The actual sequence of events went something like this.
Tommac worked as a UK sales director (not, as tommac would have it, as ‘managing director’ or ‘owner’) out of an industrial estate in Fulham (he preferred to call it ‘Mayfair’), flogging timeshares and hires on executive jets for a Florida-based company called Aerollloyd.
In the course of his work, he had contact with two commercial lawyers from Paul Allen’s empire (it may well have been Vulcan.) Either he or they initiated a conversation about what they do – investigate investment opportunities in sports and entertainment. Always on the look out for a good deal, etc, etc.
Either during this conversation or sometime afterwards, a light bulb flashed on in tommac’s head. This is a rare event so he could hardly have failed to notice. What about a football club?
I imagine he spent the next several weeks trying to master google before entering ‘football club’ and ‘desperate’. Top of the list was you know who. His brief contact with the lawyers had led him somehow to think that if he could present a ‘deal’ to them, all neatly tied up with a pretty bow on top, he could make a decent ‘broker’ fee’ from it. (The source for all of the above is tommac himself– although there is a mathematical formula you have to apply to extract the bullsh!t)
So off he trotted to St Mary’s, expecting all and sundry to welcome him with open arms, and give him a deal his lawyer friends couldn’t possibly pass up. But when he got there, he walked into the football equivalent of the Battle of the Somme. Dug deep into their trenches, the various factions jostled for advantage – forgetting, at least initially, to ask some pertinent questions about just what tommac’s connection to Paul Allen really was.
During the course of his futile attempts to switch back and forth among the combatants, another lightbulb went on: why not force the warring factions together by appealing over their heads to the fans.
Hence tommac’s grand entrance on the Saints Forum. For all the fun and games had with him over the next few months, everything of significance in this whole affair had already happened….and the damage done.
The leak of Paul Allen’s name into the press and among the City gossips sent the club’s shares into orbit. The fact that there never was a bid from Paul Allen, or even an expression of interest outside of some desultory, cabin-pressured conversations with the short-sleeved wonder, seemed to have escaped everyone’s attention.
The problem was that tommac appeared just as the club really was making a determined attempt to find a buyer and unite the major shareholders behind a sale. Sadly for all of us, the false rumour priced the club out of ANY deal.
Sometime shortly before or after paying tommac a ‘finder’s fee’ (rumoured to be in five figures), the board and major shareholders did start to wonder anxiously about whether Paul Allen really was behind any move to buy the club. They investigated, and Mary Corbett even found herself jetting around the place trying to confirm it all (Source: Mary Corbett herself). But after several months, it became clear that there really was no bid, or even the prospect of one – and there was no connection between tommac (or ‘representatives’ as it was delicately put) and the Paul Allen. (Source: Jim Hone)
This may seem like ancient history, but it really isn’t. The dominoes are still tumbling from the disastrous intervention of that little mastermind. There’s a parallel universe in which all short-sleeved nitwits are strangled at birth, and Southampton Football Club puts together a takeover in 2007 with the share price at around 25p. Lowe would never have returned, the Dutch ‘revolution never happened, and we’d be posting about how gutted we all are to have just missed out on the play-off places to the Prem.
Dream on. And tommac: thanks.