by Chris Evans
‘It was Mr Cleese,’ I offered. ‘I don’t know what he’s expecting from us but it’d better be good. He wants us to send whatever we come up with to him in New York to his apartment so he can add his “bits and bobs”. He’s on a plane by the way.’
‘He called you from a plane!’ remarked Danny.
‘Yeah—I know, how cool is that?’
‘Man—you’ve got to love The Pythons.’
After talking about the plane aspect of the scenario for a while (on script day we loved to talk about anything but the script until we absolutely had to) there was now ever such a slight note of tension creeping into our meeting.
What could we offer John that was different? What kind of thing was he expecting from us?
After a few minutes chin stroking and temple thumbing, I suddenly had a lightbulb moment. The kind that comes out of nowhere but seems to solve all your problems at once as if someone’s been working on them secretly for years on your behalf.
‘How about John wanting the script so badly and us getting it to him is the thing?’ I suggested.
‘Go on,’ said Danny, intrigued.
‘Well, how about I tell the story of how it’s such a big deal to have John Cleese on the show and how we didn’t want to upset him and how much he wanted to see the script and how we decided, in the end, the best thing for us to do was hand deliver the script to John himself at his apartment in New York.’
‘And so?’
‘And so—we go to New York.’
‘What do you mean we go to New York?’
‘We all go to New York to do what I just said.’
‘When?’
‘Today—and we film it. That’s the joke. We play in the film and on walks John with the script in his hand and we start the interview.’
‘Marvellous!’ declared Danny.
The producers giggled nervously, wondering whether we were joking. One hour later with the six of us hurtling towards Heathrow in the Bentley, they realised we were not.
The budget for TFI was very healthy to say the least, although naturally some weeks we spent less than others. This was not going to be one of those weeks. In fact we were on our way to film what is probably the most expensive thirty seconds of video footage in the history of light entertainment television.
As we made our way from Kent to the airport, the press whom we’d all but forgotten about were back, hot on our heels, bless them. We thought it was hilarious that they had no idea we were off to New York and if they wanted to stick with us they were going to need more than a car—namely:
A. Their passports
B. A return ticket on Concorde.
No sooner had we convinced the producers that this idea was a runner and that we were serious than the great wheels of television production started to swing into action—an impressive machine when firing on all cylinders.
Motorcycle couriers were dispatched to retrieve various passports from incredulous wives and girlfriends. Travel agents were deployed to organise airline tickets. Cars were booked on both sides of the Atlantic and a laptop computer and printer was being delivered to Heathrow’s Concorde lounge. The Concorde aspect of the ruse was what took the whole episode on to a different level and one that would provide our adventure with a twist all of its own even before we took off.
We had discussed ‘briefly’ the cost of what we were about to do and had somewhere along the line managed to convince the production manager that Concorde was a necessity if we were to get there and back in time.
There—in time to deliver Mr Cleese his script.
Back—in time to prepare the rest of the show for Friday.
It was a distinct advantage that I also owned the company, of course.
Six tickets for Concorde at £7000 each—that was £42,000—plus a further couple of thousand on top for who knows what.
New York, here we come.
But not so fast, sonny, it was time for the twist.
Top 10 Offers I Have Declined
10 To appear on practically every celeb-based reality show you have ever heard of—not in a million years would I even consider it
9 To appear on Question Time—one of my fave shows but no way would I ever go on
8 To appear on Newsnight—as a result of several news stories, the biggest of which was losing my court case against the Scottish M…(sorry can’t bring myself to say the name)
7 To host Deal or No Deal—Noel was welcome to that one; though I’m not a fan of the show I think he does a sterling job
6 To listen to the Spice Girls back at Radio 1—Simon Cowell didn’t forgive me for that for years, saying I was needlessly rude, which I was and I apologise
5 To host a new version of The Generation Game—nearly did but just didn’t feel right in the end
4 To buy a 1960s Ferrari GTO when they were still in my price range—they are now £15,000,000!
3 To be the subject of This is Your Life—twice!
2 To sell my shares in that company that I can’t bring myself to say the name of, when they were worth £37,000,000. The same shares eventually fell to the value of just under £300,000 and, yes, I still owned them. I rationalise it as God’s way of letting me know how big and ungrateful a schmuck I had become
1 To host the Virgin Radio drivetime show—before I went on to own the station—not the best offer but by far the best story
On the way to the airport I received a telephone call. It was from my good friend and agent, Michael Foster. Michael is a very small Jewish man, as equally proud of his heritage as he is unphased by his lack of height.
‘Chris, Richard Branson just rang—he wants you to sign for Virgin Radio and he wants you to sign now.’
‘What?’ I replied. My life has been full of these kind of ‘whats’.
‘He says it’s the perfect time to capitalise on what’s happened over the last few days with Radio 1 and that you still belong on the radio and you sound like more of a Virgin man than a BBC man.’
‘Wow.’
‘Oh, and he says you can have Fridays off as well.’
The guys in the car could hear what was going on and were nodding their approval.
‘So what do I have to do?’
‘He wants you to go and see him this afternoon to do the deal.’
‘Er…I can’t do that.’
‘Why not?’
‘I’m going to New York.’
‘I’m sorry it sounded like you just said you were going to New York.’
‘I am.’
‘You are.’
‘Yes.’
‘When?’
‘Now.’
‘Why?’
‘To deliver a script to John Cleese.’
‘What?’
After I explained, or rather attempted to explain to my agent what we were doing and why we were doing it, there was a brief moment of silence at the other end of the line…
‘I’ll get back to you. Make sure you stay near a phone,’ he snapped.
No more than three or four minutes later the phone rang again. When Branson sees an opportunity he likes to move fast, as does Michael. He had further news.
‘Branson says he has reserved twelve upper-class seats for you on the next Virgin flight to New York free of charge. He says you can invite eleven mates and he will pick up the tab for everything—he and I will be joining you on the plane and we will do the deal there.’
This single statement confirmed everything I hoped was true about Branson. What an operator. How exciting must it be to be able to call the shots like that and all in the name of a bona fide business deal.
Unfortunately though…
‘Michael, that sounds amazing, more than amazing, it makes me want to scream it’s so amazing but—’
‘But what, there are no buts, how can there be any buts, this is not a but situation.’ Michael was incredulous.
‘No you don’t understand,’ I implored, ‘taking a Virgin flight is not an option. We have to fly
on Concorde to make all the timings work and besides we have already paid almost fifty grand for the tickets. If he wants a meeting he’s going to have to come with us, tell him.’
‘What?’
It was the only thing I could think to say. Branson’s offer was straight from a movie script but, as flattering as it had been, I was more concerned about Mr Cleese and his script than Mr Branson and his radio station.
‘Stay by that phone,’ snapped Michael again. He was pumping on gas now. He could smell the fresh ink of a new contract in the air, like a tracker catching the faint whiff of some far off prey. He wasn’t going to let an opportunity like this pass by if there was anything he could do about it.
With Heathrow airport now in sight, the phone rang again.
‘It’s me—Branson says there is no way he can be seen getting on a BA flight—especially Concorde. He says the press would have a field day.’
Of course this was true—it was the kind of story the press would kill for. Branson hated BA and understandably so. They had tried to put him out of business almost since the day he had set up his airline—most infamously with their illegal dirty tricks campaign. And as much as I would have loved the service, movies, booze and snooze of a luxurious Virgin long-haul flight, I was in a fix. There was genuine time issue that was proving to be a deal breaker.
‘Michael, seriously, we have to take this flight. You’re gonna have to tell Branson that this time, regrettably—it’s going to have to be a no.’
The silence on the other end of the phone was deafening…
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you sure you’re sure—we could be talking millions here?’
‘Michael, I’m sure.’
‘OK—your call. I’m just the agent.’
‘Thank you.’
And with that he was gone.
The Concorde Lounge was a most magnificent place, situated just beyond the already impressive BA first class lounge. The best thing about the positioning of the two lounges was that when you walked past the first-class lounge, everyone knew where you were heading. Everyone knew you were one of the supersonic set—suddenly you were regarded as an entirely different commodity. You were one of the special ones.
What must we six have looked like walking into that place? Two hours before we were having a cup of tea in my living room and now here we were about to board the most prestigious aircraft in the world and to deliver a nonexistent script (as we had still yet to write it) to a real live Python.
Champagne was the order of the day.
‘Cheers,’ I offered up.
‘Good health,’ said Danny.
‘How mad is this?’ said Will.*
I was about to take my first sip when my phone rang again. It was Michael back on the line.
‘Branson says he wants this deal and if he has to fly on Concorde to make it happen then so be it. He refuses, however, to give BA a cent of his money—point blank—so he says you’re gonna have to pay for his ticket…oh, and mine by the way.’
‘He said I have to pay for yours too?’
‘No—I added that last bit, but that would be nice.’
Now, it could be argued that because R.B. was the one who called the meeting, he should bear the cost of any expenses incurred as a result, regardless of who his money was going to, but to be honest I was blown away by the fact that he was prepared to surrender such a huge slice of his personal principles to meet with me. I was more than happy to fork out for a ticket for him as I was for Michael’s—only a fool leaves his agent behind when thrashing it out with a player like Branson.
I informed the guys that we were about to become two more.
‘Could this day get any crazier?’ I thought. Yes, was the answer.
The brief half hour it took Branson to arrive at Heathrow on the back of one of his Virgin limo-bikes seemed to take forever. We couldn’t wait for him to walk in so we could see the expression of the faces on the BA staff as he entered the elite palace of his sworn arch enemy.
When he did finally show, we weren’t disappointed—you could almost hear the sound of jaws hitting the floor one by one as each uniformed member of BA staff realised who had just walked into their lounge. Everyone was mystified as to what was going on. Why on earth would Richard Branson even consider flying with British Airways?
The shock lasted right up until we boarded the plane, manifesting itself in the most colourful display of nerves and excitement—the male members of staff trying to be respectfully cool, almost as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened at all—whilst the female members of staff were altogether more honest with their emotions, giggling like schoolgirls and fluttering around the great maverick vying for their ‘moment’.
As the countdown to launch continued, our original group of six—now eight—was about to be joined by an unofficial ninth—a reporter from the Sun newspaper.
The Sun had caught wind of the fact that there was something going down between Branson and the newly ex-Radio 1 Breakfast Show host, and had sent Andy Coulson along to find out more. Andy, later to become an infamous editor of the News of the World before being appointed the head of press and communications for the Tory Party, was at that time editor of the Bizarre column, the paper’s showbiz gossip page. Somehow he had persuaded his bosses to part with seven grand so he could ‘cover our story’.
Andy was the happiest person on the plane and no wonder. This was no minibus trip to Blackpool—this was New ‘bloody’ York on Concorde my son. Andy would, of course, get his balls chopped off if he didn’t come back with a story but for the time being he was going to enjoy every second of this wonderful aircraft.
Not that we minded him being there—not for a second. Someone had to tell this story and it might as well be Coulson—he was a smart boy who knew the score. He promised to keep a respectful distance in exchange for a heads up on any potential headline-grabbing developments. I ran it past R.B. who said if it was fine by me if it was fine by him. Andy had a deal—off the record of course.
Papers can make you and they can break you, but they only usually do the second bit if you’ve done something wrong in the first place—very rarely do they go after someone for no reason at all. And even if they do nail you, as long as you take it on the chin and are prepared to climb straight back on the horse, they’ll pretty much back off until ‘the next time’. They generally know when someone is good for business.
Meanwhile, back on board, all I can say is that if you want to know what it’s like to receive the absolute best in-flight service possible, I recommend you travel in the company of someone who owns their own airline and if possible Richard Branson—the heroic privateer. Most people love Branson and when you see him in the flesh he definitely has that indefinable charisma people talk about. His effect on the BA crew during the ensuing three hours thirty-seven minutes was nothing short of mystical—in fact the whole plane was buzzing as a result of his presence.
There were only one hundred seats on Concorde—twenty-five rows of four, two either side of the aisle which made it a surprisingly poky aircraft. It is much smaller than people think, like a sports car compared to a coach. There were also no movies, no screens of any kind, in fact, just a speedometer readout of how fast we were going and to inform us when we were supersonic. I found myself seated towards the middle of the cabin next to my agent while Richard was sat at the front, no surprise there—I’m sure he could have had the pilot’s seat if he’d asked for it!
Once off the ground, about 20 minutes into the flight when the plane was about to enter the speed of sound, the pilot let us know via a brief announcement. We waited expectantly for something to happen but nothing did, or at least nothing seemed to. As we looked at each other the pilot came back on the speaker to confirm that we were indeed now beyond the speed of sound and quickly heading towards 2000 km per hour—twice the speed of sound and Concorde’s normal cruising speed. So with that stultifying event over, it was time
to enjoy the rest of the flight. The seatbelt signs were turned off accordingly and it was time for food, fine wines and free gifts.
I was just settling in when one of the stewardesses approached me.
‘Mr Evans, Mr Branson has asked if you would like to join him up at the front.’
This spoke volumes about the situation. Here was I effectively having paid for all the tickets—a mind-blowing £56,000 and suddenly I was at someone else’s party. I have discovered over the years that there are many things money cannot buy and pulling rank over Richard Branson on an aircraft—regardless of whether it’s one of his or not—is definitely one of them.
‘Oh yes, of course, tell him I’ll be right there,’ I replied to the nice lady.
As she turned to go back up the aisle, I went to get out of my seat, but suddenly felt a vicelike grip on my arm dragging me back down. It was the hand of a very determined and surprisingly strong agent.
‘Ow, Michael, what are you doing?’
‘You’re not going up there.’
‘What are you talking about, you madman, of course I am, let go of my arm!’
‘No.’
‘Michael—let—go—of—my—arm…now.’
‘No, fuck off and stay there.’
‘How on earth does a person begin to do that?’ I thought to myself.
Michael then did that anxious whisper thing through gritted teeth.
‘Richard Branson is the sharpest knife in the drawer. On no account am I allowing you to enter into any space where there is just you and him and where there might be a pen and a piece of paper around. He has done some legendary deals on the back of envelopes and I don’t want you to be the next one.’
By now one could have been forgiven for thinking Michael and I were having a fight as there was an audible scuffle going on. I was just about to break free of Michael’s clutches when, in a deft reversal of momentum, the little fellow somehow managed to thrust himself forward up and over me into the aisle leaving me alone in my seat.
R.B. would indeed be joined by a guest, albeit not the one he had invited.
I felt like I should protest, but seeing as there was now no one sat next to me to protest to, I decided I would let Michael get on with whatever he thought best and comforted myself instead by ordering a rather large glass of Krug champagne.
