I never get the accountants in before I start up a business. It's

Host: The sun was just beginning to sink behind the skyline, bleeding amber light through the dusty windows of an old office tucked above a narrow London street. Piles of papers, blueprints, and coffee cups cluttered the wooden table in front of Jack and Jeeny. The air smelled faintly of ink, espresso, and risk — the strange perfume of dreams being gambled into existence.

The city’s hum below filtered through the cracked glass: the sound of traffic, distant laughter, and the ceaseless rhythm of ambition.

Jack leaned back in his chair, his sleeves rolled up, his tie loose, a half-smile tugging at his lips — the kind of smile that hides exhaustion behind defiance. Jeeny sat opposite, a notebook open, pen tapping against the edge, her brows furrowed, eyes alive with both caution and admiration.

Jeeny: “Richard Branson once said, ‘I never get the accountants in before I start up a business. It’s done on gut feeling, especially if I can see that they are taking the mickey out of the consumer.’”

Jack: (grinning) “Finally, someone who gets it. Numbers kill dreams. Gut keeps them alive.”

Host: The light through the window shifted, casting stripes of gold and shadow across their faces — as if the room itself were balancing between vision and realism.

Jeeny: “That’s reckless, Jack. Gut feelings don’t pay rent. You can’t build a business on instinct alone. You need structure, accountability, foresight — not just adrenaline.”

Jack: “That’s exactly what accountants don’t understand. You bring them in too early, and suddenly everything’s a risk assessment. Innovation dies in spreadsheets.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s saved from disaster.”

Jack: (leaning forward) “You think Virgin Records started with a calculator? No. Branson followed a feeling — saw the record shops ripping people off, saw a gap, took it. That’s how every revolution begins — not in a boardroom, but in a moment of anger at unfairness.”

Host: The room fell into a rhythm of argument — words colliding like ideas in midair, sharp but charged with life.

Jeeny: “And for every Branson, there are a thousand dreamers who went bankrupt following their ‘feeling.’ Gut doesn’t guarantee justice — it just makes failure more romantic.”

Jack: “Failure is romantic! It’s honest. You fall flat on your face, but at least it’s your face. Not some corporate mask. The problem is, most people are too afraid to bet on their instincts — they’d rather be safe than real.”

Host: The evening light dimmed, replaced by the glow of a single desk lamp, its yellow halo pooling on the stack of plans between them. The faint sound of rain began to tap against the window — gentle, but steady.

Jeeny: “You talk about instinct like it’s purity. But instinct can lie. People thought cigarettes were healthy once. People ‘felt’ that tulip bulbs would make them rich in 1637. Gut feeling without reason is gambling.”

Jack: “You’re missing the point. Branson wasn’t saying ignore the numbers. He was saying — don’t let them cage you before you even start. If something feels wrong in the way the world works, trust that anger. That’s where disruption comes from.”

Jeeny: “Anger doesn’t build systems, Jack. It burns them down.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “Maybe the system deserves burning.”

Host: A long silence stretched. The rain thickened, streaming down the glass, distorting the city lights into streaks of molten gold.

Jeeny watched Jack — that restless spark in his grey eyes, the way his hands moved when he spoke, carving conviction into the air. She had seen that look before — in people who refused to let reality shrink their belief.

Jeeny: “You talk like you’re building empires, but do you ever think about the people under them? Instinct can make you bold, but it can also make you blind.”

Jack: “No. Fear makes you blind. You think Branson waited for approval before launching Virgin Atlantic? He mortgaged everything because he believed customers were being cheated. That wasn’t greed — it was guts.”

Jeeny: “And luck. Don’t forget that.”

Jack: (grinning) “Luck’s just the universe’s reward for people who trust their instincts.”

Host: A faint laugh escaped Jeeny — not agreement, but reluctant amusement. The tension in the air loosened like the last knot in a rope.

Jeeny: “So you’d start a business without a plan?”

Jack: “Every plan is just yesterday’s logic written in tomorrow’s ink. I’d rather trust the pulse — the part that says, ‘This feels wrong, I can fix it.’ You can’t quantify that.”

Jeeny: “You sound like every idealist who thinks the world runs on passion. But I’ve seen good people drown in their dreams.”

Jack: “And I’ve seen cautious people die in mediocrity. At least the dreamers die standing.”

Host: The rain outside grew louder — a rhythmic drumming against the glass that filled the pauses between words.

Jeeny: “You really believe instinct can see injustice better than reason?”

Jack: “Of course. Reason adjusts to power. Instinct rebels against it.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes widened slightly at the weight of that sentence. The lamp light shimmered on her face, highlighting the conflict in her expression — admiration tangled with unease.

Jeeny: “Then tell me this — how do you know when your instinct’s right, and when it’s just ego pretending to be conviction?”

Jack: (quietly) “You don’t. That’s the risk. But if it’s wrong, at least it’s your mistake. The accountant’s mistake costs you your soul.”

Host: The rain slowed. The sound of the city softened, replaced by the faint buzz of a distant neon sign. The air felt heavier, but calmer — like the aftermath of an argument that had become truth.

Jeeny: “You know, maybe that’s what makes entrepreneurs dangerous — and necessary. They act before the world’s ready, and sometimes it works, sometimes it burns. But either way, something changes.”

Jack: “Exactly. Safe hands never build revolutions. You need a little madness, a little arrogance — and a lot of gut.”

Jeeny: “You call it gut; I call it faith.”

Jack: “Same thing. Faith in your own compass when everyone else is staring at the map.”

Host: The light outside turned bluish — dusk slipping into night. Jeeny closed her notebook and leaned back, her eyes softening.

Jeeny: “You know what, Jack? Maybe that’s what Branson was really saying. Not that numbers don’t matter — but that humanity does. That business isn’t about margins, it’s about moments of courage.”

Jack: (nodding slowly) “Yeah. About knowing when the world’s getting conned and having the guts to call it out.”

Host: A distant church bell tolled through the rain, marking the hour. Jack stood, stretching his arms, staring out at the wet streets below — headlights gleaming like molten veins.

Jack: “You ever notice how the best ideas start as anger? You see someone getting ripped off, or overlooked, and something inside you snaps. That’s when instinct kicks in. That’s when the real work starts.”

Jeeny: “And then comes the humility — when you realize instinct alone doesn’t save you.”

Jack: “No. But it starts the fire. And without that, the accountants would own the world.”

Host: The rain stopped. Steam rose from the streets, catching the orange glow of passing cars. The lamp above them hummed one last time before flickering out.

For a moment, there was only silence — that rare, electric kind that hums between exhaustion and clarity.

Jeeny smiled. “You know, for a cynic, you sound a lot like a believer tonight.”

Jack: (smirking) “Maybe I am. Or maybe I just trust that a good idea’s worth more than a clean balance sheet.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that’s the difference between you and me. You build with instinct. I build with structure.”

Jack: “Then maybe that’s why it takes both of us to make something last.”

Host: Outside, the first neon signs flickered to life, painting the wet pavement in streaks of red and violet. The city pulsed again — alive, indifferent, full of risk and reward.

Inside that dim little office, the last page of their notebook lay open. Across it, in hurried ink, were the beginnings of something wild — an idea, reckless and raw, drawn not from caution but conviction.

And as the camera pulled back, through the rain-specked glass, the city glowed like a living heart — beating for those who dared to trust their gut before the world told them not to.