Here's to you Mr Floyd

Keith Floyd, 1943-2009. What a man.

Of course he’s got nothing to do with sport but he’s still a legend in Mother Rucker’s book. And what a way to go. Full of oysters, potted shrimp, partridge and Côtes du Rhone. Yes please.

It was the revelation that Floyd had gone out the way he’d have wanted - full of exquisite food and booze - that got me thinking. Many an argument has taken place in public houses across the land as to the make up of the best rugby team incorporating differing person/animal types i.e. your perfect animal front row would be a hippo at loose head, a crocodile (think of the tail) at hooker, and a silverback at tight head. So I started thinking about my perfect rugby team made out of food. Here goes:

1. Loose-head prop: The full English breakfast – inelegant, unhealthy and inevitably too much for you to handle. But when you’re getting your head kicked in by booze or flankers, they’re always there to sort you out.



2. Hooker: Chicken jalfrezi – they seem fairly innocuous but will rip your arse-hole out given half the chance.



3. Tight-head prop: Sirloin steak – simple, meaty, does just what you want it to but must be treated with respect or is liable to get tough.



4. Lock: Pigs trotters stuffed with sweet breads and morels – looks and sounds like something out of Mordor but does things that nothing else on earth can.



5. Lock: Chicken breast – seemingly dull and uninspiring but full of protein and likely to catch something if held aloft for an extended period of time.



6. Blind side flanker: Bread – you never notice it until it’s not there.



7. Open side flanker: Onions – they get everywhere, especially in your eyes.



8. Number eight: A full rack of BBQ ribs – looks too much, weighs too much and if you try to tackle it in one go is likely to make you sick.



9. Scrum half: A jar of marmite – you either love them or hate them.



10. Fly half: Braised Scottish halibut with charred leeks, coddled quail’s eggs, English watercress salad and creamed Oscietra caviar - technical brilliance with a hint of genius.



11. Wing: Eggs – quick, versatile and tasty. Just don’t hit them too hard.



12. Inside centre: Bacon cheese burger – no nonsense. Gets the job done. Never fails.



13. Outside centre: Fig rolls – speed is the key here. And nothing goes through you faster than a fig roll.



14. Wing: Cous-cous – quick, but who gives a fuck



15. Fullback: Chili con carne – safe as houses, always reliable. Often has a bit of kick.

Gone but not forgotten

Christ – what a few weeks it has been. Apologies, fair readers, for Mother Rucker’s absence from the fibre optic highway but for the first time in this young knave’s life one has been busy at work. Quite ridiculous really that a blogger who is supposed to be blogging on rugby has completely missed the tri-nations, the opening weekend of the Guinness Premiership, the Magners League, etc, etc, flap, flap, flap. Well, I can honestly say, hand on heart, I am sorry. Must do better. And one shall.

Lets kick off with a bit of a round up of what the bloody hell has actually been going on whilst I’ve been off air. Well for a start the Saffas have won the tri-nations. This is fine. As long as the Australians don’t win the damn thing I couldn’t care one iota. Yes, it can be spectacular rugby and I enjoy watching it. But, care who wins? I do not.

Except in Australia’s case.

NZ winning it is fine - they’re generally expected to. SA winning in is fine – they’re the world champs and been playing some pretty awesome stuff. But watching Oz winning is like being forced to rub a poisonous Amazonian tree frog into your genitals. Not fucking enjoyable.

Don’t get me wrong I have nothing against Australians per se. Except for the fact they’re whingeing, arrogant, whiny bastards of course. But I recall back in ’03 when England had just won the world cup. Some fellow charioteers and I were giving the oppo’ supporters some jovial post match banter when one of them turned to me and said, in that all too familiar Australian upward inflicting drawl, “wait ‘till you’ve won it twice before you start shooting your mouth off you pom c*nt”.

Now, those of you who know me well will know that my fuse is about as long as Ronnie Corbett’s trouser leg. But amazingly there was no physical violence – how could I taint such a perfect day – and the fact I had received such an angry response to an England victory made the celebrations even sweeter. But that incident reaffirmed my belief that everyone, everywhere, must do everything they can to prevent Australia winning anything in the future. Well done South Africa and well done England for bring the Ashes home - no one cares about pyjama cricket anyway.

The Guinness Premiership has of course kicked off. Well done to George Robson for taking a mere 40 seconds of the season to prove unequivocally that Quins are a bunch of tossers. Wasps are off to a flier as are Sarries and Bath are below Leeds. Not exactly how I would have scripted it but there’s a long way to go.

I wondered whether I should put my balls on the block and make a prediction on who would win the premiership this year. Well, I’m going to. You’ve heard it here first. London Irish.