Passport to Success: From Milkman to Mayfair

1

Chapter 1

GROWING UP

My name is Peter Andrew Cruddas. I was born on 30 September 1953 and I was raised on a Hackney council estate. I did not go to university, I left school at fifteen without any qualifications. In 1989 I founded CMC Markets with £10,000. At its peak, CMC was worth in excess of £1.5 billion. I did it without borrowing any money and without any outside investors. I not only created a billion-pound company, but at the same time, I invented an industry – online trading – when I launched Europe’s first online retail trading platform in 1996.

This is the story of my journey from humble beginnings to billionaire status, dining with royals, attending the wedding of William and Kate at Westminster Abbey, having meetings with Prime Ministers at 10 Downing Street and a lot more besides. And to cap it all I am Lord Cruddas of Shoreditch, having been nominated for a peerage by the Prime Minister, Boris Johnson.

I was born at 5.50 p.m. on a Wednesday – ten minutes after my twin brother Stephen – at the Salvation Army Mothers’ Hospital, Lower Clapton Road, east London. I had blond hair and blue eyes. Stephen had jet black hair and brown eyes.

Thinking back to my early childhood, I remember sitting in a pushchair eating a loaf of bread that my mother had bought and 2being pushed around the streets. We lived at 85 Bracklyn Court in Hoxton. With my other brother John, there were five of us in this two-bedroom, ground-floor council flat with no central heating.

Mum was a tough, hard-working lady who thought the world of her three boys. She brought all three of us up single-handed, getting in from her early morning cleaning job to get us our bowl of porridge and pack us off to school. I still love milky porridge to this day.

My dad used to work early at Smithfield’s meat market and then in a pub, so he was never there, and he never bothered too much with us. So Mum had to do everything for us. She was our rock and another foundation for my success. But she was also very tough and wouldn’t back off from anybody, man or woman.

I remember when I was about eleven years old, running home crying because a boy, five years older, had hit me. Her response was to kick me out of the door to go and hit the kid back. There was no sympathy, just anger that I hadn’t defended myself. So I ran back and hit the kid to get even. Mum said, ‘Well done, but don’t you come home here if you haven’t stood up for yourself.’ I have done so ever since.

Thinking back, I realise that my mum may have had another motive for making me stand up for myself. I think she knew that one day there would be a major confrontation between myself and my dad. She was right.

My dad was useless as a father. He was in the army during the Second World War and found comfort in drink. I often joked that my dad is famous – he invented binge drinking. He kept still drinking more or less to the day he died. In later years he loved to go to the local pub in the hand-me-down clothes I gave him. He 3would often turn up in a Giorgio Armani Black Label suit with a smart shirt and tie that I had given him after I had upgraded to the current season’s collection. I also gave him a pair of silver cufflinks to complete the look. Because he was so slim, due to heavy smoking and not eating, just drinking, he looked smart. I would say that he was the best-dressed alcoholic in Clacton.

When I was young, he contributed little to family life. We never went to a restaurant as a family. We had the occasional holiday in a caravan in Ramsgate and at a Warners Holiday camp in Great Yarmouth. We used to send boxed kippers, which was apparently the local speciality, to relatives. But my dad’s idea of a family holiday was to drink all day and leave his wife and kids to get on with it. We barely knew his relatives as they lived in Newcastle.

Living with my dad was a nightmare. There were always arguments between him, Mum and my brothers and me. It was like living in a war zone and, as we all got older, I think Mum knew that one day there would be a stand-off.

It happened once between my dad and my older brother John. I don’t remember too much about the incident, other than John rushing to the pub where my dad worked – The Fox in Paul Street, Finsbury – and punching him in the face. Soon after, John left home.

I have to laugh now, because another story springs to mind. One day there was a knock at the door of our council flat and some big bloke was asking for my dad.

Mum said, ‘Why do you want to see him?’

The man said, ‘Because your boy Peter just hit my son. I am not putting up with it. I am going to beat the shit out of your husband.’

My mum said, ‘What’s that have to do with my husband?’4

‘Nothing, but it will teach your son a lesson if I beat up his dad.’ My dad was hiding in a back room in our flat and the man said, ‘If he does not come out, I will come back with a shotgun.’

To that, my mum replied, ‘Go on then, get your shotgun and I will be waiting here with a great big machete to hit you with.’

The man laughed and said, ‘Alright, missus, fair enough, let’s leave it then, but tell your son to leave my son alone,’ and he went on his way. Once the coast was clear Dad resurfaced, but he avoided his usual pub for about a month.

The point is that Mum would stand up to anyone and everyone, she would not back down, and she instilled that in me.

I have few memories of my early years, but I do remember Saturday morning pictures at the Carlton Cinema on Essex Road, Islington, which was always a must. I saved every penny during the week so I could buy some Butterkist popcorn and a Kia-Ora fruit juice. I was around five or six years old.

Every October, Stephen and I used to go out collecting money for Bonfire Night fireworks, commonly known as ‘Penny for the Guy’. One night in October 1958, my five-year-old self was sitting on New North Road at the bridge that passes over the Regent’s Canal – it’s still there today. We had our handmade Guy figure made from an old shirt, trousers and socks, all stuffed with newspaper, and a hand-painted face on some cardboard.

It must have been past our bedtime, because Stephen and I fell asleep next to our Guy. Mum was going frantic looking for us. Eventually, we were woken by passers-by who realised that we would otherwise have been there all night. When we got home, Mum calmed down and we went out again the next day to collect more money for fireworks. I still smile when I drive over that bridge on my way to the odd Arsenal football game.5

It’s amazing to think that as five-year-olds we were allowed out without supervision and we crossed the busy New North Road on our own. How times have changed.

I grew up in a household full of stories from my mum and dad about the war. Mum was sixteen when the war broke out and during the Blitz she often took her mother – my Nanny Grover – to Bank Underground Station from their home in Pitfield Street in Shoreditch while bombs were falling around them. She was not able to rush because Nanny was disabled and could not have kept up, and my mum was nearly killed more than once doing this. Ever since I was a baby, Nanny always used a walking stick supported by her elbow.

Mum worked in a munitions factory in Staines, Middlesex, where she helped assemble torpedoes. Often the women would chalk ‘Bollocks to Hitler’ on the completed torpedoes and send them on their way.

Mum always spoke highly of Sir Winston Churchill, who was a hero in our family. When Sir Winston died in January 1965, we had a day off school for the state funeral. My friend Eddie Hobbs and I jumped on a bus to Westminster to watch the procession. Eddie and I climbed up a lamp post as the horse-drawn carriage passed by. It was an amazing moment; I was eleven years old and yet I felt the need to go and see this amazing man’s funeral. I am glad I did because it is a vivid memory that I will cherish all my life.

Another big memory from this period was England winning the World Cup in July 1966. What a day – I remember all the games and how great it was to see us win our first and, so far, our only World Cup. I watched it on TV and to this day I’ve felt the man of the match was Alan Ball. He was outstanding on the day, and he eventually played for Arsenal.6

Around 1965, I joined the Boy Scouts with my oldest friends, theHill brothers – John, Roy and William. William became a bit of a celebrity as he played drums with Labi Siffre, who had a string of hits in the 1970s. He also played in shows like Hair and Jesus Christ Superstar. I remember he took us for a spin in his new Vauxhall Ventora three litre, and it was fast. That was my first experience of fast cars, and I was determined to get one when I got older. Not a Vauxhall Ventora but a Jaguar XJS, a Ferrari and a few Bentley Turbos – I love fast, powerful cars. I have owned around eight Bentleys, a Ferrari and two Porsches. My current car is a Rolls-Royce Wraith Black Badge – an amazing car, which I love.

John Hill was my biggest friend as we were about the same age and we used to hang around a lot together. The Hills were considered the rich family in our block of flats because they had a corner shop just off Hoxton Market and they always seemed to have chocolate, sweets and pocket money. They often went on holiday to Spain; they had a cine camera and I have a short film of the four of us drinking some beer out of a cup we won in the Scouts. Their mum Dot was a superb pianist and often used to play and sing in their front room. They always had a Christmas party at their flat and they had lots of friends. To this day, we are all friends and John and I see each other two or three times a year, we have known each other for over sixty years.

Joining the Scouts changed my life. Often, when speaking to budding entrepreneurs at universities, I’m asked whether I would be as successful as I am today if I had gone to university. My response is I do not know. But I do know that if I had not been in the Scouts, I would not be where I am today.

I loved being in the Scouts. We met every Monday at the Hoxton Market Christian Mission, which John Hill tells me is a Greek 7restaurant now. It taught me life’s basic skills, like cooking, sewing, teamwork, competition and caring for others. It got me out of an unhappy home life and gave me a break. I used to love camping at Gilwell Park, Chingford, and entering camping competitions, hiking around the Surrey Hills and earning all the badges. I learnt to be a team leader when I was made patrol leader of my pack at the 5th Shoreditch troop.

In July 1966, the borough selected me to represent the Scouts at a jamboree on Brownsea Island, Poole Harbour. I remember telling my parents I was going, and my dad said, ‘No you are not, we cannot afford it.’ However, 5th Shoreditch Scouts paid for it, so I still went. I remember fishing off the harbour wall and catching a small fish. It was an exciting moment.

Thirty years later, I would see that same pier wall that I sat on as a boy when I was test-driving a Sunseeker 52-foot motorboat. We cruised right by the spot where I had been fishing, and it brought a lump to my throat. It had been an amazing journey, but I still remembered that day I caught my first fish as a small boy. I pointed it out to Fiona and the girls, and they could tell I was emotional – so emotional that I bought the bloody boat, which cost me a fortune.

These lifelong memories from the Scouts are the reason I eventually started a charitable foundation. I initially wanted to give to charities that helped young people from disadvantaged backgrounds. I wanted to help others who had a similar upbringing to me and support organisations that provide a safety net for young people, help them see a different way of life, give them hope and direction, and help those without a stable home life to cope.

I often advise university students that if you ever make it big, give to charity. It is the moral thing to do, but you also meet more top businesspeople through charity than you do through business. 8It is a great way to network and you are meeting like-minded, caring people. I once had dinner with Bill and Melinda Gates in London and I have had tea with the Prince of Wales at Clarence House. I was a trustee of the Prince’s Trust and chairman of Youth United, a charity that Prince Charles asked me to set up. Through this work, he invited me and Fiona to Prince William’s wedding at Westminster Abbey. If you watch the footage on YouTube, you can see me in the front row as William and Kate pass us by. Prince Charles nodded to me as he walked by. I also had dinner with the Queen and Prince Philip at a private dining room in Windsor Castle for ten people. I have to confess I was feeding the Corgis under the table with scraps off my plate.

I remember in 2011 attending the launch of the National Citizen Service (NCS) at 10 Downing Street with the Prime Minister, David Cameron, where I was a guest of honour because I had been a founding donor, giving £50,000. This was the day after I had tea with Prince Charles. Prince Charles said the Prime Minister had been to see him about the NCS to update him on progress. He told me that he thought it was an interesting project and wondered if I was going to get involved, to which I responded, ‘Too late, sir, I am already a founder donor.’

At the NCS launch, I was speaking to David Cameron, who was thanking me for my support. Then he mentioned that he had spoken to Prince Charles and wondered if the NCS could link up with the Prince’s Trust to attract more young people. The PM knew I was a trustee of the Prince’s Trust.

My response was, ‘Yes, I know, Prime Minister; His Highness told me you had been in to see him and we both think it is a good idea.’ Cameron looked shocked: here I was informing the Prime 9Minister that the future King of England had told me about their meeting!

He may have wondered who the hell I was to mix in such high circles. There was no breaching of confidentiality or protocol, just a passing comment from Prince Charles that came up in conversation over coffee at No. 10. I could not help marvelling that this boy off a Hackney council estate was having this type of conversation at 10 Downing Street. It felt like a seminal moment in my life and a reflection of how far I had come from my humble beginnings.

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Chapter 2

THE WILL TO WIN

My twin brother Stephen and I started at Thomas Fairchild School, Napier Grove, London N1 in September 1958, which was a few minutes’ walk from our council flat at 85 Bracklyn Court, Wimbourne Street. Apparently, this area is now a trendy part of Shoreditch and Hoxton and many private buyers have bought council flats there, but in my day, it was a shithole.

Our flat was on the ground floor, next door to my mum’s disabled mother. Mum looked after Nanny every day and we often had our meals with her. She was a widow, a lovely old lady but she had no qualms about hitting us with her walking stick if we got too noisy.

Mum would be out every morning cleaning offices, so we had to get ourselves up and ready for school. Once dressed, we had to pop next door to Nanny’s for our breakfast of toast and a big mug of milky tea with four teaspoons of sugar.

However, I had one other task. Mum told me I had to put Nanny’s bloomers (knickers) on the end of her walking stick every morning so she could put them on under her dress and apron. Nanny could not bend over due to her disability, so she used to hook her bloomers on the end of her stick and somehow yank them up. I was never allowed to watch this. My role was to hook the bloomers on the stick and turn my back. Nanny had perfected 11it to a fine art and she never missed a leg. Once her bloomers were on, she could prepare our breakfast and the world could go on.

Bracklyn Court was a typical brown-brick council estate, but it had a nice, green grass area where I could kick a football. I became a good footballer, playing for a few amateur teams and might have had a decent career in the game but I was worried about being seriously injured, as football in the 1970s was rough.

I once received a nasty ankle injury playing for Edgware Town and was off work for two weeks. I could barely walk. The guy dived in feet first deliberately and almost broke my ankle. As I hobbled off, he told me he had been looking to nobble me all game and ‘got me good and proper’. I guess he did that because he thought I was a decent player. If I was useless, he would have had no need to do it unless he just fancied a punch-up. At that time, I already had my own house and I was worried about paying the mortgage and missing work, so I stopped playing at a higher level at twenty-two.

I also did not enjoy amateur football because there were too many nasty comments and nasty people who were just looking for a fight, or to kick you off the pitch. Mostly, they were failed professional players who lacked the skill to make it at a higher level, so they survived on kicking people who could play a bit. All I wanted to do was enjoy the game and win – but it was not worth the risk.

Edgware Town was quite a long way away from where I lived in Ilford and so I had a run-out for Walthamstow Avenue. However, that did not last long as it seemed you needed to be a big drinker to get anywhere. As I grew up with an alcoholic father, I have always been a moderate drinker and have seldom been in a pub over the last thirty years. Even to this day, it brings back too many bad memories.

I left amateur football and played centre half for Brunswick 12Albion, a Sunday football team in the North London League. This was great fun as I played with my two brothers and we went a whole season undefeated. Stephen was goalkeeper and John was centre forward.

One game at Hackney Marshes was a top-of-the-table clash. It was a close game. The ball came out to the edge of the penalty box and I let rip with my left foot (I am right-footed). The ball flew into the net from about 30 yards – it was a thunderbolt and the goalkeeper did not stand a chance.

This was memorable because it won us the game, but also watching on the side of the pitch was Alan Hudson, the Chelsea and England midfield player. He just happened to be there watching some matches. As I ran towards him to celebrate, he shouted, ‘Great goal, mate.’ It was a bonus to the best goal I ever scored, as it was acknowledged by an England international.

John and Stephen both say that I was an excellent player who should have tried to become professional. However, when you leave school at fifteen, you have to hit the ground running earning a living and you have no time to take chances. I was also going home and giving all my wages to Mum, who depended on me.

I liked Thomas Fairchild School. We had a headmistress called Miss Perkins and a deputy headmaster called Mr Pedley. They prided themselves on never having administered the cane to anybody in over five years – although one or two of us came close.

Stephen, myself and another boy called Alan Rowham were the cleverest kids in the school. Stephen was excellent at maths and went on to a grammar school, getting three maths A-levels – pure, applied and combined. Alan could not be bothered too much even though he was clever, and he ended up a scaffolder.

I then went to Shoreditch Comprehensive School, on Falkirk 13Street, just off Hoxton Market. This might be a posh area now but one night during the winter when it was dark, I was chased through Hoxton Market by two kids with a sword who wanted to shove it where the sun doesn’t shine. That night I realised I could have been Olympic champion at sprinting from a standing start. Boy, I have never moved so fast. I was eleven years old, it was frightening, and after that, I made sure I never went out after dark – not around Hoxton anyway. Thankfully, they never caught me. Otherwise, you might not be reading this book.

To this day, I feel disappointment and upset about Shoreditch Comprehensive School. It was a decent enough school but there were so many people. We had thirty-plus to a class and although I was in the top class we had to move from classroom to classroom for lessons. With over 1,000 pupils at the school, it was like coming out of a football stadium to change lessons.

I wanted to go to a grammar school because I wanted to go to university. I was clearly bright enough but my mum wanted me to work as soon as possible and I was told that I could not go to a grammar school, as I would have to stay on until I was eighteen. To rub salt in the wound, Stephen was allowed to go to a grammar school – Parmiter’s, in Bethnal Green – presumably because he was perceived to be cleverer than I was. That might have been true, but I am the one with the Mayfair mansion.

Stephen was probably academically smarter than me, but I was an all-rounder. I was good at everything including sport. I tended to be player of the year or school captain at nearly every sport in which I took part. Playing for Thomas Fairchild, we got to our first cup final in over twenty years but lost poorly four-nil in the final to Burbage College, who had many big lads playing for them. Even today, I am a three-handicap golfer and a half-decent skier.14

I also had a winner’s instinct. If I came up against opponents better than me, I figured out a way to win.

One incident springs to mind. It was a freezing January day in 1966 and the school coaches parked up at Hackney Marshes for two or three classes to have their compulsory sports afternoon. There were loads of us piled up in three coaches.

Unfortunately, the grounds were covered in a foot of snow and the football pitches were all closed. So Mr Reynolds, our sports teacher, said, ‘Right, lads, kit on and run around the whole track for a cross-country run.’ That was around five miles to run, which did not go down too well, but off we set, freezing cold in our football boots and kit.

It did not take long for my football teammates and me to get ahead of the no-hopers and soon there were about ten of us ahead of the pack. We carried on running but slowed down a bit once we were well clear. I said, ‘Lads, no need to kill ourselves as we’ll have to wait for the others when we get to the finish and stand around getting cold, so let’s just trot along and pace ourselves.’

With about 500 yards to go, I said, ‘Look, lads, we’re all in the same football team and mates, let’s link arms and cross the line together. This is not a real race; we should be playing football and we’re only running around this frozen wasteland because the teachers couldn’t be bothered to take us back to school. They’re probably having a nice cup of tea in the warm while we are flogging ourselves to death out here.

‘I’ll give the word about 100 yards to go so we can link arms and cross the line together as a team.’

So we all linked arms. But I made sure I was on the end, and with the winning line in sight I broke away and sprinted across the line to glorious applause from Mr Reynolds.15

‘Well done, Cruddas, that’s ten house points for you, the rest of you get changed and get on the coach.’

The lads were angry but I just said, ‘Well, I decided to go for it at the last minute.’ Poor buggers never stood a chance.

The will to win was ingrained. Another time, when I was living in Monaco, I was invited to play golf with three professionals at a nearby golf club, Royal Mougins, near Cannes. This time I knew I would have to play well to win, and I was determined they would not beat me. I am sure they were not in competition mode, but I was. The three of them shot seventy-six, seventy-seven and seventy-eight, but I shot seventy-five and beat them all off scratch.

There was another professional I played with now and again, called Stefano Maio. In one year, we played three times and each time he got a hole in one. Three holes in one, in one year, at three different holes on the same course. I didn’t beat this guy – he was a great player.

The professional at Royal Mougins Golf Club is David Berry, an Englishman who married a beautiful French girl, Sophie. I met my match in him, as I have never beaten him off scratch. He is a superb player and he once shot twenty-eight on the front nine and ten under par at Royal Mougins.

There were more stories around my sporting ability and finding a way to win. However, what made it more enjoyable was that I was better at sport than my twin brother Stephen was.

16

Chapter 3

THE BOY KEEPS COMING BACK FOR MORE

Stephen and I used to play tennis on a Saturday morning on hard courts in a park off Pitfield Street. They are still there today although one of them is now a basketball court.

We hired the court and would spend an hour whacking balls at each other. I always won and never held back in telling Stephen that I kicked his arse. Rightly, Stephen didn’t take too kindly to being called useless. I also wound him up no end asking him if he knew anybody that could play tennis to give me a decent game.

As twins, Stephen and I would argue about everything. On the sports field, he just never knew when he was beaten, poor sod. He was a sucker for punishment. I remember one tennis match: as usual, I was winning and he hit a good shot, but it was clearly out and I called it out. He was not having any of it because he thought he had a chance of beating me. After all, I was only winning the match five games to love and forty-love up in the final game. When he turned around and bent over to pick up a ball, at that moment I fired another at him that hit him square in the crack of his arse.

I could not have hit a better shot if I tried but he went ballistic and fired a ball back at me. When this missed by about 40 feet, 17which was good for him, he threw his racket at me and started chasing me around the court, yelling what he was going to do to me. As I was a better sportsman than him he never caught me, thank God, and after a couple of weeks he calmed down. But boy, he could get angry and I was not a calming influence. I always used to say, ‘Don’t worry about it, you can try and beat me at another sport to even things up.’

So in sports, to his credit, he kept coming back for more. One time we were playing end-to-end football behind our flats. At the age of six, we all moved to 14 Vince Court, Brunswick Place. The flats are still there today, behind the fire station in Great Eastern Street, just off the Old Street roundabout. As usual, I was beating him and I was getting bored. When he hit a wayward shot towards my goal, the ball disappeared behind some garages. I went after the ball, got it and hid behind a wall. I could hear him saying, ‘I know what you’re doing – you’re hiding, waiting for me to come and find you,’ but I said nothing.

After a few minutes, he could not resist and had to see where I was. As he approached, I could hear his footsteps and when I thought he was near enough I reappeared and lobbed the ball over his head and into an empty goal.

He was furious but I was lying on the ground laughing. However, I had to get up quickly because he came charging towards me ready to kick the shit out of me. Ah, brotherly love. I ran off with my sides splitting. I just loved winding him up, especially because he never knew when he was beaten.

On the rare occasions when he caught me, I perfected an arm lock technique to stop him hitting me – pinning his arm behind his back, using my arm to lock behind his neck. I would hold him in that position until he calmed down, which was usually three or 18four minutes. No matter how hard he tried, he could not break out of the arm lock. I learnt it from watching Les Kellett, a wrestler who was on the TV every Saturday afternoon.

Stephen also liked to kick, and I nullified this by putting my foot across his shin so the harder he kicked the more it hurt him and not me.

Once I had perfected all these techniques, I was free to wind him up even more. To make matters worse, I also sang various tunes to taunt him, and I learnt to squawk like a bird – that drove him crazy. Often, I would squawk, ‘Just because you’re losing nah-nah-nah-nah.’ I taught all my children the squawk over the years. Unfortunately, when I had my teeth straightened, I could no longer squawk but I had perfected it over forty years and my kids loved it. Well, I think they did.

Stephen married his childhood sweetheart Susan Robinson. They were married for forty-five years and have three children. But unfortunately, Susan died of cancer in 2020 at the