By Matthew Syed
Video interview by Nicola Copping

So there I was, chatting to a heavenly brunette during a birthday party at a bistro-stroke-bar in southwest London. It was the kind of chat that takes flight only in bistro-stroke-bars: urbane, covertly flirtatious, and with just enough references to Salvador Dali to make us both giggle at our own pretentiousness.

The fact that I had not uttered a word to the birthday boy did not seem to matter. This was one of those life-changing moments, the kind that always has my mind flitting ahead to marriage, children and a holiday home on the Côte d’Azur. I could see it all, from the wedding ceremony at Lake Vyrnwy to the Abba tribute band during the afterparty. And then Lawrence Dallaglio walked in.

To say that his presence ruined the party would be something of an overstatement, because for half the people — ie, the women — his presence was the highlight. The brunette, so engaged to that point, instantly lost interest (and I mean instantly: she actually stopped talking mid-sentence) and went to hover in the vicinity of the former England captain — no mean feat when you consider that his vicinity was somewhat overcrowded, what with his biceps, pecs and other bulges jostling for space. The rest of the women stared and pouted and exchanged knowing glances, which — call me paranoid — were as much about the inadequacy of the rest of us as about the man-sized vat of testosterone in the corner.

There was so much collective drooling that I could have swum out of there — indeed, I would have swum out of there had I not been carefully planning Dallaglio’s murder, involving cyanide and what remained of the canapés. Dallaglio seemed oblivious to the whole thing, or perhaps he has become so accustomed to his effect on women that it washes over him.

Why am I telling you this? Because this is a bloody big deal to those of us who live in Southwest London and have to put up with rugby types materialising all over the place during the Six Nations Championship, which got under way on Saturday. I can’t get out of the door of my apartment without Phil Vickery or Josh Lewsey flouncing past with their tight shirts and unnecessarily large shoulders, leaving a trail of slack-jawed women in their wake.

Up in town — in Movida, or Chinawhite, or any of the other places frequented by East European and East London temptresses — these rugby players would not get a look-in. With its VIP rooms and roped-off areas, with its Cristal champagne and material decadence, with its comically self-regarding doormen and guest lists, Central London is the inviolable territory of footballers, particularly those employed by the “top four”, or with wages above seventy grand a week (why are footballers wages always expressed a week rather than per annum like everyone else?).

But over here in Richmond, Fulham, Chiswick or Chelsea west of the Bluebird, rugby players are the men — possibly the only men — of choice. Is it a class thing? Is it that the professional women of Southwest London prefer their sportsmen a bit posh? Or is it based on the perception that rugby men have brains to go along with their brawn? Whatever it is, it is potent. Even the second-team players at Harlequins seem to rate higher than those of us engaged in those wimpish activities otherwise known as proper jobs.

Which is why the Six Nations is such an agonising trial. It is not the fact we have to put up with armies of replica-shirted men and women swilling beer and crooning Sweet Chariot — surely the world’s most grating anthem. It is not the fact that every pub is infested with that smug, aren’t-we-grown-up camaraderie between rival supporters. It is not even the fact that you can’t get a table for dinner until after midnight. No, the real ordeal is watching Jeremy Guscott standing in the corner of the Paradise Bar while every woman within 100 yards goes weak at the knees.

It is for these reasons that I have started looking for a new quality in potential girlfriends: immunity to rugby types. I now take this to be the ultimate in feminine sophistication, something that denotes everything in style, sassiness, taste, charm and intelligence. What I want is the kind of woman who would walk past Dallaglio without turning her head except to avoid hitting it on his oversized chin. Do such women exist any more? You would not have guessed it from the droves of rugger chicks who made their way to Twickenham at the weekend to watch England get done over by Wales. Some will say that it is insulting to suggest that women go to rugby matches simply to gawp at men’s legs, but most female fans I know are positively boastful about it. On Saturday afternoon I got into a text exchange with a former girlfriend who had won a couple of tickets in a ballot and whose lusting over the assorted thighs of the England team (what is it with the thighs of rugby players?) made for graphic, and demoralizing, reading.

The sociologically curious aspect of all this is that there used to be a time when female lecherousness was considered undignified, even by most women. Now it is held up as one of the most liberating aspects of post-dungaree feminism. A guy who alludes to the sexuality of Maria Sharapova as she goes about her business in a tight dress at Wimbledon is considered to demean her sporting professionalism. But the women at Twickers, who bellow sexually charged encouragement at Danny Cipriani as if he were a stripper at some colossal hen party, are hailed as sport’s answer to Germaine Greer. Don’t think that I am lamenting the injustice of this. After all, gender politics has never been fair and, if we are being honest, men have had it their own way for most of the last 50 million years, notwithstanding the polyandrous tribes of southern Tibet. But given that women are so adept at chronicling gender-based iniquities, is it not time to publicly state the fact that men are the new victims of objectification, at least whenever Vickery drops into my local wearing his body-hugging shirt (since when, by the way, did tight shirts become socially acceptable for heterosexual men? I always used to get giggled at when I wore the hand-me-downs of my older, thinner brother).

Redemption for those of us without six-packs lies, of course, in the (hitherto undiscovered) existence of modern women who are as indifferent to the muscular charms of Dallaglio, Guscott and Vickery as they are drawn to the slowly but visibly growing paunches beneath our oversized shirts. The love of a woman like that and I would stop getting an attack of the jitters every time I set eyes on Twickenham stadium from my kitchen window. And, who knows, in time, and with gentle coaxing and kindly counselling, I might even start leaving home during the Six Nations.

Worth a try: Nicola Copping’s six players to watch

Mike Phillips, 25, scrum-half, Wales
Soulful and swarthy with a bewitching stare, he’s fearless on the pitch and, more notably, being from Wales he can probably sing. A killer combination.

Andy Gomarsall, 33, scrum-half, England
Who can resist a man who gained a place in England’s squad after playing for a pub team? Capable, mature and modest. A local hero.

Florian Fritz, 24, centre, France
Blessed with great pace thanks to sturdy thighs, it’s the equally sturdy jaw that makes women go weak at the knees.

Sergio Parisse, 24, back row, Italy
The Mediterranean and Argentinian mix ensures enduring appeal – he can offer fancy footwork on and off the pitch.

Chris Cusiter, 25, scrum-half, Scotland
The combination of blond hair, blue eyes, and Aberdonian lilt make him a supreme example of Scottish eye-candy.

Gordon D’Arcy, 27, inside centre, Ireland
Just the surname does it. Even without a wet shirt and sideburns, his charm would make any Austen heroine quiver.