Claire Chazal a 60 ans : son évolu­tion physique en une minute

Présen­ta­trice du jour­nal télé­visé de TF1 pendant plusieurs décen­nies, Claire Chazal offi­cie désor­mais sur France 5 et son visage a accom­pa­gné des géné­ra­tions de télé­spec­ta­teurs.

Pendant 24 ans, Claire Chazal a été l’un des visages de TF1. Présen­ta­trice des jour­naux télé­vi­sés du week-end, sa voix et son visage se sont impri­més dans les tympans et sur les rétines de plusieurs géné­ra­tions de télé­spec­ta­teurs pour qui elle incar­nait l’in­for­ma­tion avec un grand I. Mais en septembre 2015, le coupe­ret est tombé : la jour­na­liste a été évin­cée de l’an­tenne. Les semaines qui ont suivi ont été très dures pour elle tant elle s’est sentie « inutile, écar­tée ». Elle avait beau se douter qu’un jour ou l’autre, elle devrait quit­ter son siège, l’an­nonce fut néan­moins brutale, d’au­tant plus qu’elle avait perdu sa mère quelques mois plus tôt. Cette accu­mu­la­tion de tristes événe­ments lui a fait perdre ses repères.

Mais elle a su rebon­dir. Malgré les bles­santes critiques, Claire Chazal est désor­mais le visage d’Entrée libre, le maga­zine cultu­rel quoti­dien de France 5. Diffi­cile pour elle de suivre les JT d’Anne-Claire Coudray, celle qui lui a succédé, mais à 60 ans tout rond, elle aborde une nouvelle phase de sa vie et même si certains ne se gênent pas pour la déni­grer, elle est conti­nuel­le­ment compli­men­tée, comme lorsque Michel Drucker confie qu’il la trouve « vache­ment sexy ». Au fond, on est d’ac­cord avec lui : malgré son manque de confiance en elle, Claire Chazal n’a pas à rougir de ce qu’elle est deve­nue, bien au contraire. Et on lui souhaite un très joyeux anni­ver­saire !

Super-rich 21-yr old sorry for his attitude in Lamborghini police road rage incident

Solihull millionaire and self proclaimed ‘Lord’ Aleem has apologised to police for losing his temper after he was pulled over in his new Lamborghini.

Hours after taking delivery of a £550,000 Lamborghini Aventador SV Roadster, Aleem was filmed arguing with police officers who stopped him in Digbeth for a routine check.

In footage, an agitated Aleem, 21, stands in front of the passenger window filming police officers saying ‘“Why you looking at me? Trust me bro, my shoes are probably worth more than your ******* wages.

He goes on “Don’t look at me like that.”

The gathered crowd jeers and a camera crew stands in front of Aleem filming the incident.

Aleem, whose full name is Aleem Iqbal, boasts that the video is going straight onto YouTube “tonight” and chats to the intrigued crowd before driving off in the direction of Selfridges.

Hours before, Aleem proudly took delivery of the new white supercar, registration 41EEM, stating he was: “Lost for words.”

Aleem’s agent, Mark Brewer, said Aleem was sorry for his conduct.

He said in a statement: “Having had time to reflect on what happened and having spoken to his family, Aleem would and also like to apologise to the police officers involved for the way the situation escalated.

“Aleem would like to stress that what wasn’t shown in the video was the police officers involved harassing him and forcing him to pull over for ‘having cars follow him’.

“Yes, Aleem admits he can get carried away from time to time and said, “I’m tired of being harassed by police just because I’m young and drive nice cars.

“Although that doesn’t excuse my behaviour towards the police officers in the video, I hope this paints a clearer picture as to why I reacted the way that I did.”

“Canada’s Donald Trump”: A title too good for Kevin O’Leary

Is Kevin O’Leary a good or bad businessman?

Buried in the back pages of the financial press was a story about the sale of his mutual fund company, O’Leary Funds, to Canoe Financial, an investment firm run by former Dragons’ Den cast member and entrepreneur Brett Wilson.

O’Leary had launched his funds with great fanfare back in 2008, introducing them to viewers on his Business News Network (BNN) show, SqueezePlay. Before the cameras, wearing a natty navy-blue suit and matching azure tie, O’Leary resembled a proud father with a new infant as he explained to co-host Amanda Lang how his fund was designed to produce yield on a monthly basis.

“You got to pay Daddy,” he declared, “because my wife costs a fortune, my kids cost a fortune. I need dough and I need dough every month. You got to pay Daddy number one.”

In those days, O’Leary’s star was ascending. He was one of the so-called “Dragons” on Dragons’ Den, which was becoming a bonafide Canadian hit. The following year he and Lang moved their daily business show over to the CBC, renamed The Lang & O’Leary Exchange.

O’Leary’s popularity and persona as a business guru soon drove investors to his mutual funds, with O’Leary Funds roaring to as much as $1.5-billion in assets (and probably more). O’Leary boasted of being an investing whiz, with access to the movers and shakers in the business and political worlds — those ties giving him unique insider knowledge.

The reality was quite different. O’Leary was not even licensed to manage or invest other people’s money. Instead, he hired Connor O’Brien, a former Wall Street investment banker, to run O’Leary Funds. Moreover, by 2012, the funds were in trouble, falling to $1-billion in assets by the end of that year.

This past fall, when he finally sold his company to Canoe, the funds were down to $800-million in assets. This was due to redemptions — investors pulling their money out because of the funds’ performance. “The majority of the funds performed poorly for an extended period of time and the majority of (Bay Street) brokers refused to sell any new funds,” says Mark McQueen, CEO of Wellington Financial LP, a $900-million Bay Street finance firm and one of O’Leary’s long-time critics. “It’s not personal. The industry lives and dies on performance.”

Yet the demise of the O’Leary Funds is, in fact, just the latest in a series of failures in Kevin O’Leary’s business career.

While O’Leary recently grabbed headlines with his promise to invest $1-million in Alberta if premier Rachel Notley stepped down, and is toying with running for leadership of the federal Tory party, these stunts overshadow a history of ineptitude as a businessman.

Disaster at Mattel

O’Leary is unquestionably a media star: He has written best-selling books, been a fixture on at least four televisions shows, including the current ABC hit program Shark Tank, revels in making outrageous statements, and crafted an image as the “mean” Dragon, able to reduce inventors to tears with putdowns like “this is the worst idea I have ever heard in my life it’s so bad!”

But what exactly is O’Leary’s business experience? Born in Montreal in 1954, O’Leary had ambitions of being a photographer. Instead, he did an MBA at the University of Western Ontario. After business school, he set up a television production company that produced shows for people like Don Cherry. From watching Cherry, O’Leary learned that it was important never to be boring or small on TV.

By 1983, O’Leary saw the potential in the emerging software and personal computer industries. He formed SoftKey Software Products Inc. in the basement of his Toronto home, convincing computer companies to bundle his software into their products.

SoftKey moved to Boston and focused on the booming field of educational software. By 1993, it was trading on Nasdaq and had revenues of $110-million—and a loss of $57-million. The company grew by making a string of acquisitions.

SoftKey’s most prominent takeover was of San Francisco-based The Learning Company (TLC). Prior to the sale, TLC hired the Center for Financial Research and Analysis (CFRA), a forensic accounting firm, to examine its suitor’s financials.

CFRA alleged that SoftKey may have overstated its earnings by bundling various general and administrative costs into write-offs. CFRA was also unhappy with SoftKey’s decision to fire its auditor, Arthur Andersen, after the accounting firm found deficiencies in the company’s internal controls. CFRA noted that SoftKey’s audit committee “holds several questionable members, including the CEO… as well as an outside member associated with two public companies charged with financial improprieties and another member who is a paid consultant to the company.”

Yet SoftKey’s acquisition of TLC went through, and SoftKey adopted the TLC name. By 1996, TLC had 3,000 employees and was the biggest educational software company in the world. It continued to grow via acquisitions, driving revenues up over $800-million.

But SEC filing shows that TLC suffered net losses of $376-million in 1996, $495-million in 1997 and $105-million in 1998. Moreover, TLC’s accumulated deficit topped $1.1-billion by the end of 1998.

That same year, toy giant Mattel Inc. made a takeover bid for TLC, without doing proper due diligence. Desperate to reverse a steep slide in the company’s stock price, Mattel CEO Jill Barad seized on educational software as a driver of future growth. The takeover shocked many, largely because TLC was seen, according to software-industry analyst Sean McGowan, as a well-known “house of cards” that was burdened with tired brands—not helped by the fact that O’Leary had slashed R&D from 24 down to 11 percent of expenditures. “There was a lot of [TLC] inventory out there that was not moving very well,” McGowan says. “They pumped up the sales by repackaging and distributing to convenience stores and drugstores.”

Indeed, TLC was later accused in a shareholders’ lawsuit and by a Mattel executive of “stuffing the channels”—shipping product at the end of a quarter and recording it as revenue, even though much of the merchandise would be returned. “Stuffing the channels was part of the business back then,” says a former TLC sales rep based in California.

In the end, Mattel purchased TLC for about $4-billion in the spring of 1999. O’Leary took over as president of Mattel’s new TLC digital division. Weeks after the sale, CFRA produced a critical report on Mattel, claiming TLC was already experiencing collapsing revenue, a surge in receivables and a deterioration of operating cash flow.

In the third quarter of 1999, Mattel expected profits of $50-million from the TLC division. Instead, it was a loss of $105-million (the next quarter losses rose to $206 -million), which wiped out more than $2-billion in shareholder value in one day, as the company’s share price slid from nearly $17 to $11.69.

In short, O’Leary had sold Mattel a turkey.

One investors’ lawsuit says O’Leary cashed in his Mattel shares just before the losses were announced when the stock was at its peak, pocketing almost $6-million.

In November of 1999, O’Leary was fired, six months into a three-year contract. Four months later, Mattel’s CEO, Jill Barad, was forced out too. “There is nothing I can say to gloss over how devastating The Learning Company’s results have been to Mattel’s overall performance,” Barad said as she went out the door.

Mattel hired Bernard Stolar, a video-game executive, to see if he could salvage TLC. “It was an absolute disaster,” he says. In 2000, Mattel handed over its multi-billion-dollar acquisition to another firm for a mere $27-million and a share of its future profits.

Mattel’s purchase of TLC was later labeled by Businessweek magazine as one of “the Worst Deals of All Time.” Shareholders launched a class-action lawsuit, naming O’Leary as a defendant, accusing him of insider trading and of being part of a scheme to obscure TLC’s financial state. While O’Leary denied the allegations, in 2003, Mattel settled the lawsuit for $122-million—considered a “mega-settlement” at the time. O’Leary has blamed Mattel’s management for the problems with the TLC division, not his own involvement.

While O’Leary’s actions cost Mattel’s investors hundreds of millions, he netted $11.2-million between his severance package and sale of his Mattel stock.

Sued for wrongful dismissal

After getting canned by Mattel, O’Leary’s business career sputtered and meandered.

In 2003, O’Leary invested in a self-storage company called StorageNow Holdings Inc., which he learned about from Reza Satchu, a Toronto entrepreneur. Satchu’s high-school acquaintance, Jonathan Wheler, had a background in real estate and saw that a lot of money could be made by building self-storage warehouses in accessible locales. Wheler had even found a perfect piece of land in Toronto to erect such a facility. According to court documents, O’Leary put in about $500,000 and ended up with almost 13 percent of the company.

In the summer of 2003, the Toronto land was purchased and, for a cost of $5.2-million, StorageNow’s first self-storage facility was built and opened in the spring of 2004.

But the relationship among the three men deteriorated. Wheler oversaw building the Toronto facility and finding other plots of land to construct similar warehouses. Eventually, he negotiated a deal with the Satchus and O’Leary to divide up the company’s eventual profits. In a $10-million wrongful dismissal lawsuit, Wheler contends that Satchu and O’Leary arbitrarily altered the agreed-upon compensation deal, reducing his cut of the profits substantially.

A further deal related to profits derived from the Toronto facility was finalized in 2004. But in April of 2005, Wheler claims he met with O’Leary who told him that this agreement was “too rich” to Wheler and what had been agreed upon was “simply no longer available”, according to Wheler’s lawsuit. O’Leary told Wheler his pay and compensation arrangements would be cut back. The following month, Wheler was terminated. Wheler believes that once O’Leary and Satchu realized how profitable StorageNow was going to be, they pushed him out of the business.

In a defense statement, Satchu and O’Leary claim Wheler was let go because he was inexperienced and lacked business acumen and fell behind schedule. Despite such characterizations, Wheler went on to develop a series of other self-storage units across Canada with another company using his original concept and became a millionaire on paper.

O’Leary and his partners soon were out-maneuvered by their competitors. A competing company, InStorage Self Storage Inc., blew by them, growing so rapidly they gobbled up StorageNow in 2007.

There were other miscues for O’Leary, too. In 2004, he was appointed to the board of Environmental Management Solutions Inc. (later called EnGlobe Inc.), an Ontario waste management firm. Soon afterwards, the board fired the company’s CEO. But the company’s leadership was unable to arrest a decline in its fortunes brought on by an overambitious acquisition program; the stock price slid from close to $4 to 3.5 cents during O’Leary’s term of almost five years as a director.

“I have had some great successes and great failures,” O’Leary said in a 2012 interview. “I think every entrepreneur has. I try to learn from all of them.”

O’Leary becomes a TV stereotype

In 2003, O’Leary talked his way into a job onto TV at BNN, partnering up with Amanda Lang on SqueezePlay, a daily business show.

O’Leary was made for television, having soaked up the lessons learned from Don Cherry years earlier. He was the sort of person who would bring a box of dog biscuits to the set and howl if he thought a certain stock was a “dog”.

But O’Leary also revealed his ignorance of the markets too. In the early aughts, Bay Street began peddling income trusts to investors. But Al Rosen, Mark Rosen and Diane Urquhart, experts on investment products, concluded income trusts shared characteristics of Ponzi schemes, with many destined to fail. In 2005, they produced a report saying 50 of the top income trusts were overvalued by almost 30 per cent.

Yet Al Rosen recalls O’Leary championing income trusts on his TV show. Rosen says he went on BNN and argued with O’Leary about the subject. “He’s an ignorant man,” says Rosen, one of Canada’s leading forensic accountants. “He was trying to kill us every time. We would see each other and almost spit on each other.”

In 2006, O’Leary was cast on Dragons’ Den for its first season, taking on the role as the resident asshole. He was the sort of person when an inventor burst into tears after being criticized by the Dragons, would say, “Money doesn’t care. Your tears don’t add any value.”

Henry Mintzberg, the Cleghorn professor of management studies at McGill University, believes O’Leary’s depiction of a business leader is pejorative. “Pitbull (executives) don’t add anything at all,” he said in an interview with this reporter back in 2012. Mintzberg said in the US there’s been the emergence of the “cult of heroic leadership” within corporations. “The tendency there… is to attribute any success of the company to one person,” he remarked. But Mintzberg said companies function best when CEO’s recognize that companies are collaborative efforts and they show flexibility and emotional health. O’Leary, on the other hand, “is obviously an arch narcissist,” noted Mintzberg. “I don’t know how he manages his companies, but his stereotype is dysfunctional.”

Dragons’ Den became a huge hit. Yet one of the myths of the show is that the deals struck by the Dragons on TV turn into real investment. In reality, only a minority of deals actually materialize. Moreover, Tracie Tighe, the show’s executive producer, once said O’Leary is “tight with his wallet” and closed only one or two deals a year.

Indeed, O’Leary had a history of rarely investing with entrepreneurs and of denigrating sound projects. When Rachel Mielke, a jewelry-maker based in Regina, appeared on the show in 2008 seeking $200,000 for a 20 percent stake in her jewelry company, Hillberg & Berk, she told the Dragons that her company was valued at $1-million, a sum O’Leary openly derided. “Kevin, right from the get-go, said ‘This is a bad idea’,” Mielke recalled in an interview in 2012. “He didn’t really understand the industry.”

In the end, Dragon Brett Wilson agreed to back her company, which shot to sales of $5-million by 2014. “Within a couple of years it was quite clear that we had surpassed the valuation that I went to Dragons’ Den with,” said Mielke.

Even one of O’Leary’s success stories is not all what it cracks up to be. Wendy Johannson and Claudia Harvey invented a utility glove for women and needed $50,000 when they went on the show in 2009 for their company, DigIt Apparel Inc. On-air O’Leary agreed to give them the money in return for three percent of royalties. After the show, they eventually gave him 10 percent of the company.

But the $50,000 never materialized. “When he said he’d like to have ten percent for $50,000 I thought that would be a cash injection, I thought that was money in the bank for us,” said Harvey in an interview in 2012, “When it came down to it… that wasn’t the case.”

Instead, O’Leary offered them a line of credit at an interest rate higher than what the banks offer, which DigIt didn’t touch. “He’s never actually given us any money,” said Harvey at that time, although the two women were happy with his contribution to the company by opening doors to retailers.

O’Leary told the Globe and Mail in 2012 that Johannson and Harvey wanted to use the money for inventory, which he didn’t think was a good use of his money. He said he was proud of what the pair had achieved.

The rise and fall of O’Leary Funds

By 2008, having painted himself as a business guru, O’Leary felt it was time to cash in on his new-found fame and start another business.

That summer, he announced the creation of his own mutual fund company, O’Leary Funds, despite not having a background in investing other people’s money or a broker’s license, and having denigrated mutual funds on TV.

In the end, O’Leary would be the hood ornament to woo investors; he hired former Wall Street investment banker Connor O’Brien to be the portfolio manager. One of the first things O’Leary said was he wouldn’t “grind the capital” of investors, meaning he would not pay back to investors their very own principal to meet dividend demands (as opposed to generating dividends as a result of astute investing).

The funds took off. By 2010, O’Leary was hoping his funds would hit $5-billion in assets within three years.

Yet it was not long afterwards that some sharp-eyed experts on Bay Street found evidence that, in fact, O’Leary Funds was paying out dividends to investors with their very own cash – in other words, grinding their capital. “The issue is not do other people grind their own capital, it’s that he said he doesn’t do it,” says Mark McQueen, CEO of Wellington Financial. “And I found half a dozen of his funds where he had.”

By 2012, investment advisers were pulling their money out of the O’Leary Funds simply because they were not performing as well as O’Leary had touted. And the funds continued to leak over the next three years before O’Leary finally folded his tent last fall, selling the entire business to Brett Wilson’s Canoe Financial.

Meanwhile, O’Leary’s television career also began to flag. In 2014, he left CBC and Dragons’ Den and The Lang & O’Leary Exchange to become a gadfly at CTV. His profile in Canada has dimmed considerably since.

In the end, O’Leary succeeded in becoming a millionaire. But more so because he learned how to turn himself into a celebrity and not because of his business acumen.

Portions of research for this article were previously published in 2012 in the Globe and Mail’s Report On Business Magazine, co-written by Mr. Livesey

“Canada’s Donald Trump”: A title too good for Kevin O’Leary

To call Kevin O’Leary “Canada’s Donald Trump” is to grossly overstate how interesting O’Leary is as a candidate.

Apologies to the believers, but O’Leary is an actor. He’s playing the role of the no-nonsense, tough-as-nails businessman, a persona that has gotten him stellar gigs on reality TV shows and financial panels. But just as elite pediatric surgeon, accomplished scholar and seasoned politician Kellie Leitch is pretending to be a populist, O’Leary has simply adopted an easily understood, marketable character (arguably, it’s working far better for him than Leitch’s heavily researched persona is working for her).

Familiar proposals

If Kevin O’Leary wasn’t famous, he would be among the most boring candidates running for the Conservative leadership. He has a wife and a couple of kids. He likes wine and taking pictures. He wants to create jobs (every good conservative believes the prime minister creates jobs, yes?), opposes carbon taxes, is disinterested in immigration reform, supports physician-assisted suicide, champions the legalization of marijuana, wants to lower taxes, balance the budget and to see Canada recognized as an international peacekeeper. Yawn.

In the bloated state of the Conservative leadership race, there are probably four or five other candidates touting nearly the same — or even the exact same — platform. O’Leary even looks like a mix between fellow candidates Steven Blaney and Maxime Bernier. Yes, the reality TV businessman certainly knows how to craft a juicy sound bite, but if we pause to look at what he’s actually proposing, O’Leary’s platform really isn’t all that interesting.

From the perspective of the O’Leary campaign, however, the best thing critics can do is continue to compare him to Donald Trump. It gives his relatively unremarkable candidacy the colour it needs to continue to eat up attention.

Sure, there are some similarities between Trump and O’Leary: they’re both businessmen, obscenely wealthy political novices, reality TV stars and they both have a knack for saying dumb things that get them in trouble (last month, O’Leary was quoted as saying “there is nothing proud in being a warrior” in reference to the Canadian military). But Donald Trump truly is an unhinged, vendetta-driven, thrice-married former beauty pageant mogul with a weird fixation with conspiracy theories. O’Leary doesn’t even try to play that on TV.

Support from the party

Could Kevin O’Leary win the Conservative leadership? Maybe. His lack of French — highlighted by his strategically timed candidacy announcement the day after the French debate — will hurt him in Quebec. Social conservatives won’t care much for his stances on euthanasia, marijuana, gay marriage and so forth, nor will hawks within the party welcome his pacifist approach to foreign affairs and apathy toward immigration reform. Policy wonks will likewise be unimpressed with his brazen ignorance of constitutional affairs, as evidenced by the idea he floated about selling seats in the Senate.

O’Leary makes late entry into Conservative leadership race
But O’Leary has name recognition, and for Conservatives staring down a second Trudeau term, it may be that “celebrity” is quickly seen as the only thing that will give the party a fighting chance in 2019.

Whether that happens or not, we’d all do well to remove the cold compresses from our foreheads — at least until O’Leary gets on Twitter and starts ranting about border walls and ideological purity tests for visitors (hiya, Kellie). O’Leary is less a poor man’s Trump than he is a rich man’s version of the handful of other Conservative candidates who have already proposed the same things. He’s simply found a cartoonish way to get people paying attention. Good for him.

Girl makes prom dress out of 9,000 pop tabs to raise awareness for cousin’s illness

Gretchen Ivers, a junior at Thompson High School, spent 26 hours and used 9,121 pop tabs to make her prom dress. Another six hours and nearly 400 tabs went into her accessories, including a purse.

“It was pretty scratchy at first, so I ended up adding a fabric liner under it,” she said. “It’s actually pretty comfortable.”

Ivers plans to wear the dress to her prom Saturday at Thompson High School. Then she will donate it to the Ronald McDonald House in Rochester, Minn.

“I have shown some people (the dress), and they’ve just been blown away,” she said. “Honestly, I have been too. I did not think it would work out and become the product it has.”

The idea popped into Ivers’ head about a year ago when her mother saw a picture of a dress made of pop tabs. The student has experience in making chainmail, she thought making a dress using the same methods could work.

But the dress has a deeper meaning for Ivers, too. Her cousin’s infant son, Braxton Cords, was born premature and has been in and out of the hospital since he was born. She said doctors are not sure why Braxton was born early, but they gave him a year to live. Now, Braxton is 1½ years old, and though he is in the hospital, Ivers said she is thankful for the time she has had with him.

What stuck in her mind was how Braxton’s parents were able to stay near his side because they could stay at the Ronald McDonald House in Rochester several times.

The dress was a perfect way for her to bring awareness to the Ronald McDonald House and its help for families.

“I thought this would be a cool way to make a statement and be able to tell people about the impact the Ronald McDonald House has had for me,” she said. “It really has been an awesome experience.”

The man who quit heroin and became a fruit juice millionaire

As Khalil Rafati overdosed on heroin for the ninth time the paramedics frantically tried to save his life.

A drug addict who slept rough on the streets of Los Angeles, he eventually regained consciousness after the medical team used a defibrillator to give him an electric shock.

This was back in 2003, when Khalil was 33 years old. Also addicted to crack cocaine, he weighed just 109lb (49kg), and his skin was covered in ulcers.

“I was arrested more times than I can remember [for drug offences],” says Khalil. “I was completely messed up… I was always in so much pain that I couldn’t sleep.”

While Khalil had tried and failed to get clean before, he says that after his ninth overdose he finally realised that he had to change his life in order to save it. So he spent four months in a rehab centre – and has been drug-free ever since.

Throwing himself into healthy living, Khalil has been so successful in rebuilding his life that today he is the millionaire founder and owner of fashionable Californian health food business Sunlife Organics.

With annual sales of more than $6m (£4.8m) from its six outlets – which combine juice bars and cafes, and also sell the firm’s clothing line – and via its website, the company is preparing to expand to 16 other US states and into Japan.

Now aged 46 and accustomed to travelling by private jet, he’s come a long way since his days of sleeping on the streets.

In fact, Khalil’s life story could be the plot of a Hollywood movie.

Born in Ohio in the US Midwest, he is the son of a Polish Jewish mother and a Muslim father.

A troubled childhood saw him leave school without any qualifications, and get arrested for vandalism and shoplifting.

In 1992, aged 21, he moved to Los Angeles with dreams of becoming a movie star.

While the acting career never really took off, he started playing in local bands, and made a good living cleaning cars for Hollywood stars including Elizabeth Taylor and Jeff Bridges, and Guns N’ Roses lead guitarist Slash.

However, he soon slid into drug addiction, and his life spiralled out of control. Eventually he was sleeping in cardboard boxes beside other junkies, and dealing drugs to help fund his own habit.

Then after that fateful ninth overdose Khalil’s life completely changed for the better. After successfully quitting drugs he kept himself busy by juggling several jobs.

In addition to working at two rehab centres in Malibu he washed cars, walked dogs and did gardening work.

“I was able to save money,” he says. “I worked hard, seven days a week, 16 hours a day.”

Khalil also started to become obsessed with making his own vegetable and fruit juices after he met an old friend from Ohio.

“He was a little bit like a hippie, and started teaching me about vitamins, organic food, super food,” says Khalil. “At that moment I was looking for anything that would make me feel better.”

In 2007 Khalil rented a house and opened his own rehab centre, Riviera Recovery, for clients who would pay $10,000 a month to stay at the facility.

For these residents, Khalil would make exotic juice blends such as one he called Wolverine – a mix of banana, maca powder, royal jelly and pollen.

Eventually the reputation of these drinks spread beyond the building, with people calling in to buy them.

Realising that there was enough demand to set up a separate business, in 2011 Khalil launched Sunlife Organics, together with his best friend and then-girlfriend.

Funding the business from savings, the first branch opened in Malibu. Khalil says it was an instant success, with sales of $1m in its first year.

Today the business employs more than 200 people across its six outlets. In addition to juices, it now sells a range of food and clothes, such as t-shirts and hoodies.

Rob Nazara, an analyst at Deutsche Bank in New York, says Khalil’s story shows real strength of character. “No matter what the educational or professional background someone may have, the success of an entrepreneur is driven by grit, determination and ambition,” he says.

Besides Sunlife Organics, Khalil still runs Riviera Recovery and owns a yoga studio in Malibu. He also made time to write his autobiography, I Forgot To Die, which was released in 2015.

“I don’t consider myself super intelligent,” says Khalil. “But I have a hunger for life, and put all of myself into something when I decide to do it.”

Follow The Boss series editor Will Smale on Twitter @WillSmale1

Get news from the BBC in your inbox, each weekday morning

Sikh sets religious rule aside to help injured boy. He uncovered his turban to put under young men head.

Man removes turban and places it under head of injured child hit by car outside primary school.

Наrmаn Ѕіngh did not think twice about rеmоvіng his turbаn to сrаdlе the blееdіng hеаd of а 5-уеаr-оld who had just been hіt by а vеhісlе on his way to sсhооl.

Мr Ѕіngh, 22, was at home when he hеаrd саr whееls sсrеесhіng, and then а соmmоtіоn, and ran outside to іnvеstіgаtе. “І saw а сhіld down on the grоund and а lаdу was hоldіng hіm. Ніs hеаd was blееdіng, so І unvеіlеd my turbаn and put it under his hеаd.”

Меmbеrs of the Іndіаn соmmunіtу last nіght рrаіsеd Мr Ѕіngh for his асtіоn, соnsіdеrеd а hugеlу significant act of humаnіtу by brеаkіng strісt rеlіgіоus рrоtосоl to hеlр а strаngеr.

Тhе ассіdеnt оссurrеd in Маnurоа Rd just before 9аm.

Мr Ѕіngh асknоwlеdgеd the rаrе stер he took to hеlр, but said that рrоtосоls of his fаіth did not rеstrісt certain асtіоns in an еmеrgеnсу.

“І wasn’t thіnkіng about the turbаn. І was thіnkіng about the ассіdеnt and І just thоught, ‘Не needs something on his hеаd because hе’s blееdіng.’ Тhаt’s my јоb – to hеlр.

Аnd І think anyone else would have done the same as mе.”

Мr Ѕіngh and other mеmbеrs of the рublіс stауеd with the bоу until еmеrgеnсу sеrvісеs аrrіvеd. Тhеу tоld him he was gоіng to be оkау.

Νоt lоng after the ассіdеnt, the bоу’s mоthеr аrrіvеd.

Мr Ѕіngh sаіd: “Тhе little bоу, he was tаlkіng to us before his mum саmе. Не wasn’t сrуіng. Вut when his mum аrrіvеd – when he saw her – he stаrtеd to сrу, because she was сrуіng.”

Gаgаn Dhіllоn said he was on his way to wоrk when he saw the ассіdеnt and stорреd to hеlр.

“Тhеrе was enough hеlр as there wаs, but being а Ѕіkh mуsеlf, І know what tуре of rеsресt the turbаn hаs. Реорlе just don’t take it off – реорlе dіе over іt.

“І saw him [Мr Ѕіngh] with no hеаd соvеrіng and thоught, ‘Тhаt’s strаngе’. Вut then І saw one hаnd was undеrnеаth the bоу’s hеаd suрроrtіng it and his sіrорао [turbаn] was stорріng the blееdіng.

” … he didn’t саrе that his hеаd was unсоvеrеd in рublіс. Не just wаntеd to hеlр this little bоу.”

Тhе 5-уеаr-оld was wаlkіng to sсhооl with his оldеr sіstеr when he was hіt. Не was thоught to have suffеrеd lіfе-thrеаtеnіng hеаd іnјurіеs, but last nіght was in а stаblе соndіtіоn in the Ѕtаrshір hоsріtаl.

Іt is undеrstооd the bоу ran across the rоаd at а реdеstrіаn rеfugе. Тhеrе is often а sсhооl раtrоl in the аrеа, but it had fіnіshеd suреrvіsіng rоаd сrоssіngs for the mоrnіng.

Маnurоа Rd rеsіdеnt Сhаrmаіnе Тuhаkа said she hеаrd а vеhісlе skіddіng, and then а bіg bаng. “І thоught it had hіt another саr. І went runnіng out and saw the little bоу. Іt was quite hоrrіfіс.”

Мs Тuhаkа said she and two others hеld him still to рrеvеnt him mоvіng and further іnјurіng hіmsеlf.

“Не was соnsсіоus. Ніs еуеs were ореn, he wasn’t mоvіng – he wasn’t even grоаnіng in раіn. Ніs sіstеr was there … Ѕhе was сrуіng. Тhеn her mum саmе. Ѕhе didn’t say а wоrd. Ѕhе just ran to her sоn. Ѕhе was frеаkіng оut.”

Kansas man gives 32 gallons of blood over 64 years

Harold Facklam Jr. doesn’t think about how his donations of 32 gallons of life-saving blood have affected others or even saved lives. He remembers the reasons why he began his service to those in need of such a precious gift.

“I just did it because it was something that I could do. I never served in the military at all, and I probably could have or should have maybe, but World War II was over before I was old enough,” he said. “The Korean War would have been about right, but then we got married and a year later we had a child, so I was deferred. I think I always maybe felt a little bit guilty about that, that I didn’t serve in the military because there was a lot of my high school classmates that did. I thought, maybe this is some way I can help.”

Facklam was honored with the Assisted Living Lifetime Achievement Award for his outstanding citizenship at a recent luncheon. The Kansas Health Care Association and the Kansas Center for Assisted Living recognized his contributions, specifically 259 pints, or 32 gallons, of blood that he donated through the American Red Cross.

He credits his late father Harold Facklam Sr. with encouraging him to donate at just shy of 21 years of age in January 1951. At that time a parent’s consent was required if you weren’t 21, but Facklam Jr. was married so he could donate. His father began donating in 1947 and gave blood for about 11 years, stopping at age 60 when he was no longer allowed to give.

“My father was giving; he certainly had a great influence on me. He was very, so pleased to give and that’s why I started, of course,” Facklam said.

Facklam donated until April 30, 2015, for 64 years of his 87 years of life. Health reasons caused him to stop. For years, every time a newspaper or radio announcement said the Red Cross would be in Junction City or Fort Riley accepting donations, he was there to do his part. As soon as he gave, he would make his next appointment to do so again.

He donated a pint each time of whole blood, four times a year and was recognized by the Kansas American Red Cross with 38 pins as he reached specific gallon markers.

Facklam also was recognized for his volunteer work with the United Church of Christ in Geary County, where he spearheaded the committee that rebuilt the church after it was destroyed by lightning in 2001.

“Church was a very important part of our life, always,” he said. “On Aug. 23, 2001, the church was struck by lightning and burned to the ground, but the Christian Education Building, which was right beside it, was saved, so we were able to continue to worship there for about two years while we were building the new church at a different location. I was the treasurer for that committee, so I wrote all the checks.”

Facklam was nominated for the lifetime achievement award after personnel at McCrite Plaza Topeka saw a display of Facklam’s pins hanging on the wall in his residence.

“We thought he would be the perfect person to nominate for it, and we were really excited when we found out he had won the award,” said Kelsie Dawson, marketing assistant.

Other family members also have become donors, including a daughter and granddaughter. Facklam said his son-in-law John Jameson is number two in blood donations in Junction City, coming in right below Facklam.

He and his wife Venice Facklam have been married for 66 years. They lived in Geary County from 1963 to October 2016, and have two daughters, Linda Smith of Jackson County and Karen Jameson of Junction City, and four grandchildren and 12 great-grandchildren.