Michael and I were working totally opposite hours at that time. I would be going to work when he was asleep and coming home just a few hours before he was due to get up for work. This issue, along with the advent of financial worries, started to put quite a strain on our relationship, so I wasn’t that surprised when Michael asked me to sleep in a separate bedroom.
By March 1999 I was beginning to panic when I noticed that the club’s fortunes were not turning in the right direction. I’m not proud to say it, but I was losing my nerve. For some strange reason, I just knew that this was the beginning of the end.
Michael had bought me some books for Christmas that I’d still not read by March. One night, in order to escape from the worries of life, I decided to read Richard Branson’s Losing my Virginity. I now wish that I hadn’t. I came across a couple of very interesting chapters that I felt had been written just for my benefit. I noticed that when the Virgin empire was in financial trouble, Richard expanded his company to increase cash flow. This gave him time to reconstruct his business and keep the creditors from the door. This, I thought, would be my plan too. I’d open up a couple more bars with borrowed money from the brewers, who at that time didn’t know the full extent of my financial troubles, and use the extra cash flow from those bars to pay creditors. This would also buy me time to figure out how to make the club work properly. I was excited and felt back in control again.
Initially, my plan went quite well but by August the club was not making enough money for me to pay my many creditors and also keep the bank happy. To make matters worse, the successful Budda Bar was starting to lose credibility because of its association with the rather uncool club located upstairs.
After much soul-searching, Michael and I decided to sell our beloved home and try to shore up the company with the equity from the sale. It was a terrible wrench and put a further strain on our relationship.
This was one of the most difficult periods of my life. Friends who had made a great deal of money from me over the years were deserting me by the barrowful. People I trusted didn’t return my calls and, worse still, my staff began to lose respect for me. Many left and found other jobs in Glasgow’s overpopulated world of bars and clubs.
Now when things are bad they can get really bad, even when you think they can’t get any worse. One Friday evening in November 1999, I received a call from my lawyer, Brian. He told me I had a major problem. The liquidation accountants were on their way to the Budda Bar to close it down.
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. What the hell was going on? I knew nothing about this writ and was totally stunned. I literally dropped everything and ran out of the house. I could hardly breathe and was shaking with fear. There were tears in my eyes and my head was bursting. If I couldn’t get over to Brian’s office as quickly as possible I would be out of business within the hour. I tried desperately to find a taxi but it was almost impossible at that time on a Friday. So I started running. I ran and ran through the streets of Glasgow’s West End in the pouring rain. I’d been running for a good five minutes when I saw a taxi with its ‘for hire’ light on. Within minutes I was at Brian’s office, shaking with fear and in a terrible state.
Brian told me I needed to raise £25,000 by Monday morning to prevent my business being closed down. The weird thing was that the sale of our house was due to be completed the following week, so at the back of my mind I knew that if I could borrow money from somewhere I could repay it almost immediately from our sale proceeds. I lifted the phone and called my dad. He was pretty shocked when I told him about my predicament. He wanted to help but had only around £3,000 in ready cash. If I wanted more, he would have to make some calls and get back to me. True to his word, dad called back within the hour and told me that he could get another £10,000 from a friend of his. I managed to raise the remaining £12,000 from the weekend’s takings at my bars. I thought I was safe. I had bought time.
I don’t know how I got through those dark days of November 1999. I suppose I just dug deep and hoped that things would turn out all right in the end. I was still fairly young and in good health, which meant that I could always start up again in business if I felt the desire to do so. But the magic was slowly disappearing from my world of wheeling and dealing and bars and clubs. I just couldn’t see myself going through the trauma of starting up from scratch if my business went bust.
At this point, I found comfort in knowing that I could – if need be – take my own life. I understand that this may sound rather melodramatic or even selfish, but it was this thought and the ultimate level of control it brought me that really kept me going. No matter how bad things got, I had a get-out clause. It was also strangely comforting to know that I had an insurance policy that would pay out £1 million on my death, even if I committed suicide. If the worst came to the worst at least I’d be able to leave Michael and my family enough money for them to be fairly comfortably off.
I was constantly bombarded with calls from creditors. Unfortunately, there wasn’t that much in the kitty to pay them. I could feel my business slipping away from beneath my feet like quicksand.
When we finally sold our house, it wasn’t the anticipated answer to my financial problems. Once we’d paid off our mortgage with the cash from the sale we were left with approximately £113,000. As soon as the money hit our account the bank manager used some of it to pay off my company overdraft, so we were left with £73,000. The bank manager wasn’t finished though. Michael and I had credit cards, which we had been using for months to buy food and pay bills. Our card bill was sitting at £13,000 so the bank manager took our cards from us, tore them up and paid off the bill. We had £60,000 left but the bank manager still wasn’t finished. By the time I’d paid off some of my debts, I was left with nothing. Not a penny, absolutely nothing. I now had no money to pay back my mum and dad and I was devastated.
Michael and I moved into our new home and were settling in. Christmas was only a few weeks away but we decided not to buy each other presents because we were totally broke and struggling to get by from day to day. I felt terrible for Michael. He’d put so much effort into our relationship and his reward was a house that was soon to be repossessed and a failed business.
I had to laugh when everyone in Budda Club started counting down the final moments of 1999. The worst year of my life was just seconds away from finishing, and what could be the most difficult year ever was just about to start. I hugged Michael. I knew that we wouldn’t last the next 12 months together and I think he did too. We smiled as we held hands and watched the crowds party as the champagne corks popped and the streamers flew all around us. The club was full for once, which was an achievement in itself. I knew that this would be my last time in the place. People would be starting back at work within the next few days and credit managers would be on the phone looking for their money. What a totally crazy situation this was.
That Sunday evening I’d had enough. Budda was in chaos and I had to get away from it. I thought long and hard and decided to go to London. I wasn’t planning on coming back. I remember standing on Tower Bridge one Thursday evening. I hadn’t been sleeping too well and had started taking Night Nurse tablets. They seemed to dim my senses and got me through most days. I looked into the Thames and started to think about climbing onto the railing. The water seemed a long way down. I began to think about my life; all the highs and now the terrible lows. It didn’t seem fair that I’d ended up with so much pain, but I told myself that life wasn’t fair. I didn’t care. I was on my way out of this madness. I put my foot on the railing and started to pull myself up. I managed to get one leg onto the other side when I suddenly heard a voice. It wasn’t the voice of a passer-by. It was all around me, engulfing me. It was in my head but it wasn’t a part of me. It was surreal.
‘Go home and face the music,’ this man’s voice said. ‘You will come through this and will grow from it. This pain will not last forever. Go home Derek.’
I looked around me but there was no-one there. I was shocked. I felt as if someone had just put their arms around me and I was being protected in some way. It was an amazing feeling.