How To Make A Million In Business

By Gary Beckwith

The Beckwiths are pioneers of the British travel and tourism industry, and a name firmly etched into the history of the river Thames. When they sold City Cruises in 2019, it was the UK's largest tour boat company, transporting four million passengers a year with a fleet of over forty vessels and a group turnover of £24 million pounds. How they got there was the journey of a lifetime. Gary Beckwith grew up on a deprived East London estate in the 1950s and '60s under the shadow of an absent father. He spent his teenage years wheeling and dealing and harnessing his way with words. By the time he got to the river Thames in his early twenties, he was ready to chip away at an archaic industry that refused to evolve. From his humble beginnings to his conversations with the Queen, from the unrelenting tragedy of the Marchioness to the joys of building a legacy, Gary shares every business lesson he learned along the way. This book is not just about how he made his millions or the visionary mindset that got him there. It's about family, purpose, legacy, and the three generations of Beckwiths that shaped the future of the river Thames.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Clink Street Publishing
• Release date: Oct 20, 2022
• ISBN: 9781915229687

Gary Beckwith

Gary Beckwith is a successful riverboat tour operator and businessman who sold City Cruises in 2019 for £24million. This memoir and self-help book charts the highs and lows of his careers together with some of the secrets to his successf.

Book preview

How To Make

A Million in Business

Memoirs on the River Thames

The family that spent three generations turning the UK’s most famous river into a global destination for tourism and hospitality.

By Gary Beckwith

Dedication

Contents

Title Page

Dedication

Introduction

1. Learning to Deal

2. Barging My Way In

3. Lovely Rita

4. The Invisible Line

5. The Worst Day of Our Lives

6. Buying Back Fitzrovia

7. The King is Dead

8. Divided and Conquered

9. Boats Made of Steele

10. Showboating

11. Millennium of London

12. Love Me Tender

13. We’re Gonna Need Some Bigger Boats

14. It Started Badly

15. Captain Matthew

16. A Business-Run Family

17. The Star Board of Directors

18. 2012

19. Trust the Process

20. No More Years

21. The Emotional Decision

Glossary of Terms

Copyright

Introduction

I was diagnosed with dyslexia when I was 40 years old, but at school, people just thought I was stupid. I came at the bottom of every exam I sat, and for a long time I thought what everyone else did. Of course, I know now that if you’re reading the questions wrong, there’s zero chance of ever answering them correctly.

These days an assistant might sit with the student, read out the questions, or give them extra time. If I could have had that kind of support, maybe I’d have had a different experience with education, but it’s not like I could ask anyone for help.

Schools in East London were tough in the 1960s, and when your teachers are the ones getting led away by the police, it didn’t give you much faith in the system. Instead of using my brain, I focused on my hands and feet. In metalwork, we learnt how to make knives, break into safes, and pick locks. In PE, we learnt how to get hit and get back up (or stay down if you had any sense). In maths, we didn’t learn much. They tried teaching us about logarithms, and we just tried staying awake.

At best, I felt like school was teaching me something I didn’t need to know; at worst, it was preparing me for prison. By the time I left, I had zero grades, holes in my shoes, no money, and no way out.

Now, let me tell you how I met the Queen.

Chapter 1

Learning to Deal

When I finally finished school, I had the opportunity to work for a company called Thames Pleasure Craft. I spent my first day all alone painting the seats on an open deck boat; no roof, just me, out there with the elements. It was damp, lonely, cold and miserable; it’s like all those years as a Leyton Orient fan had been preparing me for the world!

Some people would have packed up and gone home, but for me, there was something about the way the boat moved, the way the air whistled over its decks, and the gentle hum of the summer breeze that made me feel, for the first time, that I was captain of my own destiny. I was young, dyslexic, and had no formal education, but I had the awareness to know I had found my passion.

Of course, if I was honest with myself, it was more than that. When I was eight years old, my dad, Fred, had walked out on us. He and my mum no longer wanted anything to do with each other, so he never came to visit, he never called, and Mum was left to raise three young children by herself. I soon realised that if I wanted him in my life, I would have to go to him.

The only time I could see my dad was while he was at work, so, as soon as I got old enough, I found myself on the river. While he was out there working as an engineer fixing the tugs and barges, I’d be doing whatever I could to both make ends meet and make conversation.

It worked. At 16 years old, I put myself in front of Dad as often as possible, and before long, we had loads to discuss. I knew, even then, that this life wasn’t enough for me, though. I didn’t want to be stuck on a barge at my dad’s age, barely seeing my kids and just about earning a wage. I wanted something more, and I wasn’t going to get it from scrubbing decks or serving drinks. No, I needed a boat of my own.

I couldn’t be a captain, not then. You followed in your father’s footsteps on the river in those days, and I knew those were steps I didn’t want to follow. I worked for a dredging company and got to learn about pumps and engineering. I jumped around the river, trying to scrape together the funds to make my dream a reality. But if money was what I needed, I was in the wrong place; there wasn’t a penny to be found on the Thames. I had to find something where cash was never in short supply, and where I didn’t have to rely on reading all day; Ladbrokes seemed to tick all the boxes.

Betting shops were an exciting place to be as an 18-year-old, especially one who would eventually go on to have quite the appetite for risk. I started out as a board marker, meaning I was tasked with writing up all the bets before the races. Before long, the area manager was pestering me to take on more responsibility, but I was quite happy. I worked for a few hours, had a bit of fun with the customers, and still had the time to go out clubbing every night. If I were to become a ‘settler’, I’d be sitting out the back doing maths all day and trying to work out who won what from every race just didn’t appeal to me.

Look, I really think you should give it a try, Gary, he said for the umpteenth time that month.

Nah, I’m good, honestly, I replied, reaching up to the top of the board to rub off the previous odds, I don’t want to sit in an office all day.

He went quiet for a second.

It’s more money, he said.

I stopped what I was doing.

Why didn’t you say? I replied, hopping off the stool enthusiastically.

What I didn’t know at the time was that Ladbrokes had a college training programme designed for settlers. I’d spent most of my life trying to get out of school, and now here I was sending myself back. This time, however, it was on my terms, and it wasn’t long before I was brokering my first deal.

If you ever find a betting shop that’s up for sale, we pay £700 per shop, my lecturer told the class one afternoon.

Wow, I thought, my girlfriend’s dad owns betting shops.

When I saw her that night, I asked what the situation was with the business.

He’s looking to sell actually; he’s had enough, she said, shrugging her shoulders.

Oh, really? I replied. Lovely. Leave it with me.

It was like I was living Derek Trotter’s life before he even existed.

The next day I connected both parties, and they went ahead and did the deal. I couldn’t believe how lucky I was with the timing of all this coming together. Was it luck? Or did I just capitalise at the right time? This would go on to be one of the great unanswered questions of my life.

Even with luck on my side, though, I didn’t get a penny. Perhaps my lecturer never got paid, or more likely, he did and kept it all for himself; either way, it was just another nail in the coffin of my relationship with teenage education. I was happy to get the work done and move on with my life.

At 20 years old, frustrated with my progression, I found out that casinos were actually legal in the UK. I had no idea. The thing was, you couldn’t work in them until you were 21. As I approached the minimum age, I badgered management repeatedly until they finally agreed to send me off to Leeds to train as a croupier.

Leeds at the time was known for having ‘big chip action’. The chips were a fraction of the cost compared to London, so when you looked at the tables, everyone had a skyscraper in front of them. It was an excellent place to learn; there were more chips but less money at stake.

One thing I lacked, though, was a mentor. From my years of being behind at school, I knew I had to work harder than other people to get ahead. Thankfully, I met Terry Brown very early on; he was a knowledgeable dealer who had been in the game for years. He invited me to his masterclass, which was designed to help beginners become slick dealers and more comfortable when handling chips. I jumped at the chance. During the first day, it dawned on me just how much there was to learn, but when I went to bed that night, I was enthusiastic about what was to follow.

The next morning, I arrived bang on time and marched into the room. As I shut the door behind me, it quickly became apparent that I was the only person who’d bothered to turn up.

Well, Gary, looks like it’s just me and you, Terry said, so… we’re going to spend the next few days learning some tricks.

Great, I said, rubbing my hands together.

I think I was just pleased there wasn’t anything to read.

Although, it was more like weeks. I spent hour after hour in repetition. I learned how to use my pallet to clear the cards, how to handle the chips, and, of course, how to deal. As well as the physical side of the job, there was also the verbal element. We went through how to speak, the sorts of things to ask people, when it was appropriate to make a joke and, perhaps more pertinently, when it wasn’t. Rule of thumb: if the customer’s losing, don’t be funny.

In that environment, I loved learning. I remember thinking at the time, if school had been like this, I’d have been head boy. I got so much out of those few days, and it taught me valuable lessons I’d keep with me forever. Perhaps most importantly of all, it instilled in me a lifelong obsession with training. From then on, I would sign up for anything that I thought would help fill the vast chasms in my knowledge. I didn’t know what I didn’t know, but one day I was going to.

When I got back to the casino in London, I was accompanied by my new girlfriend, Elaine, who’d been dealing blackjack up in Leeds, and my confidence was through the roof. They put me on the table for five minutes to see what I could do.

I can’t fault your dealing, Gary, the pit boss said.

Nope, didn’t think you could, I replied, with a knowing smile.

But you see that lady there? he replied, pointing back at the table.

I nodded for a second, wondering where the hell he was going with this.

That’s Lady Leigh, isn’t it? I asked.

"Exactly, Gary. It’s Lady Leigh. It’s not ‘oi Luv’," he said.

Ah, I replied. You’re right, boss. ‘Oi’ is a bit rude, isn’t it?

I may have been a bit rough around the edges, but I thrived in that environment. I loved talking to people, entertaining them and making sure they had a great night. For the first time in my life, at 24 years old, I was the best in the room. The problem was it wasn’t getting me any closer to my dream.

After a few months, an opportunity came up to work in casinos abroad. The money was similar, but if the casino performed well whilst we were there, we’d get a huge cash bonus at the end of each year. At this stage of my life, that was all I needed to know. I interviewed on the Sunday, and the following week Elaine and I were on our way to Iran.

I knew nothing about the country when I arrived in March of 1976. In fact, I didn’t know much about it when I left, almost two-and-a-half years later. For a casino to operate in Iran, it had to be 100 kilometres outside of the nation’s capital, Tehran. Our complex was miles away from any distractions, so there wasn’t a whole lot to do other than work. Besides, I was more than happy putting the hours in. I started running the bars and introducing themed nights. I noticed that the casino tables needed their baize (the cloths) to be changed regularly. My friend Ted and I taught ourselves how to do it and sold our services back to our bosses. It was a difficult and fiddly job; it’s amazing what you can learn when you’ve got nothing else to do.

Eventually, I started missing home; my friends, my family, but most of all, Bisto gravy, cow’s milk, and all the silly stuff I couldn’t get my hands on in Iran. I’d regularly call my dad on the phone to get the gossip on what was happening on the river. One afternoon I called him up to check in for the week, and very quickly, I realised everything was about to change.

They’ve let me go, he said, in an agitated state.

Who has, Dad? I asked.

Thames Pleasure Craft, he said.

Oh no, I replied, letting my head hang. What did you do?

I went on holiday, he said incredulously. When I came back, they let me go. Apparently, they don’t have any more work.

That’s not good; what you going to do? I said.

Oh, don’t worry, he replied, I’ve got a plan.

Chapter 2

Barging My Way In

On 1st April 1977, I finally got my wish. For all these years, I’d been visualising giant passenger liners, exotic yachts and private speed boats, but what I got… was a barge. Now, as unglamorous as a barge sounds, it was, in fact, much worse than that. What I really owned was a floating filling station. In other words, a diesel station for boats. To give you some context, it’s the same as a normal diesel station; only it’s harder to stand up on.

My dad was somewhat of an impulse buyer. So, when he came to me with the idea, effectively asking me to invest and to go into business with him, I thought two things:

1) I bet he hasn’t thought this through, and 2) Mum’s going to be fuming!

In hindsight, if I try and analyse the inner workings – the how, what, when, and why – of this deal, I like to think what it all came down to was how an inherently flawed concept like ‘the honesty book’ set in motion a series of events that would drop our future right into our laps.

To tell this story properly, I have to start at the Festival of Britain in 1951. Just six years after the end of World War II, the festival was to celebrate British industry, arts and science. It was billed as ‘Tonic for the Nation’, one of the biggest events to have happened in Europe at the time, with around 8.5 million people visiting the site on the South Bank. It aimed to inspire a better Britain at a time when rationing and austerity were at the forefront of people’s minds.

Of course, this backdrop of doom and gloom can be fertile breeding ground for enterprising entrepreneurs, and at the time, a man named Odell had the resources and the government contacts to capitalise. Delivering considered words to the right ears, he managed to secure the contract to transport people to and from the festival along the river. With millions of people flocking to the South Bank, it was to be the most lucrative five months in the history of the Thames and Odell had them lining up to get on the water.

Prior to the Festival of Britain, my dad worked for one of Odell’s businesses, repairing and maintaining the tugs and barges. As Odell was building his new boats, he realised he had to develop a much more economical way to fuel them. He employed Dad to put an engine onto one of the barges, creating the electricity needed to make the pumps work. It was to become the first time London had ever seen a floating fuel barge. It was fitting that such vision and cutting-edge technology were needed to service Europe’s biggest ever festival of science and industry.

After the festival, Dad then took his engineering skills over to the passenger boats and began to get to know all the faces on the river. By 1960 the vessels were struggling to maintain profitability, and Odell started selling them off to the individual captains. At this point, of course, he no longer needed a floating fuel barge, so he gifted it to the Thames Passenger Services Federation, a trade organisation made up of industry figureheads and the captains themselves.

By 1976 – one year before my dad came to me with his plan – the barge was causing some heated deliberation. For some at the Federation, it was starting to leave a bad taste, and understandably so. The way it was operating, it was a miracle they managed to hold onto it for as long as they did.

The archaic process was as follows. A marine tanker would arrive to put fuel into the barge. Once it was ready for customers, a jovial chap named Curly would pump the diesel into their vessels. The problem was that Curly only worked on Monday, Wednesday and Friday morning. If you wanted fuel outside that time? You’d help yourself, of course. So long as you did the ‘right thing’ and popped the details of your ‘purchase’ into the honesty book, the Federation could bill you at a later date. I don’t know about you, but I can’t see any flaws