It is 9am on a cold spring morning, and I’m standing in central London outside posh bank Coutts & Co, staring at my own breath, waiting for Brian Butterfield. This is our third attempt at meeting due to “diary issues”. Butterfield dropped his diary down the toilet, twice.

You’ll know Butterfield, who bears an uncanny resemblance to the comedian Peter Serafinowicz, as one of the UK’s most prominent businessmen alongside Lord Sugar, Sir Richard Branson and Sir Philip Green. (I ask why Butterfield hasn’t been made a sir yet. “I was Liz Truss’s leading economic adviser, so I was surprised not to be offered a knighthood in her honours list.”)

Butterfield made his live stage debut in 2023 with Brian Butterfield’s Call of Now, a self-improving business seminar that resembles a Ted Talk, or “BRIAN Talk”, as Butterfield puts it. The tour was a sellout, although Butterfield later denies this. “I have not sold out! I have always stuck to my business principles,” he protests. He is now readying himself for more live dates in May to coincide with his first book, There’s No Business Like Business.

“Are you here for the interview?” he asks, arriving at pavement level. Butterfield travels by Sinclair C5 – the battery-powered recumbent tricycle from 1985. “I signed up for a 40-year lease. Only two payments left. I’m thinking about trading in for a C6. You should get one. You don’t pay the congestion charge and it’s great for going under car park barriers.” Butterfield appears in fine fettle. Hair: tidy. Moustache: neatly trimmed. (“You need to look as good as your business.”) His trademark grey suit looks freshly pressed. “It’s made from a material I invented myself – Brylon – a blend of wool, nylon and asbestos. I’ve only been able to wear it since Brexit as it contravenes several European health regulations.”

Butterfield rarely grants interviews. He is not press-shy, but time is money, and he’s a busy man. Eventually, his PA Briana – who sounds suspiciously like Butterfield himself on the phone – manages to squeeze me in. (“I’ve had to let Briana go,” Butterfield tells me later. “He was hopeless. I mean, she.”) The proviso is that I don’t mind if Butterfield is “on duty”. Who wouldn’t want exclusive access to witness the extraordinary business titan at work?

Coutts is the bank that infamously closed Nigel Farage’s account in 2023. “Farage owes me money!” snorts Butterfield. “£2,000 from 2010 when Butterfield Aeronautics serviced his two-seater aircraft.”

How long has he banked with Coutts? “Oh, I don’t bank with Coutts,” he scoffs. “I’m offering Coutts the chance to bank with me.”

“What’s safer than a safe?” he says, his voice raising an octave as he walks into the bank. The pitch has begun. “Butterfield Secure Banking, where you can entrust all your money, gold and cryptocurrency. It’s the most secure banking service in the world … ”

Deborah, the Coutts receptionist, looks baffled. “Have you got an appointment, sir?” she asks.

“Never mind that, here’s how it works,” he says, handing over a takeaway menu for Chicago Chicken. “Oh, hang on.” He pats his pockets. “I had 100 leaflets printed this morning. Come on, Stephen. Let’s come back this afternoon.” Stephen? Apparently he’s talking to me. I’ll correct him later.

Butterfield was born in “19 … something or other”. He’s unwilling to be more specific. “I want people to see me as a young, fresh-faced businessman,” he reasons. “I fear investors would be disinterested if they knew I was 65 … 66 next month.”

Butterfield grew up to working-class parents. His education then is a surprise. “You’ve caught me. I’m an Old Etonian,” he says. “My parents could only afford one day’s tuition. Still, I learned a lot and made strong friendships in that lunch break.” He’s aware he hasn’t matched the heights of other Old Etonians. “I didn’t become prime minister, like Boris Johnson. Or a helicopter pilot, like Prince William.”

His first job was a sweet shop he set up outside a nursery. “Selling candy to babies is harder than it looks because babies don’t carry money.” He then worked as the lord mayor’s croupier and as a circus horse dentist. “That was intense. And also in tents. Very big tents.”

Butterfield is also responsible for The Butterfield Diet, a revolutionary programme where you almost starve yourself for five days, gorge on anything for one day (“treat day”), then recover on the seventh. Butterfield is adamant he spawned the intermittent fasting craze. He also says he supplied £120m-worth of PPE to the government, but is somehow the only contractor who lost money. “I’m still paying back several Chinese manufacturers. I believe every failure is an opportunity to learn a new lesson,” he adds.

After the Coutts false start, our next meeting is lunch with fellow captain of business Sir Richard Branson. I ask where we’ll be dining. “Pret a Manger on Tottenham Court Road. It’s his favourite one. As Branson says: ‘It’s easy to become a millionaire, but to remain one, you have to be careful with your money.’ That’s why Branson shops at Lidl, while Sugar is more of an Aldi man.”

A table for three, please. But there’s bad news. Branson has WhatsApped to cancel, Butterfield says. There’s a crisis at his flagship business, Virgin Olive Oil. “It’s typical Branson,” says Butterfield. “Today is his turn to pay.” I turn this to my favour: some alone time with Butterfield, to find out what makes the great man tick. “Good idea,” he says. “I actually forgot to print out your CV, so you asking me questions is a smart use of our time.”

Slightly confused, I ask what Butterfield has learned from his live shows so far.

“Lots of things,” he says. “For example, I learned that the money you make from the tickets should be more than the cost of hiring the venue. Hopefully the second leg will help pay off my debts from the first.” He touches the plastic tray. “Touch wood.”

“Everyone is different. What works for one person may not work for another,” he continues. “But you can’t do a personal seminar for each person. I did try but it was very time-consuming and not cost-effective.”

I ask if Butterfield truly believes that business seminars can transform people’s lives. “There are a lot of charlatans out there charging a small fortune for the promise of success,” he says. “Don’t trust anyone who tells you they know the secrets to business success. That’s just one of the business secrets I reveal in my seminar.”

With the cost of living crisis, what advice would he give to the public? “Never give up. Keep working hard and eventually you’ll achieve your goals. I just wish I could speak to my younger self. Tell him to hang in there … I’d also tell him not to invest all his money in Woolworths and Blockbuster Video.”

Butterfield goes silent. I ask if he’s OK. He says he’s better than OK. “A phone that allows you to speak to your younger self? Write that down, Stephen. I want to pitch it on Dragons’ Den.”

The conversation moves on to Butterfield’s personal life. I realise that, beyond the asbestos suit, I know very little about him. Is he married, for example? “I am married,” he says. “To business.”

The alarm on Butterfield’s phone suddenly goes off. “Well, it was lovely to meet you, Stephen,” he says, extending a hand. “Congratulations! You’ve got the job!” He hands over a crumpled piece of paper. “Could you pick up my dry cleaning and click-and-collect from Tesco?” He tells me he’s got to rush off to a meeting with Guardian journalist Rich Pelley who’s writing a profile piece on him. Before I can point out I’m from the Guardian and not interviewing for the job of his new PA, he’s out of the door. Thanks, Brian. See you in the office tomorrow.