INTERVIEW:You have to be made of stern stuff to withstand the onslaught of these armchair investors, discovers ROISIN INGLE
A MARRIED COUPLE named Geraldine and Noel stand in a large room above a sprawling pub deep in the Dublin suburbs. For the past two weeks, this space, a cabaret lounge through the summer months, has been transformed into the set of a reality-TV show. There are fake windows with dirty glass for that abandoned-warehouse look, while a trestle table leaning on its side adds to the industrial aesthetic. A crucial addition, and bringing to mind a sparsely stocked antique furniture shop, are the five deliberately mismatched leather armchairs. Someone calls for quiet on set, camera people set to work, Geraldine takes a breath. “Hello dragons . . .” she begins.
The four men and one woman facing her in this artfully dressed space, known in reality-speak as the "boardroom" will now, as part of RTÉ's Dragons' Den, determine from the vantage point of those leather armchairs, whether she and Noel are worth a punt.
When Geraldine delivers the pitch for their business, a travel website for over-55s called GoldenIreland.ie, she sounds as though her nose might be blocked.
“Do you have a cold?” asks one of the five dragons. “No,” says Geraldine, blaming the congestion on “nerves”, a common complaint with candidates. Over the next half an hour, the couple are quizzed by a hawk-eyed panel of wealthy business people on the hunt for investments. The bank notes piled in front of them may be fake, but the money they may or may not invest at the end of this televised business pitch is all real.
Backstage access to the show has been granted on condition that I don’t reveal any of the outcomes. So I can’t tell you what happened to Geraldine and Noel; whether they walked away with their hoped-for investment of €40,000 in return for a 20 per cent share of their company. Later though, Geraldine will describe the experience as “intense”.
This is largely down to the relentless questioning by the monied dragons: media expert Gavin Duffy, publisher Norah Casey, Black Tie founder and property developer Niall O’Farrell and Insomnia coffee-chain founder Bobby Kerr have all parted with their hard-earned cash over the past three seasons.
The newest dragon is Seán O’Sullivan, the Irish-American who replaced Seán Gallagher when he gave up his role last year to contest the presidential election.
When the programme arrives back on screens tomorrow for a fourth season, take a close look at the new boy’s implausibly shiny shoes. O’Sullivan, a Kinsale-based electrical engineer, humanitarian, sometime rock musician and father of two, may have come up with the technology for Google maps, and coined the phrase “cloud computing”, but the shabby shoes he turned up in didn’t pass muster with the production team who want the dragons to give off an air of well-heeled elegance – not to mention cold hard cash.
“They gave me these,” says O’Sullivan with a frown, pointing to his glistening black leather-clad feet. “They don’t fit me but apparently they look better on TV.”Duffy mutters something about a rich man who can’t buy his own shoes.
O’Sullivan is not a man who likes to throw money away. Despite his wealth, he always travels economy because first class is a waste of what he calls “this God-given resource of money”.
Some of the businesses invested in by dragons have turned a profit, others are holding their own, while the less talked about deals are a drain on the dragons’ financial resources. Duffy’s stake in one of his investments failed, at a personal cost to him of €50,000, he admits.
The morning wears on. In a room off the “boardroom”, a dispensing bar for the cabaret lounge, the directorial team squeeze together in the gallery, calling for camera angles and close-ups as the pitches progress.
Business reporter Richard Curran, the presenter, is here too, taking notes. Those dragons not interested in striking a deal declare their lack of interest with the Den catchphrase, “I’m out”. Some of the encounters are tortuous, meandering descriptions of products or services that none of the dragons appear the slightest bit interested in but, like guests making strained small talk at a dinner party, they continue asking questions anyway.
When it works, the series can be riveting: human dramas unfold as battle-weary entrepreneurs finally catch a break. The dragons don’t know who is going to walk in the door, which adds that essential reality show “anything can happen” dynamic. The rules on this are strict – a potential candidate was once disqualified for sending a note to a dragon before the show. In the boardroom there is everything from gentle probing to forensic inquisition, both serving to expose weaknesses in business plans. You have to be made of stern stuff to withstand the onslaught of the armchair investors, especially if your numbers don’t add up.
After a few hours of making offers and rejecting deals, the dragons change into more casual gear for a pub-grub lunch. They wear the same clothes every day of filming, to ensure continuity. Duffy’s tie is co-ordinated with Casey’s pink blouse, while O’Sullivan is the only dragon who champions the open-necked-shirt look.
In the pub downstairs, locals read newspapers and appear oblivious to the TV circus going on around them. Before O’Sullivan joins the table, the other dragons discuss what he has brought to the Den.
Kerr says he has added a new dimension. “He’s a breath of fresh air . . . he thinks about what he says before he says it, unlike some of us here,” he laughs. Duffy is “in awe” of O’Sullivan’s knowledge of the technology sector and not surprised that his presence has attracted a different type of entrepreneur this season.
“He can say to someone, ‘look I can plug you into so and so in Silicon Valley straight away’, so we are attracting a type that we wouldn’t have before and the standard of candidate has shot up. Now if someone comes in with an attachment for an ironing board, Seán is no good, but that’s why I’m there, sadly,” he says.
There is a lot of good-natured slagging of O’Sullivan. Most of it centres on his Mr Nice persona. “It’s all in the editing though,” he insists, “they have lots of material on either side.” Duffy interjects: “Yeah, but you’ve nothing to worry about, you fecker, because you said to everyone ‘I love ya, how much money do you want?’ ”
Seán Gallagher, the man the Irish-American replaced, is missed. “We miss Seán’s humour,” says Duffy. “We haven’t heard the Cooley Mountains mentioned, or Macra na Feirme, so far this season, Seán had his own great personality . . .” “Which,” says Kerr, “the country loved as much as we did.” There is a pause, the controversial aspects of Gallagher’s presidential campaign hanging in the air. “He dropped in to see us on set yesterday, he was in great form. He is just taking time out at the moment,” adds Kerr.
You can’t help wondering what this other Seán is doing here. O’Sullivan is arguably the most successful of the lot, so he can afford to take the needling in good humour. He has a company, Avego, in Kinsale, and is the man behind SOSventures International, which has invested in several technology start-ups, including two Irish companies, Silicon Republic and Mark Little’s Storyful.
He was one of the first investors in Netflix, a punt which paid off handsomely. When he is not overseeing business in the US, he is flying off to China. He says there were a few reasons he agreed to take part. “I am looking for software developers for Avego in Kinsale and to raise the profile of the company – it’s really hard to get that kind of talent in Ireland. And I love to celebrate entrepreneurship. I see this TV programme as a classroom where people at home can learn about starting new businesses, learn about the decisions and sacrifices that need to be made when starting a business.”
Duffy seems unable to resist any chance to slag O’Sullivan: “He is an ace bullshitter,” he says. “From what he is saying, he is basically here to promote Avego and educate the poor Micks, no mention of making money.”
“You see? This is what he does. I could never come up with something like that,” says O’Sullivan, not seeming to mind the digs.
Norah Casey isn’t buying the self-deprecating tycoon act. “Oh, come on, you give as good as you get,” she says, launching into an appraisal of O’Sullivan’s boardroom style. “It’s incredible. He tells the candidates about everything he can do for them, all the companies he owns and his contacts in China and just when they are salivating at the thought of it, he tells them he is not going to invest.”
When he does invest he makes deals the other dragons can only dream of competing with. Casey recalls one pitch where he asked a contestant if he and his wife were free to go to China for a month: “Would that be cool with you?” as he put it. “The man says, ‘Oh Jesus yes, I think I could do that’,” says Casey in mock disgust. O’Sullivan’s ratcheting down of the equity stake offered by contestants is a source of mild contention among the dragons. “I like to make sure they are getting enough from the deal,” he says.
There’s been significantly more investment action this series, says executive producer Larry Bass, the man responsible for bringing programmes such as Popstars, The Apprentice and The Voice to Irish television. On average, a series will result in 12 or 13 investments, this series yielded 19.
“The economic circumstances mean that getting credit is more difficult, so people are looking at Dragon’s Den as a real opportunity,” he says. Despite the fact that it isn’t a “beast” of a show, in the way other reality shows can be a drain on resources, he says the it “wouldn’t be possible without sponsorship from Bank of Ireland.”
The dragons say this season has been more emotional, as they continue to meet people affected by the recession. One of the best shows is likely to feature a tough Dublin character with a bright idea who broke down in tears after receiving an investment, because it turned out he’d been let down financially by a business associate. He’d barely had the money for the petrol to drive to the recording. “It brought me back to 1982 when somebody stiffed me,” says Duffy, who recalls how some of the crew members on the show were in tears.
In sharp contrast, there is the man who was offered a €250,000 investment by Casey, but turned it down. She has a theory about this and other contestants who inexplicably decline investments offered by the dragons. “Sometimes people don’t come in for the money, they overprice themselves for the PR it generates. We suspect that’s what it was in this case,” she says.
When Gallagher was in the thick of the presidential election, there was some media digging into the deals he made in the Den and whether, in reality, they all went ahead. This has been a problem for all the dragons in the past.
“Sometimes once they get the publicity, they don’t need you and the deal doesn’t get signed,” says Casey, adding that this year they are trying “very hard” to close deals before they go on air.
Later, Duffy shows me a text from a buyer in Smyth’s toys who has agreed to stock one of his latest investments. “I move fast on these deals, that’s why mine don’t fall through,” he says. Duffy is fond of investing in businesses that come in a box. “He just can’t resist them,” says Casey. She lists them. “There was exam survival kit in a box and a party in the box . . .”
This season, he has outdone himself, showing interest in a thoughtful gift aimed at women who have just started menstruating. “Period in a box,” as Casey puts it. “I said, ‘I’m out. Gavin has loads of experience in this area, I’ll leave it to him.’ ”
The dragons are open about the investments that have worked and the ones that haven’t. Casey says that of her six deals last year, her first time on the Den, only one remains “good” and she doesn’t hold out much hope for the others. O’Farrell and Kerr have a number of joint investments they are happy with.
Duffy says, “You don’t do regrets. It’s about having a portfolio.” Mention TanOrganic and a huge smile appears, while the others groan. The tanning product has been his most lucrative deal to date.
Near the end of the day, I ask O’Farrell to sum up each of the dragons. Duffy, he laughs, is Mr Evil, Casey is Ms Pragmatic, affable Kerr is Mr Chuckles and O’Sullivan is, so far, Mr Nice. “Me? I’m Mr Irritable, I tend to get quite animated when people annoy me,” he says.
There are already signs that O’Sullivan is trying to shake off the nice-guy label. Near the end of the day he explains to one contestant that he is “out” saying: “I wouldn’t take 100 per cent of your business for a fiver.” There is only one day of filming left. It may just be too late in the day to develop the Mr Harsh persona. For now he is still Mr Nice, in a pair of shiny shoes a couple of sizes too big.
The new series begins on RTÉ1 tomorrow
The pitch
“Hello dragons, my name is Róisín.”
It doesn’t look like a barrel of laughs on the telly and I often feel sorry for the candidates when I’m watching at home, but nothing prepares you for how knee-knockingly awful it is to stand up and pitch a business idea to the dragons.
It doesn’t help that I’m not exactly well prepared. My research consisted of a quick phone call to my brother Eddie in America the night before, to ask him about the product his wife Katy O’Kennedy is about to launch.
I go for it anyway. Deep breath.
“Hello dragons, I am here to see if you’d be interested in my brother’s new range, Silver Edge Gear, which includes a bag that takes the stink out of your smelly sports stuff.”
I steal a glance at their professionally impassive faces. I think I have their attention. Before I lose my nerve, I tell them how my brother and his wife have two sports-obsessed sons, which over the years has resulted in many long car journeys with sweaty sports gear stinking out the car. I tell them how they came up with a bag lined with silver, which is known to kill odour-causing bacteria. I produce the bag, hand it to the dragons and cross my fingers.
At first there are some queries about the $50 (€37.54) price tag. “Silver is very expensive,” I tell them, knowledgeably.
Then Duffy says it’s one of the best things they’ve seen and that he would like to use it for dirty laundry on holiday. The others are also impressed, with O’Sullivan saying “it’s just a bag but it’s got magic inside”, a quote I know Eddie and Katy are going to steal for their website. One of the dragons asks how long the odour-eating effect lasts and I tell them for the life of the bag. Somebody else asks whether there is a patent. “Patent pending,” I tell them, like I do this all the time.
This is just an experimental pitch. My sister-in-law isn’t looking for an investment but I knew getting feedback from the dragons was too big an opportunity to pass up. It might even earn me some free shares in Silver Edge Gear. Even though it’s just an experiment, one of the dragons, Niall O’Farrell, is so taken with the bag that he bites. He says he’d be interested in having a Silver Edge pocket manufactured for a range of water-sports hold-alls he produces. I seal the potential deal with a handshake. I’m still glad it’s over, mind.
For more on Silver Edge Gear, email info@silveredgegear.com
