About us

From selling car aerials at 21 years of age to building a 1.2 billion pound company.

From Humble Beginnings

The man behind the brand, Hackney-born Alan Michael Sugar, famously started in business selling car aerials from the back of his £50 minivan.

He called his company A M S Trading – which he shortened to Amstrad. After car aerials he quickly moved on to selling other goods such as transistor radios, intercoms and cigarette lighters. All of these products were bought from importers or wholesalers and sold under the Amstrad brand name. However, Alan Sugar’s ultimate aim was to create his own, original products.

Read more about the Amstrad story below.

The Evolution of the Brand

1968 – 1973

1973 – 1986

1986 – 1992

1992 – 2008

The Start of an Empire

On 1st November 1968, a limited company was formed: A. M. S. Trading Co. (General Importers) Ltd. It was a time when the hi-fi stereo market was starting to take off and people were buying their stereo systems as ‘separates’, one component of which was the record deck. This item was invariably mounted in a wooden plinth with a tinted Perspex cover. Through his ingenuity Alan Sugar radicalised the manufacturing process for these covers, enabling them to be produced at a fraction of the cost. He thereby cornered the plinth and cover market. He went on to open a factory in the heart of London and designed and manufactured his first electronic product, the Amstrad 8000 amplifier. Hundreds more consumer-electronics products would follow during Amstrad’s five-decade-long glory years, as the much-loved brand grew, going public in 1980 and being valued at over half a billion pounds just seven years later.

Read about this in Lord Sugar's Autobiography

Memory Lane

Alan Sugar started his new company, A. M. S. Trading Co. (General Importers) Ltd in 1968, operating from 388 St John Street in Central London, importing ‘fancy goods’ such as cigarette lighters, intercoms and car accessories. Above is the company's first letter heading. The brand name Alan Sugar decided upon was a contraction of the company name – thus the word ‘Amstrad’ was born!

In the early 1970s, Amstrad's first audio product, the model 8000 stereo amplifier, started to appear in hi‑fi shops in Tottenham Court Rd in London's West End. Hi‑fi retailers were not located nationwide back then, so the customers' only option was to visit the likes of Premier Radio, Laskys, Lindair, G W Smith, Audiotronic and Global Audio. All of these stores have long since ceased to be in business.

As Amstrad grew, so did its premises. After renting a couple of floors at 388 St John St in Clerkenwell, they soon moved to a larger building (1,000 sq ft) in Gt Sutton St, near St Paul's (top left). In the early 70s they moved again to Ridley Rd Hackney (top middle) with a nearby warehouse in Shacklewell Lane (top right). In the late 70s Amstrad relocated to Garman Rd Tottenham (bottom left) and then to Brentwood House (bottom middle) where they remained until Alan Sugar sold the Amstrad business to Sky in 2008. During this period Amstrad also constructed a 400,000 sq ft custom-built factory and warehouse in Shoeburyness Essex (bottom right).

By the mid-80s, having taken the home computer market by storm, Alan Sugar announced that Amstrad had bought from Sir Clive Sinclair the worldwide rights to sell and manufacture all existing and future Sinclair computer products, together with Sinclair's intellectual property rights. News report here.

Many awards came Amstrad's way during the 80s. As well as personal awards to Alan Sugar such as The Guardian’s Young Businessman of the Year in 1984 (centre), Amstrad's blockbuster products such as the CPC464, PCW8256 and PC1512 received countless awards and accolades. Close-up here.

In 1988, Australian media tycoon Rupert Murdoch told Alan Sugar of his intention to start broadcasting satellite television to UK and Europe, and asked whether Alan Sugar would be willing to manufacture the hardware that would make ‘Sky TV’ a reality. The plan was that Amstrad would make the dishes and receivers; Murdoch's Sky would arrange for the satellite transmissions and programme content.

AMSTRAD PEOPLE: Nat Sugar – My first employee was my father! He did all sorts of odd jobs around the place and manned the building while I was out on the road selling stuff. As the company grew, he was known affectionately by all the staff as 'Pop'.

AMSTRAD PEOPLE: Bob Watkins – Bob started as a draughtsman in the mid-70s and eventually became my Chief Engineer. He helped me bring to life many of the Amstrad products of the time, from tower systems to computers to satellite dishes.

AMSTRAD PEOPLE: Danny Basgallop, Mike Ray, Jon Dumont, Ivor Spitalnik – My four longest serving employees from the Amstrad days with over 150 years’ service between them! Danny started as a graphic designer, Mike was an accountant and Jon a junior accountant, while Ivor started as a repairman in our service department. All of them rose to senior positions within the company and are still with me today.

AMSTRAD PEOPLE: Bill Poel & Roland Perry – These two gentlemen were instrumental in the design and development of Amstrad’s first computer, the CPC464. As well as putting together a crack team for this massive project, including all the peripherals, Bill and Roland were tasked with finding the software companies who’d written the best games for the likes of Sinclair and Commodore, and convincing them to invest their time developing games for the Amstrad platform – no easy feat. They also oversaw the generations of Amstrad computers that followed, including the PCW8256 wordprocessor, the PC1512 IBM-compatible and many more.

AMSTRAD PEOPLE: Vitus Luk, Callen So – In the early 80s Amstrad’s Hong Kong office became the hub of design. We recruited a few of their brightest staff and brought them over to England. Among them was a young chap called Vitus Luk who could turn his hand to any mechanical engineering task; and Callen So, a highly intelligent young lady who had a brain like a computer – she could remember every price, shipment and costing. She was the nearest thing to me when it came to knowing every aspect of the company.

AMSTRAD PEOPLE: Marion Vannier, José Dominguez – As Amstrad’s audio business grew in Britain, I was looking to expand into the European market. Marion became my representative for Amstrad in France. She did extremely well and our business flourished massively. Later, when our computers took off in the 80s, a fellow called José Dominguez contacted me out of the blue. He was very keen that I allow him to represent Amstrad in Spain. Eventually I agreed which turned out to be a good decision as he proved himself a top marketing man, achieving great sales not only for our computers but also for our audio products.

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One Friday night, I came home and said to the family, ‘I’m going to start working for myself.

My father looked at me as if I were mad. ‘What do you mean, you’re going to work for yourself? Who is going to pay you on Friday?’

That was an expression I’ll never forget, and it really sums up his whole outlook on work and life: ‘Who is going to pay you on Friday?’

I told him that I was going to pay myself on Friday.

Fortunately, [my sisters] Daphne, Shirley and the two Harolds were there at the time. Being of a different generation from my mum and dad, they were smiling enthusiastically, really encouraging me. I tried to reassure my dad that the profitability of my sidelines proved I had nothing to lose by going it alone – and I think it sunk in.

‘So what are you going to do?’

‘Well, I'm going to get down to the Post Office and take out a hundred pounds. I’ve seen a second-hand minivan in the garage over the road for fifty quid. I’ve already made enquiries and found out that it’s eight pounds for third party, fire and theft insurance. And with the rest of the money, I’m going to buy a bit of gear to sell and get on my way.’

Shirley’s Harold pointed out to me that I needed to get a National Insurance card and buy a National Insurance stamp once a week. That was another item on my list of chores.

The following day, I sprung into action. I withdrew £100 from my Post Office account, bought the van and took out the insurance.

And then, a really nice thought from Shirley. I received a telegram on Monday, which said, ‘GOOD LUCK ALAN IN YOUR NEW BUSINESS.’ It’s a pity I didn’t keep it.

I set off in the minivan to Percy Street, just off Tottenham Court Road, and walked into the premises of the first supplier to A M S Trading Company, my new company. Many of the big importers in the marketplace used to name their companies after themselves, but I thought Sugar Trading wouldn’t have gone down too well, so I decided upon A M S Trading, which stood for Alan Michael Sugar.

I didn’t form a limited company. Effectively, it was Alan Sugar trading as A M S Trading Company. I never had any printed letter-headings or order books, simply a blue carbon-paper book with ‘INVOICE’ printed at the top of each page.

At the supplier’s, I was greeted by a Mr Ronnie Marks, who didn’t know me from Adam. He was standing behind his trade counter. ‘Hello, how are you?’ he said, as if he’d known me for years. This was part of Ronnie’s charm – he made you feel comfortable.

To cut a long story short, I bought about forty quids’ worth of car aerials off him, which ate up the balance of my £100. Car aerials, I’d learned from my Henson days, were quite an easy sale.

No one, including myself, ever imagined I would succeed in the electrical business in the manner I have, but it is true to say that my very first supplier greeted me cheerfully, treated me decently and sold me some car aerials – and that gentleman was Mr Ronnie Marks…

My first customer was P. W. Thaxton of East India Dock Road, who bought six car aerials. I had known this customer from my days with Robuck and Henson.

I turned up and said, ‘Good morning, Peter, I’m now working for myself – it’s A M S Trading Company – and I’ve got some aerials to show you. I know you’ve sold them in the past.’

I wonder to this day whether he gave me an order because of my sales patter or out of the kindness of his heart. If it was the latter, I’m forever grateful.

By Thursday of that week, I’d sold my first batch of aerials and had been back to buy some more. I had made £60 profit. Now £60 profit was inconceivable at the time, but it then became my weekly target to earn that by at least Wednesday. I must be sounding like a bit of a nutter now. After all, a) what’s Wednesday got to do with the price of cocoa? And b) where did the figure of £60 come from? Well, it was a target, and as the weeks went on, nine times out of ten I did achieve this £60 target by Wednesday. The discipline was to carry on through Thursday and Friday and make some more because at some point a rainy day would come.

And rainy days did come because my showroom, my warehouse and my business were all, in fact, the minivan. And this fifty-quid heap of junk kept breaking down. It was always at the garage, and without wheels I was wiped out.

A chap called Gulu Lalvani would sell me goods for cash only. I had expanded my range beyond car aerials to transistor radios, but would only be able to afford one carton at a time, which might contain twenty radios. Initially, Gulu would ask me to pay him in banknotes; he wouldn’t even take a cheque.

I was coming back every couple of days to pick up more radios and eventually he accepted my cheques, although, if I remember rightly, he cleared them specially. But to be fair to the man, after a while we got to the stage where if I gave him a post-dated cheque, he would allow me to take more than one carton of radios. When I came back to pick up some more stock, then, and only then, would he present my cheque.

For any youngsters looking in, there’s a business lesson to be learned here. What I’ve just described to you is building a relationship with your supplier. I don’t blame Gulu one tiny bit for demanding cash up front because he was dealing not just with me, but with loads of market traders, as well as a bunch of flyboys. I would come across these crooks in the months and years ahead; people who would think nothing of writing out cheques that bounced.

So what happened over the course of maybe a couple of months was that I had established myself with Gulu to the extent that, although he perhaps didn’t quite trust me 100 per cent yet, he made the calculated decision to give me a bit of credit – and that was because I hadn’t let him down. And I’ve never let anyone down since. It illustrates an important point: it’s what you do in practice that gains you business credibility, not hype or empty promises. I guess it comes down to the old adage: actions speak louder than words.

The whole area around the City of London, from Middlesex Street to City Road, had importers of ‘fancy goods’. Things like transistor radios and high-intensity lamps fell into this category. However, most of the importers were effectively selling the same stuff, just branded differently. Some importers, such as East West – again run by an Asian family, the Shahwanis – sold rather more up-market technical goods.

Around this time, I became aware that all these importers had brand names. Gulu had Binatone (Bina being the name of his sister); others I bought from had names like Vantone and Fantavox. It was a prestige thing – it gave you a kind of credibility with the retailers. If nothing else, it was a statement that you must definitely be the importer.

I decided that I would use my own brand name on some products, even though I bought them from an importer. I came up with the name ‘Amstrad’, from A M S Trading. My first Amstrad-branded product was 1,000 gas cigarette lighters, bought from an importer who was just round the corner from Gulu’s gaff. His brand was Vantone. And from East West I ordered 1,000 intercom sets, again branded Amstrad.

The goods took six weeks to arrive. When they came, I was so pleased I proudly showed them around. Most people didn’t give a toss and said, ‘Yeah, that’s the same as the Vantone or the East West product,’ or ‘Who cares – what’s the price?’ But the smaller punters, outside London, maybe were impressed.