Once upon a time, in the magical land of the 1980s, being pushy was the gold standard. You’d rock up to a stranger’s house, stick your foot in the door, and shout, “Just give me two minutes!” like a vacuum cleaner salesman on Red Bull.

A decent accountant often saves you more than they charge—and that’s before they even open their spreadsheet wizardry.

We’re not talking about accepting monopoly money or dodgy IOUs. Structured deals – the ones with deferred payments, earn-outs, or vendor financing – are normal, and often the smartest route.

No more plumbers, no more bakers, no more mid-level managers sitting on Zoom calls pretending to be busy while muting themselves and yelling at the dog? Come off it.

If your business depends on you being the glue, the genius, and the general dogsbody—it’s not really a business. It’s a job. And buyers don’t want to buy your job, they want to buy your system.

“Franchising, mate. It’s the easiest way to scale. No brainer. You basically get other mugs to grow your business for you!”

“Entrepreneurs are born, not made.” It sounds like something Jeremy Clarkson would bellow from the bonnet of a V8 Aston Martin.

Apparently, if you’re not sat in traffic for an hour and eating a sad sandwich in a communal fridge that smells like feet, you’re not “really working.”

But here’s the thing: if profit is sanity, then cash flow is your actual heartbeat. And if your business runs out of cash, you’re not mad — you’re dead.

You’d be surprised. There’s a buyer for almost every business — but not if you don’t show up to the dance.

Of course, not all brokers are equal. Some just want your signature and a few quid upfront before vanishing into a client manager Bermuda Triangle.

So there I am, mid-pint, telling Gaz about the time I beat the fruit machine three times in a row (still my proudest moment), and he suddenly bolts to the loo again.

Your business isn’t bricks and mortar. It’s blood, sweat, spreadsheets, and sleepless nights. It’s your reputation, your relationships, and your retirement all rolled into one complicated transaction.

“My mate reckons you can buy a business for a quid. ”Ah yes, classic pub wisdom. And technically, he’s not wrong

Look, no one wants to talk about their bum. You don’t bring it up over fish and chips. You don’t text your mate on a Tuesday about your poo.

Ah, the classic pub proclamation. Right up there with “I would’ve gone pro if it weren’t for my dodgy knee.”