My parents were hard-working Irish immigrants. They sent me to a private school in Finchley. At 16, just prior to my O Levels, I went on a camping trip. I milked a cow and we drank the milk, which was lovely, but unfortunately it led to me getting brucellosis, which is a disease carried by cattle. The outcome was that I spent a year in hospital and convalescencing, so I couldn't take my exams. I went back to school for another year but I couldn't concentrate because of the tablets I was on. I left school with nothing.
Leaving school with no qualifications wasn't a big thing for me, I was philosophical about it: I felt fortunate that I was cured. During my stay in hospital I'd met a lot of people who subsequently died, so it gave me a good perspective. I wasn't outstandingly bright but I was quite street sharp. Living in a working-class environment there was a lot of posturing and fighting, and I was quite good at that, so I was a survivor.
When I was 19 I decided to take up accountancy. I lied about my qualifications and surprisingly enough I got a job articled to an accountant. It was quite boring, but looking back on it, it was actually a very valuable two years.
I left accountancy because my father's business collapsed and I wanted to help him. He was a civil engineering contractor and had taken on a few contracts that were out of his league and things had gone wrong for him. In the interim I had no money and I had to live, so I became a minicab driver. It took a long while to undo all the complications of my father's situation, so I ended up doing it much longer than I'd intended — I was there for seven years.
Life as a minicab driver was tough. It really teaches you the value of money. If you take somebody from A to B and he gives you a fiver, believe me, you know the value of that fiver. And you tend to equate everything to a journey. If I went out to eat and spent £11 on the meal, I'd think, "That's a big job. That's Southend or Brighton." So I didn't go out to eat a lot. But I was a hard worker, I'd do around 12 hours a day seven days a week.
When I was 26, my first son was born and suddenly a light went on in my head and I decided I would make him proud of me. This was a person who loved me, who was cuddling me, who depended on me. I wanted to be the best dad in the world. We weren't high achievers, we were scrimping and scratching around for every penny. We had a second-hand Citroën Dyane and I remember driving around Moor Park in Hertfordshire looking at all the wonderful houses, and I said to my wife, "Not every one of these people is brighter than me or works harder than me. I want a piece of this action. From this day on, the only way is up." I became very determined then. I was frighteningly focused. The birth of my son just changed me.
I looked around and I thought, "I'm not going to achieve anything working for other people, I need to do something myself. I met a bloke in a pub — there's always a man in a pub, isn't there? — and he was working as a driver for the manager of the Bee Gees. He had his own minicab business but he'd abandoned it. I asked him why. He said he had debt problems, VAT problems, tax problems, equipment rental problems. He had a manager who'd answer the phone, go and do the job, then come back and wait for the phone to ring again. That was the way it worked! I said to him, "If I can get rid of all those problems, can I take the business over?" He said yes. I got a tax refund because he'd overpaid on his tax and I used that money to pay the back rent on the premises, I re-registered the VAT and I sorted out the equipment problem. So I had a radio, a premises and a manager. I thought, "Well, this is a start." That was 1975.
I wanted a name that was a bit posh. This chap told me he'd lived in a squat in Addison Gardens and people would say, "Ohhh, Addison Gardens," like it was really upmarket. And it does have a certain ring to it. So Addison was born. But Addison Cars didn't sound right and I wanted a short word to go with it. Lee came to me quite quickly.
It was hard work but I enjoyed it. I would do the control box, giving out the work, I'd do the accounts, I did all the promotion, I'd go out delivering cards. I used to leave cards in people's doorframes next to the keyhole, so when they put their key in, they'd think, "That's going to fall on the floor," so they'd take it, put it in their purse and then go in. Then I discovered plastic cards and had one made. At the time, plastic was the new thing and there was something about a plastic card that meant people didn't throw it away. All these little tricks helped. I'd call myself Chelsea Cars, Victoria Cars, Fulham Cars, you name it. If I went anywhere, I'd say we were round the corner. We were always just round the corner!
Addison Lee has grown out of all proportion to our competitors. Recently one of them asked me, "What is the secret of your success?" My answer was, "You." Because he's useless, and that's the honest truth. The minicab industry is probably the worst run industry in the world. Everywhere you travel, the minicabs are rubbish. We're bringing customer service back into this industry. Before, you got glum, untidy, unkempt drivers in banged up old vehicles. We train our drivers in customer service and we don't keep any vehicle for more than three years. Last year we were around 25 per cent up on the previous year. In a recession, that's an amazing figure.
I remember being in detention at school — which was my usual position — and the teacher said to me, "Griffin, why are you always in detention?" I said, "I honestly don't know. I suppose I'm a bit lippy and the prefects don't like me." He said, "Let me tell you something. One day you'll be somebody." I've always thought of those words.
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