The New Recruit

The sporting life gives much pleasure, but never more so than when somebody else is paying for it. It is an odd thing that my mates who live in the country and have got the whole sheebang on their doorsteps generally have to pay for it themselves.  Yet those of us who live and work as far removed as can be from grouse moors and deep pheasant valleys, to say nothing of the wild woodcock ridden woods of Cornwall, misty snipe bogs in Ireland, and even the partridge stubbles of Norfolk, can usually swing a good proportion of the season at zero cost.

This is because of the vital City necessity of consolidating our client relationships by frequent and appropriate client entertainment.  “Appropriate” is now the appropriate word, certainly with the compliance department, who would not want any inappropriate expenditure on non-appropriate clients. The right sort of client is he (always "he", I am afraid) who would expect to be entertained in this way, in terms of his standing and normal life style.  This is fine by me, as those clients, if entertained to a day on high pheasants in a Devon valley, to say nothing of dinner, claret, and a comfortable ensuite the night before, are very likely to invite their generous host for a similar day in return. So a couple of days paid for by the firm, for seven guests a go, can result at least ten invitations back.

The recent unfortunate events have meant a new scrutiny on expenditure. We still have to keep our clients loyal, but budgets are been squeezed and guest lists checked for value. Golf and horseracing and a day at Lords are cheaper, not that I have any objection to any of these, and they do fill up the summer nicely, but they don’t quite yield the dividends of the winter entertainment.

Luckily, my old boss liked his cricket and Henley and Ascot, and even more luckily, keeping his feet dry in winter, so there was a tacit agreement that he did the summer stuff and I took the winter burden off him.  His retirement last year, early, after a slight accounting embarrassment on an unmatched trade, thus did cause me a little nervousness. If the new number one was a keen shooting man I could see my control of the shooting franchise slipping away; still worse, if he were an anti, the whole programme might get junked.

As it happens, he seemed to be just perfect – he had never shot, but believed it to be good marketing.  And is a complete workaholic, so was most unlikely to find the time. Bingo! So this years’ programme – two days, one in the west, one in the north, was approved without demur.

And then this week, out of a clear blue sky, a rocketing pheasant straight on the bowler hat: disaster!  Number One came in on Monday morning to tell me he had a shooting lesson on Saturday morning and loved it. His tutor told him he was a natural shot (don’t they all). He was changing his diary so he could come with us next week. He would have another lesson on Saturday and buy the appropriate kit; perhaps I could lend him a gun and cartridges.

Aaaagh. Is this the end of the good times? Or at least the free times?