by Adam Leigh
Throughout the world, Jewry is bound together by many traditions, directives and observances, but the most common shared practice is the family gathering around a Sabbath table each week. Candles are lit and blessings are uttered briefly over bread and wine, followed by dinner. For the Lazarus family, it was often a time for contemplation, personal updates, and political disagreement as my father would hold court on the latest academic theory and I would try to argue, primarily just to annoy him.
When we met that Friday, my sister was present, as well as an elderly uncle of my father’s. Judith had fulfilled our mother’s prediction of future success and was the chief operating officer of an influential humanitarian agency, Better Futures, that ran programmes for displaced children in areas of conflict across the globe. She was thirty-five and responsible for overseeing an organisation of one hundred and fifty people, a budget of tens of millions, demanding donors, and a high-profile board all with egos in need of constant validation. She struggled to relax or settle down, travelled extensively and openly professed that as long as children were suffering as a result of war anywhere in the world, her job remained unfinished. Whenever she’d ask about my work, I’d sheepishly admit that I had just built a very cool game for the Frosties website, which made me look rather callow, with little prospect of admission into heaven any time soon.
That night, I wanted to tell them my plans. I had been so absent over recent months that I knew they suspected something awry. As we started to eat, I nervously clinked my glass and declared I had an announcement. There was immediate silence and I saw a look flit across my mother’s face as she glanced at Sarah, wondering if I had got her pregnant again so soon after Emily’s arrival. Sarah guessed what my mother was thinking and looked at her stomach while vigorously shaking her head.
“I’ve left my job,” I proclaimed, “and am setting up a new business that’s going to make me very rich and successful.”
Silence. As you will have realised by now, my tendency to speak in pronouncements, not sentences, was rather grating. It required people to have to focus on what I was saying as if it was crucial information, when actually it was superficial validation I was seeking.
“What’s so important about being rich and successful?” my mother asked after a while. “Why not simply say ‘I am going to do something worthwhile’?” She glanced at my sister and added for good measure, “Like Judith.”
I ignored this familiar refrain and started to tell the story from the point at which the idea germinated in my mind after meeting Julian. I outlined how the site would work, how much money we would need to raise and what it would be worth in five years.
My father was midway through writing his latest book, a study of US capitalist tycoons with a working title of Building the American Dream – From Vanderbilt to Jobs: A Study of Economic Tyranny. He was particularly attuned to the evils of unnecessary wealth creation. When I finished my five-minute precis of the business plan, he simply stared at me and said: “Why, Alex? Why?”
“Why what?” I challenged.
“Why does your ego need to build its own legacy based on the creation of more artificial demand?”
“Dad, I’m not in one of your seminars. How about speaking to me as your son, not a PhD student.”
For a second, my father seemed tempted to expound his theory on the capitalist axis of tech evil. He saw economic imperialism in any digital organisation’s global success. Instead, a look of weary resignation came across his jowly face and he muttered into his plate, as if addressing his lamb chop, “I’m afraid I don’t fully understand your ambition. I think there is so much more interesting work you could do.”
I seethed with a combination of righteous indignation and an eight-year-old child’s upset when told off by a parent. Great Uncle Norman, Zayde’s youngest brother and business partner, was ninety-two and slightly deaf, but with undiminished mental acuity. Sensing the escalation of tension, he looked at me kindly and said, “Your grandfather would have been very proud and would probably have invested in your venture, although you’d never be able to afford the terms.” My sister, ever the diplomat, walked round the table and gave me an enormous hug.
“You go for it, Alex. I’ll be furious if you don’t succeed. I’m expecting a few million from your charitable foundation when you have your IPO.”
The mood gradually lightened, as I was able to talk more about the plan for the business. My father asked forensic questions about its model. He understood the practicalities of digital growth far more than his negative stance on economic oligarchs would have suggested. I loved him dearly, but his disdain for commercial achievement and wealth annoyed me intensely. He lived a prosperous life, despite his principles – a combination of inherited wealth from my entrepreneurial grandfather and a media career that allowed him to rail against the system that was paying him so well. My mother was more empathetic and understanding. It’s just that I was not quite as noble and praiseworthy as Judith or Sarah. By dessert, we were all calmer, and I was being teased by the table for my constant need to make everything sound like I’m trying to sell something.
“Go on, Alex,” Judith said, “why don’t you pitch another idea. It’s been at least ten minutes.”
“Only if you can guarantee that it exploits some workers,” added my father, enjoying himself now. I yawned theatrically.
“Quick, someone call a surgeon. Saint Judith and Karl Marx have split my sides.”
My mother grew tired of our caustic jousting and looked at me earnestly. “What is your new partner – Julian – like?”
Sarah glanced furtively at me, which my hyper-perceptive mother picked up on immediately. “What is he not telling us, Sarah?”
“It’s all right,” I said. “You know they respect your opinion more than mine.”
‘Well,” she faltered, “I am so excited for Alex. It’s just I think he’s gone into business with someone who can’t be trusted.”
***
When you’re focused on something, you push everything extraneous to the back of your mind. You think about what you crave, and it becomes easier to ignore things that may get in the way. You may wonder at this point why I was so driven that I chose not to confront some of Julian’s initial bad manners. Simply put, I had developed a myopic obsession with my future, and I could not jeopardise the venture, having waited so long to find an outlet for the drive for success instilled in me by my grandfather’s interminable lectures on how to count stock.
Ambition was an ephemeral desire that I did not know how to regulate. Being better, striving for something else, learning something new – these had all been subconscious impetuses for my actions since I was a student. As a history undergraduate, I had even written a worthy dissertation entitled ‘Did the Ancient Greeks Invent Ambition?’ I won’t paraphrase my academic brilliance, except to leave you with one interesting fact about Hellenic culture.
The Ancient Greeks struggled to find a word for ambition. In fact, despite the clear aspirations of Alexander the Great for world domination, the concept of personal growth was hard for them to define. Instead, scholars point out that the three Greek words that have been translated into the English word ‘ambition’ are philotimia, literally ‘love of honour’; eritheia, ‘rivalry’ or ‘strife’; and philodoxia, ‘love of acclaim’. Bear that in mind. Ambition can be rooted in the desire for glory and praise, but it also has inbuilt conflict. While classical civilisation viewed this quest as political rather than commercial, ask yourself why people chase a unicorn. It is not just the money. We all want immortality.
6. Money Please
We wanted money.
By November 2012, we had two weeks of continuous meetings impressively arranged by Julian. He really did know a lot of connected people: VCs, tech funds, investors, as well as wealthy individuals who were happy to speculate their vast fortunes on enthusiastic opportunists with a genius idea. We just needed to sound compelling.
We rehearsed our presentations and de
cided it would be me, Julian and Dimitri who attended the meetings. I would present the vision, brand and plan for growth. Julian would ask for money. Dimitri would sit enigmatically in the corner and answer any technical questions with disdain. It was pretty rudimentary, but at least it was a strategy.
We began with the venture capital firms looking to give seed investment to digital businesses. We were a bit agnostic about these opportunities. Yes, they had lots of experience in picking winning businesses, but it would come at the price of their involvement in our initial decision-making. We naively wanted to have independence in return for their hefty donation, promising of course that we’d send them a Christmas card and tell them how we were doing.
The first meeting was spectacularly unsuccessful. The demo site Dimitri had built did not open and could not be made to work. Sadly, it is not that impressive to ask for lots of money for a digital build if you come across as techno-plonkers. Dimitri hit the key of his MacBook with a ferocity that was bordering on abusive. A series of Ukrainian insults were hurled across the room and a fire burned in his eyes as he slammed the computer shut and shouted: “You have substandard Wi-Fi. Of course nothing will work.”
Julian and I were by this time completely out of reassuring platitudes and suggested we move on, which received enthusiastic nods from eight bemused people in the room. Sadly, not Dimitri, who seemed affronted by the technological commitment of this tinpot firm that remarkably presided over a $750m tech fund.
“This is completely unsatisfactory. We must stop now,” he yelled demonically, his eyeballs bulging as he projected spittle over an innocent nearby intern. Somehow, we managed to continue, but the magic had evaporated, and we gabbled through the rest of the presentation desperate for the fire alarm to go off suddenly so we could evacuate the room. When we concluded, the senior partner rose immediately and said that he had to go to lunch, even though it was 10.45 a.m. A scuffle almost broke out as the rest of the team fought their way to the door and freedom from us.
We spoke to Dimitri and tried to explain that investors buy people as much as they buy ideas and technology. It was therefore not a great idea to come across as psychotic in a meeting. He apologised, but without much sincerity.
The next meetings went much better and generated real interest. We had become a really good double act by now. Most importantly, Dimitri was relegated to the bit part of computer operator. We allowed him to give a couple of truly unintelligible answers that would have bludgeoned even the most Scrooge-like investor into writing a cheque just to make him stop explaining how the algorithm worked. By the end of the first week we had a couple of very clear promises of investment from firms who wanted us to commit to them immediately. However, something wasn’t working for us and they did not feel like suitable partners to walk down the start-up aisle with.
We had one very amusing meeting with an elderly widow who was 210th in the Sunday Times Rich List thanks to her late husband’s famous furniture empire (‘Kingdom of Comfort’). She was eighty-one but dressed much younger and it was not a good look. Her advisor was a scruffily dressed grandson, Jed, who described himself as a tech savant and had diverted a small amount of the proceeds from leather sofas to create a fund, which he encouraged his grandmother to spend.
It was hard to be entirely serious in a quest for millions when the investor was being referred to as ‘Nan’ by her consigliere. She could not have been less interested in the idea and made it clear that ‘my lovely boy Jed’ made the decisions. Rather more alarmingly, she had succumbed to the rakish charm of Julian and her behaviour became increasingly coquettish. Whenever he said anything she laughed effusively, placing an arthritic hand on his knee and letting it linger a little longer each time.
As we got in the taxi afterwards, I told Julian, “I think we should take her money, Julian. I know I shouldn’t objectify you, but really your looks are devastating and can save having to answer all those nasty technical questions.”
Julian smiled with the assured knowledge that this was an occupational hazard for one so fair. “I feel cheapened and dirty. I thought working with you would be different.”
Julian did get a text the next day that simply said: Nan very impressed and would love to see you again ASAP to find out more.
***
The real pitches were to come. On a chilly Sunday morning in November, we sat at our favourite table in Manuela’s and Julian looked particularly pleased with himself.
“Great news. I’ve fixed us up a couple of meetings with some interesting backers who are very excited to meet us.”
“Well, it’s about time you did something useful,” I quipped.
He looked momentarily irritated but carried on. “You and I are going to meet Lord Dobson of Cresswell in the House of Lords. Following that, we’re going to meet one of your boys, an Israeli entrepreneur, Moshe Shalon.”
At that time, I had no idea that Julian had progressed to fixing up funding meetings – we hadn’t even finished writing our plan. I was intrigued, if slightly caught off guard.
“I know I should know who Lord Dobson is, but I’m drawing an aristocratic blank. Is he famous?”
“His fame is irrelevant – it’s his influence that’s important. He’s enormously wealthy and has bankrolled the Tories for thirty years. He’s also my godfather.”
“Excellent, he’ll hopefully make us an offer we can’t refuse. However, let me set you straight on something. Just because the other bloke is called Moshe doesn’t mean we are related.”
***
Lord Dobson of Cresswell, aka George Dobson from Stratford, was one of the country’s richest property owners, who quietly exerted his will in order to control many aspects of Conservative rule. He was born in 1944 to a barrister father and a mother who was an only child and sole heir to the family’s enormous portfolio of property. This became a reality for her a few years later, when her father was found dead from a heart attack at fifty-six in a bed that wasn’t his (it allegedly belonged to a young aspiring actor called Gavin de Blois).
The property business ticked over, providing the family a yearly income that was more than generous. When George was twenty-two, he graduated from Balliol with a first in PPE, and the empire found its Napoleon driven to march in search of new conquests. George excelled in everything he did: a brilliant student, fine sportsman and aspiring politician. He was President of the Oxford Union in his first year, and at home smoking cigars with Tory grandees and cabinet ministers. As soon as he announced he was taking charge of the family property interests, he ousted the long-serving manager and started to plot a vast and ambitious expansion.
Over the next ten years, he built an enormous portfolio of interests, almost unnoticed. He owned shopping centres, Stalinist-looking flats sold to councils, luxury residences across the poshest parts of London, including much of Holland Park and Kensington, as well as office blocks in the City and West End. George’s reputation was built on an aura of ruthlessness shrouded in secrecy.
He had married his Oxford sweetheart, Jennifer, shortly after graduating. They had three children and were together for thirty-five years. In 2005, he swapped her for Irina, a former ballerina from a small town outside St Petersburg; he had met her on the yacht of an oligarch with whom he was building a hotel in the Cotswolds. In 2009 he became a father again.
That was all I could find out about Lord Dobson. His business was a labyrinth of private companies, hard to connect. His political influence was legendary but also deliberately opaque. He first became known in 1979 when his donation paid for some of the famous advertising that brought Margaret Thatcher to power. Throughout her tenure, he appeared in a few photos, but always lurking in the shadows. However, the arrival of David Cameron saw him emerge from the murk to take on the role of ‘strategic advisor’ to the party leader. No one knew how this had happened.
Profiles started to appear peppered with descriptors like ‘mysterious’, ‘charming’ and ‘ruthless’, and his business was referred to
as ‘deliberately impenetrable’. The more well-known he became, the more PR consultants he employed to obscure the truth. He also developed a penchant for personal security and was famed for his increasing devotion to burly bodyguards to protect him from intrusion. He told The Times in 2010: ‘If you marry a glamorous Russian, you can never be too careful.’
“He was at Oxford with my father,” Julian explained over the remnants of our crushed avocado breakfasts. “When we were kids, we’d often holiday with the Dobsons. Lovely times on his boat on the Côte d’Azur or skiing in St Moritz.”
“Did he not like caravanning then?”
“Alex, cover up that chip on your shoulder. It’s unsightly.”
“Well, what’s he like then?”
Julian looked contemplative. He clearly had a genuine emotional connection with him. “Lovely godfather. Bloody hates kids, though.”
“A bit ironic given we’re pitching PrimaParent, don’t you think?”
“Maybe. Maybe. But when Dad got done for his pathetic attempt at insider dealing, George was the only one to stand by him. Every month, without fail, he’d visit him in prison. And when he came out, he gave him a responsibility-free job with a generous allowance for nice lunches. We’ll always be grateful that he helped mitigate our family’s shame.”
“I wonder what he’ll make of me?”
Julian said nothing.
***
If you want an antithetical alternative to Lord Dobson then look no further than publicity-seeking Moshe Shalon. He loved attention and was disarmingly open in his opinions, which he shared most hours of the day on social media. His story is well known.
He was born on Kibbutz Degania Alef in 1974 to a family who had been there for three generations. The Israeli kibbutz movement was the backbone of the idealistic socialist state created in 1948. Communities were built on the basis of shared wealth and unquestioned egalitarianism. There were also pioneering agricultural experiments, producing fruit and vegetables where nothing had grown before. A kibbutznik was above all resilient to the elements and a potentially hostile environment, as well as fiercely protective of the community that he or she helped to create.
