As the summer of 2007 drew to a close and the number of daylight hours began to dwindle, so did the pounds in our bank account. Within the space of three weeks we received invoices from our graphic designer, our web developer and our web-hosting company. Things were, if not desperate, then certainly pathetically, terrifyingly, unbelievably desperate.

So desperate in fact that to raise a bit of extra cash we ‘d bribed Adam Kay – everyone’s favourite singing, swearing doctor – to re-form with his old singing partner, Dr Suman Biswas, for two comeback gigs at the New Players Theatre in Charing Cross. Given that their band – the Amateur Transplants – had split shortly after the release of ‘London Underground’, this had been no easy task. But, as the promoters, we stood to make almost ten grand from the shows, and the spin-off DVD sales. Money that would tide us over for another month or so.

Given that none of us had any experience of putting on a proper show, the gigs went remarkably well, with only half a dozen or so audience members storming out and demanding their money back each night. To be fair, the walkouts had little to do with the content of the shows and a lot to do with the title – it was called The Black and White Menstrual Show – and the fact that we’d decided it was best not to vet Adam and Suman’s playlist before opening night. As a result, it included a song to the tune of James Blunt’s song ‘You’re Beautiful’, which began:

My life is brilliant, my name is James I’m only seven, and that explains Why I’ve never had a best friend Until you came along

But people stop and they look at us And they say that it’s wrong

They say …

… you’re a paedophile

you’re a paedophile

they say

Your name is Clive, and you ‘re forty-five But you don’t let that come between us And you make me hold your …
… hand.

‘ You’re A Paedophile’, as the song was called, was followed by another crowd-pleaser, to the tune of Nina Simone’s ‘My Baby’, about the dangers of having children beyond the age of forty-five …
Your baby’s got a flattened nose A widened gap between his toes …

The extra income from the shows – the first actual revenue that had come into the company since we launched – would allow the development of the new Kudocities site to continue for the time being, but there was no getting away from the fact that our upcoming meeting with Max and Duncan from WeLoveLocal could be the difference between the company surviving and us losing everything.

14.1

With so much riding on closing our angel round it wouldn ‘t be helpful if too many people found out that a Managing Director of the company was awaiting trial on fraud charges; things like that tend to spook potential investors. So I decided, for the first time in my life, to use what I’d learned in my law degree. I wrote a letter to the Crown Prosecution Service.

The CPS publishes a list of guidelines to help their solicitors determine when a prosecution is in the public interest and, more importantly, when it’s not. The idea of the guidelines is to avoid completely pointless cases going to trial just because, say, a custody sergeant is having a bad day. Reading through the guidelines, the fact that they’d decided to push ahead with the trial seemed even more bizarre: mine was a first time ‘offence’, it had been the result of a mistake, no one had been hurt, and I’d offered to make amends by paying the cab driver.

I wrote a long letter explaining all of this and reiterating that I ‘d be happy to pay the thirty quid to the cab driver and save the many times more that it would cost the taxpayer to drag me through the courts. It was a very, very long shot – normally submissions to the CPS would be made by a lawyer, but I was damned if I was going to pay legal fees for something so stupid.

I spell-checked the letter – noticing just at the last minute that at one point I’d misspelt fraud as freud(( I’m sure there’s a name for that kind of error.)) – and then popped it in the post, with a first-class stamp to show I meant business. And then I waited. There were two weeks before my court date.

14.2

The day of our make or break meeting with Duncan and Max Jennings arrived and, as arranged, we met Angus outside the WeLoveLocal offices. When he arrived, he looked – for the first time – as nervous as we did. If these guys didn’t want to invest we were out of options and would have to reconsider completely how we were going to fund Kudocities – if it could be funded at all.

On the dot of ten we were buzzed into the building and made our way up the narrow stairs that led to the offices of WeLoveLocal and the brothers’ parent company, eMomentum. A staffer welcomed us in and offered us a drink. ‘Water, please, ‘ we all said in near-perfect unison. I busied myself setting up the presentation while the others sat and stared nervously around the room, waiting for Max and Duncan to arrive. We were sitting in what seemed to be the company’s conference room; yet another stark, white room with very little furniture, just a few bookshelves and cool corporate toys. A mini-fridge hummed away in a corner even though in the opposite one there was a perfectly good fitted kitchen.

There ’s an unwritten rule, I’m pretty certain, that every successful Internet business must have a mini-fridge in a corner. We’d had one at The Friday Project – even though it remained empty for the entire time I was there as it was too mini to hold even a single upright bottle of beer – and there had been a similar fridge at most of the offices we’d visited. And yet the Fridaycities offices didn’t have one. Maybe that’s where we were going wrong. I made a mental note to log on to Firebox.com when I got back to the office. Surely, a tiny fridge was the least Michael owed me.

A few minutes later, Max strode in, bringing with him apologies from Duncan who had been caught up at another meeting and wouldn’t be able to make it. We all breathed a collective sigh of relief – pitching to one person is always easier than pitching to two – partly for reasons of strength in numbers, but also because, unless the one person is a total despot, it’s unlikely they’ll make a negative decision there and then. There will be at least one other person they’ll need to go away and speak to before saying no, which at least gives you another bite of the cherry.

I fired up my laptop and we began the pitch. With Max we had the distinct advantage that he was the same age as us – or, more specifically, the same age as Savannah and me. This was, of course, totally sickening, but it also boosted our confidence a million times as it was the first time we’d felt like we were discussing the business with a peer, rather than sucking up to a grown-up. It also helped that Max had been a member of Fridaycities since it had been the London by London newsletter. He was an actual, bona fide, fan of the site and of the business, before we’d even opened our mouths. This was good – very good – and it got even better when he was joined later in the meeting by Dan Bower, WeLoveLocal’s technical genius. Turned out Dan, too, was a fan of Fridaycities and was really enthusiastic to hear about our plans for developing the new site.

An extra bonus came when Max said that, while they were weighing up the investment potential of the company, they’d like to buy some advertising space on the site to promote WeLoveLocal. The money they were willing to pay for the space wasn’t great – less than £1, 000, in fact – but it was a financial commitment, which was more than any other possible angel since Angus had give us. And God knows, at that stage beggars could ill afford to be choosers.

‘ That was a great meeting, ‘ said Savannah as we left, once we were out of earshot of the office. Even Karl appeared for once to have enjoyed the experience of whoring himself for the promise of money. Angus headed back to his proper job and Karl set off to the office to finish off the day’s editorial, leaving Savannah and me to consider the morning’s events. We headed to a pub around the corner for some lunch.

‘I think we’re going to be okay, you know, ‘ she said. The meeting had been really positive and, barring some huge objection by Duncan, it really looked like WeLoveLocal might invest.

‘Yeah, I think we are, ‘ I agreed.

‘Unless you end up in jail. That would probably fuck us a bit.’ ‘Yeah.’

Jail prospect aside, I did have a good feeling. There was just something about talking to Max that had given me a buzz that the other meetings hadn’t. It took me a few days to work out what it was: while all the other potential investors had been very enthusiastic about the business and the site, their enthusiasm centred on the fact that it was a good idea, with a solid business model behind it. That is, it provided a good investment opportunity.

I remembered feeling a similar kind of frustration when Clare and I had raised money for The Friday Project. One afternoon we were invited to the RAC Club to do a presentation for a group of elderly angel investors. There were about twenty of them – all men, mean age about seventy – sitting around an enormous conference table. Between them they’d been on the boards of a dozen blue-chip companies and they had all heard of the Internet but knew very little about it. All they did know was that it represented an opportunity.

Before beginning our presentation, Clare and I handed around some copies of the books we were publishing so that they could see the kind of thing we did and we watched in fascination as they picked up the books, glanced inside and then closed them almost straight away. One of them summed up the attitude perfectly: ‘Okay, we believe you know about books – now tell us about the business.’

Most of the people we ‘d presented Fridaycities to had felt the same way. Okay, you guys know content – we get that – now tell us about the business. Prior to the WeLoveLocal meeting, only Nic Brisbourne, who took away and read a copy of the London by London book we gave him as a gift, had actually given a shit about what Fridaycities was saying to visitors. One of the investors we’d met had actually slid the book back across the table without opening it, explaining with no sense of apology: ‘Thanks but I really won’t read it.’ How could he not care what this business – and he’d already said he liked the business and was interested in investing – was saying to the world? Did he really see the journalistic and editorial side of it as just another feature? It was both nutty and phenomenally frustrating given the effort we put into giving Fridaycities a distinct voice: making it informative, entertaining and – and funny, dammit.

But Max hadn ‘t been like that. He was a long-time fan of the content of the site; the questions and answers, the editorial, the voice . He read it, he subscribed to the weekly email newsletter; he understood it. Any schmuck can look at a website, or a magazine, or a book, or a movie and see pound signs. But if they don’t bother to listen to what it’s actually saying, how can they possibly know if it’s any good?

As expected, Max contacted us a couple of weeks later and told us that Duncan was keen to meet us to talk through some specifics of the business. The meeting, back at their offices, couldn’t have gone better, especially when it turned out that a few days before, by a strange coincidence, Karl had published a photo of one of Duncan’s friends on the site to illustrate an article he’d written. It was a review of an event that Karl had attended and he’d simply pointed his camera at a group of attendees and taken the picture. Of all the millions of people in London, he’d accidentally snapped one of our potential investors’ friends.

‘ That’s just one of the many personalisation features we’re developing, ‘ I responded without missing a beat. ‘Eventually we hope to allow you to keep track of where all your friends are through Kudocities.’

14.3

With Max and Duncan now very much on board with the concept of Kudocities, and with a promise that they’d get back to us in a couple of weeks with their answer about investment, Savannah and Karl turned their attentions back to the forthcoming launch of Kudocities – with Savannah focusing on getting the community features right while Karl worked on the editorial. I, on the other hand, turned my attention back to the Crown Prosecution Service and the fact that, with three days to go until my court date, they still hadn’t responded to my letter. I decided to phone the enquiries number they gave on their website.

‘ Hello, ‘ I said, not really sure of the tone to adopt when you’re calling the CPS (I opted for posh but apologetic), ‘I wonder if you can help me. I’m calling about a letter I sent you about my court appearance.’
‘Please hold, ‘ said the voice on the other end.

As I sat on hold, I noted that they didn ‘t have any hold music at the CPS – and found myself scribbling a list in my notepad, in the hope that I might be able to use it as a cheap gag somewhere. The list was entitled ‘Top five hold music tracks at the CPS’. It read:

1) Please release me

2) Jailhouse rock

3) He ain’t guilty (he’s my brother)

4) Addicted to love (/crystal meth)

5) When you say nothing at all (but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something you later rely on in court).

It was a silly list, and not very funny, but it was the first thing I’d written in almost a year that wasn’t a business plan or a pitch document. Finally:

‘Hello, can I help you?’

After giving my reference number, my scheduled court date and a whole host of other details I was put through to the CPS lawyer who would be able to tell me whether my letter had done the trick. Or at least she would have done if …

‘I’m sorry, we don’t have any record of a letter from you. When did you send it?’

Panic! ‘Um, weeks ago – you should definitely have it. Are you sure? Can you double check?’

‘If we’d received anything from you we’d have it on the computer under your reference number. When’s your court date again?’ ‘It’s in three days.’

‘Oh dear, you’re cutting it very fine.’

No kidding.

‘Can you fax it over to us again?’

Well, yes, I could if we had a bloody fax machine in the office. Come to think of it, does anyone use faxes any more?

‘Yes, no problem, what’s your number there … ?’

Seriously panicking now, I clicked open the file on my laptop and sent another copy of the letter across our office network to the printer, getting ready to dash out in search of a fax. It was almost five o’clock and I knew that even if I could find a newsagent’s with a fax service, there was very little chance the CPS would receive it before close of business. That would give them exactly one day to make their decision and one more day to inform the court of their decision if I was going to avoid having to attend. Shit. Shit. Shit. And then, at that exact moment, as I stood over the printer, willing the damn thing to just print a little bit faster, my mobile rang. It was a withheld number. Maybe it was the CPS phoning to tell me that they’ve found my letter, I thought. I answered with my posh voice just in case.

It wasn’t the CPS but I was glad to have used my posh voice anyway as on the other end of the phone was our bank manager at Lloyds TSB. A couple of weeks earlier, realising that we might possibly need a financing Plan B, I’d decided to ask the bank for a loan under the government’s Small Firms Loan Guarantee Scheme (SFLGS). These brilliant loans were designed to help new businesses where the founder(s) didn’t have any assets to secure a traditional loan against – people like me, for example, who didn’t own their own house and had bugger all other assets. Under the terms of the SFLGS, a high street bank would provide you with a loan, backed by the Department of Trade and Industry. If you defaulted on the loan, the DTI would cover the shortfall to make sure the bank wasn’t out of pocket. They weren’t easy loans to get, but we’d managed to get one for The Friday Project and I was relatively confident that we satisfied all the criteria (Starting a business? Check. Almost skint? Check. No house? Check). The downside was the sheer volume of paperwork that needed to be completed before we could be assessed for the loan – and the endless meetings with the bank manager to go over that paperwork. The longer the gap between the meetings, the longer it took for everything to be approved, and the more chance we’d run out of cash before the faceless civil servant at the DTI who approves the loans agreed that we should get the money.

‘Hi, Paul, it’s Douglas from Lloyds TSB here. Do you have time to talk?’

I wedged the phone under my chin and grabbed the letter out of the printer, knocking over a half-empty (definitely half empty ) cup of coffee in the process. The coffee ran across the desk and poured into the top drawer where I kept the company cheque book and my spare tie in case I suddenly had to go to an event with a dress code. ‘Fuck. FUCK.’

‘Sorry? Is this a bad time?’

‘Nothing – sorry – it’s a bad line, what can I do for you, Douglas?’ ‘Well, I just wanted to give you the good news that we’ve got the first lot of paperwork back from head office and there are some forms you need to get filled in so we can move the loan forward.’ ‘Okay, no problem. When do you want me to come in?’ ‘How’s Friday?’

‘Um… Friday as in this Friday?’

Three days’ time.

‘That’s right. It’s just that I’m off on holiday for two weeks on Saturday so we really need to get the forms sorted before then or they’ll have to wait until I get back.’

Was it possible that I’d killed an angel in a previous life? Raped a sacred swan? Who up there was doing this to me?

‘Yep, Friday will be fine. What time?’

‘Twelve thirty? I’ve got meetings all day apart from then.’ My court appearance was scheduled for 10.30 which, assuming it lasted no longer than half an hour, would give me exactly an hour and a half to get from Tower Bridge Magistrates’ Court to the Kingston upon Thames branch of Lloyds TSB. Assuming, of course, that they didn’t send me to prison or – a more likely scenario – the case preceding mine didn’t run a single minute over time. It was mission impossible.

‘Twelve thirty sounds good to me. See you then!’

I ran out of the office and into the street. I had absolutely no idea where I was going to find somewhere with a fax machine. And now, with a £100k loan riding on me not having to spend a morning in court, not to mention being keen to avoid a fraud conviction, it was absolutely vital that the letter made it to the CPS. I knew that within running distance of our office there were at least three newsagents. I decided to start with the nearest one and keep working down the road until I found one, fell down in an exhausted heap or ended up in Clapham, whichever came first.

The first newsagents – no dice.

The second – yes, they had a fax machine – no, it wasn’t for public use, the newsagent explained; just for sending their daily newspaper order. Could I use it if I paid them for the cost of the call? No. They’d had fraudsters come in and ask to use their phone to dial premium numbers so they didn’t lend their phones any more. I was just about to ask – outraged – whether I looked like a fucking fraudster, and then I remembered what I was asking him to fax. I thanked him for his time.

The third – no, they didn’t have a fax machine, but had I tried the pub next door?

I tried the pub next door. Yes! They had a fax in the office! But the barmaid was the only member of staff in the building and she wasn’t sure how it worked.

‘Pleeease…’ I pleaded. ‘It would get me out of a huge jam.’ Throwing caution to the wind, I blurted out an explanation of the whole sorry situation, trying my best to end with a kind of little-boy-lost face that I figured a barmaid couldn’t possibly resist. I just hoped she didn’t hear the word ‘fraud’ and chuck me out. She arched an eyebrow. ‘So, if I send this fax you could get a hundred grand and you won’t have to go to jail?’

‘Something like that, yes.’

‘Okay, but if I try to send it, you’ll need to give me, like, 50p for the cost of the call so my boss doesn’t go mad.’

Only 50p? I wondered whether I should warn her about the fraudsters. Probably not the right time.

‘Tell you what. If you help me out with this, I’ll give you a pound for your boss and I’ll buy you a drink as well.’

‘Deal. But I can’t promise anything. I’m not really sure how it works.’

She disappeared up the ’staff only’ staircase, clutching my letter. Five minutes passed. Ten. A line of disgruntled drinkers was slowly building around the bar, craning their necks to see where the service was hiding. Finally, she returned, still clutching my letter and looking utterly traumatised by her run-in with 1970s technology. ‘I think it went through okay, ‘ she said.

‘Did it give you any kind of confirmation message?’ I asked – this was bloody important. ‘I mean, did it say ‘OK’ or ‘SENT’ or anything?’

‘I don’t know. It beeped after I dialled the number, then the paper went through. Then it beeped again. I didn’t see a message.’ That would have to do. It was well past 5.30 – too late to check with the CPS if they’d received the fax. But I’d find out soon enough whether my last-minute appeal had been successful or whether I was going to the entrepreneurial gallows. In about twenty-four hours to be exact.

In fact, I didn’t have to wait that long. I got back to the office, wiped up the spilt coffee and headed home for the night. As I was on my way to the station, my phone rang. Withheld number again – I nearly didn’t answer it. Whoever it was could wait.

But I did answer, just in case, and it was the lawyer from the CPS. ‘Mr Carr? We spoke earlier – I’m ringing from the CPS. I just wanted to let you know I received your fax just as I was leaving the office and thought I’d better deal with it now as it was so urgent.’ I was stunned. The entire process had been so boring and traumatic that I’d assumed no one in the British justice system was even human, let alone capable of an actual act of kindness.

‘Gosh, that’s very decent of you. Thank you. And what’s your verdict?’

‘Well, I’ve spoken to my colleague here and we agree with your interpretation of the guidelines. It’s our view that a prosecution wouldn’t be in the public interest.’

‘That’s great news. Can I ask on what grounds you decided that, exactly? Just out of curiosity.’

‘Well, in short, because there’s almost no realistic possibility that you would be found guilty. We’re sorry it went this far.’ ‘That’s fine, ‘ I lied. She was so very nice about the whole thing and I’m so terribly British in these kinds of circumstances. Locked me in a cell for a day? No problem at all. Decided you were going to prosecute me for fraud even though you’d already told me you were going to drop any charges? Don’t mention it. Lose my letter and make me panic right up until the wire? Probably my fault, come to think about it.

‘There’s just one more thing, Mr Carr. The matter of costs.’ Ah yes, of course. Even if the CPS dropped their charges, I’d still have to pay the costs of getting this far.

‘Will it be very much? It’s just that I’m a bit skint at the moment, ‘ I explained.

‘No, sorry, I meant your costs. You’re entitled to claim costs incurred for the time you spent dealing with this.’

‘Really?’

This was nuts. An hour ago I’d been a criminal awaiting trial for fraud, over a £30 taxi fare. And now, thanks to a sternly worded letter and a helpful barmaid who had more than earned that drink, the tables were well and truly turned. Now the CPS wanted to give me money to make up for my lost time – and, hell, I could use it right now. All I had to do was go into the court and collect the forms.

‘Er … no, that’s okay, thanks. I think I’ve had enough of courts for one year. And, anyway, I’ve just spilt coffee on my court tie.’ ‘Oh dear. Well, at least you’ve got Friday morning free to buy a new one now.’

14.4

As a postscript to the episode, a few days later a bulky envelope arrived at the office. Inside was a transcript of my arrest and the two tapes from my interview. Apart from the fact that my DNA would forever be sharing a hard drive with that of Fred West and Jeffrey Archer, all the remaining evidence was mine to do with as I pleased. The bulk of it went straight into the bin but I couldn’t resist pinning up the first page of the arrest record behind my desk, and highlighting the words ’showed no signs of drunkenness – pupils not dilated, speech not slurred’ with a thick yellow marker. Savannah hadn’t believed me before that I’d been sober when I was arrested – but now it was official. Right next to that page I pinned the final page of the transcript of my tape-recorded interview, this time with the very last line highlighted. Apparently my lame ‘ in vino stupitas ‘ joke had been lost on whoever had the unfortunate task of transcribing it.
The official record shows me explaining my behaviour as a case of ‘ in deano jupidas ‘.

14.5

With the loan forms filled out, our bank manager off on holiday and DVD sales still providing all of our income, everything was still riding on the decision from WeLoveLocal.com. I was still hugely confident that the answer would be a resounding yes, but as the days ticked past with no answer, Savannah and Karl began to have their doubts: how long did it take to make a decision? Especially considering how enthusiastic they were during the meetings. Partly through ego – how could they have been fans of London by London and not want to invest in Fridaycities! – and partly through panic at what we’d do if they weren’t interested, I dismissed their doubts, almost out of hand. ‘They’re just looking over the numbers we gave them – we’ll get their answer in a few days, you’ll see!’

And so they did see. The answer arrived while I was out of the office interviewing someone who we hoped might become our new chief technical officer, assuming we ever got the funding to pay him. I could feel the weird buzz in the air the moment I walked back into the office. Something big had definitely happened while I’d been out.
‘What? What is it, ‘ I asked.

‘ Something’s happened, ‘ said Karl, his face utterly without emotion.

‘What? Something good? Or something bad?”

‘Just read your email, ‘ said Savannah.

And there it was …

Hi Guys,

Duncan.

Oh.

I slumped down at my desk. We couldn’t have wished for a nicer, more professional email – straight to the chase, honest, positive, decent. But no matter which way you cut it, it was still the worst possible news. Our angel investment round hadn’t so much hit a wall as ploughed into it before bursting into flames and killing everyone inside.

‘ Fuck.’

I didn’t know what else to say.
There was nothing we could say, and there was nothing else we could do that day. We shut down our computers and went home. ‘Don’t worry, ‘ I said to Savannah as we walked to the station. ‘I know we put a lot of faith in Max and Duncan – but WeLoveLocal was always just one possible investor. There are loads more out there. We’ll just have to come in tomorrow and decide who to call next.’

‘You don’t even believe that though, do you?’ she asked. ‘If there were others we’d have already called them. We’re just too early stage for everyone. And yet how can we get traction – FUCKING TRACTION, I HATE THAT FUCKING STUPID WORD – without the money to launch the site? It’s just a ridiculous catch-22.’

She was right, of course – about everything. And I was bullshitting; just trying to make her feel better when the truth was I had no idea what to do next, who to call. But I really did believe we’d think of something. We’d have to, otherwise everything we’d achieved up until then – the twenty thousand users, the test site, the re-branded and relaunched Kudocities that was nearing completion – would all be for nothing. We’d be just another fatal crash on the information superhighway.

14.6

I may not have had the first idea what to do about our fundraising woes, but I had at least made one sensible decision that week. I’d been seeing Karen more and more since our first dates and I was spending an increasing amount of time at her house. The only problem was that I had developed the rather unpleasant habit of only turning up very late at night, after spending the entire evening with Savannah, either working late in the office or going to some networking event or other. When Savannah left to go home, I’d head back to Karen’s – at whatever the hour – and, saint that she was, she’d let me in and make me something to eat before we’d both crash into bed. The next day I’d disappear back to work and start the cycle again. I was treating her more as a guest-house than as a girlfriend.

Unsurprisingly, this routine had started to wear a bit thin with Karen who pointed out that I only ever seemed to end up back at her house when I’d been out late with Savannah. And she was right: the intensity of the investment process had brought Savannah and I closer than we’d been for years and I much preferred to spend time with her after work than see anyone else. Of course we’d agreed there was no way that she and I could possibly get back together while we were trying to raise money for Fridaycities – we didn’t need any more stress or weirdness – but the truth was that, even so, I didn’t want to be with anyone else. I decided to stop acting like a dick and end things with Karen.

The next night, I went around to Karen ’s house, as promised. She’d made a traditional Polish chicken dish for dinner (much of her family was Polish), and she looked absolutely stunning. It was as if she knew what I was going to say and wanted to present one last sartorial ‘fuck you’. Like the scumbag I am, I kissed her – I couldn’t help it – and then told her there was something I needed to tell her.

14.7>

Karen took things remarkably well, considering the ham-fisted way I broke up with her: telling her that I still had feelings for Savannah and that I couldn’t carry on seeing her. She sent me a long email a few days later – her birthday – telling me that she never wanted to see me again, and I could hardly blame her. But what was important was that I wasn’t living parallel realities any more – telling Savannah that Karen didn’t mean a thing, while telling Karen that Savannah and I were ancient history. It was unfair and mean, but most of all it was fucking exhausting. I’d finally done the right thing. It was over. And in a couple of week’s time, Karen was off back home to Pittsburgh for a month. Out of town, out of mind.

‘ So let me get this straight, ‘ said Sam, as we sipped our beers and compared our lot, ‘you’ve dumped Karen – who was hot as hell, who put up with far more shit than you had any right to expect her to, who cooked for you and who for reasons I can’t fathom seemed to think you were some kind of a catch in order to … sorry, what exactly?’

‘ … in order that I don’t have to lie to Savannah about it any more.’

‘Savannah, who you work with and who has a boyfriend and who doesn’t want to go out with you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Okay.’

And that about summed it up. I had no girlfriend, no money, no idea how we were going to raise money for Fridaycities – but at least I had the satisfaction of knowing I’d done the right thing for once.

Great.

14.8

Following the news that WeLoveLocal didn ‘t want to invest, there was an obvious question we needed to ask ourselves. Did we definitely need to raise angel funding in order to launch Kudocities or could we at least get the site up and running without it?

There was no doubt that with the new site under way and revenue coming in, we’d stand a much better chance of getting other investors to the table. But could we afford to do without angel funding until then? Putting the question was a bit like being shipwrecked and asking whether food and shelter were simply bourgeois affectations. Exactly what choice did we have?

Even with the DVD and the bank loan (Lloyds permitting), we would still be sailing extremely close to the wind and it would put enormous strain on the business and on all of us. We agreed to plough on but also agreed that self-sufficiency would only be a temporary measure and that we’d continue to push hard to find other possible angel investors. It was really the only decision we could make, apart from simply packing up and going home.

I didn ‘t say anything to the others, but at the same time I was asking myself an even bigger question: was I cut out to be an Internet entrepreneur? Even assuming the bank gave us the loan and things turned around, I had to admit I’d been a pretty crap Managing Director. Fridaycities and Kudocities had been running for nearly a year and I’d failed in my most important job: raising money to keep the company alive. I’d learned about PowerPoint and I’d created a decent presentation and I’d produced a blueprint for Kudocities, but without any investment none of that meant a thing. All my insecurities and memories of how much simpler things had been when I was a journalist came flooding back. Savannah and Karl had left for the evening and the office was deserted: I got up from my desk, closed the door and sat down on the floor with my head in my hands and sobbed.
I was exhausted.

Chapter Fifteen: ‘Denial’…