Rugby for me will always retain the whiff of semolina for lunch, crimson knees shredded on icy pitches, and the pitiful hope that life might offer more than a trampled death by a herd of wild wannabe Wallabies.

Which is why wimps such as me have always preferred footie. Even the most committed challenge from a Vinnie “psycho” Jones is but an air kiss against an “interception” from some ear-munching, testicle-crunching bullock.

But the cheery month-long party that was the World Cup poses a hard question to footie fans: should rugby become our national sport? At least a change would give Tessa Jowell something to ponder now she has gone 12,000 miles to watch.

Crucially, we seem quite good at rugby. To the charge that this is mere opportunism, my answer is “so what”? There’s no clamour for tennis as our national sport when Tim Henman falls in the first round of the Mongolian Masters. If we do well in croquet, ping pong or even synchronised toenail cutting these disciplines can also be considered.

The attraction of rugby players is they are not football players: by this I mean they don’t wear Tiffany diamond earrings or drive Yank tanks bigger than a council house. If David Beckham is “metrosexual” (“secure enough to embrace his feminine side”, apparently) rugby players are full-fat, extra large heroes; they are neither secure nor insecure, it would just never occur to them to slip on a sarong.

Nor do they use steroids: muscle bound is how they come out of the packet. Some even make fine role models. Jason Robinson is unlikely to fail a random drugs test: a black Englishman from a broken home, he is also a rugby superstar, a born-again Christian and a gent.

They don’t forget that it doesn’t matter that much. Remember the gracious losing Aussie captain, George Gregan, or Go Jonny Go Wilkinson dropping the goal that won the World Cup? He merely smiled and patted someone else on the back. If a consolation goal dribbles off a footballer’s backside in the LDV Vans Trophy, he rips off his shirt, does six summersaults and hoists a V-sign at rival fans.

Rugby reminds us of a more civil age. This was cricket’s job, but with sledging, bungs and too many Aussie victories, forget that. Sure, there is a danger of being swept away when England’s sweet chariot swings so high and Matilda isn’t waltzing any more. But to my great surprise, I’m converted.

• It’s the most effective form of contraception yet. It can be given to you orally but you should be sitting down. The only stiffy you will need is a double brandy. For it has just been calculated that bringing up a child in Britain costs more than buying a house, making our nippers the most expensive in Europe.

  How was it for you? At £140,000 a go, you might wonder if you got sufficient bang for your buck. The line “Not tonight darling, I’ve got a headache” is no longer a lie: it’s called reading your bank statement.

  I confess the news tinges my delight that my wife Diana is expecting our second baby. She chided me for buying a new car, but what about blowing 140 grand in a 20-second orgy of mindless pleasure? And she claims I’m not generous. Well, I demand a refund. I could have bought a Bentley Continental, packed it with young lovelies and still had plenty left to hire a sprog if I ever felt paternal.

  So this morning I put it to Emilia, our two-year-old, that at £6,686 a year plus additional perks (when did toddlers decide they need gym membership?) she isn’t giving me sufficient value for money. She just smiled and said: “Don’t be a silly Billy, Daddy.” No attempt at all to justify her spending. So like her mother.
  
  Bringing a goddess down to earth
  
  Once when statesmen swung by they sought out celebrated writers and artists. Now they plead to meet those whose genius does not extend far beyond pumpkin soup: I refer to George W’s high-level talks with Nigella Lawson. She is a scrumptious lass and I can see that after experiencing the lunchtime sophistication of John Prescott, Bush must have found her sweeter than her apple pie.
  
  But I refuse to revere sorcerers of the saucepan as seers: “Please Holy one, reveal the secret of your sticky toffee pudding.” Eating can be one of the great pleasures; talking about eating one of the dumbest.
  
  A press release arrives: “She’s cookin’ up a storm.” It’s about some old spatula called simply “Emma” who has cooked for such arbiters of taste as Victoria Beckham and Status Quo. She will be “propelled into homes through books, TV and a full merchandise licensing package”. If ever there was reason to block any nook by which “Emma” might be propelled in, this is it. Cooks: get back in that kitchen.
  
  How Piers breached security at the Mirror
  
  Exclusive: in the biggest security breach ever to have hit Fleet Street, an imposter has managed to inveigle his way into the heart of a British newspaper.
  
  Piers Morgan applied for a job as editor of the Labour-supporting Daily Mirror. Incredibly, he got the post, despite having no obvious qualifications. “You just fill in a form and they give you a job,” he bragged. The Mirror’s management failed to check his references, falling for Morgan’s story that he was a cheeky, chirpy cockney who just wanted to edit a newspaper in between appearances on television shows.
  
  Today this column can reveal that Morgan is in fact a former Tory-cheering toff.
  
  The management has now promised an inquiry into how Morgan could have fooled everyone. Security had not been seriously compromised, it said, but it conceded that readers have died in droves since he pretended he was an editor.

• Everyone writes as if Michael Jackson’s stint in the clink is long overdue: they say his unwholesome behaviour should have seen him banged up years ago. He is a freak.

  But that does not automatically prove he is an abuser. Initial allegations are based on claims of a boy “reminded” by a psychiatrist he had been abused. The boy only saw the psychiatrist after taunts that he was “Jackson’s boyfriend”. Police will need more than cod psychology for a safe conviction.

  Still, if Jacko were British, he would be minister for children by now. Margaret Hodge has been defended by cronies such as Polly Toynbee on novel grounds that libelling an abuse victim is okay as she never intended her smear to be found out. Amazing.