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‘Frosty says you and young Mr Evans might like to come for dinner one evening. Would that be agreeable?’
Two evenings later, the ‘boys’, i.e. David and Andrew, were dispatched by the ‘girls’, i.e. Maddie and Carina (Frost), to fetch Suzi and me from our now familiar spot on the hotel terrace. Needless to say, after our second famous pick-up of the week, the waiters could not have been nicer to us for the remainder of our stay.
We sauntered down the road to Andrew’s house, which was no more than a few minutes in the direction of the Cap itself. Andrew, the great composer and impresario, walked ahead with Suzi while I trailed a few metres behind with David. Andrew and Suzi talked wine whilst David and I talked telly.
Now, there’s success and then there’s Lloyd Webber success, as we were about to discover.
When we arrived at our dinner venue, Andrew and Maddie’s house was nothing short of amazing. I won’t go into detail – that wouldn’t be fair – but let’s just say it was off the scale.
There is a wee tale, however, that I do feel at liberty to share with you.
‘Suzi and I had a delightful conversation walking up the hill,’ proffered Andrew as we sat down to commence dinner. ‘Suzi asked me what, in my opinion, was the greatest wine in the world, which, I believe, to be a 1947 Cheval Blanc.’ At this point David and several other guests nodded their approval.
‘So, if everyone is in agreement, I propose that after the Rothschild ‘55’ (of which there were two magnums opened on the table to have with the starter), ‘we move on to a couple of bottles of the best of the best for the main.’
Was I hearing this correctly? Had Mr Lloyd Webber just announced that we were to have not one but two bottles of the greatest wine the world had to offer? It certainly appeared so. Not only that, but how about the two babies currently taking pride of place in front of us; easily the best wine I’d ever had in my life thus far, but already about to be relegated to second place.
The night turned out to be fascinating on many counts; I have an idea most Lloyd Webber dinner parties do. The conversation was like a script from a film, with talk of presidents, prime ministers, gangsters and movie stars, all vying to be invited to this or get a part in that. There were also a few surprise visitors as the night went on, but those names are also for Lord Lloyd Webber’s book. If he ever writes one, what a book that will be.
When the moment came for the ‘47 Cheval Blanc to be served I’ll never forget Suzi’s face when Andrew asked her to taste it, on behalf of all the guests. She was as nervous as I’d ever seen her. This was going to be the sip of her life.
Suzi raised her glass, closed her eyes and pursed her lips in her usual expectant manner, but this time as she tilted the glass towards her the deep-red ruby liquid inside seemed to light up with an extra special promise of the magic to come. We all waited, almost scared to breathe, for her verdict.
‘Yum, that’s lovely!’ she declared, a brief response admittedly but an entirely acceptable one at that. Besides, what else is a girl supposed to say in front of a man who was not only our host and provider of the wine but also known to be one of the world’s most prominent wine connoisseurs?
Moreover, Suzi was absolutely right. The Cheval Blanc 1947 was indeed lovely.
I only wish I could taste it again today now that I know just a little bit more about what a good wine should taste like.
Upon our return to England, Suzi and I couldn’t resist following up our great wine adventure by paying a visit to our local vintners. The sommelier there was our very own grape guru and we couldn’t wait to ask him which wine, as far as he was concerned, was the best wine in the world.
Without missing a beat he replied, ‘Alors, mais bien sur, zere is no question, Monsieur, Madame, zat is zee famos 1947 Cheval Blanc – sans doute!’ His eyes misted over as he pronounced the name and vintage of the famous château. ‘Why you ask?’
‘Because we had some last week,’ I said, trying not to sound too pleased with our revelation.
‘Non Monsieur, ce n’est pas possible. Zee only person known to ‘ave zat wine ees your music man, Andrew Webber Lloyd. You cannot get it anywhere else!’
‘I know,’ I said, this time having to try really hard to avoid the smug zone. ‘We were at his house last week and he gave us some.’
Upon hearing this, our friendly wine merchant took a beat to see if we were joking, then for a brief moment looked as if he might cry, or faint, or both. Thankfully this was only a temporary glitch as he was soon back with us, insisting we tell him all about our experience, whilst offering us a glass each of something ‘he just happened to have open’ as a small bribe.
For the record, thank you Sir David for getting us the invite to the Lloyd Webbers in the first place. Thank you
Maddie Lloyd Webber for following up with the phone call. Thank you Suzi for striking up a wine conversation with Andrew whilst walking down the road with him. Thank you Andrew for being so generous as to share with us your liquid treasure. Thank you Monsieur Sommelier for providing a wonderful and enthusiastic epilogue to the piece. And finally, thank you God for inventing grapes in the first place.
TOP 10 PERKS I GAVE OUT AS A BOSS (#ulink_3a4c814e-2d52-547b-8fef-f75af1f1bc49)
10 Meals and booze – hundreds of thousands of pounds worth – fabulous fun all round
9 Holidays
8 Cars
7 Golf membership
6 A wheelchair!
5 Rolls-Royce and driver
4 Christmas bonuses – always (very important this one)
3 Share options adding up to millions
2 A year’s salary to close colleagues
1 Ten per cent of annual salary to every employee in the company
ANOTHER GOOD THING ABOUT THE SOUTH OF FRANCE is that Nice airport is less than two hours away from London by plane, very handy if one has to return at short notice; something that was very much on the cards, as Suzi and I had embarked on this last trip shortly after our Langan’s decision to sell the radio station. In the meantime, DC and I were keeping in touch via telephone.
‘How’s France?’ he asked during one call.
‘Oh, you know – quiet,’ I replied.
‘Yeah, right.’
‘How are things there?’ I enquired. ‘Equally quiet,’ he said, laughing. ‘Ah, I see.’ I realised there was a quid pro quo on offer here. ‘Alright,’ I sighed, ‘will you tell me yours if I tell you mine?’
After a potted version of what Suzi and I had been up to in the last few days, DC wasted no time in getting down to the business of our business.
Having made the decision to sell the Ginger Media Group, the next step was to figure out exactly how we might go about it. This was the main thrust of David’s industry over the last few days. Whilst I’d been off gallivanting with various members of the entertainment industry, DC had been hard at it.
‘We’ve met with the major players from the banks who handle this kind of thing,’ he began, ‘and I’m delighted to say that Goldman Sachs look like they might be willing to take our sale on.’
I had no idea of the significance of this but it sounded like I ought to. I asked David to enlighten me further.
‘Goldman Sachs,’ he explained, ‘like all the big banks, offer many corporate financial services, as long as there’s plenty of fat on the bone left over for them. The thing is, though, at a projected sale price of only £175 million to £300 million, we as a company would not normally be worth their while, let alone the wholehearted attention and focus of one of their hot-shot city-slicker sales teams.’
‘Ah, I see,’ I said, trying not to sound too underwhelmed.
Eventually, after more detailed explanation I got it – sort of – and began to understand why DC did what he did for a living and I talked on the radio.
As the week progressed, my crash course in how to sell a company continued and I couldn’t help feeling that all the stars were once again lining up in our favour. Every phone call seemed to be a step forward, every conversation taking us closer to our goal.
The man from Goldman Sachs was convinced he could pull off the kind of deal we were after, and much sooner rather than later by the sounds of it. In fact, when I arrived back in Britain he already had several very interested parties banging on our door. Three stood out in particular; they were the French company NRG, the American company Clear Channel, and from Scotland, the Scottish Media Group.
It was soon time for me, along with the rest of the board, to attend another series of secret meetings around more of those ghastly, bad-taste mahogany tables.
I was never quite sure during these meetings whether we were courting the buyers or the buyers were courting us. I suppose there was no question they all wanted to sleep with us, but who was going to take their clothes off first?
As the discussions developed, just as when we were buying the radio station ourselves, it appeared that I was the main concern. Although this time it was not because I was seen as a risk – on the contrary, I had almost doubled the radio audience since taking over The Breakfast Show, adding millions of pounds to the bottom line – but rather because, along with my hosting TFI Friday every week, a lot of the value of the company now rested on my shoulders. The big question on everyone’s lips was, if we did sell, would I stick around and carry on and if so, for how long, and how much would I want paying?
Furthermore, when it came to my future salary they wanted to know if I would be prepared to take some of my fee in shares as opposed to having it all in cash, thus providing me with an incentive to carry on performing at the highest level.
The answers to these questions were key to any potential new owner.
I assured anyone who would listen that I had no intention of going anywhere. After all, this was what I loved doing and especially so when it was on my own terms. When it came to the issue of my salary, I had already taken a massive wage cut to increase our profits and therefore our value, and as long as I still had shares in the new company, I said I would be more than willing to continue on the same terms.
This is exactly what the parties concerned wanted to hear and helped bring the best out when it came to bidding. Several firm offers were made for our little outfit, the most attractive of which was £225 million from the Scots.
Were they really going to make us over a £100-million profit on a company that had only existed for just over two years? Yes they bloomin’ well were, and what’s more they did.
In March 2000 the biggest deal of my life was completed and the instant the papers were signed, I was out of debt and my bank manager’s new best friend.
A few weeks later I was handed a ridiculously fat cheque. So fat, in fact, that I was officially, according to the Sunday Times Rich List, the highest paid entertainer in the UK.
There it was for real, an actual cheque with my name on the top line and a figure of twenty odd million pounds underneath it. I remember taking the cheque to the pub with me for the next week. My accountant went spare, not in case I lost it, but because of the amount of interest I was losing out on every day.
Everyone was happy, how could they not be? SMG had got their hands on the media company everyone was talking about, my team and I had all become significantly wealthier – five of them became millionaires overnight – and not only that, we all still had our jobs and were being paid a small fortune to do them.
This, however, was also when I came across my first example of the difference between proper businessmen and a DJ who just got lucky.
‘We must give everyone a slice of the action,’ I announced gleefully.
‘What do you mean?’ asked one of my now former backers.
‘Well, how about every member of staff receives a bonus for, let’s say, ten per cent of their annual salary, except for my immediate on-air team, whom I propose should receive a whole twelve months extra pay,’ I suggested.
‘Good for you,’ said the same guy, ‘but we’ll be returning all of our profit back to our shareholders, every penny I’m afraid. Good luck, though, it sounds like you’re going to need it with ideas like that.’
‘But why?’ I remember thinking at the time. ‘Why would we not want to reward everyone involved in our success?’
Of course his view was that only a handful of us had taken any risk, whereas our staff had taken no risk whatsoever, remaining secure and decently paid throughout.
Even though I had to concede he was perfectly astute in his summing up of the situation, in the end I gave everyone a bonus anyway. It all came out of my share of the pot and I was more than happy to do so. The bill came close to
£800,000 but out of what I had made it was more like a graze than an open wound. In fact, it felt great. For me at the time, new money was like fresh butter; I thought it should be spread around whilst there was still plenty left and it tasted nice. Idiot. Nice idiot, but still an idiot.
Having done my own bit of spreading, a party was declared. A party which I think may also have gone on for several days, I’m not quite sure. But then again, I was about to become unsure about a lot of things.
TOP 10 DODGY DECISIONS I HAVE MADE (#ulink_93f6ccbc-48a8-5553-9a80-e1a0ee860ded)
10 Buying 220 acres of land in Portugal for about £7 million with barely any planning permission for anything
9 Forming a new production company to make shows in which I had little or no interest
8 Producing other people generally
7 Agreeing to turn up to the Comedy Awards very much the worse for wear after being ‘found’ in a pub nearby
6 Donating £100,000 to Ken Livingstone’s mayoral campaign
5 Doubling it to £200,000 after Frank Dobson (Ken’s rival Labour candidate) criticised people for being ginger
4 Buying a Chelsea mansion because I was bored waiting for the pub to open
3 Withdrawing £300,000 in cash from the bank so I could pretend I had won on the horses, thus getting people to stay and have a drink with me
2 Taking the Scottish Media Group to court and losing comprehensively
1 Refusing to let a nice man from a big bank give me a cheque for £56 million
AS MY PART OF THE DEAL I had accepted forty per cent of the value of my old shares in cash, with the other sixty per cent being held as shares in the new company. These shares were to be released to me in three tranches of equal amounts over the next three years. After that it was up to me whether I sold them, kept them or lit fires with them.
Everyone at the time said I was mad to accept so much paper as opposed to real money, with the other main players in the deal negotiating a much higher percentage of cash payment for their equity.
‘Not so smart now, though,’ I thought a few days later, sitting in DC’s office watching the share price of the new company rocket from our sale price of £2.00 to a high of £3.76.
This meant that where I had been sitting on £30 million pounds’ worth of new equity at the point of sale I was now, just over a month later, sitting on a value of £56 million.
It was time for another conversation with Goldman Sachs, except now it was they who called me, shortly before dispatching a very nice man to come and visit me. He represented one of their investment funds.
‘Chris, we would like to offer you £3.76 per share for all your shares today,’ he said, sitting opposite me in an office I’d borrowed. ‘That, as I’m sure you know is £56 million,’ he went on. ‘What do you say?’
Well, to be honest I didn’t know what to say. I was already richer than I ever imagined I would be and these latest figures being tossed around were plain silly, but before I could even consider a decision, I had something to discuss with the nice gentleman on a point of clarification.
‘Er, I don’t actually have all the shares yet. I only receive them a third at a time over three years.’ Of course this was not news to him.
‘We are aware of that, Chris. What we are suggesting is that we buy them forward – that is to say we buy all your shares off you at an agreed price today, no matter when you get them. The price is firm.’
Now I have done many stupid things in my life but what I was about to do next is right up there at the top of the list. I suddenly convinced myself that there were dastardly goings on here, after all this was Goldman Sachs. Why were they so keen to totally buy me out and at such a premium?
‘Surely they must be up to something,’ I concluded to myself. ‘Why the hard sell?’
I tried to look intelligent for a second, tapping my fingers under my chin in a contemplative manner before declaring with gusto, ‘No thanks very much, I’m fine as I am. My shares are not for sale to you or anyone else.’ Upon hearing this, the nice gentleman from the big bank turned ashen. It was obvious to him I’d just lost my mind.
He tried to help me.
‘But Chris, do you realise how good a deal this is for you? It’s a guaranteed profit of almost one hundred per cent on the huge profit you’ve already made selling your company.’
But I was not to be moved. I was determined to turn down this second ‘offer of a lifetime’, no matter what. In fact the more he tried to reason with me, the more I became suspicious and convinced myself I was right.
By the time the nice man eventually gave up trying to give me £56 million for nothing more than a signature, he was incredulous.
In that one encounter I had become delusional. A fathead of seismic and cataclysmic proportions.
Whereas before I had understood my limitations when it came to business and accepted that thus far I had enjoyed no more than perhaps a highly fortuitous roll of the dice, I had now unwisely entered a state of mind where I presumed to actually know what I might be doing.
Mistakes don’t get much bigger than this.
