombs in the area our balloonist was navigating:
“It could well be Ramesses VIII’s tomb,” she told me. “If so, it could make Tutankhamen’s look like Woolworth’s.”
The next call I made was to my dad. “Pack your bags,” I told him. “We’re going to Egypt.”
As we flew to Luxor together, we decided we weren’t going to let anybody know what we were doing. We met up with the balloonist and he gave us rough coordinates of where he had seen the site. Getting there was extremely tough—hot-air balloons tend to go where the weather takes them. After five days, we found absolutely nothing. Although I was disappointed, Dad was in his element. He was researching legends, finding more artifacts and looked the part in his wide-brimmed hat and khakis, too. It was the closest he ever came to becoming an archeologist.
Back in Cakeham, I sat up with Dad late into the night, telling stories and laughing together. Now into his nineties, his brain remained as sharp as ever, though he’d had to slow down a little; he had a really bad hip that couldn’t be operated on because of sores on his legs, so he couldn’t travel as much as he once had. The conversation came around to Holly and Freddie’s upcoming wedding. A few months earlier, I’d been sitting on the balcony up at Rock Lodge, Ulusaba, looking over the plains as elephants roamed below, when Freddie had rung. He was the young man Holly had met at school, and had been by her side ever since. Freddie is a smart operator—after a sterling career in shipping he joined Virgin’s investment team. He has been instrumental in creating and helping build Virgin Sport, our new business creating festivals of sport that combine running and fitness challenges with community celebrations. But, far more importantly, he has loved and respected my daughter unreservedly from day one. So it was no surprise that I was getting the call; and after pretending I was too busy to arrange to see him, I put Freddie out of his misery and offered him my blessing and congratulations.
A week or so after the party, I rang Dad up to talk about the arrangements for the big day: Holly and Freddie had decided they wanted to get married on the same date and in the same place as Joan and I had: 20 December, on Necker Island. Dad listened carefully, and then stopped me in my tracks with his reply.
“I really hope you all have a wonderful time,” he said simply.
As he spoke, I understood what he meant. It was like an arrow through the heart. I think he must have known he only had a few hours left. That night, 19 March 2011, he died peacefully in his sleep.
I was devastated. However far away we had been from each other in terms of distance, we had always remained extremely close. Dad felt as constant a part of my life as the sun rising and setting each day. He had lived as full a life as anybody could wish. Like Joan, Dad never embraced celebrity, but he was by my side in the quietest, gentlest, most loving way possible, since the day I was born. I thought back to the day he walked me up and down the garden in Shamley Green when I was thinking about quitting school. He told me he wanted me to qualify as a barrister, as his father had told him a generation earlier. Then, acknowledging the parallels with his own life and realizing he wanted me to do whatever would make me happiest, we did another lap of the lawn: “Richard, forget everything I just said. Do whatever you want to do. Your mum and I will be right behind you, all the way.” He was true to his word.
Thinking of Dad, my mind transported me back to Mrs. Avenall’s sweet shop, near our home when I was six years old. My little sister, Lindi, and I had climbed onto a chair to “borrow” five shillings from Dad’s top drawer, where he kept his
change. We walked to the shop and exchanged our five shillings for piles of wonderful sweets. Before Mrs. Avenall handed them over she rang my dad. He rushed straight over. “I think your children must have stolen some money from you, Mr. Branson.” My father looked her straight in the eye: “How dare you accuse my children of stealing!” We left the shop, Dad never said anything about it again—and we never stole again. That was Dad: wise, kind and fiercely loyal.
Dad had always loved spending time on Necker and enjoyed studying the animals, often wandering off on an island walk with his trusty binoculars in hand. He also appreciated Necker as the place where he had spent so much time making memories with his family. So it was no surprise that, before he died, he asked me to have his ashes brought to Necker Island when the time came. He wanted them scattered at the far end of the island, where he could be among his loved ones in the beautiful natural habitat he revered so much.
I was the only one in the family who didn’t attend the service at the crematorium. I stayed away, not because I was so upset to lose him, but because I wanted to remember him as he was in life. I have never for a moment regretted that decision. As Joan put it best: “Everybody grieves in different ways, and we should all accept that.” But I was there for the wonderful get-together we had later on Necker to scatter the ashes, full of love, laughter and joy—just like Dad. All of his family and friends came to celebrate his incredible life, which had been his greatest adventure of all.
Dad died a happy man. The only way you can do that is by filling your life with purpose and love: what you give, what you do, how you treat people and how you make them feel. Whenever Dad is brought up in conversation, it isn’t long before everyone is rolling around laughing, recalling one of his many anecdotes, adventures and “Ted-isms.” He taught me how to get people’s attention and affection through stories, how to see the humor in everything, how to wear my heart on my sleeve. Most of all, he taught me what it means to be a father and a man. Together with my mum, he showed me why it is so important to put others before yourself, and why it is crucial to live every day as if it is your last.
Finding My Virginity: The New Autobiography Page 25