Dick Smith is a household name for many Australians; a name synonymous with true, Aussie business.
And while many know of his successful business ventures, there’s still a lot of things Australians don’t know about Dick Smith: like his endless quest for adventure and philanthropic efforts.
He’s had an extraordinary run, which he conchrincles in his aptly named memoir: My Adventurous Life. In the book extract below, Smith recounts the deal to sell Dick Smith Group to Woolworths — a deal that was delayed when Smith announced he was attempting to jump a double-decker bus over 15 motorbikes.
My Adventurous Life by Dick Smith. Source: supplied.
At the end of the 1980 financial year, our turnover was a staggering $17 million with a profit of $3.7 million. We had 245 employees and I should have felt fantastic, but I didn’t. Instead, I was once again complaining to Ike about the pressure I was under. The only relief I could see would be if I sold the business. Ike understood how I felt, but not many others did.
Whenever I brought it up, people asked: ‘Why on Earth would you sell the business when it’s doing so well?’ It wasn’t something that I could easily answer.
One friend actually said, ‘Dick, you could become another Rupert Murdoch. Your formula is so good you could use the same catalogue and components and take it to the UK and America.’
I knew this was possible. I could work my guts out, follow in Rupert’s footsteps and turn myself into a billionaire — and no doubt have multiple wives and families as well. Still, the question remained as to why I lacked the appetite for unlimited growth.
Partly it was because I’ve always been a loner at heart, happier squeezing through stormwater drains on my own than facing a roomful of kids on the first day of kindergarten (or a lecture hall of students at university). But even when I started my little radio servicing business, my ambition was to have just three or four people working for me while I was earning $200 a week.
Instead, I ended up with an organisation that had become so huge that I didn’t even know everyone who worked for me. One day I had simply had enough. As always, I asked around for advice, this time about the best way to sell a company.
I was introduced to Ted Perry, an expert in company buyouts. He drew up a list of public companies that might be interested in buying the Dick Smith Group. At the very top was Woolworths. Ted said, ‘Dick, they are a very reputable and honest public company.’
I’d always had a great deal of respect for Woolworths, an Australian-owned company with an annual turnover of $2 billion at that time. With such fantastic resources, I thought they were just the people to take the Dick Smith Group as far as it could possibly go.
Everyone seemed keen on the idea. Ike would be happy, because it meant he could fulfil his grand plans for expanding the company, and I would be able to spend more time exploring the bush with my family and undertaking documentary film making and philanthropy.
Our negotiations with Woolworths went incredibly well. By August 1980, we were ready to shake hands on a deal that Woolworths would buy 60% of the company immediately, with an option for me to sell the remaining 40% in two years’ time. Most importantly, during the two years that I had part-ownership of the business, the ultimate buyout figure would be calculated according to how profitable the business was during this period. To maximise this figure, I issued a challenge to Ike Bain that he would share a part of the sale price — we agreed on a target and Ike ultimately greatly exceeded it.
We finalised the agreement on Friday, August 29 in the very conservative setting of Woolworths’ boardroom. Quite a crowd showed up, including the chairman, Sir Eric McClintock, managing director, Tony Harding, and all the senior board members.
As Pip and I were signing the documents, someone handed me a crumpled $1 note.‘This is very good,’ I thought. ‘I’ve just made a bit extra on this deal.’ But then they asked for it back, which I thought was pretty strange.
I never did work out what that was all about. Something to do with the option, I think, and every agreement, to be legally binding, needing a financial consideration, no matter how small. I had a quiet laugh to myself. In the middle of a multi-million dollar deal, a $1 note was being handed about — and I didn’t even have that much in my pocket!
Once all the formalities were over, we relaxed and as we were chatting in the boardroom, Sir Eric asked what I planned to do next. I replied, ‘For a start, tomorrow morning I’ll be out at the Sydney Showground, attempting to jump a double-decker bus over fifteen motorbikes.’
Everybody stared at me — stunned. You could have heard a pin drop. The Woolworths board had originally planned to announce the sale to the stock exchange that afternoon but, when they considered the terrible things that could happen to me, they decided to postpone the announcement until Monday — just in case.
I had come up with the idea for the double-decker bus jump after seeing how much publicity American stuntman Evel Knievel generated when he attempted to ride a motorcycle over 13 London buses in Wembley Stadium in 1975. Even though he crashed, he came back later that year and successfully jumped over 14 buses.
I told the media that I couldn’t ride a motorcycle (not true), so I would do it in reverse — I would attempt to jump a double-decker bus over 15 motorcycles. I enlisted Hans Tholstrup to organise everything and be the driver of the bus.
I also announced that the bus driver’s union said you couldn’t have a bus jump without a conductor, so I would be standing on the back platform with the tickets. My plan was to jump off just before the bus went up the ramp.
The Sydney Motor Show was in full swing when I arrived at the showground on Saturday morning. More than 3000 people were in the stands as I looked at Hans’s handiwork. The ramp was about 30 metres long and 2 metres high at the launch point. We’d bought an old, 8-tonne, double-decker bus with a top speed of 60 kilometres per hour and Hans had calculated the trajectory it would need to clear the motorcycles.
I commented that the ramp looked strong and Hans replied nervously, ‘It will need to be. The force of the bus rumbling onto it is likely to bury the structure before we even reach the bikes’. Hans’s greatest concern was that the bus might nosedive, bringing tonnes of metal crashing down around him. He’d taken the precaution of installing a six-point safety harness, removing any sharp objects and knocking out all the windows beforehand. I wasn’t feeling anxious myself — after all, I just had to jump off before things got dangerous.
Great cheers went up as I took my position on the back landing in my bus conductor’s uniform and Hans revved the engine. Our plan was to make several laps of the showground to get our speed up, but we set off much more quickly than I had expected. As I saw the ground whizzing past, faster and faster, I realised the flaw in my plan — I had no way to ask Hans to slow down, and our speed was too great to jump off. I was along for the ride.
We hit the ramp with a huge bump and then we were airborne. I grabbed whatever I could to brace myself as we clipped the last motorcycle and dug dirty great grooves in the ground as we crash-landed. The crowd roared its approval.
I was sore for a few days, but the publicity was tremendous. Not just across the country, but around the world. The stunt cost $1200 all up and I reckon it generated between $100,000 and $200,000 worth of television promotion for Dick Smith Electronics in Australia alone. And it was good fun.
This is an edited extract from My Adventurous Life by Dick Smith (Allen & Unwin), available now at Booktopia.
Smart Company is a sister publication to The Mandarin, catering to Australia’s entrepreneurs, small and medium business owners and business managers.
