Irascible Biltongbek, effervescent RobC, voice-of-reason Diggercane, sprightly near-genius Ben Gibbon, and rugby poet Harry Jones were invited by The Roar to select respective World XV teams from any and all eras, using an NBA-style selection draft.

What ensued was a four-continent, whiskey-swilling, tequila-shooting ,tribal-warfare, horse-trading contentious polarising selection extravaganza with Scarlett Johansson a crucial patron saint and a selector in wet Wellington waking up as the giant smoky city of Johannesburg was going to sleep.

Picks were made under tables in business meetings, in Uber cars in Manhattan, in Malay restaurants, at the bar and in bed. At times, we were interrupted by the annoying imperatives of adult life: work, relationships, promises, sleep, hunger, thirst, authorities.

But the teams have been selected. Soon, Roarers can evaluate (and vote between) Biltong’s Bulldogs, Rob’s Rhinos, Harry’s Harriers, Digger’s Demons, and Ben’s team.

Ben was the original creator of the concept, but his team name “Genius Richie and the Honest Humbugs” almost broke one of the 14 spreadsheets he designed for the draft.

The idea was to establish a “draft board” of 125 players (100 accepted legends of the game and 25 current SANZAR players like Kurtley Beale or Eben Etzebeth who could possibly end up as legends). The Bulldogs, Rhinos, Harriers, Demons, and Humbugs drafted from this pool, in any positional order, to form their World XV rosters.

We sequenced the selections in order of how prolific our Roar contributions have been, meaning Biltong picked first, the poet second, secretly subversive RobC third, Digger fourth, and gentle young Ben fifth (but also sixth), with a reverse order then evening things out; the draft operated like an accordion for 75 picks.

Culling the world’s great players into a list of 125 took about a week. Ben and Rob conducted rigorous research; collating respected lists of a similar nature, analysing statistics, and linking video evidence into elaborate interactive documents.

Ben and Rob debated the merits of trading rules, formulas for positional ranks, and how to invent a rugby assessment time machine to compare the relative greatness of Frik du Preez with James O’Connor.

Harry wrote poetry about ancient Namibian fitness regimens and sent the group selfies. Biltong demanded preemptive ownership of several South African stars and a stopwatch for all picks. Digger interjected with rational thoughts and deadlines.

After a week of litigating, reflecting, and devising draft plans (and logos, jerseys, and in Rob’s case, cheerleading tunics), the group was no closer to picking teams than when they started. In the end, the two Saffas brought the polite social democratic impasse of their Anzac peers to a halt by just starting the draft. Digger awoke to a draft in process.

(Digger: “My opponents believe I awoke to a draft taking place. Little do they know I was aware of what was happening. I was waiting for the perfect moment to take part in the draft. Like the Springboks, my South African colleagues would start off like a bull at a gate so I would make them wait. I could feel the agitation staring at me through Biltong’s eyeball avatar on screen while I knew the Australian would be all about the flash and my Kiwi counterpart would focus on the glamour positions. I waited out the initial period and then I was ready to launch while wondering what Scarlett would be doing at that very moment, forcing hurried picks and panic among my opposing selectors.”)

The selectors came in with varying team and game plan philosophies.

Harry wanted his Harriers to “optimally be a team of 15 Test captains; like Vikings had no king. But if you guys mess me up and I can’t find a player who’d skippered his nation or club in every position, then I want a player who is the opposite of a captain. So, guys who earn knighthood and captaincy, or guys who are banned and reviled. Rogues. Every man a mongrel. Outlaws.

“I want a dick-head coach and 15 players who made every minute of every game you played against them to be hellish. The other team must feel harried. Harassed. 80-plus minutes of hell. No time to think. No time to breathe. I want players who can play all 80 and don’t want to come off the field. Smart, mean, arrogant, wanton, malicious, ruthless players with a coach to match. Winners at every level; from schools up.”

Interestingly, Harry did end up with 12 captains and three players who would and will never captain anything.

Biltong was typically blunt and straightforward. Having the first pick might paralyse a less decisive man. But Biltong had a plan:

“Finding out I had the first pick suited my selection criteria to a tee. I would start with my general, a player who knew how to read the game, put players into space and on the front foot, a player who could kick his goals, who could stand up after a crunching Bismarck tackle, a guy in favour with the referees, simply put, a guy that can play rugby.

“I didn’t need mongrel from him, just a rugby brain and able to execute what he sees is necessary. In assistance I would select a partner in crime if you will, someone as astute in reading the match situation and equally adept in the art of the tactical game plan.”

True to his vision, Biltong’s team was centred around brilliant halves, and he did pick a coach who fit this pre-draft description: “a thinking man, not one that kicks in doors, grab referees by the whistle and force them into private discussion, nor break TVs.”

Both Saffas were looking for a similar attitude and aptitude in their packs. Biltong put it this way: “I need a rock solid front row, guys who has never heard the words buckle, collapse or pain. My second row must be super athletes controlling the air around a hooker’s throw, and my backrow must pulverise the enemy.”

It is not clear whether Harry even wanted a backline: “I will not select any back who is not a forward at heart. I will not select any back before I have my pack, unless that back is more like a forward. For me, it’s starts and ends up front. My tight five do not retreat. Not in the scrum, not in the tackle, not in a fight, not at the dinner table.”

Biltong was more specific: “My midfield formula is a one-two punch of power on the inside and pace on the outside. My back three will have aerial skills, pace, power, and the ability to finish any move. There are two types of rugby: the hard grind, or a free flowing spectacle. The secret is being able to adapt, knowing when to grind and when to dazzle.”

The most cerebral selector didn’t even have a detailed plan. Rob was all about his spirit animal. He loves rhinos. He also loves pandas. He loves Scarlett Johansson. Most of his “awesome energy” was spent “around logos and endangered species and correct ratios of pictures and whether we can have cheerleaders.”

But he did have a mystical plot: “My Rhinos are a composite with a single deadly mission: pound, grind and skewer anything that dares to mess with them. I will draft players you do not even want to look at. If their opponents’ gaze does fleetingly meet their eyes, they will tremble in awe and fear. Forget about being in the same paddock as them, much less actual contact.

“The Rhinos own and take their territory. Where possible, they will take the limb of anyone who hazards an engagement with them. Finally, my team can absorb punishment while winning the spoils. The members are athlete legends who have survived the most ferocious contests, and as rhinos tend to do – they emerge victors, and lay waste to anything that defies them.”

To that end, Rob spent much of his time leading up to the draft designing an environmentally neutral jersey; the proceeds go to rhino relief. But he did attempt to make his plan more pragmatic on the day of selections:

“It will be easy. I will pick players who:

– will tear anything apart that opposes them
– can take a beating and relish it
– are able to rumble through any opponent imaginable
– are stoic yet revered”

And so Rob picked eight more Australians than anyone else. He also went very non-rhino with his backs: “My backs are selected for their wile, guile, experience; the owners of terror, time, territory, and trophies. Also, they must be handsome. And I want cheerleaders.”

Digger’s plan was “to out think and outwit my opposites.” Apparently, he found that simple.

He “warmed up to the task by watching ‘Draft Day’ then made my list of preferred picks, the major focus being on not just great players but to select players who would combine well together.”

Digger wanted his Demons to own “set piece ascendency.” He tried to “capture all of the right skill sets, physicality, skill, speed, intimidation and of course, intelligence.”

He wanted “quiet, well-to-do men off the field and this is all part of the façade. Once they step over that line the Demons’ sole purpose is to tear the will, destroy the dreams and eviscerate the souls of their opposites to the point where they will look to Dante’s nine circles of hell as a great place to escape from the furious anger and wrath being inflicted upon them in the 10th circle (or square), the rugby field.”

His wholesome team motto? “You will find no joy here, only destruction.”

Ben was less dogmatic. He asked himself: “What makes a great rugby player? What makes a team of champions into a champion team? How do you choose an almighty XV out of 150 of the greatest players ever to grace the green paddock? Intriguing questions.

“Being of the long white cloud I took it upon myself to do this properly and established a framework for draft success.”

Boiling this down, and remembering the young lad is a Kiwi, Ben’s plan was to “snare (soon to be) Sir Richie.” Also, he postulated that “speed is king; a few fast forwards and a halfback to unleash the mixture of backline beasts and assassins will do nicely.” But he looked at all the world.

As for the origin of players, Harry was honest: “There are cultural archetypes. I like a first row that’s Latin. Ferocious romantics from far away. When they look into the eyes of my front row, I want them to see dark-eyed menace. Guys who know how to dispose of corpses on the docks.”

Biltong was more open-minded: “I don’t care if they farm sheep, run numbers for the mob, or grow grapes in France. But I do want a haka.”

Ben cried humbug and drafted from as many nations as possible: “Diversity is the life blood of Union.” He also sought tough old amateurs: “My goal to pick this awe-inspiring team was simple: Don’t focus on the professional era players.

The Julian Saveas and Israel Folaus of this world still have a lot to prove – as good as they may be. Where the advantage lies is in the hardmen of decades gone, the true heroes of rugby that have made the sport what it is today.”

Harry was adamant about a “state of origin” game plan: “I like my second row to be angry Afrikaners who don’t own vineyards. There, I said it.

Lineout calls are guttural and unclear to anyone but guys from Windhoek and Perth. My loose trio? Relentless Boks and corner-cutting All Blacks, please. I’ll find an Aussie for my backline, and I’ll have island lads back there, too.”

Digger “was determined to select players that I have seen play, although I had my back up plan of past greats just in case. This was achieved for 14 of my 15 selections.”

The draft lasted hours. For some reason, Digger had mind-melded Harry and uncannily pilfered his upcoming targets, as if he was David Pocock reading Bryce Lawrence’s thoughts.

Harry, in turn, frustrated Biltong with scalpel-like picks. RobC resurrected culled players, traded Pumas for Tigers and Rhinos for Brumbies, and sent pictures of his dinner. Ben hadn’t seen any of the players before 2005, but kept coming up with surprises from distant times and places. Rules were jettisoned. Whiskey breaks and tequila fortification ensued. The honorary celebrity patron saint who kept the process fair and unequal was Ms. Johansson.

Biltong drafted more All Blacks than Boks, Harry has the only Italian, Rob cornered the market on Wallabies, Digger has more Englishmen than South Africans, and Ben drafted from seven nations (a Roar record).

In Part 2 of this series, the forward packs will be unveiled, with mug shots. Every single one of them are nightmares. Stay tuned.