UNPLEASANT: Richard Desmond

Watching the Sultan of Sleaze, Donald Trump, spring his ambush on another head of state in the White House, my mind reluctantly went back to the tenth floor boardroom of the Daily Express in Richard Desmond’s Blue Lubyanka.

They are cut from the same cloth, Trump and Desmond. Both are unpleasant men, braggarts and bullies who delight in belittling and humiliating those who displease them.

Last week Trump’s chosen victim was Cyril Ramaphosa, South Africa’s President, whom Trump accused of allowing the persecution of white farmers driven from their land with threats and violence and sometimes murdered.

Ramaphosa was forced to sit, embarrassed and uncomfortable, in the Oval Office as Trump played clips of South African politicians fanning the flames of hatred against these farmers (“Kill the Boer,” shouted one). Ramaphosa denied Trump’s charges, which the U.S. President has in the past likened to genocide.

There may well be some truth in them but Ramaphosa had gone to Washington, armed only with sycophantic compliments and supported by golfers Ernie Els and Retief Goosen, to seek a trade deal. Instead, he took a verbal kicking live on every big American TV network.

Desmond, too, revelled in such tactics. Each Wednesday and Friday, he would gather his executives, including the editors of all his newspapers and magazines and key directors, around the huge boardroom table.

He could select according to his mood the colour of the overhead lighting with a switch and, like Trump, had big screen TV and video facilities available on the wall at one end.

Circulation figures would be scrutinised along with blurbs for upcoming editions, any new TV advertising, profits of course, advertising sales and savings achieved. For those who attended regularly, it was a continuation of a never-ending conversation and the agenda read more like an aide memoire. Those who, like me, were present only rarely, had to play catch-up.

No one enjoyed these meetings, except Desmond. They were a chance for the chairman to show off, wield power, set the tone and direction, reward and punish – and he loved it. The rest of us, not so much. 

From the moment you stepped into the lift – destination, tenth floor only – you were seized by feelings of futility and dread. No one took much from these meetings and there was always the chance that you were cruising for a bruising. Someone always was.

Desmond was mercurial. One minute he would be avuncular, chuckling contentedly over healthy circulation figures, congratulating the advertising director on his sales – “Mazel tov, Stan!” – and the next he’d be flaying someone over a blurb that didn’t meet his expectations.

Like Trump, he enjoyed putting people on the back foot and would test newcomers, probe for weaknesses he could exploit. On my first visit he noted that the paper I had produced that weekend had raised circulation.

“Maybe we should put you in charge, maybe you could do a better job. What do you think? Would you take it?”

I protested that he already had a fine editor in Martin Townsend, who was doing a great job. He grinned. “Loyalty. Very good, I like that.” Then he nodded to his joint managing director, Martin Ellice, who rang a little handbell as a sign of approval.

There were other eccentricities, apparently designed for the boss’s amusement. Desmond, who launched his publishing career with music magazines and is a very decent drummer, would slip a line from the lyrics of a pop song into the conversation.

The unspoken challenge to those gathered round the table was: name that tune.

Some were better than others. Townsend, a former music journalist and unabashed pop nerd, often spared the others’ blushes by not only identifying the song but also the singer, the year it made the charts and for good measure, the bass guitarist.

Occasionally, the meeting would be paused by the arrival of Desmond’s butler, Chris, bearing a banana on a silver salver, or a protein shake if he was trying to lose weight.

Once, a model of a private jet on the boardroom table – perhaps a Gulfstream, though I can’t be sure – greeted arriving editors. It sat there unremarked for most of the meeting until Desmond, whose fortune was expanding rapidly, revealed he was considering whether to buy one.

Inevitably, someone mentioned the advice often given to rich men: “If it flies, floats or f***s… rent it.”

The whole pantomime, which could sometimes last for four hours, was stressful and editors developed what a therapist would call coping mechanisms for dealing with it.

Former Daily Express editor Chris Williams is undeniably charming and witty but occasionally that was not enough to save him from a Desmond tongue lashing – until he came up with his personal iron dome to protect him against incoming: House prices.

At the time, all Britain was agog at the rate their homes were increasing in value. If the paper splashed on it, circulation went up; if not, it went down. So the news desk was tasked with providing a daily house prices splash contender. It did little for the Express’s standing among its Fleet Street peers but it kept sales up and the boss happy.

Peter Hill, who succeeded Williams as editor, deflected Desmond’s spears with his droll Yorkshire humour and occasional spirited resistance. I heard a story that Desmond pressed him to fire sub-editors to save money. Better start with the older ones on the bigger salaries.

I was told Hill replied: “Subs aren’t worth hiring until they’re past 50.” That simple, wise statement saved a few jobs.

On the Sunday Express, Michael Pilgrim, a much better editor than many gave him credit for but a hangover from the Rosie Boycott era, came up with the most radical defence of all – he simply declined to attend, arguing that, on a Friday particularly, he had far too much to do.

It was true. Editors at those meetings were taking their eye off the ball at critical times. But it sealed Pilgrim's fate and he was fired, with his deputy Paul Dunn leaving soon afterwards.

I retired from the Express with a few regrets but leaving behind those hateful tenth-floor meetings wasn't one of them.

RICHARD DISMORE

27 May 2025