The Branded Gentry: How A New Era of Entrepreneurs Made Their Names
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The Branded Gentry: How A New Era of Entrepreneurs Made Their Names
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Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781908739797 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Elliott & Thompson |
| Publication date: | 07/01/2013 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 320 |
| File size: | 4 MB |
About the Author
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The Branded Gentry
How a New Era of Entrepreneurs Made Their Names
By Charles Vallance, David Hopper
Elliott and Thompson Limited
Copyright © 2013 David Hopper and Charles VallanceAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-908739-79-7
CHAPTER 1
LORD BELL OF BELGRAVIA
(Bell Pottinger)
INTERVIEWED 21 DECEMBER 2011
Curzon Street, Mayfair: home to peers, embassies, oil oligarchs, expensive escort girls; houses with high drawing-room ceilings behind wide black doors; high-end stationery boutiques, Victorian pubs, government offices, and British secret services, where Eton-educated spies once used to offer each other cigarettes during gentlemanly Tinker Tailor interrogation interviews.
At number 14, Lord Bell is chain-smoking. He does it in the uninhibited 1950s Mad Men way that you don't see anymore, and which deserves proper cigarettes with woodpeckers and sailors on the pack, not the low-nicotine-bandwidth Benson & Hedges Golds piled on his table. The man we are about to interview is rueful about the 'improvements' brought by the post-internet era – to the point of having only recently replaced his fifteen-year-old Scotch-taped Nokia.
Lord Bell – Timothy John Leigh Bell, Baron Bell of Belgravia ('call me Tim') – is the eponymous co-founder of Bell Pottinger, one of the most famous of global public relations companies, recently the subject of a management buyout (from the parent company, Chime) reported to be in the order of £20 million. The industry's growth has been driven, in part, by the expanding pressures of a media that individuals and companies cannot possibly handle on their own, and by a corporate perception that 'managed publicity' can sometimes offer better value than conventional advertising. Company, country, or rock chick – it seems everyone in the media eye now needs a PR agent.
The image of the PR man can be unflattering, be it one of sitcom buffoonery or 'spin doctors' disguising political malfeasance as benevolence. It's a job that has evolved with the Westminster landscape, from the bulldog Bernard Ingham (one-time Chief Press Secretary to Margaret Thatcher) to the terrier Alastair Campbell (Tony Blair's Director of Communications and Strategy, who became known as 'the real deputy prime minister'). And somewhere in between these two differing styles is where we find Tim Bell – a man who never actually had a formal role as a government 'press secretary', but who was widely seen as the brains behind Margaret Thatcher's victory in 1979 – and many of her successes after that. He is regarded (to his chagrin, whether it is true or not) as being responsible for coaching her voice down an octave and pulling the plug on the electric-shock perm.
Bell Pottinger shares its foyer with an entrance to Benugo cafe bar – a not-quite-comfortable concession to the practicalities of the modern era, whereby, if you say you want a coffee when you arrive, the receptionists totter next door and buy you one, corrugated cup-holder and all. Bell's office is five floors up, and when we meet him, he has been occupied for several days marshalling the company's own PR firefight, following a newspaper sting operation. The company has broken the first rule of public relations consultants, which is never to become the story, and Bell himself has been drawing flak and facing the vitriol of one newspaper in particular.
It is hard not to begin the interview by coming straight to this issue, and it is obvious that he is irritated – not so much by what they're saying about him (which he sees as going with the territory), more about what he feels is another example of the political media losing its 'reasonableness'.
To illustrate the point, he shows a picture of an internet-inspired mob, holding banners on which names of arbitrarily chosen public hate figures have been scrawled in blood-red paint; barely known figures who have been unfortunate enough to momentarily transgress political correctness and now have a demented street mob demanding their heads be put on poles. 'We've lost balance ... common sense ...' he muses. 'Mad ideas are now able to move far quicker than steady judgement. It's mad.' He feels that the press, rather than calm the waters, like to shark-feed on this kind of thing. Whatever happens after the Leveson Inquiry, there is, he feels, no self-motivated check on press hypocrisy any more; only a relentless Glenda Slagg chutzpah, condemning something one minute, while exploiting it in the very next column.
Bell does, however, have his own version of inconsistency, and gauging his mood can be treacherous. He's the pessimist one minute, the optimist the next. At one point, he tries to resolve his indecision in front of us, concluding, after a slightly magnificent pause (during which it's hard to tell whether he is unable to decide or is just being Shakespearean), that his optimistic side shall today be the more persuasive.
Actually, I have taken the trouble to try and deal with the pessimism. I have a mantra which I've developed in the last few years, which is to take care of yourself, mentally, emotionally, in health and in spirituality.
Give or take the occasional sprint relay of cigarette smoking, of course. It suggests that the man is not so much a wavering optimist as a walking paradox – it being a miracle that this particular paradox is still walking at all.
I've had a cancer operation on my colon, the top layer of my left lung removed because of latent tuberculosis, and my gall bladder taken out. That was a direct result of all the chemotherapy and radiotherapy after the cancer operation. I've also had a triple heart bypass. The majority of what happened to me physically is my own fault because I lived a certain lifestyle and was careless. I'm aware of every piece of information about smoking because one of the first clients Saatchi & Saatchi had was the Health Education Council with the anti-smoking campaign, so I've studied all that stuff and, if I'm honest, I prefer to think it happens to other people, not me. That's the normal human attitude, but it can oddly be quite helpful, because it means you're prepared to put yourself in harm's way, and by doing that you become stronger. You take risks. You stare it in the face.
Then a quick mood-swing to penitence:
But every now and then, the world kicks me and when the world kicks me, fuck it hurts. And I sit down and I think, 'You fucking asked for it. Serves you right.'
His reputation for recklessness certainly precedes him. In his early days at Saatchi & Saatchi, he had ordered a Ferrari before most directors had got desks, but he justified this by saying he needed to show clients, if they ever rejected the agency's work, that the company still had the upper hand. 'They have their Vauxhalls; I have my Ferrari.'
Then there is the story that one time, after having had major surgery, he discharged himself from hospital against all sensible medical advice, just so he could attend dinner with the Sultan of Brunei. Which is either insane or inspired, depending on your view of risk. He says he can't remember if this tale is true or not: in his time, he's had a lot of surgery, and more dinners with plutocratic sultans than most people have had with their TVs.
What is not open to much doubt is that Bell can play the polemicist: he reacts strongly to many a thing, be it a new Middle Eastern war or an ad for cocoa, without mucking about too long with the messy business of equivocation. Which is probably why he has garnered wealth and criticism in equal proportion. Indeed, despite this polemicism, you get the feeling that his is a life where opposites have always co-existed, like forces in an atom; a life where the ups and downs and lefts and rights and goods and bads seem to travel in pairs. His is the story of relentless contrasts, one of which is his journey from humble to grand. Bell now has access to substantial wealth, but it didn't start like this, and for all the elegance of the life he now enjoys, his origins offer the contrast:
I was born in 1941 and brought up in a middle-class, north London, semi-detached house. My Irish father left home when I was five, and my mother was subsidised by my grandfather and worked at a laundry at night to supplement her income. We went to state schools; myself and the two sisters; one emigrated at 18 to live in America, and the other one eventually married an architect and lives in Brookmans Park and makes her own chutney.
Theirs was an upper-middle-class existence without the associated comforts, and it goes a long way to explaining the genesis of his political convictions:
There was much more division than people ever realise, and sub-divisions within each class: there was an upper class and a middle class and a lower class, with subdivisions within all of those, and within the middle class were the nouveau riche, which we weren't. Upper middle class, which we were, meant that you observed etiquette and manners and protocol rather more than other people did. You were embedded. You had got a generational history of being the middle class. My grandfather's job was the classic sort of upper-class managerial role. But there was no money in the family.
I couldn't go to university, because it would have been another four years of contributing nothing and living off my mother, who was already working and nearly killing herself. I understood that I had to get a job. I'd been to a grammar school and that was the ethic: you went to school to be educated to get a job. You didn't have career development programmes run by Richard Branson and people like that. You had schoolmasters and an education system, the point of which was to qualify you to get a job. We were, to paraphrase J. K. Galbraith, as functionaries without capital: Canute-like we stood against the rising tide of proletarianisation, and that's what's happened to my life.
From an early age, Bell had a moral certainty that would define his world view. And from that early age, he wanted to get into politics. The main reason being that it seemed the quickest route to a shag:
At home, my stepfather was very aware of politics and talked about politics, through him being a City alderman and a mayor. We lived in a constituency of very high profile politicians: Reg Maudling on one side, Cecil Parkinson to the north, and, as it turned out, Thatcher to the other side. I joined the Young Conservatives because that's what you did if you wanted to be connected and meet people. You joined the church, you joined the Boy Scouts, you joined the community structures; all of them were unquestionably conservative with a small c, and most of them were Conservative with a capital C. That's how you mixed.
I went out with the Conservative agent's daughter. Everybody did actually. You joined the Young Conservatives because that gave you access to her: it was as simple and obvious as that. We all tried to shag her.
As it happened, the lady in question wasn't having any of that kind of thing, so, alas, she must now disappear from our tale as quickly as she arrived, leaving us with the wisdom that politics can be a frustrating business.
Perhaps opinionated at times, Bell is not an overconfident person: more often charming than angry; more Humphrey Appleby than Malcolm Tucker. He is very aware and proud of his successes, yet only too well aware of his failings.
I am naturally good at certain things, but I can never be bothered to practise to make myself excellent at them. It's been the story of my life. I was good at cricket, but not great. I was a fanatical modern-jazz fan and I played the trumpet, but my trumpet-playing days have now gone – it's the lips. I have a natural ability to play the piano, but I don't practise, so I don't play it as well as I could do.
I never made any secret of the fact that I wanted to be somebody, not just be a piece of cannon fodder. And I think I measured success by visibility. I recognised that nobody would know who the hell you were if you didn't do something that they could see. For a period, I played in bands. You'd get £10 for playing at the London Palladium, £20 for going to Manchester, but that would cost you £30 on the train to get to play in Tommy McQuater's Pick Up Band. Or play at The Marquee Club, which you had to do for nothing. But then I would think, will I be good enough or should I do something more serious?
At the point where he could quite easily have carried on as a musician, Bell took another route. And he was rewarded with some good luck, reinforcing his view that just because you are doing well at one thing, you should not pass over the opportunity of doing something different.
When I was 18, my mother said it was time to go and get a job and it didn't occur to me to question it. It was like telling me to put some trousers on. She sent me to an employment agency called The Stella Fisher Agency, in Fleet Street, who got me three interviews: one with an insurance company for post-boy, one with a publishing company for post-boy, and one with ABC Television as post-boy. All three offered me the job.
The one with the television company turned out to be wonderful because on the first day I walked through the door at Vogue House in Hanover Square and held it open for a young, thin girl called Jean Shrimpton and a long-haired kid called David Bailey. They were promoting Sammy Davis, Jr on Sunday Night at the London Palladium, hosting the press conference in the reception at Vogue House, so I walked in, and there he was. He was going out with a Swedish girl called May Britt at the time, and there was Sammy. I mean, it felt like I was entering showbiz.
Right place, right time. One man's good luck is another man's smart management and the line where one stops and the other starts is moot. There are many such instances that pepper his life story, and none is better known than Margaret Thatcher's election victory in 1979: a moment that transformed Britain, although whether for better or worse is an argument that has been raging ever since. By the late seventies, Bell had made his way from ABC post-boy to advertising executive, working for Geers Gross and then Saatchi & Saatchi, where he became media director in 1970, moving on to become managing director and then CEO. Another day; another phone call; another lucky break.
A man called Gordon Reece rang up Saatchi & Saatchi and asked to speak to Maurice Saatchi who was on holiday. So they put the call through to me. He asked me if we wanted to handle the Conservative Party account, and I told him that I would be happy to do it, but I'd have to consult with my colleagues because I didn't think they voted Conservative. I rang Maurice and said to him, 'Do you want to do this?' and he said 'Ring Charles', so I rang Charles and he said, 'OK. As long as you do it, all right?'
By the close of the decade, Britain was filling up with uncollected bins and unburied bodies. Sunny Jim Callaghan had hung on too long and an enormous poll lead had chilled into a winter of discontent and a government in denial, prompting The Sun headline, 'Crisis. What crisis?' After a Parliamentary Motion of No Confidence, the General Election was called; it would see the iconic Saatchi poster 'Labour isn't working'.
I was asked by Gordon Reece to go to the Leader of the Opposition's room in the House of Commons, to meet with Airey Neave and then to meet Margaret Thatcher. In those days there were no police. You just drove in past the Parliament gatehouse and parked in the St Stephen's entrance, where nowadays you have to go through about fourteen different metal detectors. We walked up an incredibly complicated spiral of staircases, to meet this rather shambolic figure in a raincoat in the corridor, Airey Neave, who spoke with a pronounced Irish accent. I didn't really understand a word he said ...
I was shown a door which said it was the Leader of the Opposition's office and there was an anteroom with two girls sitting at old-fashioned typewriters and one of them looked up and said, 'Who are you?' and I said 'I'm here to see the Leader ... I'm from Saatchi & Saatchi'. She said, 'Oh, Starsky and Hutch! Sit there!' So I did what I was told until Gordon eventually appeared and we walked in to see Margaret Thatcher herself.
There was a brown velvet armchair and a brown velvet sofa. She was sitting at her desk. She just said, 'Sit down'. But instead of sitting in the chair, I sat in the middle of the sofa like a fucking idiot where you've got no arm support and you just float. I sat there like a complete prat.
She said, 'What's your favourite poem?' and I said 'If'. She looked at me very suspiciously, fumbled in her handbag, took out a copy of that same poem and said 'Who told you?' I said, 'Nobody told me. It's my favourite poem.' Then she said, 'What's your favourite speech?' and I said 'Abraham Lincoln'. She said, 'I fail to see how making the rich poor makes the poor rich. Who told you?' I said, 'Absolutely nobody. They are my favourites.'
So then she just said, 'We're going to get on. But I want you to understand three things. Firstly, politicians have very, very large toes and very large fingers, and it is very easy to tread on them. But I have neither. You will always tell me the truth.' 'Yes, Leader,' I said like a good boy. She said, 'Secondly, if you've got some trick that will get me elected, please don't use it, because if the people don't want me, it won't work.'
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Branded Gentry by Charles Vallance, David Hopper. Copyright © 2013 David Hopper and Charles Vallance. Excerpted by permission of Elliott and Thompson Limited.
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Table of Contents
Contents
Introduction,Prologue: Eponymous beginnings,
1. LORD BELL OF BELGRAVIA,
2. JOHNNIE BODEN,
3. EMMA BRIDGEWATER,
4. JACKIE COOPER,
5. SIR JAMES DYSON,
6. SIR JOHN HEGARTY,
7. ROBERT HISCOX,
8. TONY LAITHWAITE,
9. DAVID ARMSTRONG-JONES, VISCOUNT LINLEY,
10. JULIAN RICHER,
11. LORD SAINSBURY OF PRESTON CANDOVER, KG,
12. SIR PAUL SMITH,
13. JONATHAN WARBURTON,
Epilogue: What's in a name?,
Acknowledgements,
Index,