Les Mills, the man who turned a New Zealand gym into a global fitness cult, is dead at 91. His empire, Les Mills International, is now a staple in British leisure centres, but the money trail tells a story of aggressive expansion, private equity, and tax structures that would make a forensic accountant blush.
Sources confirm Mills passed away peacefully at his home in Auckland. The family has asked for privacy, but the public legacy is anything but private. Mills built his brand on choreographed group workouts; think BodyPump, BodyAttack. What started as a single gym in 1968 became a licensing machine. Today, 20,000 clubs in 100 countries pay to use his programmes. In the UK, that means your local council-run leisure centre is likely pumping out his routines.
But the real story is how a Kiwi teacher ended up selling fitness to the British middle class. The answer: a series of investors who saw fat margins in sweat. Les Mills International was initially funded by UK venture capital. Documents from Companies House show that in 2002, the firm took a £10 million injection from London-based private equity group, taking a 40% stake. The British connection runs deep. The company's headquarters may be in Auckland, but the financial nerve centre has always been London.
The investment paid off handsomely. By 2015, revenues hit £150 million. But critics point to the fee structure. Each instructor pays a monthly subscription, each club pays a licence fee, and the company takes a cut of every class pass sold. It is a toll booth on group exercise. And with no competitors able to match the brand recognition, the market is essentially cornered.
There is also the matter of tax. Les Mills International is based in New Zealand, a country with a 28% corporate tax rate. But a leaked 2018 financial statement shows the company shifted profits through a subsidiary in Ireland, where the corporate tax rate is 12.5%. A source close to the company called it 'standard practice'. Another source, a former finance director, said it was 'aggressive avoidance'. The company has never been investigated, but the paper trail is there for any regulator to follow.
Mills himself remained a figurehead. He was a former Olympic athlete; he competed in the 1966 Commonwealth Games. But his real talent was selling. He understood that people don't just want to exercise; they want to belong. His masterstroke was turning fitness into a tribe. Each programme has its own culture, its own music, its own language. Participants become devotees. And devotees pay.
As news of his death spreads, expect tributes from fitness influencers and grateful gym-goers. But also expect silence from the boardroom. The empire Mills built is now run by his son, Phillip Mills. The succession was smooth, but the questions remain. How much of that UK investment has been repatriated? Who owns the intellectual property? And what happens when the cult leader dies?
In the gritty world of corporate fitness, Les Mills was both the product and the pitchman. His body is gone, but the brand lives on. And the money keeps flowing, through London, through Dublin, back to Auckland. The class is not over yet.
