Mud Sweat & Tears - Bear Grylls [80]
I tried to think of an entrepreneur and adventurer that I admired, and I kept coming back to Sir Richard Branson, the founder of Virgin.
I wrote to him once, then I wrote once more. In all, I sent twenty-three letters.
No response.
Right, I thought, I’ll find out where he lives and take my proposal there myself.
So I did precisely that, and at 8 p.m. one cold evening, I rang his very large doorbell. A voice answered the intercom, I mumbled my pitch into the speakerphone.
A housekeeper’s voice told me to leave the proposal – and get lost.
It’s not clear quite what happened next: I assume that whoever had answered the intercom meant just to switch it off, but instead they pressed the switch that opened the front door.
The buzzing sound seemed to last for ever – but it was probably only a second or two.
In that time I didn’t have time to think, I just reacted … and instinctively nudged the door open.
Suddenly I found myself standing in the middle of Sir Richard Branson’s substantial, marble-floored entrance hall.
‘Uh, hello,’ I hollered into the empty hall. ‘Sorry, but you seem to have buzzed the door open,’ I apologized to the emptiness.
The next thing I knew, the housekeeper came flying down the stairs, shouting at me to leave.
I duly dropped the proposal and scarpered.
The next day, I sent round some flowers, apologizing for the intrusion and asking the great man to take a look at my proposal. I added that I was sure, in his own early days, he would probably have done the same thing.
I never got a reply to that one, either.
Later that week, I was bicycling down a pavement in the City of London when I passed a company called DLE, which stands for Davis Langdon & Everest.
Hmm, I thought, as I skidded to a halt.
I took a deep breath, and then confidently walked into their ultra-clean, ultra-smart reception, and asked to be put through to the CEO’s office, saying it was both urgent and confidential.
Once I had the CEO’s secretary on the line, I pleaded with her to help me get just two minutes of her boss’s time.
Eventually after three attempts, due to a combination of pity and intrigue, she agreed to ask the CEO to see me for ‘literally two minutes’.
Bingo.
I was escorted into a lift and then ushered into the calm of the CEO’s top-floor office. I was very nervous.
The two head guys, Paul Morrell and Alastair Collins, came in, looking suspiciously at this scruffy youngster holding a pamphlet. (They later described it as one of the worst-laid-out proposals they had ever seen.)
But they both had the grace to listen.
By some miracle, they caught the dream and my enthusiasm, and for the sake of £10,000 (which to me was the world, but to them was a marketing punt), they agreed to back my attempt to put the DLE flag on top of the world.
I promised an awesome photograph for their boardroom.
We stood up, shook hands, and we have remained great friends ever since.
I love deals like that.
CHAPTER 74
So I got lucky. But then again, it took me many hundreds of rejections to manage to find that luck.
I am sure there is a lesson in that somewhere.
Someone had taken a punt and had faith in me. I wouldn’t let them down, and I would be eternally grateful to them for giving me that chance to shine.
Once DLE were on board, a few other companies joined them. It’s funny how, once one person backs you, somehow other people feel more comfortable doing the same.
I guess most people don’t like to trailblaze.
So before I knew it, suddenly, from nothing, I had the required funds for a place on the team. (In fact I was about £600 short, but Dad helped me out on that one, and refused to hear anything about ever being paid back. Great man.)
The dream of an attempt on Everest was now about to become a reality.
So many people over the years have asked me how to get sponsorship, but there is only one magic ingredient. Action. You just have to keep going.
Then keep going some more.
Our dreams are just wishes, if we never follow them through with action. And in life, you