Heinekens all round and let's buy a Pom club

Jock Hobbs strolls into Steve Tew's office at national rugby headquarters in Wellington and tells his chief executive to fix the drinks.

The deferential Tew unscrews Hobbs favourite poison while his boss slips into his leather chair and puts his feet on up his desk.

Tew hands Hobbs his scotch and dusts off the small chair with the wonky armrest, usually reserved for visitors from the provinces, and braces himself.

"Tewy, me old mate," Hobbs starts. "I've been thinking."

It's been exactly three weeks since Hobbs' last visit and Tew knows the routine.

He listens, Hobbs talks.

"You know that big wad of cash we have been sitting on, the one we really have not a clue what to do with ... well, I think I have the solution to our ills."

Tew took a decent swig of his drink. Here we go again, he thought. This could take hours. We ain't half up shit creek and that mountain of cash Hobbs was talking about is now more a mole hill. Tew knows the score.

"Here's the score," Hobbs goes on.

"We're leaking money, players and fans like a sieve. The provinces can't wait to get all our cash so let's be bold, beat them to the punch and buy Northampton."

Tew absorbed the words and then understood: NORTHAMPTON??!! Oh my giddy aunt, he thought. Jock's finally lost it, or come straight from a long lunch at Dockside.

Hobbs notices Tew's nervous twitch is going crazy.

He ploughs on undeterred.

"Think about it. We could buy Northampton, or any club for that matter in England, or better still France. Then we send our boys up there because we both know that's where they are heading anyway.

"They could kick some serious butt and then we could yank them out of the Heineken Cup or whatever they call their competition up there and send them back to Ted whenever he needs them for the All Blacks. That way we would not have to worry about some pesky club owner keeping all our boys to themselves. And think of all the cash we would make.

"The All Blacks are already big in Europe but this could be huge. We could build a new brand, make it one of the most successful in Europe. If we don't do it, some else will."

Tew pours himself another drink and wonders where the heck all this came from. Hobbs has been magnificent at putting out fires over the years, especially in the provinces (those bastards are never happy). But he's never been what one would call a visionary.

"There are thousands of Kiwis based in London," says Hobbs. "So we would have an instant fan base. We could throw a few Brits into the mix to keep the old farts at the RFU and IRB happy and then go about transforming the way they play the game up there. Adidas will love us for it. Dan Carter will love it. Richie McCaw will love it. Even Stephen Jones will love it."

Tew wasn't convinced about the latter, to whom, before he shaved off his moustache, he bore an uncanny resemblance.

"But bloody hell, Jock," stammered Tew. "I think you are on to something here. I'll get our spin doctors to fly a kite in the media and see if the fans will stomach it."

Hobbs: "No bugger that Tewy. We can't trust that lot any more. Cowboy was right. Pack of fleas. We have to move and move on this now. We're in deep muck here.

"The whole shooting box is going belly up and if John O'Neill gets wind of this plan we're history.

"He'll be all over it like a rash and he's itching to shaft us again.

"Be a good boy Tewy, get me another drink, pack your bags, you're going to see Tana in Toulon. Go see if he can talk his boss into selling up. And take bloody Shag with you would ya.

"I'm sick of the sight of his sour face, always moaning about something. That man is never happy."

Tew's mind was racing. Steve Hansen had forwarded through his timesheet for the week in advance. This coming Thursday he was due at Addington to watch the night trots.

Shag would not he happy.

"Another drink Jock?"

This was going to be a long night.

 

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