After a mont of thought, Richard asked, "Zinedine, do you have sothing in mind?"
Zidane paused, thinking carefully, then nodded.
"I think I want a business that doesn’t just benefit ," he began slowly, "but one where my parents — and eventually my whole family — can be involved. You know, my father will retire soday, and I want to make sure there’s sothing for my siblings as well. I hope this business can provide security and purpose for my family, not just for . Sothing aningful that we can all take pride in."
Richard listened attentively, leaning slightly forward, genuinely impressed by the thoughtfulness behind Zidane’s words. After a brief pause, he asked, "Do you have anything in particular you like? Maybe a hobby — sothing that brings you or your family peace? Sothing familiar to you all?"
"..."
Seeing Zidane’s silence and the hesitant expression on his face, Richard didn’t press him further.
Zidane’s father worked as a warehouseman and night security guard at a departnt store, while his mother was a housewife. There was nothing glamorous about their lives — the only thing to be grateful for was that they lived a reasonably comfortable life by the standards of their neighborhood, which was notorious throughout Marseille for its high cri and unemploynt rates.
"Wait a mont," Richard said suddenly, snapping his fingers as if a mory had just resurfaced. "If I rember correctly, Jean once told that when you stayed at his house, you sotis made wine when there were leftover grapes.. Is that true?"
Jean-Claude Elineau — the AS Cannes director who first discovered Zidane — had taken the young midfielder into his ho after Zidane was punished for punching a fellow academy player who mocked his ghetto origins.
Zidane’s mouth twitched in embarrassnt. "It’s nothing, really," he said modestly. "Just a matter of crushing grapes — nothing to be proud of."
Richard shook his head slightly. "Do you even like wine? And where did you learn to make it?"
"...It was my mother who taught ," Zidane said with a faint smile. "It wasn’t anything special, really. My father would help a little, and during the holidays, we’d all drink the grape juice together. But my mother usually made a small batch of wine for my father — we’d sotis get to taste a little too," he shrugged.
"Is your mother still making wine these days?"
Zidane was speechless for a mont before letting out a small laugh. "Who in the north or northwest of Marseille doesn’t know how to make wine?" he said. "Yes — every autumn, she still buys a few crates of grapes from the market. It’s nothing serious, just for the family, the way she’s always done it."
In southern France — especially around Marseille, Nice, Toulon, and Avignon — many families made their own small batches of wine at ho. It wasn’t a business, but a tradition — a piece of diterranean life passed down from one generation to the next.
It reflected a working-class lifestyle, emphasizing self-sufficiency and heritage rather than luxury. Homade wine was a way to enjoy sothing local and genuine without paying store prices. In Provence’s rural and suburban areas, it was even encouraged — perfectly legal, as long as you didn’t sell it.
Richard clapped his hands once, as if struck by inspiration. "Then how about investing in wine?" he said brightly. "Buy so well-aged bottles and store them properly. When you retire, if you ever need cash, you can sell a few and should see returns of five or six tis your investnt."
Zidane blinked, stunned. "...You an, for my family to start a wine business?"
Richard chuckled. "Not start a business—invest in wine. Especially fine vintages. You don’t need a vineyard or a factory. You just buy the bottles and keep them under the right conditions."
Hearing that, Zidane’s eyes lit up with curiosity. But a frown followed. "Wait. Don’t you need land for that kind of thing?"
"What are you talking about?" Richard laughed. "You’re investing in fine wine, not becoming a wine producer. So no land, no vineyard. But you do need proper storage—usually a cellar or a professional facility. Wine is a living product. It changes, even breathes. Its value grows only if it’s kept in perfect condition."
Zidane leaned forward slightly. "But... is it really profitable?"
Richard gave a small shrug. "Buy so good bottles, store them for a few years. When you retire, sell a few—fivefold, maybe more. So rare vintages appreciate ten or even twenty tis their original price."
Zidane’s eyes widened. "Ten to twenty?"
"Sotis more," Richard said, smiling at his disbelief.
Zidane scratched his head. "But why would the price rise that much?"
"Because good wine is limited," Richard explained patiently. "A great vintage might be followed by a poor one. And as ti passes, most bottles are consud, leaving only a few in circulation. Rarity drives value. It’s basic supply and demand."
Richard explained patiently. While he wasn’t particularly fond of wine himself, his brother Harry — who worked in the entertainnt industry — couldn’t advance his career smoothly without attending social events filled with drinks like wine. Not to ntion Sarah, Richard’s sister-in-law, who was planning to enter politics. Thanks to both of them constantly talking about wine, Richard had taken the initiative to learn at least the basic theory, if only so he wouldn’t lose face in conversation.
Perfect timing for Zidane to consider it.
"Listen to , Zinedine," Richard said, adopting a more persuasive tone. "If you want sothing stable, wine investnt is perfect. You can hold the bottles yourself—or let your family keep an eye on them. If you want to take more risk, you can go further: beco a supplier, or even build your own brand."
"Marseille sits in Provence—one of France’s oldest and finest wine regions," Richard continued. "Of course, La Castellane—where your family lives—isn’t exactly ideal for vineyards; it’s too crowded. But the surrounding areas? Places like Aix-en-Provence, Côteaux d’Aix-en-Provence, or Bandol—those are perfect. If you ever want to go big, you could invest in land there."
His tone softened as he went on, "If what you’re looking for is a long-term business that your whole family can be involved in, then wine is the best place to start."
If he wanted a family-involved, long-term agricultural business, then the wine business was definitely the first choice Richard would recomnd. Investing in stocks might yield higher returns, but it also ca with anxiety.
Sure, he could suggest that Zidane invest in shares of Walmart or Amazon, which would surely make him a billionaire in twenty years. But in those twenty years, he’d likely never get a mont of peaceful sleep. Who could guarantee there wouldn’t be a market crash tomorrow?
Especially for an ordinary person who knew nothing about finance, larger investnts only led to greater worries. The goal of investing should be to sleep soundly without constant concern for the future—not to lose sleep today because of anxieties about tomorrow.
After a mont of reflection, Zidane asked, "If the returns are so high, shouldn’t everyone be doing it?"
Richard shook his head. "The average person lacks the patience and financial ans. To see tangible returns, you’d need to store a bottle for at least five years. Who’s willing to buy a case or more and wait that long? Also, storing fine wine requires precise conditions—constant temperature and humidity, which must be carefully managed. It’s not practical without a significant initial investnt; the storage costs can add up quickly for small quantities."
Understanding the complexities, Zidane decided to talk to his parents and siblings about it later—but then he suddenly stared at Richard intently.
"What is it? Still worried about sothing?"
"Sir, how about we invest in it together?"
"..."
"What’s wrong?"
"Nothing," Richard sighed at that.
While Richard was offering his best advice to help Zinedine Zidane avoid falling into poverty in the future, a storm was quietly gathering over English football—its eye centered on Manchester United.
It all began with Rupert Murdoch.
The dia tycoon needed United as a lever to drive the next stage of his TV revolution: digitisation. He was worried that BSkyB might lose its key asset—the exclusive rights to broadcast Premier League matches—when its existing contract expired in 2001, as the Office of Fair Trading was considering outlawing such exclusive deals.
Silvio Berlusconi, the Italian TV entrepreneur who owns AC Milan, had given Murdoch the germ of the idea. Now Booth convinced his boss it was ti to make the leap from broadcasting football to owning it.
Murdoch’s sides did not foresee any major regulatory obstacles in getting the deal approved. Most people in football expected it to be waved through—perhaps with a few conditions to prevent BSkyB from exploiting its new position.
Sky executives were confident, even relaxed. But that confidence soon backfired.
At the press conference announcing the bid, Texan businessman Peter Booth—one of the key figures representing Sky—was left visibly embarrassed when a journalist asked him to na Manchester United’s left-back.
He froze. After a few awkward seconds, soone had to whisper the answer: Dennis Irwin.
The mont beca symbolic. To fans and critics alike, it exposed how little the bidders understood about the club they were trying to buy. What was ant to be a show of corporate strength turned into a public relations disaster, fuelling growing suspicion that Murdoch’s camp cared more about control and profit than the spirit of the ga.
Manchester United fans were outraged. Their anger quickly turned into organised resistance, leading to the formation of Shareholders United Against Murdoch (SUAM)—a group created solely to block Rupert Murdoch’s takeover and protect the club’s independence.
The result?
A series of public reactions disasters followed, the Governnt’s announcent last Friday that it was blocking the takeover—after the Monopolies and rgers Commission ruled it anti-competitive—seed to have dealt an irreparable blow to that relationship.
Rupert Murdoch’s ambitious bid for Manchester United had been officially blocked by the British governnt!
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