Michael O'Leary (51 page)

O'Leary was smitten. ‘Underneath that arrogant, aggressive exterior you have to remember that like most Irish men he's a mammy's boy at heart,' says one school friend who has stayed in touch with O'Leary through the years. ‘Mick wanted to be loved
and he wanted to be looked after, he wasn't looking for a trophy wife like a twenty-three-year-old supermodel. That's all bullshit. He wanted a woman who could settle down, lead a quiet life and bring up his kids, not someone who wanted a society life. He nearly managed it with Denise [Dowling] and he was really lucky with Anita.'

The marriage would take place less than six months after the engagement. ‘I think he desperately wanted to get married and get the heir to the empire under way,' says Paul Fitzsimmons. ‘I think that was a driver for him.'

It was, O'Leary claims, the most nerve-racking day of his life. A man who had negotiated billion-dollar deals with Boeing, who had fought trade unions, governments and airline rivals, had been brought to his knees by a woman. On 5 September 2003, in a small church in the village of Delvin, County Westmeath, Michael O'Leary was about to get married.

For the Irish media O'Leary's wedding was a rare opportunity to record the wealthy at play in their own backyard. It would not be the celebrity wedding of the year – that distinction would belong to Georgina Ahern, daughter of the taoiseach, and Nicky Byrne, a singer with Westlife, an Irish boy-band – but it would be close. Ahern and Byrne's wedding was in France, not Ireland, and the rights had been sold to a celebrity magazine. The O'Leary wedding was home-grown and free. ‘I never thought about selling it to
Hello!'
he says. ‘That's for the ones who can't afford to pay for their own weddings.'

And so a mob of television crews and reporters crowded outside St Livinius's, held back from the steps of the church by security guards and crash barriers, while a small army of smartly dressed women in black suits vetted guests and fitted them with wristbands as if they were going backstage at a rock concert. O'Leary arrived at the church ten minutes early, fresh from a game of golf at his local club, accompanied by his brother and best man, Eddie. Sporting a pink waistcoat beneath his black morning coat, he looked at the media scrum behind the barriers mingling with local well-wishers,
shouted a greeting and then could not resist using his wedding day as yet another marketing opportunity.

‘Will your bride be late?' he was asked.

‘Yes,' he replied. ‘She's flying Aer Lingus.' She arrived a respectable thirty-seven minutes late, and RTE, which had sent a camera crew and reporter to cover the wedding, dutifully carried O'Leary's jibe on its main evening news bulletin.

One hour later Mr and Mrs O'Leary emerged from the church and faced the throng outside. Until that moment on the steps of the church O'Leary and Farrell had never been pictured together by a press photographer, as had been the case with Denise Dowling. Since the wedding they have continued to guard their privacy jealously and photographs of the couple remain a rarity. When asked to give his bride a kiss, O'Leary refused, saying, ‘That's for the wedding album only.' The line between public and private had been drawn again.

The formalities over, the couple made the ten-minute journey to Gigginstown in a vintage Bentley. The best-known of the 300 guests were Mary Harney, Ireland's then deputy prime minister and leader of the Progressive Democrats; Charlie McCreevy, then minister for finance and now Ireland's European commissioner; and J.P. McManus, the billionaire financier and racehorse owner. O'Leary insists he wasn't aiming for A-list guests. ‘I didn't want a bunch of politicians at my wedding for the sake of having politicians at my wedding,' he says. ‘I know Charlie and Noleen [McCreevy]; I know Mary and Brian [Harney], so they got invited. And I know J.P. [McManus] for donkey's years – if you were involved in racing then you know J.P. There were no celebs there.'

Gigginstown had been transformed for the reception, with marquees to accommodate the guests and a small army of staff to serve them. ‘Between the house and the garden there was an awning – it was carpeted – and every ten or fifteen feet there were flowers draped along,' recalls one of the contract staff hired for the day.

After the tunnel there was the walled garden, and there's a pond in the centre, and the waiters were standing there with the champagne when
the guests arrived. Then they were called into the first marquee which was forty foot wide and eighty foot long, that's where the bar was. From there they went into the courtyard, they had to go up big granite steps, over a bridge of the swimming pool, specially made. The courtyard is enclosed, they put on a marquee roof. There's a fountain in the centre, three big gods round it. And the pool has all Italian statues round it – the gods of this, that and the other – you'd think you were in Rome. Then they went into the second huge marquee and that's where they had their meal.

O'Leary had also laid on a champagne tent and a chill-out tent for those who needed respite from the festivities.

Twelve hours after they arrived, the last of the guests headed wearily home. It had been a success, with O'Leary talking passionately about his wife, ignoring his business and surprising some with his lightness of foot on the dance floor.

The morning newspapers gave the wedding celebrity status, and the O'Learys headed off for their honeymoon – a trip to the Maldives and unaccustomed calm for O'Leary.

Back from his honeymoon O'Leary was immediately embroiled in crisis. Competition in the European low-fare industry was growing ever more intense as scores of new airlines tried to mimic Ryanair's success, while the traditional carriers and Europe's charter operators tried to fight back. More seats for sale and lower ticket prices could lower profits, as O'Leary was forced to slash seat prices to fill his steadily expanding fleet of planes.

Simultaneously, he had to engage with the European Commission's deliberations on Ryanair's covert agreement with Char-leroi airport – an issue that had assumed far greater significance now that its timing coincided with a period of bloated capacity and falling fares.

O'Leary would be able to ride out one storm, but could he handle two if the financial markets were baying for blood? If Ryanair ran into difficulty, no matter how short term, would the enemies that O'Leary had made over the years emerge to bury him? ‘He has got a lot of free publicity for Ryanair, but he's pursued a very risky strategy from a personal point of view. He's made so many enemies and offended so many people that if for any reason the financial performance of the company isn't what is expected, I think there will be quite a few people who will begin to believe he's a loose cannon – and not worth the risk as chief executive of a public company,' said Stelios Haji Ioannou.

The potential damage from an adverse commission ruling on Charleroi was hard to gauge. If the ruling went against Ryanair, in itself this would be costly but hardly catastrophic – at worst the airline would be forced to repay about €10 million to the Walloon government. The unknown factor was the effect it could have on other deals that Ryanair had negotiated with state-owned airports across Europe. About a quarter of the airports served by Ryanair
were under state ownership, and O'Leary had negotiated low charges and marketing support with each one, deals no different to those agreed with privately owned airports. Underlying each was the same basic business philosophy: Ryanair would bring large amounts of passengers, and the airports could make money from those passengers.

The pressure on Ryanair started to build when news of the European Commission's deliberations began to leak to the media. In early September unnamed commission officials briefed the financial press and set the tone for a fight that would spill over into viciousness. ‘We are in favour of low-cost airlines but we must be sure that nobody is breaking the rules,' one official was quoted as saying. ‘We have to decide whether the tax breaks and other public money which Ryanair receives are acceptable or whether it constitutes illegal state aid.'

Another official who asked not to be named said the commission also had concerns about the manner in which Charleroi airport had granted Ryanair the subsidies. ‘It's one thing to make an investment, but it's another to do it secretly. When the negotiations took place they were not public and a lot of people did not know what was available, and now all the slots are taken. It's too late.'

As the weeks went by, the news from Brussels became confused and conflicting. By the end of September some newspapers believed that Loyola de Palacio, the commissioner charged with making the decision on Ryanair's dealings with Charleroi airport, had emerged as a possible ally of O'Leary. ‘It's believed,' wrote Conor Sweeney in the
Irish Independent
on 28 September 2003, ‘that Ms de Palacio and her officials in the transport directorate have championed the Ryanair example, arguing that the airline has successfully created a new low-cost model that can attract passengers to obscure airports, if the price is right.'

The next month, however, the mood had apparently grown tetchier between the commission and Ryanair. Gilles Gantelet, Ms de Palacio's official spokesman, responded tersely to an O'Leary suggestion that the commission was considering shortening the terms of Ryanair's agreement with Charleroi from ten to five
years. ‘He does not have any idea of what the commission is going to decide, mainly because the commission does not have an idea of what it is going to decide. I think it's very dangerous for everyone to have these declarations and strange speculations,' Gantelet said.

Gantelet was rattled. A talented civil servant, he was used to the traditional ways of Brussels. When investigations were under way, companies would lobby behind the scenes, applying discreet political pressure. Meetings with company executives would be formal, polite and suitably deferential. A diplomatic man, Gantelet struggles to hide his distaste for the tactics employed by Ryanair and O'Leary. At the mention of their names his face creases as if he has inadvertently taken a bite of something deeply unpleasant. O'Leary, he says, was disrespectful and his approach counterproductive. Ryanair's case, he says with conscious understatement, ‘could have been handled better'.

O'Leary was not interested in subtle diplomacy or playing the Brussels game. His experience with politicians had taught him that they did not like public pressure and that nothing could be achieved by staying silent. He decided to increase that pressure dramatically, ensuring that his fight with the commission would grow ever more hostile. As usual his aims were to generate extensive media coverage and portray Ryanair as the defender of the rights of the consumer against a collection of bureaucrats who cared nothing for the little people, but were beholden to the corporate interests of the major airlines and Air France in particular.

The Charleroi case, O'Leary claimed, could destroy the low-fare airline industry in Europe. He fumed in print about the time it was taking to make a decision – promised in November 2003, it was not announced until February 2004 – and warned of Armageddon. He was deliberately overstating his case. The commission was aware that its ruling on Charleroi would have ramifications for the low-fare market, and it was trying to strike a balance between the need for competition and the need to ensure that competition was not distorted by secret deals and misuse of state funds. It was a delicate balance, affecting airlines, airports and European consumers.

In October O'Leary said that ‘while delay and uncertainty persist Ryanair and our regional airport partners will continue to fight and overturn all of the anti-competitive measures attempted by our high-fare flag-carrier competitors. The commission's decision on Charleroi is crucial. It will be our Waterloo and we will win it,' he declared, twisting history to suit his argument. He made it clear that Ryanair would fight any negative ruling. ‘If it does [rule against us] we'll be off to every European court in every hill and valley,' he said, adding that Ryanair would not be ‘shouldered with stupid legislation' coming out of Brussels which would only make air travel less competitive.

As decision day drew nearer, O'Leary increased the pressure. ‘He is terribly irritating,' said Philippe Busquin, Belgium's commissioner. In November O'Leary said that the only basis for a negative judgment against Ryanair would be political and not legal, implying that de Palacio and her fellow commissioners would be motivated by political considerations rather than the facts of the matter. It was standard O'Leary hyperbole. He believes that most politicians are fools and that political institutions like the European Commission are irretrievably left wing and anti-business.

The following day a commission spokesperson responded angrily:

It's complete rubbish. The commission will not be swayed by political considerations, but also it will not be pressurized by Ryanair. What they are doing will only be counterproductive and will not bully the commission to change its stance. We're still working on the details, but I don't know why O'Leary presented the thing in this way – but anyway the commission does not take into account the rumours, wherever they come from.

But O'Leary's war of words had been effective. His constant attacks on the commission had generated enough media interest to ensure that an important, if narrow, decision by the EU on the legality of discounts and alleged illegal subsidies paid by one small airport to one low-cost carrier had been elevated into a life and
death battle for the survival of the low-fare industry. Much to the commission's discomfort it found itself on the wrong side of the argument. Its role, so it said, was to ensure fair competition and free choice for Europe's citizens, yet O'Leary's campaign had portrayed it as an institution determined to destroy low fares.