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Obviously I was lacking this identity in the last month or so before we departed, as I
roared around on my bicycle, trying desperately to raise the rest of the money.
    All avenues were thoroughly explored, and on occasion Mick and I found ourselves in some quite bizarre situations, as we hungrily sought out the elusive ‘financial remedies’ that we
hoped would satisfy our Everest fever.
    This eventually led to us both standing on the pavement outside Richard Branson’s house one cold and blustery evening, tucked behind a tree arguing over who was going to ring his bell.
    ‘We’ll do it together,’ we finally agreed. It was 10.30 p.m. and we both felt like novice cat burglars as we grinned nervously in the street outside.
    ‘On the count of three . . .’
    We approached the door and rang his bell. The intercom crackled.
    ‘Yup?’
    ‘Ah, good evening, we’ve just popped round to leave a proposal for you, to see if Virgin might be interested in . . . click . . . Hello, hello?’
    So before he had even heard what we had to say, Branson had rung off, assuming we were obviously there to sell him some toothbrushes or crimson dish clothes. But as he rang off, he made a fatal
error: by mistake he must have leant against the ‘door open’ button. Mick and I looked at each other inquisitively as the door buzzed away in front of us. A quick glance around and
without any further hesitation, we gave it a gentle nudge.
    Seconds later, we found ourselves standing in Richard Branson’s hallway, looking sheepishly around at each other, as if going to see the neighbour to announce that you’ve just run
over their cat. We coughed loudly. And then a bit louder.
    ‘Hello, hello . . . um, Mr Branson? Hello.’
    Seconds later a furious house-assistant skidded round the corner of the landing and charged down the stairs, rather like the head mistress of St Trinian’s. The two of us needed no further
coaxing; we dropped the proposal in the hall and legged it out, as the front door was slammed ferociously behind us.
    The next morning we sent the Branson household some very expensive Scilly Isle flowers, accompanied by profuse apologies with a PS saying that we hoped he had had a chance to read our proposal.
We never got a reply.
    But not all of our ‘sponsor hunting’ was so stimulating and generally the routine went something like this . . . ‘Rummage for a clean shirt, and struggle into my
grandfather’s old suit. Venture halfway across London to endure a terrifying meeting with a frumpy PR woman with hair on her upper lip. Try desperately to maintain composure, but fail
miserably and invariably manage to spill coffee down my front. Go home, peel off my suit and begin again.’ God I hate suits.
    This went on depressingly long, and I soon began to wonder if maybe there was something wrong. I bought some Clorets breath fresheners and kept trying.
    Having dozed off, I was woken at my desk to the sound of Corporal Jones on the television, ‘Don’t panic, Captain Mainwaring, don’t panic!’ I yawned and turned it off. It
was all too close. I picked up the telephone and carried on with the struggle.
    A month later and still out of luck, I found myself in the unfortunate position of now being three weeks away from our departure date and still US$16,000 adrift. It was a cold February morning,
and I was bicycling off to have a quick sandwich with a friend in the City. As I flew along the pavements, wearing only shorts and an old woolly jersey, covered with mud, I saw a firm called
‘Davis, Langdon and (to my surprise . . . ) Everest.’ They had to be worth a try.
    I skidded to a stop, tried to flatten my hair and went in. A giant-sized photo of Everest adorned the wall of the reception. I gave one of my sponsorship brochures to the receptionist and asked
if she would be kind enough to ‘send it up to either um . . . Mr Davis or Mr Langdon.’
    The lady then leant forward and pushed her glasses back onto the bridge of