Deep Dive
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Oh my God, Matt, what is going on through there? They're taking the computers and the microphones, TVs, everything, speakers. I don't know. Well, they said they're bailiffs and that you told them they could do it. I might be in a little bit of financial trouble, but I can sort it if you could just lend me a few quid. All I need is 15 grand and this all goes back to normal. Jesus. Okay, um...
Right, I'm going to go home and just ring around and just see what we can do. OK. When you get home, you're not going to want to sit down or lie on a bed or watch telly or anything, are you? Why? Nothing. May 2019. Arta, Mallorca. Boris walks through the dark, desolate building, its heavy wooden shutters drawn to keep out the sun. He stops at the large dining table, where flies linger on the remnants of a child's birthday cake.
Boris feels a mixture of revulsion and nostalgia. This place was once the site of so much joy. Now look at it. He forces himself to keep walking through an empty hallway covered in crude graffiti. Oh, scheisse. Boris picks up the pace, flings open the doors leading outside to the 50-metre swimming pool, long drained of its water.
Now, why did your face do that, Matt? What have you realised? I'm worried that he's drunk and he's going to dive into an empty pool and hurt his head. OK, so you don't know what's going on. OK, fine. No probs. OK. Am I an idiot? I thought the penny had dropped, but actually it's a Tesco trolley token. Forget it. The once lush lawns surrounding it are parched and yellow. He sits on one of the collapsed sun loungers. It looks like he feels broken and tired. OK, I think I've figured out what's going on. Right, OK, talk to me.
Things aren't going so well for him. Nothing gets past you. I think he might be a bit skint. Right. The sound of voices nearby cuts through his thoughts. Who's there? No answer. Boris jumps up. He knows this place had squatters recently. He can't let them devalue it any further. He grabs a plank of wood, holds it like a baseball bat as he nervously follows the sound. The voices get louder as he reaches the stables.
Who are you? We take these for the bank. Please take care of them. His phone rings. Boris rolls his eyes at the name flashing on the screen.
Mark Ford, the court-appointed lawyer who's been in charge of liquidating his assets. No relation. Then why did I see you with that lovely horse just yesterday? Coincidence. He doesn't even try to hide the irritated edge to his voice as he answers. Mark, I thought we were done. I'm afraid not.
Boris starts striding towards the entrance to the estate, only half listening. We've been contacted by one of your old business advisors. He claims you owe him 40 million euros. It's a debt you didn't declare. That's not true. Everyone has been paid. He's trying it on. Whether he is or not, it's got the trustees concerned. We can't end the bankruptcy.
Boris stops in his tracks. He's not having that. It's already ended. I've done everything I've been asked. This cannot go on. Boris, I don't think you understand. The trustees are worried there might be more you haven't declared. That's really serious. It means this has become... Boris leans against the large archway at the entrance of the estate, steadies himself. I don't understand. Your finances will be scrutinized again.
This time by a prosecutor. Again, Mark hesitates. Boris's heartbeat quickens. He already senses that whatever he's about to hear, it's bad. Boris, I don't know how to tell you this, but you could go to prison. My dad works in B2B marketing. He came by my school for career day and said he was a big ROAS man. Then he told everyone how much he loved calculating his return on ad spend.
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So, Matt, Boris Becker, what a guy. What do you think of him as a character? He is, despite everything, sort of strangely kind of likeable. OK. I just feel like every time I give him a second chance, he doesn't help himself because he's petulant, he's a massive man-child, he's got an unfortunately strong libido and he's a man-child.
Despite that, there is a kind of naive sweetness to him. Yeah, you're right. There is a naive sweetness to him. I think it was when he was having sex with someone in the cupboard in Nobu while his pregnant wife was experiencing contractions that I was really drawn to him. Yes. Obviously, this is British scandal, so female characters that we feature in the stories aren't always treated the best by the men. It's almost like it represents wider society. Makes you think. So, do you think he's going to keep getting away with it? He
He's clearly irresistible to some people. He possesses an ability to succeed. Now, I know that the law courts are different to the tennis courts, but he's clearly got some form of charm. And I think he at least stands a blagger's chance of winning. This is basically British blaggers, isn't it? Let's see if he manages to pull off the final heist. This is episode three, Dosh and Bex. DOSH AND BEX
18 years earlier, February 2001, Family Court, Miami.
Okay, so just to recap, last episode we were in a broom cupboard. Matt. Matt. A small room with brooms. So that was in March 1999. Yep. So then, obviously, a child comes roughly nine months after that. Roughly. Delivered by Stork, I think. Exactly. Very good. Because when a man and woman love each other very much in a storage space full of cleaning equipment, a message gets sent up to the clouds and then...
That's science. And just a month before where we are now in January 2001, the news of the world break the story. So Barbara Becker is not mucked about. She is lawyered up fast and already we're in court. Defence lawyer Sam Burstyn strides towards the imposing 28-storey building, its windows glinting in the Florida sun. He deftly guides his client, Barbara Becker, through the endless sea of cameras outside. Their lenses aren't just trained on Barbara...
As one of the state's top attorneys, Burstyn is something of a celebrity himself. He basks in the attention, grinning and waving at his audience. A black Mercedes M-Class pulls up. A dark-suited Boris Becker steps out. Burstyn bristles as the press pack immediately turns its attention Boris' way. Boris, over here! What are you hoping for in court today, Mr Becker? To win, of course, as always.
Burstyn isn't just annoyed about being upstaged. As far as he's concerned, this guy is a penny-pinching bully and he's determined to take him for every dime he's got. He just wishes Barbara would let him discuss Boris' love child. But she's determined to keep certain details of their private life just that, private.
Entering the court, Burstyn runs a hand through his unruly black hair, trying to tame it for the cameras that are live-streaming the event for German TV. A hush descends as the judge turns to address Boris. What is your name? For the first time, Burstyn notices a man standing next to Boris. He translates the sentence into German for him. Only then does Boris answer. Boris Franz Becker. What is your profession?
The translator repeats the question in German. Boris answers in English. I was a professional tennis player for 15 years. Burstyn slams down his pen and stands up. Boris clearly doesn't need a translator. Mr Becker, isn't it the case that you speak perfect English? Boris waits for his translator to speak German to him before he responds. Only as far as forehand, service and backhand slice go.
I request this man be dismissed from the court. I'm sorry, Mr. Burstyn, but as English is not Mr. Becker's first language, he's entitled to a translator. Mr. Becker, you like to present yourself as a reasonable, loving family man. But isn't it true you claimed your wife kidnapped your children by taking them to Miami?
when in fact you have a second home here. Burstyn catches a flash of anger on Boris' face. Then he turns to his translator with wide, innocent eyes. Boris takes an eternity to answer. It was a knee-jerk reaction. I was sorry for it. Every exchange that follows loses steam in the same way. With each failed attempt to get under Boris' skin, Burstyn is the one who looks like a bully, badgering his innocent victim.
If he disliked this cocky jock before, now he hates him. When they wrap up for the day, Barbara turns to him, worried. What the hell, Sam? He looks like snow right up there. At this rate, I won't get a penny.
This is genius what he's doing really because he's playing the court like it's a tennis match. He knows he's in a difficult position so he's disrupting his opponent. He's not allowing them to get the momentum. Him having his translator there is like in a tennis match when you see them just take a little bit longer bouncing the ball or they'll take a little bit of a stroll around the baseline. It's basically regaining control or at least the sense of it. Exactly. Burstyn realises Boris is smarter than he thought but he's far from done.
Tomorrow, he's going to show this guy who's boss. Boris may be the greatest on the tennis courts, but this court is Burstyn's. He knows exactly how to expose Boris Becker for who he really is. February 2001. Family court, Miami. Boris grins at the reporters as he slides into the witness box for the second day. He's warming to having these proceedings broadcast around the world.
Yesterday was the closest that Boris has come in a while to feeling like he did after his tennis victories of old. He catches Barbara's eye as she enters with her lawyer, feels a pang of guilt. He knows he couldn't have built his fortune without her, but he pushes those thoughts away. He's only fighting dirty because she made him. That's one way of looking at it. Why didn't you glue my trousers on? God, Barbara, I thought we were a partnership.
As Sam Burstyn heads over to restart his questioning, Boris offers a friendly smile, keen to remind the guy he's not intimidated. Burstyn returns with a smug grin. Boris realises someone is missing. He turns to the judge. Where is my translator? Mr Becker, having observed you yesterday, I have to agree with the plaintiff's counsel that you speak good enough English not to require an interpreter. Boris feels a stab of panic.
but quickly composes himself. He's got the measure of Burstyn after yesterday. He puffs out his chest, ready for battle. Mr. Becker, let's discuss your contracts. Boris shakes his head. I'm sorry, my contracts may not be discussed in public. This is how things are in Germany. Burstyn raises his arms theatrically. But we're in America. You'll find we do things differently here. Boris is blindsided.
I... those matters are for my team. Burstyn ignores him, takes out an official-looking document. This Puma deal, how much was that for? The figure is millions, but I... I couldn't tell you exactly how much. You have so many millions you've lost count? Is that it, Mr. Becker? Boris's face flushes with embarrassment. He almost collapses with relief when the judge calls a break for lunch. He's been on the stand for four hours.
Charging into a private room, he lets rip at his lawyer. What the fuck? Boris, he's trying to show you his dishonest. Someone who's hiding their wealth from the court. Boris stares at him in disbelief. The lawyer hesitates before going on. I have to say, it could really turn the judge against you. My advice would be to settle. Boris slumps into a chair. What are they asking for?
Over $10 million, plus the Fisher Island house. You'll get shared custody of the boys. Boris sighs deeply, then nods. He realizes the lawyer is still on him. There's something else. You need to call your legal team back in Munich. Angela Ermakova's DNA test has come back. Boris stays on him, momentarily confused. It proves you're the father of the baby. Boris feels he's been punched.
It can't have been a surprise to him. OK, so statistically, you know, perhaps having sex once with somebody in a cupboard, probably quite lucky or unlucky to end up in conception. However, I think what you're getting at is that this is a baby with the face of Boris Becker. It carries a tennis racket. It's wearing a sweatband. It's head's.
He's just agreed to give away millions, and now he has to fight a paternity suit? As he's put out one fire, another is igniting. He has to stop it from getting out of control before he loses everything. February 2001, Munich. Rolf Hauschild presses the phone to his ear, willing it to stop ringing out. He mutters to himself, frustrated. Come on, Boris, pick up.
Once again, Boris's voicemail kicks in. Rolf hangs up, frustrated. As one of Bild magazine's most respected journalists, Rolf has been writing about Boris since the start of his tennis career. He's carried out numerous exclusive interviews with him. But now, when Boris's love child is the hottest topic in Germany, Boris is ghosting him. Rolf's heart sinks as his editor strides over. Well, what do you have?
Nothing yet, but you know Boris, he always comes good for us. If he won't talk to us, find someone else who will. A friend, anyone. Just get us the exclusive. As the editor stalks off, Rolf checks his watch. They go to press in less than two hours. Determined, he gets back on his phone, calls every contact in his book. But no one has seen or spoken to Boris. He's hit a brick wall. Rolf takes himself off to the smoking room.
He lights a cigarette, draws the smoke deep into his lungs, and he mentally prepares to give the editor the bad news. His mobile rings. It's one of the sources he tried earlier. Rolf, you're not going to believe this. I've had a tip-off from someone who knows Becker. They say they've seen a draft letter to Angela Ermakova's lawyer that says... The source trails off, starting to chuckle. Rolf's heart begins to thud.
Rolf is momentarily speechless. It's just too crazy. Rolf can't argue with that.
How does that version reflect better on you than just admitting that you had sex in a broom cupboard? I didn't have sex with her. She gave me a blowjob. And then she used that sperm to impregnate herself. I don't see what I've done wrong. Your Honor, we're both guys. We've all been there. Back me up. Okay.
When a man and a woman love each other very much, they have oral sex and then they keep the sperm, they freeze it, they unfreeze it. Why are you saying freeze it? Why are you saying
You're saying freeze it? Where's the freeze bit come from? That just feels like because people freeze their sperm. You're adding another stage. She might have just run straight home. Okay. When a man and a woman love each other very much, they have oral sex, they keep the sperm, they run right home, and then they do another bit that I don't want to think about. Oh, well, sorry. It's like, you know, it's so unnatural to you, Matt. This is how probably a lot of your friends were conceived. Maybe how I was conceived. Who knows?
BritishScandal at Wondery.com. If you've got any questions about that, Matt will answer them. Rolf chokes out a puff of smoke. This is just too insane. But then in all the years he's known Boris, the guy has never played by the rules. And this source is usually bang on. Rolf hangs up and races back onto the editorial floor. He breathlessly repeats what he's just heard to the editor. This is fantastic. Angela's Russian, isn't she?
Maybe we could add a mafiosi element. This could be part of a Russian blackmail plot. Rolf feels a prickle of discomfort. The story is already getting out of hand. But he can't deny how great it is. Still, he has to give Boris a right to reply. He scrolls to his number and presses call. As the phone rings, he wills Boris to pick up, say all this is nonsense and give his own side of the story.
Instead, it goes to voicemail once again. An hour later, it's ready to go to press. And he's not heard a peep from Boris. Rolf doesn't know whether to be worried for himself or sad for Boris. If the tennis legend denies this, Rolf and the paper could find themselves in hot water with his lawyers. But something tells Rolf this story is worth it and might be the actions of a very desperate man.
Also, what's the old rule about storytelling? Don't let the facts get in the way of a great story. And, let's be honest, it's going to sell papers. March 2001, West London. Boris steps from his car onto the eerily silent street. He looks around in the darkness, checks he hasn't been followed. Moments later, he's outside Angela's building, pressing the buzzer to her flat.
Boris hates being here, but his lawyers have made it painfully clear that pursuing his claims is a fool's errand, unless he wants to pay damages on top of maintenance. His only hope of sorting this out is to talk to Angela in person, try to reason with her. Hello? Hello? Boris hesitates a moment. It's Boris. Can we talk? Boris is greeted by silence, pulls the baseball cap further down his head, scared of being spotted.
Then he presses the intercom again. I won't go until you hear me out. Boris can only wait. After what seems like an eternity, the door clicks open. Moments later, Angela glares at Boris coldly as he steps inside her apartment. Whatever you came to say, just get it over with. She goes over to the sofa and slumps into it. Boris sits down opposite her. He leans forward, lays his hands open.
What you're asking for in maintenance is completely unrealistic. £2 million plus £5,000 a month is outrageous. He sees tears well in Angela's eyes. Do you have any idea what you've put me through? All I want is what my daughter is owed. Boris struggles to keep his cool. He's about to bite back when... Wait there. Angela heads into the next room. Boris feels a nervous knot form in his stomach.
In all of this, he'd forgotten that the baby, Anna, would be here. Where did he think the baby was going to be? He jumps to his feet. He shouldn't have come. He pads towards the door, but as he does, he catches a glimpse of Angela in the nursery, holding Anna in her arms. Boris freezes. He takes in Anna's strawberry blonde hair, her pale skin. Like it or not, she's his flesh and blood.
Can he really leave here without even taking a closer look? Before he knows it, he's turning round, heading towards his daughter. Angela pulls Anna closer, as if trying to protect her. Boris's eyes fall from mother to child, whose cries soon turn into contented gurgles. Can I hold her? The words come as much of a surprise to Boris as they do to Angela. Please.
Angela's eyes bore into him, afraid, then softening. After a moment, she carefully places Anna into his arms. Boris gazes into her eyes. She clasps her tiny hand around his thumb, then gives a delighted squeak. Feeling her warmth, her love, Boris is overwhelmed with shame. He knows now he's acted appallingly to both of them. Angela. I am so sorry for everything.
I just, I, can I be in her life? He holds Angela's unsure gaze, his eyes pleading. He doesn't care how much this little girl costs him. He'll find a way to earn it all back. Of course he will. He's been making money in his sleep since he was 17. He's Boris Becker. He can do anything. Does ruin the mood a bit that it basically just comes back to him earning money?
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Eight years later, June 2009, Dubai. Boris lifts a hand to shield his eyes, squinting against the glaring sun as he gazes out across the vast stretch of desert. He smiles then waves to his new wife, Lily, as the chauffeur-driven car drops her off. He's got another wife? Another lucky lady is Mrs Becker. What do you think of your wedding present? He stays on her as she stares blankly at the nearby cranes and diggers.
Boris hands her a shiny brochure emblazoned with the words "Boris Becker Business Tower". Lily flicks through its pages, her eyes widening at the photos of three gleaming 19-storey commercial office blocks. Boris's latest $10 million business venture. It's what I've always wanted, a 19-storey commercial office block. Yeah, it's named after me, but really it's for you. Boris, this is incredible.
Boris pulls her in for a kiss. They're interrupted by his PA. You need to be downtown in half an hour to shoot a promo for the tennis academy. Also, your accountant is at the site office. Yeah, so I'm trying to kiss my wife here, mate. Have him wait in my car. We can have our meeting en route. Boris greets his accountant in his chauffeur-driven limousine. They drop Lily off at the Burj Al Arab Hotel.
Taking in the building's towering, sail-shaped silhouette, he wonders if he should be more adventurous with his tower. He pulls out his notepad and jots down the thought next to his other ideas. Expand Chinese Tennis Academy into Indian and Korean markets.
Explore Nigerian oil and gas. OK, I understand expanding the tennis academy into different countries. Where has his love of oil and gas come from? What I like most about this is that his business strategy is just a tiny little notebook where he just scribbles his hopes and dreams. You've got to write them down somewhere. Boris notices his accountant eyeing the pad, a look of concern on his face. Something wrong? Um...
The accountant shuffles awkwardly. Boris stays on him. Boris sighs. He can't believe he's still paying off this bill from years ago.
Surely this should be cleared by now. No, it won't be for a while if you still want to prioritise your maintenance payments to Barbara and Angela. Your outgoing... My kids must come first. The accountant nods, but he still looks anxious. There's something else? Uh, yes. The Spanish estate is becoming a real money pit. Boris rolls his eyes.
The 53-acre property he bought in Mallorca is costing more to refurbish than planned. But he loves going there with Lily. Boris waves his hand dismissively. His accountant persists. All these investments are great. If they come off... Boris cuts him off. You worry too much. Know what we say in tennis? You miss 100% of the shots you don't take. Yes, 100%.
But in business, taking those shots can prove very costly. Boris returns to his jotter pad, signalling the end of the conversation. His accountant takes the hint, turning his attention out of the window. But as they sit in silence, a knot forms in Boris's stomach. He hasn't overstretched that much, has he? May 2012, San Lorenzo restaurant, Knightsbridge.
Boris slaps the back of fellow sports pundit Pat Cash as they pose for photographs outside his favourite restaurant. He takes in the flags lining the street, bearing the London 2012 logo. The Olympic Games are only weeks away and the host city is buzzing. Boris is thrilled to be part of the BBC's prized commentary team, alongside Gary Lineker, Sue Barker and Claire Balding.
Before you ask, yes, I'm confident Andy Murray can take gold. He's never been in better form. Actually, Boris, I wanted to ask about Dubai. How do you feel about the real estate crash happening there? Will your tower project be affected? Boris's heartbeat quickens. Pat looks on with curiosity. Boris has to front it out. I'm involved in name only. I got out financially months ago.
But as soon as he's back in his new Maserati, Boris gets a call from one of his business advisors. I'm afraid the rumours are true. The money you invested is gone. Boris feels the blood drain from his face. He cuts the call. He can't think about this now. 45 minutes later, Boris drives up to a gated mansion in Wimbledon. A man ushers him through, directing him to the sunken garage.
Boris parks up to find Lily waiting with their two-year-old son, Amadeus, and an estate agent. What is this place? Wait until you see the rest. Lily excitedly leads him one floor up to the 25-metre swimming pool. Then they climb the stairs to the roof of the building, which houses a planetarium. Boris stares up at the stars projected onto the ceiling.
Boris shuffles uncomfortably. The estate agent pipes up. Shh.
Boris immediately feels himself relax. "Twenty-two thousand pounds a month, plus a deposit of course." "Oh, what a relief." Boris's throat tightens as Lily turns his way, her hopeful eyes sparkling. He takes in Amadeus, staring up at the ceiling in awe. How can he say no? "A bargain! Where do I sign?" Lily squeals with joy. She immediately starts discussing moving dates with the estate agent. Boris tells himself it will be fine.
He'll ask the bank for another loan, work twice as hard. He just has to keep doing what he's doing, believing in his worth and make sure everyone else is doing the same.
I have a question, Matt. How do you work twice as hard as you're working if one of your main jobs is the Olympics? Because that's only coming round every four years. You can't make that come round any quicker. You could do the Commonwealth Games. Very good. You could do the, what is it, the World Championships? Yeah, get those in, yeah. Just nip down to Crystal Palace, stand by the running track and say what you see. March 2013, Mayfair.
John Cordwell waits patiently for Boris Becker to remove his shoes and put on the slippers he's provided. The Phones For You founder, yes I am doing the hand gesture, has a strict socks-only rule in his £250m mansion.
Even for Boris, who he met on the inspirational speaking circuit. I don't mind people saying take off your shoes when you come into my property, because I say that. And you do say it like that. You're now in my property, take off your shoes. But to provide slippers, like some sort of bowling alley, I'd worry about who else would warn him. I didn't really think of it like temping. I thought of it more like Japanese. OK, you've gone the sophisticated route, I've gone the idiot route. Back when they met, John was impressed by Boris's ambition.
He reckons Boris will appreciate what he's done with the place. Let me give you the tour, Boris. John leads him through the gleaming white marbled hallway, lit by five crystal chandeliers. He shows Boris the 120-capacity ballroom and the opulent spa and sauna, before stopping outside the grand dining room. This is my pride and joy.
Wow! Wow! John, that puts my planetarium to shame.
Such a humble brag, isn't it? So funny that Boris is trying to get a bit of status in the conversation, knowing full well that Caldwell's gaffe is so much better than his. I believe it's the most expensive domestic dwelling in the UK. Hello, facts for you. John takes him through to the wood-panelled sitting room where they're surrounded by mannequins wearing his favourite sequined dinner jackets. John sinks into the leather sofa. He's intrigued to hear what business proposition Boris has for him.
So, Boris, what can I do for you? Only now does John notice how awkward Boris seems. I find myself in a very unusual position, John. I have several exciting projects in the mix, but there is a problem with cash flow. You want money? What about the bank? Boris fidgets in his seat. It would just be a bridging loan. John feels uneasy.
Someone like Boris wouldn't ask unless he was out of other options. He needs to know more. He waits for Boris to go on. The loan would be to pay the bank. It seems I've been too ambitious, overstretched a little. John sits back, mulls this over. He's read about Boris's past run-ins with the German tax office. He imagines that's sucked up a fair bit of his money.
John had his own three-year battle with HMRC after paying himself in gold bars, so he can relate. We've all been there. It was either cash or gold bars. It's a decision we've all had to take, Your Honour. Do you remember that year you paid yourself in bullion? Well, I won't do it again. You only make that mistake once. Boris is also known for being generous to his kids and those of his friends. He employed John's daughter as a PA for a while. He figures he owes him.
How much do you need? Boris visibly relaxes. 1.2 million would cover it. John balks. He gets up, goes over to his bar and pours himself a glass of water. It irks him when people speak of figures like that as if they're nothing. He worked hard to build his fortune from scratch. Too hard to piss it away by handing out sums like that without some kind of guarantee. And how do you propose to pay it back?
Boris seems thrown by the question, like he hadn't even given this detail any thought. I have an estate in Mallorca, valued at 10 million euro. This loan will keep the bank happy until it's sold. Once it is, everything is fine. John is still undecided, but Boris isn't done. I look around this place and I see great vision. I'm asking you to use that now, John. I'll pay interest, of course. John knows a bit of flannel when he hears it.
But the bottom line is, he likes Boris. I'll give you a loan on the condition it's paid back within three months. If it's not, I'll have to charge a higher rate of interest, 25%. You're a good friend, John. Glad I called you, man. Boris looks a little shaken by that. But after a moment's thought, he nods. They shake on it. Boris's clammy palm confirms he's more anxious than he's letting on. John hasn't made many wrong calls...
But he's already wondering if this is a mistake. He can only hope that Boris can deliver. July 2017. Wimbledon, London. Boris hugs the phone to his ear, a wave of nausea hitting. It's been confirmed. You're bankrupt, Boris. The British court has the right to liquidate your assets. Boris catches Lily's dark expression in the mirror as she hovers behind him.
He hangs up, then takes a peek through the shutters. He watches his beloved Maserati being lifted onto the tow truck on the drive. Boris can hear the hum of the press pack just beyond the gates. He can't believe how quickly the news has broken. Boris ignores the doorbell, but Lily stomps over and screams into the intercom. You vultures, all of you, just leave us alone. Boris goes over to her, puts a hand on her shoulder. She angrily shrugs it off. Just don't.
I need to get Amadeus from my mum. I don't think I should bring him back here with all this going on. I'm going to check us into a hotel. Boris feels his stomach lurch. You can't just go. He holds Lily's face with his hands, his eyes pleading. We'll find a way out of this. Lily's eyes fill with tears. She looks desperate. How? Boris doesn't know what to tell her. If we just stay calm, we'll figure it out. We're in this together. Lily pushes him away again.
She glares accusingly at him. How can you say that? I'm your wife and you kept all of this from me. The press probably knew before I did. Lily bolts across the room. Boris stares open-mouthed as she starts yanking their framed wedding photos from the wall, hurling them to the ground. Glass smashes all around Lily as she throws down one after another.
See, if he'd had an internal river put into that property, they'd have got wet, but they wouldn't have smashed. Right. Hindsight's 20-20 though, Matt. All this was a sham, a lie. You are a lie. Boris ducks as a frame flies past his head. He steps gingerly over the shards of glass to try and restrain her. But she angrily pushes him back. Flinging open the front door, she runs from the house. He races after her. Come back here. We're not done.
Get the fuck away from my property! Then he plays the message from his agent.
Boris steps over the broken glass. He stops at the cabinet where his Wimbledon trophies sit, the gold shimmering and resplendent in the afternoon light. His past glories only compound his misery because to his kids, his peers, the rest of the world, he's about to be exposed for what he is now.
A penniless, washed-up has-been.
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Five years later, April 2022, Southwark Crown Court, London. Boris steps out of his taxi to the familiar site of the press pack. Are you confident you can prove your innocence, Boris? Did you really hide Wimbledon trophies at your mum's? What about the claims you tried to hide horses from the taxman? Boris ignores them as he fixes his gaze on the courthouse. He doesn't know how it's come to this.
Following a criminal investigation, he's facing 24 counts of hiding or failing to hand over assets under the Insolvency Act. They include properties worth over a million, £390,000 of payments to both of his ex-wives and several of his winners' trophies. If he's found guilty, he could face seven years in prison.
His girlfriend, Leland de Carvalho Monteiro, steps out of the car behind him. She smiles at him adoringly. I'm so pleased that Boris has found love again. It's really quite incredible, isn't it? Another new woman, another new international woman. Here we go. You've got this baby, everyone loves you. She smiles at him adoringly. Come on, Boris. Just date some British women and make it easy for Alice. Would it kill you for them to be, you know, from Essex?
Boris squeezes her hand, grateful. He doesn't know how he would have managed this last year without her. A mob of nearby fans echo her words. Good luck, Boris. You're the best, Bex. For the first time, Boris allows himself to feel more hopeful. As his barrister begins his opening remarks, he puffs out his chest, the same way he used to when entering centre court. If Boris Becker is guilty of anything...
It's only burying his head in the sand with matters of money and finance in the face of a bankruptcy that was managed chaotically by his advisers. Boris focuses on the jury. He's sure he sees sympathy in their eyes. The prosecuting barrister, Rebecca Chalkley, rises to her feet. She takes a moment to look at Boris. He throws her a charming smile. Maybe, just maybe, he can win her over too.
The issues in this case boil down to everyday dishonesty and knowledge. Bankrupts who play the system, act in bad faith, should be punished. That is, in short, what Mr Becker did here. Boris feels himself squirm as Chalkley calls his claim that he can't remember the location of several trophies preposterous.
She continues to tell the court how he made endless contradictory statements. And she points out how he's hiding behind his advisers, blaming them for everything. The defendant claims he was simply reckless, naive. It is the prosecution's belief that in fact, Mr Becker is an entitled athlete who didn't feel he needed to play by the rules. Several members of the jury now eye Boris with suspicion.
He glances at Leland, whose encouraging smile seems more forced. All Boris can do is remind himself that he's come back from tough opponents before. He can do it again. He just needs one more win. Later that week, Southwark Crown Court, London. Boris takes a moment to adjust his striped purple and green All England Club tie. I love those ties in the Wimbledon colours. Is that his way, do you think, of saying...
Look, I'm in some way part of your country. Go easy on me. I think it is. And I think it's even more than that. I think it's saying not only am I part of the country, I'm actually a very special person. I'm wearing this regalia. You know, it's like wearing sort of military attire to remind people of what you've done in the past. He's sort of saying, don't forget, I'm a champion. Don't forget, as well as being part of you, I am better than you. I am way, way better. His hands tremble. All the bravado he mustered a few weeks ago is gone.
Instead, his pale cheeks and hollow eyes reflect what he fears could happen at the sentencing today: a lengthy term in jail. He bows his head in shame. As the judge reminds the court, Boris was found guilty of hiding assets and loans totalling £2.5 million. Boris' only hope now is that he receives a suspended sentence. His barrister states Boris' case for leniency.
Despite the picture the media paints, my client has not spent money on a lavish lifestyle, but rather on child support, rent and legal and business expenses. He has also experienced significant public humiliation and now has no future earning potential. There is nothing to show for the most glittering of sporting careers, and that is nothing short of a tragedy. LAUGHTER
There are a few sniggers from reporters in the public gallery. Boris feels his cheeks burn. What would they know about becoming a global sensation as a teenager? Or living a whole life with others making decisions for them? What chance did he have of managing this stuff? His job was to be Boris Becker. As the judge prepares to speak, Boris fixes his eyes on hers, willing her to understand that. Mr Becker, I take into account your fall from grace.
Boris feels a surge of adrenaline. She does get it. There is hope. But you've not shown remorse or acceptance of your guilt and have sought to distance yourself from your offending and your bankruptcy. There's been no humility. Therefore, I'm passing down a custodial sentence of two years, six months. Boris feels the ground disappear beneath him. His eyes stay fixed on the judge's
waiting to hear the added word, suspended. But it doesn't come. He only hears Leland's pleading voice. No, you can't. Boris feels the hard grip of a guard placing handcuffs over his wrists as he's roughly pulled from the dock. His cheeks burn hot with shame as he's led outside, where the waiting photographers and reporters jostle to get close. Boris, over here. Boris, please. Boris, this way. Boris. Boris.
Boris hangs his head, almost relieved to stagger into the waiting custody van. Its doors slam shut behind him. Only now does he force a few words. Where am I going? HMP Wandsworth. It's in your neighbourhood, Boris. Three miles from Wimbledon. I really hope that when prisoners are assigned to a specific jail, that it's purely on which one is more appropriate and not which one's the funniest. But if it is the latter, five star.
Boris chokes out a bitter laugh. As the van trundles down the road, he looks beyond the bars of its one window, takes in the streets he's come to know so well. He's no longer thinking about tennis or his beloved centre court. Instead, he's thinking there will be no place in prison for a boy king. He's finally being forced to grow up.
In December 2022, eight months after his conviction, Boris was released and deported from the UK under the Early Removal Scheme. He later moved to Milan with his fiancée Lilan. He's since worked as a pundit for Eurosport and briefly coached Danish tennis star Holger Rune. In May 2024, despite still owing £42m, Boris's bankruptcy officially ended.
According to the terms of his early release from prison, he can return to Britain from November 2024. Whether he's ever welcomed back to the All England Club as a member or a Wimbledon commentator remains to be seen.
Hey, it's Guy Raz here, host of How I Built This, a podcast that gives you a front row seat to how some of the best known companies in the world were built.
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From Wondery and Samizdat Audio, this is the third episode in our series, Boris Becker. 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 The Player by Boris Becker, Dosh and Beck's Profile by Tim Adams, ITVX documentary, and Boom Boom! The World vs Boris Becker, Apple TV Plus documentary.
British Scandal is hosted by me, Alice Levine. And me, Matt Ford. Written by Wendy Grandeter. Additional writing by Alice Levine and Matt Ford. Our story editor is James Maniac. Sound design by Louis Blatherwick. 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, Chris Bourne, Morgan Jones, and Marshall Louis. I'm Dan Taberski. In 2011, something strange began to happen at the high school in Leroy, New York. I was like at my locker and she came up to me and she was like stuttering super bad. I'm like, stop f***ing around. She's like, I
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This is the emergency broadcast system. A ballistic missile threat has been detected inbound to your area. Your phone buzzes and you look down to find this alert. What do you do next? Maybe you're at the grocery store or maybe you're with your secret lover or maybe you're robbing a bank.
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