Money is a strange thing. And it amuses me when people who have won the lottery or at least a big amount of the stuff still whine that it won’t change them. No, they say, I’ll keep me job and gloat over the dickhead boss who will never be as rich as I am. No I’ll still be a cleaner at the local school or drive my truck. And those philosophic halfwits who, because they’re never going to have much anyway, complain that money doesn’t make you happy. Oh no, it’s the root of all evil they say. And anyway, they gripe, rich people are only rich on paper; they don’t really have money in the bank. Just because they own an island doesn’t make them rich. Oh and the Rolls Phantom is so over rated! Bleh!!
Now I think that if I won the lottery I would be quite happy. Or I would have a proper go at trying to buy happiness (and freedom)! I think? I reckon it would be nice to not have to worry about the small shit that gets us all down every day. Whether you’re living in South Africa , Europe or the Antipodes I reckon having seven figures in the bank must be quite a cool feeling. I met recently someone who on one day sold her business for several million and said that it was the greatest feeling ever to lie in bed the following morning and think about the amount of money she could spend if she wanted to. She said it was nice to know that she didn’t have to worry about the future; she didn’t have to worry about unforeseen expenses. But it was in the upper seven figures range.
Although I have only once, for a short while, in my life had seven figures in my bank account (ok it was Rands but it still counts) I have enjoyed the challenge of using money to try and make more money. During the good years it was relatively easy to make money because people were spending it freely. And because people were accustomed to getting everything they wanted – often on credit it must be said – they batted no eyelids when you started to accumulate more things. And this is what owning FMG allowed me to do. As I wrote yesterday, owning this mega successful business opened doors and gave me credibility in a very short space of time. A year and a couple of months after having opened FMG I was told of a really run down and very crappy bar that was on the market in the centre of ‘texas. The owners of the business also owned the building and wanted to off load the business part so they could just collect the rent. The business involved sort of trading to the black market from an old fallen out of favour night club called Mr. Jones. This was at the beginning of 2003 – 9 years after the birth of democracy in SA. My first visit there surprised me somewhat, one room was for blacks and the second room, separated by some blue shadecloth was for whites. A very unusual site in 2003.
Anyway, I digress. I liked the opportunity, the rental figures were ok. The asking price for the business was R550k! Yes, R550k for a really crappy, doing no numbers business that was rotten.
Not too enamoured with the price and not seeing value for my buck I made a silly don’t be fucking ridiculous offer. R65k, payable over three months. Take it or leave it. I really didn’t expect to hear anything again. Like I said it was easy to make money in those times. It wasn’t a day and they came back to me, accepting my offer. You could have knocked me over with a feather!
We were in; stage two of the empire was happening. I had just taken a minority share partner on - Jack - and together we took this crappy business fortunately already known to be trading to the black market – and if you’re getting all racially sensitive reading this in foreign lands, the market here in SA is still very much segregated, the difference now though is that your target market now determines what and how you do things and that in turn determines your customer base – and made it a whole lot better. We kicked the trailer park whites out, opened the whole place up, put some new furniture in, stocked what the black market drinks, put a juke box in on maximum volume, as many TV’s showing soccer as we could afford to (all with their volume up full to), sorted out the various licenses, fire extinguishers, emergency exits and lights because we knew the remaining white cops were going to give us a hard time – and they did – and wound this thing we had created for all it was worth.
And it turned out to be worth plenty.
And the local black drinkers, for the first time, had somewhere where they could go and drink in ‘texas. And they loved us for it! Even though we called this business Phola Spot, today even I still get called Mr. Jones by the petrol attendants, by the car guards, by the post office staff.
Years later the local 100% black drinkers had somewhere else to go...but thats another story for another time.
And then we had a bright idea to open a car wash next door. We can wash the taxis we reasoned. Now if you are thinking of opening a car wash I strongly suggest you don’t. That is a crap business. It’s wet, your staff moan incessantly, they drop their friggen sponges and rags on the ground and then scratch the customers car, the customers think they are the only ones capable of driving their shitty cars, there is forever something being broken, something being stolen (ask that little prick Keith) from the till or from a clients car, something wrong with the soap, the polish. Or its raining. There was not a whole lot of money in it to be frank. Or in ‘texas…’but its 50cents more expensive than the other carwash’. The upside for us was that we owned the corner, we had frontage and hence people noticed us. And so, 18 months on, along came a wealthy black guy wanting what we had. And we were happy to oblige. For a price. A big price, considering, it must be said! And he paid with a smile on his face. And we left with an even bigger smile on our faces.
The timing couldn’t have been better. It was now 2004, a new opportunity was on the table and it needed every cent we had and then some.
Until tomorrow. God speed
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