I’ve had to drop Lewis because of off-the-field indiscipline. I’m not going to go into it and it’s not just Lewis, there are a couple of players we must demand more of regarding their lifestyle.

- Billy Davies, 14/03/09

And so it all becomes clear. We don’t need a new set of full-backs, another striker or even a Premiership goalkeeper. We need Jamie Oliver on the catering staff.

Too often has Lewis McGugan’s father pushed Big Macs through the City Ground gates. Too often has the precociously talented, but increasingly rotund, midfield maestro gorged his gluttonous face on the delicious combination of 11 herbs and spices lovingly fused by Colonel Sanders during the last global recession. Steak bakes, 12 inch Subs, Domino’s Meat Feasts, Peri–Peri Nando’s, Pukka Pies…the mind boggles at the vast array of culinary muck he must have shovelled down his swollen neck, in order to have been deemed so horrendously unprepared to assist in Saturday’s atrocity.

Although, on closer inspection, it would seem to be the case that Lewis was a victim of circumstance, playing as he does, in the one position that presents Billy Davies with a genuine selection dilemma: “Unfortunately, there are one or two who have to be with the squad at the moment because of our situation but we’d like to send them away to let them understand what’s required.”

Translated, that essentially means that Luke Chambers could bulk up to the size of a particularly corpulent WWE wrestler and he would still get a game on account of the fact that he is the best right back currently employed by the club. Of course he’s not even a right back, and even if he were, he wouldn’t be the best, but the truth implied is that we have fatties all over the field and McGugan is the only player with a sufficiently slender understudy.

But could it possibly be mere coincidence that the sharp decline in metabolic function amongst the playing staff has come in the wake of Kris Commons’ departure?

Since his defection to the Mutton, it can only be assumed that food in the club canteen has been plentiful once more. Where once the buffet was (presumably) a barren mass of brown rice and wilting lettuce, the stainless steel hot trays looted of their pasta and hot meats by the tubby blond numpty, it’s not unreasonable to conclude that a whole world of exotic comestibles has opened up to those who survived the Commons inspired “era of starvation.”

Images of post-war children, so overcome with excitement at the re-introduction of the banana to British society that they dispensed with the tedious rigmarole of actually peeling the b****y thing, spring to mind; their mouths full of bitter skin, but happy nonetheless. Perhaps Lewis had simply never seen a pasta salad before, and was unaware that three helpings of the rich mayonnaise covered treat might lead to a swelling of the midriff. Surely what little food survived Commons’ multiple-helpings display of dining avarice was wrapped tightly and discreetly in a napkin and smuggled off club premises in case he got peckish on his return home, leaving the rest of the squad fighting bitterly over the remaining half-tub of hummus and Ryvita.

This may seem fanciful, but the same concerns became apparent in the aftermath of Gary Megson’s appointment to the City Ground hot seat. Within weeks of Joe Kinnear’s departure, Andy Reid had also left the club. The sudden proliferation of food on club premises was such that even a young Commons was unable to prevent a sharp decline in overall fitness amongst the squad. Indeed, the new influx of unfamiliar cuisine had such a devastating effect on John Thompson’s digestive tract that he was left with no option but to defecate in the middle of the dance floor whilst socialising in a Lace Market wine bar. Rarely have the regrettable consequences of food abundance been so eloquently demonstrated.

And so, it seems apparent that, far from punishing Lewis McGugan for the excesses of his appetite, we must encourage him; harness his hunger for the collective good of the team. To paraphrase Marie Antoinette: “Let him eat Greggs. And Pizza Hut buffet.” I, for one, fear for the future, should we fail to indulge him.

If he eats Garath McCleary’s white meats then perhaps we will see some end product. If he steals from Paul Smith’s plate, then perhaps our erstwhile number 1 will have the strength and inclination to pluck speculative Robbie Blake floaters (not that kind, Thommo) out of the sky, as opposed to idly watching them sail over his head and into the net. If he eats Perchy’s Nando’s perhaps our club captain will disappear completely, free to evince his dazzling portfolio of sideways passes away from the critical eyes of ignorant football fans.

Whatever it takes, we must do, for after Saturday’s abomination, League 1 beckons once again.

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