Michelle Mone | From Baroness Bra to Baroness Bitcoin | 2
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Hi, Alice. Hey, I'm really glad I've caught you before we start. So, this is so exciting. I've got this business opportunity and, I mean, you're a really smart guy, probably one of the smartest guys I know. You understand business and I just figured you'd want this chance. Yeah, I mean, I watched a documentary about Richard Branson the other night. Exactly, exactly. And I see that in you. So, this is just such a unique product. It's...

It's sort of a... I guess it's like a serum. A kind of oil-based... I guess an oil... Yeah, oil-based serum. What's it used for? What would it do for me? Oh my God, this is the best bit. It's kind of got endless applications...

Good on chips. You've got a bad back. Rub it on your back. It's so good for your skin. Do you have a car? Put it on the car, in the car, on the car, everything. It sounds amazing. I'm in. You don't need to tell me anymore. And I'm happy to invest. I trust you implicitly because you're my best friend. And if you're putting your money in, I'm happy to put my money in. Great. Amazing. I haven't quite decided whether...

I'm putting money in. But just six grand, if you want to just... Yeah, yeah. I mean, I'm sure you have your reasons. And again, trust you totally. And actually, just one more thing. Probably don't put it on your skin. September 2018. Financial Times, London. Jemima Kelly steps out into the fog-laden night, glances at the Thames' inky waters, wraps her coat around her, makes her way along the footpath,

It's been a long, tiring day, and she can't wait to relax with her friend at the cinema. Jemima's been working on an article on Equi, Lady Moan's new cryptocurrency. Jemima's been talking to Equi's partners. They haven't been paid the money they were promised, and they're not happy. She's just about to walk up the dank, graffiti-covered stairwell when a message pings on her phone. It's from Equi's headquarters. Her eyes widen as she flicks through it.

What is your issue with Ekwi? If you don't reply to us, we will contact your FT editor and show him everything. You have legal responsibilities. She'd only emailed Ekwi to ask for a response. Another message pings through. We are watching your every move. She glances around. Her breath catches in her throat as a shadow flashes behind her. She darts up the stairwell to Southwark Bridge, looks over her shoulder, quickens her pace, her breath ragged,

until she tells herself to stop being paranoid. An hour later, she settles down in the cinema. She's just about to switch off her phone when two more messages ping through. The first is an email from Lady Moan's lawyer. "Very urgent. Our client does not wish to be approached directly by you or any of your colleagues any further. From now on, contact me."

Turn your phone off. That was so convincing that I feel like you are a shusher. I have, I guess, an escalating scale. I'll initially go, oh. And then where do you go? Why have they got their phone on like that? Like I'm saying it to someone else, even if I'm on my own. Makes it sound like there's more of me. More of you. Are they going to turn around and be like, oh no, there's an army. I think in the end I'm making more noise than the people. I'm trying to be quiet.

Can I recommend seething throughout the film, ruining it for yourself and whoever you're with, and also ruining the rest of the evening? But you never would be audible about it. Oh, no. No. I'll just poison myself from the inside. She stares at the second message. It's from her editor, asking her to ring him urgently. She feels her heart thud in her ribs. She's still new at the FT. The last thing she wants is to get on the wrong side of him. She feels sick. She shoves her popcorn at her friend.

Heads out into the foyer, listens to his voice message. Lady Moan's legal team have just been on to me. Her mouth dries. She tries to call back, but it rings through. She stares again at the message and starts to worry that she is perhaps out of her depth. Because if the Baroness is coming at her this hard after just a casual inquiry, Jemima can't help but wonder...

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What is it that Michelle Moan is so desperate to hide?

From Wondery, I'm Matt Ford. And I'm Alice Levine. And this is British Scandal. So Alice, Michelle Moan, what do you think so far? Honestly, I never thought in a million years I'd be saying this, but in her early story, her early years, she is very, very impressive. She's a very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very

Dare I say girl power? No, actually, I take it back. I feel sick. She comes from nothing and she sticks it to the old boys club, which we know from British Scandal series gone by is no mean feat. She has this run in with her husband as well, which turns really nasty and she overcomes that. It's just not a side of Michelle Moan that I expected to see or to see.

Okay. But do you think there are signs in there, though, of what might be to come? Oh, God, yes, Matt. Yes, I am seeing many red flags. I mean, it's undeniable that she is ruthless. When she's building her business and trying to get it to the top, she casts her friendships aside in order to progress all things entrepreneurial. I'm kind of thinking of the Rachel Penny switcheroo that she does, which

She's single-minded in her pursuit of success and she loves power. Actually, now I come to think about it, she is a sort of full house, a perfect set of character traits for a British Scandal character. More red flags than a British beach on a windy day. This is episode two from Baroness Bra to Baroness Bitcoin. 2014, 10 Downing Street, London. Michelle grips her wine glass...

blinks around at the reception room with its marble pillars and gilt-framed portraits and tries hard to push down her nerves. She's been invited to a reception by the Prime Minister David Cameron to give her views on Scottish independence. A referendum on the question is just months away and the polls are tightening. She gazes at the group of businessmen chatting happily, networking with each other. The last few years have been tough.

She finally managed to get control of Ultimo from her ex Michael. It was a bitter battle and by the time she got it back, the company was flailing. Last year, it had to be rescued by a Sri Lankan clothing manufacturer. You may remember Michael in the last episode having a controlling stake.

The short version of this story is Michelle now controls both of those breasts in the office. Oh, thank goodness. And what's his relationship like with Rod Stewart, which is the thing we all want to know. He can go play with his toy trains. Michelle's in charge of the business. I think that's a good division of labour. Glancing around the room, she spots the chairman of HSBC and the CEO of a global asset management firm. She used to feel so confident walking in anywhere, but all this stuff about Michael and Ultimo has left her shaken.

She fiddles with her champagne flute, then tells herself, pull it together. She flicks back her long hair, adjusts the straps of her tight-fitting bodycon dress and pushes her way forward to join the nearest group. In my opinion, we don't need any more barriers to trade. If Scotland votes to leave the UK, prices could end up all over the place. She watches the men glance at each other, raise their eyebrows.

I hate dumpy men with sly grins. They're the worst. She feels her cheeks burn with humiliation as they all snigger into their drinks. She's just about to rip into him when David Cameron calls the room to silence. Hello, everyone. We stand today on the brink

If Scotland votes to leave, the United Kingdom as we know it will cease to exist. So, please, give us your views on our Better Together campaign. How can we win this referendum? Michelle shifts in her Louboutins as the men around her tell Cameron how brilliant his Better Together campaign is, how Scotland is on course to stay in the UK. She stares into her wine glass.

then looks up in horror at the sound of her name. And what do you think, Ms. Moan? She bristles at the use of Ms. She's still not used to it, ignores a smirk from a man to her left. Michelle pulls herself up to her full height. She knows she has to make this count. She looks directly into Cameron's eyes.

You know what your problem is, David? You don't know how to talk to wee Mary from Govan. She thinks you're just some posh bloke from London. She watches his narrow eyes as the room falls silent. She blinks around at the sea of faces, but as she turns her attention back to Cameron, she can see that she's hit her mark. Cameron wouldn't have called this meeting if the campaign was going well. You need to go up there.

Talk to people. Because right now, your campaign is rubbish. If you carry on like this, you're going to lose this referendum. I love that she said this. Word for word. Truth to power. I'm not sure I'd dare. Yeah, it's all going fine, yeah. Yeah, in broad strokes, great. Sorry, those little honey mustard sausages, they coming round again?

She hopes she hasn't overstepped. She watches as Cameron's mouth opens, then closes as he stares at her. She can see that he knows she's right. Would you be willing to help us with our campaign, Michelle? She feels her blood pound in her ears. Me? She shuffles from foot to foot as she takes in the envious looks around her. She's never been into politics, especially not Tory politics.

She's always voted Labour for God's sake, but she can almost taste the power as the room's eyes fix on her. She grins. I'd love to. Oh my God. What a moment. What a monament. Oh lovely, we've got to get that going on social media. She gazes around at the faces of these big shop businessmen as she sips her wine. She's going to throw herself into this campaign, prove her worth to Cameron.

use her PR skills, network like mad. She's lost her way these past few months. Her marriage, Ultimo, were her everything. But this is her chance to start afresh, to forge a new path and build a power base of her own. A few weeks later, Edinburgh. Michelle bounds up the makeshift steps to Sky News' temporary studio. She takes in the expectant faces.

technicians racing around with wires, lights being adjusted. She takes a last swig of coffee to calm her nerves. Michelle has been zigzagging across the country from one event to the other, giving interviews, urging Scotland to stay in the UK. She knows this is her one chance to make her mark in the political arena. This debate is going out live on national television. Polls open tomorrow, and right now it's too close to call.

She looks down as her phone pings. It's a message from David Cameron. Good luck, Michelle. We'll be watching. Again, sinister. Can everybody stop telling everybody that they're watching them? Michelle takes a breath, focuses her attention. She needs to be razor sharp. She's about to switch off her phone when it rings. It's her daughter. Are we still going shopping at the weekend, Mum?

Michelle's heart races at the sound of her ex-husband's voice in the background. She hears a woman giggling. Who you with? Her daughter's voice lowers to a whisper. Dad and Sam. Sam, of course, her former employee. Yes, exactly the image you want in your mind at a moment like this. Michelle's bottom lip trembles. She doesn't want to be thinking of Michael right now. It's her past that she's trying to shake off. She snaps. I'll ring you at an eight.

She feels light-headed as she walks onto the stage, trembling. She stands behind the lectern, but as the TV cameras zoom toward her, panic starts to grip her. Her mind goes blank as her opponent, a pro-independence businesswoman, lists all the reasons Scotland should leave the UK. Michelle's heart thumps as the presenter turns to her. She pictures Cameron sitting in Downing Street, his eyes fixed to the screen as the cameras turn and focus on her face.

Pork markets! Oh no, that's not for this.

She grew up in one of the poorest neighbourhoods in Glasgow. She had nothing. No bath, no shower, no qualifications. It's people like her that she needs to appeal to. Everyday voters. She glances at her advisers hovering behind the cameras. Decides to cast their policies aside. Instead, speak from the heart. Independence me promise change. But at what cost?

Is it worth risking the stability and security we've built together? Is it worth turning our backs on the partnerships and alliances that have served us well for so long? A hush has fallen over the audience. Think about the opportunities we have as part of the UK. Opportunities to pool our resources, to share our expertise, to tackle challenges together. She continues...

Look, the polls open in the morning. We don't even know what currency we're going to have yet. Her eyes fill with tears. For the sake of our children's futures, please, please vote for Scotland to stay in the UK. It's where we belong. It's where we can thrive.

Can I just say, she's a very complex character. And I don't doubt we will come to some very problematic moments possibly in future episodes on this one. But this is amazing. She has gone from starting her own business, building it up to be a huge success. She nearly lost it. She clawed it back. And now she's using her really impressive sales skills in a completely new sector. Like this just isn't her world, but she's going for it. That's amazing.

That's right, and it's not just any old sector. This is about keeping the United Kingdom together. This is a matter of national geopolitical importance, and a working class woman from Govan now finds herself as one of the major players in this debate.

The next night, Michelle sits in front of a TV at the Better Together HQ as the results come in. She tries hard not to chew her manicured nails as first Dundee, then Glasgow vote to leave. She puts her head in her hands. She looks up at the screen as Edinburgh votes to stay, then watches breathless as area after area votes the same way. A few hours later, the room around her erupts as the result is finally called.

Scotland has voted against becoming an independent country by 55% to 45%. You did it, Michelle! She looks up at the MPs and civil servants eager to congratulate her, their eyes shining with admiration. Someone shoves a mobile phone at her. She hears David Cameron's delighted voice. Well done, Michelle. We couldn't have done this without you. It won't be forgotten.

She grins, exhausted and exhilarated. She's done it. She's a political force to be reckoned with and she's going to do everything to make it work for her. August 2015, Prime Minister's Questions, House of Commons. David Cameron feels his cheeks flush as Jeremy Corbyn jabs a finger at him.

Given that the Prime Minister promised a ministry of all the talents, why does he still have a mostly male front bench? Where are his talented women? Cameron jumps to his feet, grips the side of the dispatch box. Mr Speaker, I'm actively working to change this situation. Cameron's face reddens as he sits back down, clenches his fist as he stares across the chamber. He's just been re-elected as PM with a clear majority.

He's finally free to push through his policies. But all anyone keeps talking about is the lack of women in his cabinet. Oh my God, when will they shut up? The broadsheets call it his women problem. Even his wife Samantha is having a go. An hour later, he stands in his office in Downing Street. Barks out names for his honours list as his aide writes them on a whiteboard. William Haig, Douglas Hogg, David Willetts...

His hand touches his forehead as he stares at the names. "Christ, have we not got any bloody women on the list?" The press will crucify him. He sinks down into his chair, kicks the bin in frustration. He watches as a crumpled better together leaflet falls out onto the carpet. He picks it up and is about to throw it across the room when an idea starts to form.

He jumps to his feet, snatches the marker pen, scrawls MICHELLE MOANE across the whiteboard in capital letters. Maybe Michelle Moane knows some good men! Two days later, he's being driven to the airport when he gets a call from David Mundell, the Scotland secretary.

He pastes on a smile. David, how are you? But Mundell cuts in. Prime Minister, I must express in the strongest terms possible that senior business figures in Scotland are unhappy about making Michelle Moon appear. They don't see her as a substantial businesswoman. Bit of coded language going on there, isn't there? A substantial businesswoman. Cameron puts on a soothing voice.

David, really? But Mundell cuts in. Prime Minister, this could severely damage your reputation. Cameron frowns at his phone, then raises an eyebrow at an email that's just come in from Douglas Anderson, the managing director of a plant hire firm. Ms Moon is not a successful entrepreneur. She is a small-time businesswoman with a PR exposure far in excess of any actual success.

Cameron rubs his temples. Reads on. Awarding her a peerage for a very mediocre business performance brings the awarding of titles into disrepute by rewarding failure. Cameron switches off his phone, rubs his forehead. He's sick of these stuffy establishment types telling him what to do. And that's coming from David Cameron. Eton, Oxbridge, David Cameron, sick of the establishment. Welcome to British Politics.

But then his aide leans forward. "What?" His aide lengthens his neck in his collar. "I thought in light of... I just thought you should know..." Cameron frowns as his aide shoves his phone towards him. He stares at the Mail Online. "According to this, Ms Mone cut the bottom of her husband's boxer shorts, severely damaged his Porsche and fed him laxatives. Are you sure she has the standing required for the House of Lords?"

Cameron rolls his eyes. Michelle Moan is exactly what the House of Lords needs. She'll shake things up, get them all on their toes, and help him solve his women problem once and for all. March 2016. House of Lords corridor. Michelle dashes past a group of stooped elderly men, runs into the toilets. She's due to give her maiden speech in the chamber in a few minutes, but her nerves have gripped her.

She steps out of the cubicle, wipes her mouth, looks at her pale face in the mirror. She's just about to dust some bronzer on her cleavage when she remembers the memo to dress in appropriate and respectful attire. I think bronzer on the cleavage is respectful and appropriate. She puts the compact away, buttons up her black blouse. She takes a deep breath to steady her nerves when her eyes fall on the pile of newspapers on a small table.

She stares at a grinning photo of herself in Ultimo underwear under the caption, Baroness Bra. It's not the best. It's not the worst, is it? I'd go with Bra-roness. Bra-roness is lovely. She grabs the paper, screws it up and bins it. She's sick of this. Why can't the press ever take her seriously? Even today, when she's about to give the biggest speech of her life...

All they can do is mock her. She takes another breath to gather herself. She looks down at a good luck message on her phone and feels a shiver run down her spine. It's from her ex, Michael. Michelle fights a sudden urge to ring him, to hear his calm voice telling her she's got nothing to worry about. Instead, she clicks the phone off, checks herself over one more time, then marches into the chamber.

A few minutes later, she stands in front of the plush red leather bench. Her mouth opens as she gazes around the lavish Gothic room with its carved panelled walls, at the ornate gold royal throne with its golden angels. She can hardly believe it's only two years since she first met David Cameron and now she's here.

That is, to be fair, quite mad. Not to sound like one of the hard done by men that sent those emails, but it's wild. We often talk about democracy abroad and democracy in developing countries. We have an unelected head of state and an entirely unelected upper house. And yet most people aren't actually that bothered about it. She looks at the sea of elderly faces all waiting for her to speak. She clears her throat, tries hard to steady her nerves as she reads her speech.

My Lords, as a wee girl, I grew up in a tenement flat in the east end of Glasgow, with no bath or shower and only a cupboard for a bedroom. I wondered whether I would fit in here. She glances back at the elderly faces looking up at her, then down at her shaking hands. But I should not have worried. I look forward to playing a full and active role in your Lordship's house.

She clears her throat again. I normally sing this at karaoke, but on the advice of our wonderful doorkeepers, I'll say it instead. Oh my God, I thought that was going to be a rogue choice for a second. She glances over at the stern-faced doorkeeper, then back at her Whitney Houston lyrics. Are you serious? I'm serious. I believe the children are our future. Teach them well and let them lead the way.

That's so weird because sometimes I'll go to karaoke bars and just do political speeches. And we love to hear it. She sits down, holds her breath, feels her toes curl anxiously in her Louboutins, the chamber deathly silent. She turns as a peer leans to her, whispers, well done. She breathes a sigh of relief as she realises everyone is smiling at her. Someone pats her on her shoulder.

She gazes up at the intricately carved ceiling, says a silent prayer of thanks, then settles into the plush leather upholstery and finally starts to feel at home. She's done it. She's Baroness Moan of Mayfair. It's time to put her failed marriage behind her, her history with Ultimo. Embrace this exciting new life. She's going to grab every opportunity it gives her, use every powerful contact,

and push her new brand, Lady Moan of Mayfair, for all it's worth.

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A year later, the Bahamas.

Michelle takes a cup of coffee from the steward, gazes out at the glittering sea and adjusts her yoga mat. She's with her new boyfriend, Doug Barrowman, on his super yacht, the Turquoise. Sold. But she's not sure she wants to rush into another relationship. She's finally enjoying her independence. She isn't sure she wants a man in her life right now. Michelle watches him now as he takes his umpteenth business call of the morning.

He gives her an apologetic nod. Sorry, darling. Doug's shadow casts itself across the deck. She stands, steadies herself as she feels a rush of blood to her head. Doug's warm hands on her hips. She turns to find an anxious look etched across his face. Tough call, babe. He glances out at the horizon. Actually, I was hoping we might talk about something else. Doug asked her to live with him a few weeks ago.

And she told him she wasn't quite there yet. She cuts in. Listen, let's just wait. But he takes her face in his hands. Michelle, I think you're the most perfect woman I've ever met. You're sexy, smart, funny. She sees him gather his thoughts. She's amazed that a man as successful as Doug can still get nervous. And you're a genius at PR. This is so romantic. She blinks at him.

He's never really complimented her on her business acumen. She looks at him, curious. Michelle, I've just been chatting to investors now about launching an ICO. She wrinkles her forehead. A what? It's an initial coin offering. Like Bitcoin, a new cryptocurrency. He takes her hands in his. Michelle, will you come into business with me?

OK, right, sure. Funny way of going about it. Obviously, you made it seem like a proposal. It's quite a fun switcheroo. It's a no from me. She feels her heart jump, her jaw slacken, her stomach flitters and jumps. She's never felt so, so valued, so seen. To her own surprise, she flings her arms around his neck. Ah, well... She reaches into the pocket of her yoga pants.

takes out her lucky rock and kisses it. It's Doug's turn to be confused. She giggles. She's never shown her favourite rock to anyone other than Michael. I have to kiss it when something good happens. He takes it from her, then draws her close, whispers in her ear. I think you should get rid of your rock because I'm your rock. I'm here to look after you, so let's throw it into the water together. Michelle hesitates.

She turns the rock over in her hand, gives Doug another look. Can I just say, I would be suspicious of anyone that you introduced to your lucky charm who said, oh, why don't we throw it into the sea? It's like, just let people have their weird quirks. Like, this is weird, this is very odd, but just go with it. You don't need your mother's ashes. Let's take them to the tip in the morning. Oh, God. She heads to the side of the yacht, leans out over the railings.

raises her hand and together they throw it into the calm sea. She realizes she does love this man, his vision and his ambition. So she puts her arms around his neck, tells him how happy she is, then purrs into his ear. Tell me everything I need to know about Kratu.

October 2018, Mayfair. Michelle slams down her phone, slumps onto the sofa in Doug's office, and kicks the coffee table in frustration. She's spent the past few weeks working solidly to get a big name attached to Equi, hers and Doug's crypto platform. She's gone through practically every contact she has to find someone, but she's drawn a complete blank. She snatches up her phone now, hoping for good news.

feels her shoulders drop at the sight of another trolling message. A few months ago, she'd sent out a tweet. I never thought I could go from being one of the best technical lingerie designers in the world, number one woman entrepreneur, to being one of the biggest experts in cryptocurrency and blockchain. Hashtag believe.

It's just such hubris, isn't it? It's such a bombastic claim. It's only been about a year or something that she's even been exploring and working in crypto. So to claim that you're one of the world's leaders in this space is just ludicrous, isn't it? She's lost count of the gloating, abusive messages she's had, especially since she and Doug haven't raised the $80 million they expected.

A few days ago, she'd even had some journalists from the FT asking awkward questions about why Equi's partners haven't been paid. OK, so what's the structure here? I don't fully understand. So these partners are known in the trade as bounty hunters. They're basically financial influencers who you pay to go on their social media and elsewhere saying sign up to this currency and they get shares in the currency and they get cash up front. Michelle pushes her manicured fingernails through her hair.

If this thing goes down the pan, her whole business reputation is on the line. She's just about to call an emergency meeting when one of her team rushes in. Steve Wozniak's people, they've returned our calls. Michelle snatches up the phone, straightens her back. Lady Moon speaking. She listens breathlessly as a woman introduces herself as Mr. Wozniak's PA.

Steve's very interested in Equi. He'd love to meet with you guys. When Michelle puts the phone down, she's shaking. She runs to Doug, squeals with delight. She met with Wozniak back in March, chatted with him at a crypto conference. She must have made an impression. He's a big catch. He's the co-founder of Apple, one away from Steve Jobs and a legend in the tech world.

With him on board, they could really turn things around. She jumps into the car with Doug, heads straight to the airport for a flight to California. Several hours later, she stands next to the Woz himself, admiring his big shaggy beard. She gazes out at his adoring Silicon Valley fans as she poses for photos with him. She's hardly slept for the last 24 hours, but she's buzzing. She tells him how much she admires him.

It's a very Mrs Merton moment of what first attracted you to the multi-millionaire billionaire co-founder of Apple? I just love shaggy beards. She starts giving him a pitch on why he should come on board. We see Equi as the ultimate venture capital disruptor. He waves a chubby hand. Of course I want to be part of this with you guys. Crypto is so pure thinking. Let's get our people to draw something up. She grins, tugs down her cream jacket.

widges herself between him and Doug for another photo. When it's done, she grabs her mobile and tweets: "Dreams do come true. He has been my business idol since I was a teenager. I'm delighted to announce that tech legend, co-founder of Apple, Steve Wozniak, has become my business partner." She looks back at Wozniak chatting with Doug and beams:

She's going to do everything she can to publicize this, get new investors, and prove to the world that she really is one of the biggest players in the crypto world. Because now, with the Woz on board, everything's possible.

Wow. OK, you might just think that she is a newcomer chancer, but this is phenomenal work. It's actually unbelievable that she's convinced Wozniak to come on board. This man must have across his desk a constant stream of offers, opportunities, success.

And he's gone with her. Well, that's the thing. She is the great convincer. Whether it's Rachel Hunter, Penny Lancaster, David Cameron, or now one of the biggest people in the history of Silicon Valley, she is obviously a compelling advocate. A day later, Financial Times officers, London. Jemima Kelly rubs her tired eyes. She's just about to make a coffee.

when her eyes fall on a new tweet by Lady Moan, announcing that her childhood hero, Steve Wozniak, is her new business partner. Jemima scans the photo of Lady Moan in a low-cut top and cream jacket, wedged between Doug Barrowman and Steve Wozniak, all three grinning like they're old friends. She's puzzled, not just that Wozniak's on board, but was he really Lady Moan's teenage idol? She leans back in her chair, does a quick calculation...

The WAS left Apple in 1985. Lady Moan would have been 13. And hardly anyone, except tech nerds, knew about Apple in the 80s. She grabs Lady Moan's autobiography, My Fight to the Top, thumbs through for a mention of the WAS. But all she finds are a few mentions of Richard Branson and four of Sylvester Stallone. She looks back at her computer, decides to do some internet sleuthing, and finally arrives at Lady Moan's LinkedIn account.

scrolls down, clicks on a video made back in March at a conference in the UAE. She peers at the screen closely. Lady Moan is flicking through the conference brochure and pointing at pictures of the different speakers. She turns to a page with a picture of Steve Wozniak at the top. In the video, Jemima watches as Moan turns to the person next to her. She is pointing to the picture of the Woz.

"This guy, Steve Wozniak, so he was the founder, oh, co-founder of Apple. So he's over there." Jemima frowns. How can the Woz be her idol when she doesn't seem to know who he is? None of this adds up. She started to enjoy being a thorn in Lady Moan's side. "I'm enjoying it too, Jemima." She shoots off an email to Lady Moan's publicity team. "Do you have any comment on this discrepancy?"

A few minutes later, she squints at a new email. If nothing else, Lady Moan's team is always exceedingly efficient. Of course Steve Wozniak has been Lady Moan's business idol since she was a teenager. We hope you will not be going down the route of trying to slander Lady Moan. She chews on a biscuit as she reads, Recently, you have become a bit obsessed with Lady Moan. If so, you will give us no option but to pass this on to a definition lawyer. She almost chokes.

What the hell's a definition lawyer? She got to it before I could. Jemima can't help but reply. She's starting to enjoy poking Lady Moan. She sits back and folds her arms, takes a large gulp of her coffee.

That night, she's woken up by her phone. She squints at the screen. It's two in the morning. She hears her sleepy voice ask, Who is this? Here's a man's enthusiastic voice introduce himself as... Jason Silva, Venezuelan TV personality and futurist. Okay. Okay, Jason, you've got my attention, my darling. She sits up, half-wondered if she should ask what a futurist is, when he tells her...

I was at the conference with Lady Mon in March and she told me Steve Wozniak was her teenage idol. She stares at her phone. This is nuts! It is nuts! Why has a Venezuelan celebrity rang in the middle of the night to tell her this? It's very strange when she can't find a shred of evidence to back up Lady Mon's claim. She lies back on the pillows and decides. Was or no was?

She's going to pull at those loose threads and keep pulling because she's sure that if she does, Michelle Moan's entire crypto venture will come tumbling down. But more than that, if this whole Woz stuff isn't true, and she suspects it isn't, then what else is Lady Moan hiding? May 2020. Michelle and Doug's mansion, Isle of Man. Michelle plants her hands on her hips as one of her cocker spaniel puppies wheeze on the floor.

She bought them shortly after PM Boris Johnson announced a lockdown in the UK. The puppies have been her main source of comfort these past few weeks. She grabs an old newspaper to clear it up. Her eyes fall on the FT headline. Is Baroness Moan's true idol Steve Wozniak or Sylvester Stallone? Incredible. In the FT. She looks at Wozniak's bearded, grinning face, then shoves the paper away. Shortly after her announced partnership with the Apple co-founder...

wasn't the act defected to a rival cryptocurrency? She grimaces at another mail article on her absence from the House of Lords. She scans the article. Scottish SNP critics have called for Lady Moan to resign, complaining that she attended just 89 sitting days out of 457 since entering the House until June 2017.

This is outrageous, isn't it? The idea that you get entry to this elite, which essentially gives you a blank check of opportunities. It opens so many doors for you.

And there is really no requirement for you to do anything. There really is no accountability. There's so little. I mean, with elected members in the House of Commons, there's a recall petition, ironically, that David Cameron brought in so that members of the public can petition to get rid of a sitting MP that they think is inadequate without having to wait till the general election. But in the House of Lords, if you're in, there's no real requirement for you to turn up. She slams the papers in the bin. She's fed up to the back teeth with all these people dragging her down.

It seems like everything is going wrong at the moment and she doesn't know why. She pours herself a glass of wine, tries to relax. She switches on the TV, scrolls through for something to watch. Seconds later she sits forward, covers her mouth in horror at the images from Italy of bodies piling up in makeshift mortuaries outside hospitals. She looks at Doug as he sits down beside her, grabs his hand.

lets her eyes fall back on the screen at an Italian doctor close to tears describing how hopeless he feels at not being able to save his patients. She hugs a cushion as an NHS doctor in London describes how her colleagues don't have enough masks or gowns to keep the virus from spreading, how they're using bin liners and other makeshift protective equipment to try and keep everyone safe.

how she herself is using a mask made by children from their local school. Although it wasn't that long ago, relatively, it is so hard to transport your mind back to just that state of emergency and trauma and just horror that was unfolding.

And even just hearing those details, it's surreal. This is May 2020, this is pre-vaccine and one of the biggest problems was that people on the frontline, doctors, nurses and care staff didn't have the basic supplies to protect themselves against a lethal virus. Michelle wipes tears from her eyes, looks at the message on her phone. It's from number 10. Urgent. We need immediate supplies of PPE for NHS frontline workers.

Critical items include masks, gowns and gloves. Please confirm your available stock and earliest delivery times. Priority will be given to suppliers who can provide large quantities quickly. She sits up. She's got years of manufacturing experience behind her. Surely she can do something to help. She scrolls through the list of her contacts. Hits Michael Gove's number. As soon as he picks up, she tells him

Michael, I can source PPE. I know all the key players in the Far East. What do you need? When the call's over, she leans back, stares out of her floor-to-ceiling window at the fountain in the garden outside, and decides she's going to use all her business smarts and her political clout to help the NHS, save lives, and stop those lady-layabout jibes for good. MUSIC

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Two weeks later, Downing Street. Matt Hancock hunts around on his desk for his briefing notes. Not the only thing he got up to in that office. Am I right? He feels his armpits sweat as he manically searches. Fuck! He's due to address the nation in a few minutes. Give the latest update on the COVID situation. But he can't find his notes anywhere. He puts his hand to his forehead. Tries to take a deep breath to calm himself down.

The last few days have been the most stressful of his entire life. Boris is locked away in his flat with COVID symptoms and nobody's seen Dominic Cummings for days. There's a rumour flying around that he's not even in London anymore. It's chaos. Medical staff don't even have enough personal protective equipment. In a few minutes' time, he needs to stand in front of the cameras, live on TV, and convince a worried nation that everything's under control.

His eyes suddenly fall on the folder at the edge of his desk. He lets out a sigh of relief as he snatches it up. He's just about to head for the door when his aide holds out a telephone, tells him in a hushed voice, ''Um, Lady Moan would like to speak to you.'' He steps back, shakes his head, draws a line across his throat. ''He hasn't got time for this now.'' She's been ringing him constantly for the past two weeks, ever since the government put out an emergency call for PPE.

The government may be desperate, but now's not the moment. He's still frantically shaking his head when he hears his aide tell her, Just putting you through now. Sorry, did the finger across the throat not make it clear enough? You still here? He looks up to see Michael Gove. He hears himself gasp with relief as he jumps forward and grabs him by the arm. Oh, Michael, can you take this call? Gove pushes out his bottom lip. Of course, happy to help.

Who is it? Hancock tries to edge closer to the door as he whispers, Lady Moan. Gove folds his arms, shakes his head and pushes out his bottom lip even further. No, she's a rape peen in the arse. Hancock puts his fingers to his lips. She'll hear. He mimes to his aide to hang up, but his aide just looks confused. Are you okay, sir? He flings his arms in the air, grabs his papers. He's had enough.

He darts out of the room, sprints along the carpeted corridor to the press briefing. He feels a trickle of sweat run down his back as he tries to figure out what he's going to say. But at least he isn't dealing with Michelle Moan. Someone else can sort all that out. And when they do, he can finally get her off his back for good. 12th of June. Michelle and Doug's home, Isle of Man. Michelle takes a bite of her banana bread as she moves her top hat along the Monopoly board.

The year of the banana bread, of course. I must be the only person who didn't make banana bread. OK, so you don't love your country, I guess. She lands on Mayfair and looks up to see Doug's grinning face. I have two hotels here. This is going to cost you a pretty penny. Michelle folds her arms and scowls. Their games of Monopoly have been getting more and more competitive recently. It's not fair that Doug's bought Mayfair when she's the real-life lady of it. But right now, Monopoly's not what's getting on her nerves most.

She spent days emailing and calling people in the government about her offer to source PPE. She's contacted Michael Gove, Lord Agnew, Matt Hancock. They all seem to be dragging their heels. What's wrong with these people? She checks the time, tells Doug. It's nearly eight o'clock. A few seconds later, she stands outside her front door next to Doug, hands her phone to her housekeeper, brushes invisible fluff from her yoga leggings.

Then, on the stroke of eight, grins into the phone and starts clapping for the NHS. She's just about to upload the video to Instagram when she gets a call. Here's the clip voice of a civil servant. Just to let you know, Lady Moon, PPE Medpro have been awarded a contract to supply 210 million face masks. Wow. She feels her mouth open, but no sound comes out. Eventually, she hears a shaky voice say...

Thanks for letting me know. She looks at Doug, flings her arms around him as she tells him the news, feels her feet leave the ground as he swings her around. When he puts her down, she runs into the kitchen, grabs a bottle of champagne. She fills Doug's glass, holds her own up to his. She's finally done it, finally convinced them that she can help with PPE. She takes a long sip. The bubbles break in her throat.

And for the first time in ages, feels herself relax. I'm so torn because knowing what I know, I just can't rejoice in this moment. I can't.

find it anything other than grotesque that they are drinking champagne at the announcement of this contract? Alice, you're such a cynic. They are toasting the fact that NHS frontline staff are finally going to get the help they need. What more is worthy of drinking expensive fizzy wine that is beyond the reach of most other people? When you put it like that, I feel like a monster. Michelle can finally put an end to all this negative press about her.

All that stuff about her not knowing who Steve Wozniak was, her crypto venture failure, let alone all the lady layabout barbs. She's going to step up in the nation's hour of need, show the whole world who she really is, and once and for all, silence everyone who doubts her.

Exactly.

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From Wondery and Samistat Audio, this is the second episode in our series, Michelle Moan. A quick note about our dialogue. In most cases, we can't know exactly what was said, but all our dramatisations are based on historical research. If you'd like to know more about this story, you can read...

My Fight to the Top by Michelle Moan, The Interview, Baroness Moan and the PPE Scandal by Mark Williams-Thomas, Investigations into Michelle Moan for The Guardian by David Conn, and various articles in different newspapers. Thanks to Jemima Kelly at the Financial Times for her help with this episode. British Scandal is hosted by me, Alice Levine. And me, Matt Ford. British Scandal is a production of Wondery and Samistat Audio.

Written by Karen Laws. Additional writing by Alice Levine and Matt Ford. Our story editor is James Maniac. Sound design by Rich Evans. For Samizdat, our producer is Chika Ayres. Our senior producer is Joe Sykes. For Wondery, our series producer is Theodora Leloudis. And our managing producer is Rachel Sibley. Executive producers for Wondery are Estelle Doyle, Jessica Radburn and Marshall Louis.

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Was it a crime of passion? If you believe the prosecution, it's because the evidence was so compelling. This was clearly an intentional act. And his cause of death was blunt force trauma with hypothermia. Or a corrupt police cover-up. If you believe the defense theory, however, this was all a cover-up to prevent one of their own from going down. Everyone had an opinion.

And after the 10-week trial, the jury could not come to a unanimous decision. To end in a mistrial, it's just a confirmation of just how complicated this case is. Law and Crime presents the most in-depth analysis to date of the sensational case in Karen. ♪

You can listen to Karen exclusively with Wondery Plus. Join Wondery Plus in the Wondery app, Apple Podcasts, or Spotify. Welcome to the Offensive Line. You guys, on this podcast, we're going to make some picks, talk some s**t, and hopefully make you some money in the process. I'm your host, Annie Agar.

So here's how this show's going to work, okay? We're going to run through the weekly slate of NFL and college football matchups, breaking them down into very serious categories like No offense. No offense, Travis Kelsey, but you've got to step up your game if Pat Mahomes is saying the Chiefs need to have more fun this year. We're also handing out a series of awards and making picks for the top storylines surrounding the world of football. Awards like the He May Have a Point Award for the wide receiver that's most justifiably bitter.

Is it Brandon Ayuk, Tee Higgins, or Devontae Adams? Plus, on Thursdays, we're doing an exclusive bonus episode on Wondery+, where I share my fantasy football picks ahead of Thursday night football and the weekend's matchups. Your fantasy league is as good as locked in. Follow the offensive line on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts. You can access bonus episodes and listen ad-free right now by joining Wondery+.