Astrid’s guide to getting what you want: Stand Around.
So if you can believe it, I managed to meet Richard Branson last night.
I HAVE EVIDENCE:
Who’s Richard Branson? He’s a billionaire, and the founder of the Virgin empire (www.virgin.com), which started with a record store and now includes a record label, an airline, a chain of stores, a mobile phone company, and so on. I’m not one that usually goes crazy over celebrities - I’ve got enough miles in publicity under my belt to know that the art of PR involves a hell of a lot of smoke and mirrors making people look more interesting than they really are - and I certainly don’t think he’s magical. But he’s managed to make something amazing, and he really inspires me to be more gutsy, more daring, more shameless.
He’s also massively famous. I wanted to meet him because his story has really affected me, and because I knew the odds of it happening were slim and I wanted to somehow make it happen.
I get in the door of this party around 9pm as the “plus one” of someone I’ve never met. We walk in and discover, to my glee, that the drinks are free and there’s lots of minature food being taken around by smiling people with trays. The place is also HUGE and PACKED.
Branson was supposed to show up eventually and I positioned myself behind the stage with my camera. Sure enough he came out and said about ten words and got off stage again, and some horrible stage show started. The people I was with wanted to get some serious drinking done. I went with them.
Someone handed my a fortune cookie. I bit into it, and when I removed the fortune I realized that I had eaten half the fotrune. What was left said something like “You will be a” and the rest was gone. Ominous! I tried to save it but I haven’t seen it since.
Eventually I was standing with some people on the main floor of the club eating tiny sandwiches and tiny boxes of pad thai and tiny lemon squares and having a good time. I could see the VIP area on the second floor from where I was standing. Branson was leaning over the railing.
Stuffing a tiny samosa in my mouth to steel my nerves, off I go to get past the security at the VIP entrance. I walked up and gave some story about needing to speak to someone who was standing in there, that I was just leaving and needed to speak to that guy over there, I’ll be two seconds.
It failed miserably.
I said fine, I’ll wait right here. And watched the crowd and tried to figure out how the hell I was going to swing this one.
I kept an eye out for someone I knew and tried to think of something brilliant. I considered taking a running jump but that wasn’t going to work. I considered grabbing a tray off the bar, getting someone to hold my coat, and trying to sneak in as a waitress, but I had been standing there and they knew what I looked like. I considered bribing the guard but all I had with me was my camera (non-negotiable), and a cherry Blo-Pop in my pocket. Dammit.
I don’t know how long I stood there trying to look like I was busy waiting. But eventually Richard Branson walked out with security guards. I followed in hot pursuit.
Eventually I ended up on the street in front of the club. I went up to him and said, “I’m making a documentary. You have been very inspiring to me.” I asked for a picture, he said sure, and the result you see at the top was me trying to make sure that the camera was focusing and not looking at the lens. AUGHH.
In short, the club was great, I ate my weight in tiny sandwiches and drank more than I could have possibly afforded, I met a ton of people, and I got to meet Richard Branson. That was cool because it was such a long shot, such a completely remote thing, and I made it happen.
If I can get into this party and accomplish what I set out to do by sheer force of will … hey, money’s going to be easy.
I think I’m going to send Richard Branson a copy of that picture. Too bad the focus is sketchy and I’m not really looking at the camera.