Bonjour my gorgeous pumpkins! I have been so busy of late what with entertaining the British Army, the Royal Navy, and generally being the social papillon  that I am to ensure that I can bring you exclusives from around the world...and nearer to home...

You can attribute my foray into le Français following the mini-gallic invasion at the weekend at the Stoop...there may not have been that many of them, but can I just tell you my jaw fell to the ground as those sexy sirens [if I may use that term for gentlemen] paraded themselves and flexed their physiques for all to admire in preparation for the ECC Final...

I will return in a moment to the happenings of this weekend just passed, as I have news for your eyes only from both hemispheres concerning 'A' list celebrities along with that rare species, the narcissistic rugby player.

So first I will venture south to Sydney, and the small matter of that delectable Kiwi and Hollywood superstar who happens to own the majority of the South Sydney Rabbitohs rugby league team. I accept and apologise for my deviation from the serious business of the superior union code, but I'm sure you will forgive my indiscretion for the sake of unadulterated admiration and hero-worship of the perfect male celebrity that is Russell Crowe.

As is the trend with league teams, the Rabbitohs were also the proud champions of their very own cheergirls squad, not much unlike the Harlequins cheerleaders below; pretty long-legged tanned girls with tresses to match and not too much attire ...

Now I know it's not particularly PC to be extolling the virtues of scantily clad girls in the name of entertainment, but considering that we have the sublime opportunity to peruse the objects of our desire throughout the entire proceedings of a match, I personally cannot begin to see the harm with gentlemen spectators partaking in equivalent pleasures. But Mrs Danielle Spencer Crowe is not of the same persuasion, and had her husband remove the offending damsels, to be replaced with the Rabbitohs Drum Squad! These tribal war drums are very exciting and have a fabulous tone and raw sensuality, but I'm sure that's no consolation for the chaps who much preferred the sexy Rabbitohs' Cheergirls!

Next... narcissism...not a very becoming trait in anyone; but with this particular individual, it goes hand in hand with bad manners and little respect for the fairer sex I'm afraid. I'm sure you've missed my little reports on Henson [just in case you hadn't guessed already who I was referring to], so here's a story from a while back where the man [as I shall never again refer to him as a gentleman] showed his true colours.

Following a second consecutive win against a renowned London team in the Heineken Cup a couple of years back, the Ospreys were in celebratory mood, and courtesy of a locally based corporate organisation, the boys were out to paint the town red. Gavin Henson, before his Charlotte Church fame, took longer than the ladies to dress to party, and finally the group arrived at Jewel in the West End. Following more than a few glasses of champagne on their VIP table, accompanied by copious amounts of flaming sambucas [like they were going out of fashion], Mr Henson took it upon himself to make the entire party aware that he had snogged Charlotte Church, and was going to court her for her celebrity and money - never a more gallant chap had I heard of! He then insisted on hurling accusations with regard to the bill at his fellow team mates, and during the fracas, the ladies excused themselves to alight to the powder room; but since Mr Henson was too busy ignoring them to notice they needed to get passed, he was jovially told "move over baked bean", to which he replied "shut up you fat whore."

After his charming retort, the fairly inebbriated party moved on, hoping to get into a nightclub despite their precarious state. May I interject here to make it very apparent that the rest of the Ospreys' boys were absolutely perfectly charming, and it was in fact endearing to see these fresh young country boys so in awe of London Town. A race ensued between the two rickshaws they had engaged up Regent Street, and to win at all costs, Henson grabbed the lady he had been so rude to before by the hood of her coat in the opposing rickshaw, almost strangling her in the process. The adorable Shane Williams tried to stop his fellow Osprey by punching his arm to leave go; Henson retaliated but his punch missed Williams altogether and hit the lady in question on the nose.

The young lady tried to calm the situation, and made it very clear that no club was about to let in 5 chaps and a lady in their not particularly sober state [her friend had already left], and once she had been proved right by the refusal from the doorman, Henson took it upon himself to playfully slap the lady across the face asking her to "just chill out". She fell back on the rickshaw but this time enough was enough, and she pulled herself together, promptly delivered a sharp right hook, turned on her heel and left to go home in a nearby taxi. Mr Henson must have been slightly taken aback, but then again, the lady may only have been a petite curvaceous 5' 2" PR exec, but she also happened to be a rather good rugby winger too. And it was Henson who turned up at training on the Monday morning with a black eye! The lady, however, never did receive an apology, but was sent a signed rugby ball from the team - deep joy. Luckily for Henson, she was a true lady and understood the rugby code; nothing ever did appear in the tabloids. I do hope his mother is completely ashamed of him and puts him across her knee if she ever does find out how he behaved.

But enough of obnoxious men with no manners...to far more exciting news and what appears to be a truely exclusive Ruby G scoop! The day of the Heineken Cup Final at Twickenham, a quaint little rugby pub by the name of the Ailsa Tavern, buried in the village of St Margarets just in between Richmond and Twickenham, was having its usual busy start on the day of a full house at Twickers. As the throngs invaded the public house and beer garden, a rather well known 'A' list celebrity snuck in unnoticed with his family, who happen to be natives of the pretty and affluent village. The breathtakingly handsome blonde bombshell, it turns out, is a rather huge fan of London Wasps, and went to the game to support his team and see them triumph over the Manchester United of rugby [so I'm led to believe - but knowing nothing about that terribly strange sport played by thespians of sorts, I have to take outside advice on football teams], Leicester Tigers. He then returned after the match for a small libation or two, at which point I was made aware of situation that was occurring. I broke every rule of etiquette, and deserted my guests at Twickenham to get the exclusive photo and maybe even a word or two. But alas it was not to be; despite driving the Rubes-Mobile at law breaking speeds, as I swung round the corner, Jude Law and his family were about to cross the road to return home. I came, I saw, I did not act like a crazed tabloid hack and simply smiled to myself as he walked away. I may not have that photo, but I was there to bear witness that that delectable young man is not only heart-stirringly beautiful, but he is exceptionally charming according to the bar staff, and also has terribly discerning taste in sport by supporting the best-looking team in the English Premiership. And I have always maintained that rugby does attract a far better class of observer.

And yet that was not the end of my evening! When finally returning home after the witching hour, I came upon those lovely men in uniform, the Met Police trying hopelessly to control a slightly raucous situation outside another St Margarets pub. This happened to be the venue for the post match celebrations for those champions of Europe, the London Wasps. The public house having closed its doors, the boys were strewn not just on the pavement on either side of the thoroughfare, but were spilling onto the road and causing quite a traffic hazard. Having been told by a rather attractive officer of the law that "the Wasps are just having fun", my last conversation of the evening was with the captain of champions, the entrancing Mr Dallaglio who on my enquiry of "are you OK for a lift home?" that it was under control but thanks.

All this testoterone fuelled emotion from the European Championship frenzy has been exceedingly taxing on my cardiac muscle, so on that note I think I shall have to tootle off and lie down in a darkened room following a cold shower!

Au revoir my petals...

Images: ©Action Images, Jill Tipping & Jo Wallwork