James Dawson

𝗔𝘁 𝟭𝟴, 𝗜 𝗽𝗮𝗰𝗸𝗲𝗱 𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘆𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗜 𝗼𝘄𝗻𝗲𝗱 𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗼 𝗮 𝗽𝗼𝘄𝗱𝗲𝗿 𝗯𝗹𝘂𝗲 𝗠𝗮𝘇𝗱𝗮 𝟯𝟮𝟯 𝗜'𝗱 𝗿𝗲𝗯𝘂𝗶𝗹𝘁 𝗳𝗿𝗼𝗺 𝘀𝗰𝗿𝗮𝗽.

No university place.
No salary.
No safety net.

My mum was a nurse. My dad worked in a factory. Nobody in my family had ever been to university, and we simply couldn't afford it. So I drove from a small town in the Orange Free State to Johannesburg, and the only role I could land was commission-only vacuum cleaner sales.

The first three months were brutal.
I was terrible.
Living on rice, watching American sales training videos late into the night, learning how to sell outcomes — not products.
How to show someone what their life could look like, not just what the machine could do.

By the end of year one, I was the top Kirby salesman in South Africa. Out of 500 people.

Nobody taught me. Nobody held my hand. I succeeded because I had no other choice.

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I think about that 18-year-old a lot now, running my sales consultancy.

Some of the teams I work with grab every framework, every insight, every methodology with both hands. They're hungry. They grow fast.

Others? There's an apathy that's hard to watch. "𝗪𝗲 𝗸𝗻𝗼𝘄 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗮𝗹𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝘆." "𝗪𝗲'𝗿𝗲 𝗳𝗶𝗻𝗲 𝗮𝘀 𝘄𝗲 𝗮𝗿𝗲."

Here's what I've learned: 𝗵𝘂𝗻𝗴𝗲𝗿 𝗰𝗮𝗻'𝘁 𝗯𝗲 𝗶𝗻𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗹𝗹𝗲𝗱. 𝗕𝘂𝘁 𝗶𝘁 𝗰𝗮𝗻 𝗯𝗲 𝗶𝗴𝗻𝗶𝘁𝗲𝗱 — if leadership creates the right conditions, and if people are honest enough to admit what they don't yet know.

The gap between good and great in sales isn't talent. It's willingness.

𝘼𝙧𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙩𝙚𝙖𝙢𝙨 𝙬𝙞𝙡𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙜?

#Sales #Leadership #GrowthMindset #ValueBasedSelling #B2BSales

𝗜𝗻 𝟮𝟬𝟭𝟮, 𝗮 𝗴𝗿𝘂𝗺𝗽𝘆 𝗙𝗿𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗵 𝘄𝗶𝗻𝗲𝗺𝗮𝗸𝗲𝗿 𝗿𝗲𝗳𝘂𝘀𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗼 𝘀𝗲𝗹𝗹 𝗺𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘄𝗶𝗻𝗲 𝗜 𝘄𝗮𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗱.

I'd spent two weeks tasting my way around the Loire Valley. Sent letters to vineyards before I even arrived. Tasted twenty-odd reds, fifteen whites.

Nothing stopped me cold.

Until a small wine shop in Chinon pulled out a bottle I'd never heard of. I took it back, forgot about it, opened it one afternoon after lunch.

My wife and I looked at each other.

*𝙏𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙞𝙨 𝙛𝙪𝙘𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙘𝙤𝙤𝙡.*

The packaging was terrible. Didn't matter.

Getting hold of the producer took days. No internet presence. I tracked down a flyer, called repeatedly, got through to a man called Philip who was — diplomatically speaking — not thrilled to hear from me.

Called again. Got his wife.

"Don't worry about him. He'll meet you Friday at three."

I drove to an old barn. Tractor outside. Tasting room downstairs. Philip made me taste seven or eight wines. All good. But it was the Arcestrale that stopped me.

"How many bottles?"

"Two, three hundred of that one. Nothing else."

He looked at me like I'd lost my mind.

Non, non, non.

I had to take 400 bottles of something else, 200 of another — and only then could I have 120 of the wine I'd actually come for.

I bought the lot.

That's how Humble Grape's relationship with Domaine Pichard Jourdan began.

The best wine discoveries don't come from algorithms or awards lists. They come from a dusty barn, a patient wife, and a winemaker grumpy enough to know his wine is worth the trouble.

We've been buying it ever since.