My Autobiography
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F SOLID GOLD MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY The Ultimate Rags to Riches Tale Forward by Robin Pilley David Gold, Chairman of Ann Summers, Gold Group International and West Ham United, is a man who has risen from humble and poverty stricken beginnings and achieved a status in life beyond what even he could have ever envisaged. Born an East End Jewish cockney lad, he was at the very bottom of life’s social strata. After a childhood characterised by war, poverty and disease he set out to change his life, and in the process he also changed the lives of everyone close to him. He understands and embraces the importance of change. He also changed the fortunes of his beloved football club, developed an iconic brand in Ann Summers and was influential in liberating the sexual behavior of the great British public. Now, Gold brings his unparalleled ability for change to his inspirational autobiography. This completely reworked edition, ‘The Ultimate Rags to Riches Tale’, focuses more on his personality, his remarkable business achievements, his life- affirming story and his reflections and recollections on a world that changed beyond recognition within his own lifetime. And most importantly, he speaks candidly about how he softened the British stiff upper lip and almost single-handedly brought sex onto the UK’s high streets and changed our sex lives for the better. No one has done more to prove that dreams can come true and now you can read his exceptional autobiography exclusively written to show just 2 what one man can achieve from the most humble beginnings. I’m for ever blowing bubbles Pretty bubbles in the air They fly so high Nearly reach the sky And then like my dreams They fade and die ....... West Ham Club Anthem Everyone has dreams. Dreams do not always have to fade and die as David Gold has been fortunate enough to discover, they sometimes come true...... 3 CONTENTS THE STENCH OF POVERTY ......................... 7 C1. ABJECT POVERTY .............................. 11 C2. MASS MURDER .................................. 38 C3. ABUSED ............................................. 54 C4. JEWS, JEWS AND MORE JEWS .......... 60 C5. THOMAS WILLIAM GOULD, VC .......... 79 C6. ANOTHER F***ING JEW ................... 89 C7. DARTMOOR PRISON ....................... 104 C8. RUN RABBIT RUN............................ 113 C9. SLAVE LABOUR ............................... 130 C10. HANK JANSON TO THE RESCUE .... 139 C11. A BIG FAT POOF ............................ 162 C12. BETRAYED ..................................... 176 4 C13. FRENCH KISS ................................ 189 C14. DON’T TELL THE SERVANT ............ 203 C15. OVER MY DEAD BODY ................... 236 C16. TRIUMPH AND TRAGEDY .............. 263 C17. DAVID SULLIVAN .......................... 298 C18. CLARET AND BLUES ...................... 316 C19. A DIAMOND GEEZER ..................... 338 C20. THE GOLDEN BOY ......................... 356 C21. WELCOME HOME, STEVE ............... 372 C22. THE FA CUP, 1896 - 1910 ............. 386 C23. LOSER TAKES ALL ......................... 395 C24. MONEY, MONEY, MONEY ............... 411 C25. THE BOARDROOM ......................... 431 C26. THE IMPORTANT WOMEN IN MY LIFE .............................................................. 466 C27. I’M FOREVER BLOWING BUBBLES 490 5 C28. FIGHTING FOR SURVIVAL ............ 502 C29. A GOLDEN OPPORTUNITY ............. 518 C30. THE END OF AN ERA ..................... 533 C31. DO YOU HAVE THE COURAGE? ...... 545 6 PROLOGUE THE STENCH OF POVERTY Every morning I take a short walk that reminds me of who I am, and where I came from. This is not a stroll around the gardens or golf course at my house in Surrey. It does not involve a trip to one of my shops, or to John Adam Street, where I ran my first bookshop so many years ago. It has nothing to do with the airport, where my fleet of jets take off, or distribution centres, or football grounds. It’s a much simpler walk than that, out of my bedroom, across the hall and down a short flight of stairs. There, on the landing, is a mirror, and every single morning, without fail, I pause in front of it for a few moments to straighten my tie, and look myself in the eye. On the wall behind me are photographs from my childhood; grainy black-and-white pictures of us as children with our lovely Mum. There is one of me and her with our tin bath hanging from the wall next to the outside toilet at our home in Green Street; and pictures a few years later, again with Mum, this time looking worn out, exhausted, but still smiling despite everything we endured. I think humility is very important, and I am fortunate to have Lesley, my fiancée, making sure I keep my feet firmly on the ground. One day Lesley and I were shopping at Harrods in London. When we’d finished, my driver Mark pulled up outside and with the help of the doorman loaded up the boot with our purchases. 7 Mark opened the car door for Lesley and the Harrods doorman opened mine and I gave him a tip. As we drove off, Lesley turned to me and said, ‘I’m surprised you didn’t thank Albert the doorman.’ Only Lesley would be kind enough to remember the doorman’s name. ‘But I did,’ I replied. ‘I gave him a tip.’ I reassured her that I hadn’t reached a point where I didn’t have to say thank you. I would hate for that to happen to me, as it has happened to so many others. That’s why I still look at those pictures of us at Green Street that remind me of where I came from and who I am. We were a family of four, with no breadwinner. And due to the frequent absences of my father the house was in a state of disrepair including a leak in the roof which would drip constantly until damp and mildew appeared from behind the wallpaper and the smell permeated the house – the unmistakable ‘stench of poverty’. Life was a continuous struggle for my poor Mum. The war years made life more difficult, not just in the house but also in our air-raid shelter; a cold, damp corrugated iron construction in the back yard where you would find the true odour of poverty. When the bombs fell, the shrapnel would fly; breaking tiles and cutting through anything in its way, making no distinction between brick, wood or flesh. I learned from an early age how fragile life could be. How I hated the rain. When we got the all clear after the skies fell silent from the bombers, we 8 would go back to the house only for the drip, drip, drip of the leaking roof to start up again. All we could do was put a bucket underneath until it stopped. Throughout it all, my mother did her best. I saw her on her knees scrubbing the lino on the cement floor with carbolic soap, even when she was desperately ill. The house was deteriorating around us, but she kept it as clean as she could. Briefly, on the few occasions when our fire was roaring and the strength-sapping cold momentarily abated, we would lose ourselves in the dancing flames and warmth and the wonderful aroma of burning wood would temporarily fill the room. There are so many elements to poverty. There is hunger, which on its own is not soul- destroying but combined with the bitter cold and frequent illnesses, it can quickly become so. We had little chance of heating because we could not afford coal. There were times when I was so cold I went to bed with all my clothes on. I could feel despair grabbing me. If it wasn’t the damp beds, stomach-cramping hunger and illness, it was the anti-Semitism, sexual and physical abuse and a largely absent father, who was a petty crook, gambler and philanderer. As a young child I could not have defined poverty because I had nothing to compare it with. All I knew was I had no belt to keep my trousers up. There were holes in my shoes and the soles flapped. Every time it rained my much- darned socks got wet. Poverty is there, in your 9 face, your ears and your nose, and you find yourself just trying to survive and wondering what you have to do to change the cards you have been dealt. If anyone wonders where my drive, motivation and perseverance comes’ from, it was borne out of the poverty in the East End of London in the nineteen forties. And every morning, just a short walk from my bedroom, down the stairs, and on the landing I stop, I look in the mirror, I straighten my tie, and I know who I am, and where I came from. 10 CHAPTER ONE C1. ABJECT POVERTY I faced a challenge as soon as I made an appearance as I was a premature baby weighing in at less than four pounds, and with incubators a scarce commodity all over the country let 11 alone Stepney, it was a toss-up from the start whether I would survive. But survive I did and lived to tell the tale of a long battle against everything life could throw at me and my family. One of my earliest memories as a five or six- year-old boy in the East End of London during the Second World War was when we arrived home one day only to discover we no longer had one. Our terraced house in Hampton Road had been bombed; the walls and roof had collapsed and it was now completely uninhabitable. As it happens, fate had presented us with two pieces of good fortune. Firstly, of course, none of us were at home at the time, and secondly it meant we moved to another house around the corner in Green Street where I spent the rest of my young life.