I was going to wait until the promised analysis of the game itself appears on this esteemed page, but I’m just bursting. Bursting, I tell you. CAN WE PLEASE TALK ABOUT ZIDANE?

Like other ladies in Internetland, I must confess to having had (not to put too fine a point on it) the raging hots for Zidane. You guys all know that I am helpless before an air of quiet authority (mmm, air of quiet authority), and Mr Z seemed to have it in spades.

Mesmerised, I was, whenever he appeared on screen. I kept it mostly to myself (too sheepish to admit that the best reason I had for wanting France to win the World Cup was a crush on the captain), which meant that those around me were surprised at the force of my emotional reaction to his morphing into a vicious thug before my very eyes.

Now, violence is totally unsexy, of course, but the saddest thing about the whole incident for me was that it just seemed so stupid – why would the captain of a team, moments away from a penalty shootout in which he would inevitably play a key role, do something so incredibly daft? As always, discovering that the object of my yearnings is, in fact, an idiot, killed the crush stone dead.

(Almost. I still find myself getting a little giddy during TV news footage, in case I catch a glimpse of his now calm and besuited self. But I digress).

Gentlemen of my acquaintance have posited that I ‘just don’t understand’ the deep and all-consuming passion of sport, and that Zidane’s actions, while regrettable, are understandable in the context of the heady, desperate emotional maelstrom of a Cup final. Failing to understand that blood-boiling, adrenaline-fuelled fixation on victory that characterises sportspeople at all levels probably explains why I am unlikely to be lifting any major trophies aloft during my lifetime.

What I find particularly interesting, however, is the idea that it may have been an insult to his mother that resonates most strongly with those defending his actions. This article in today’s Guardian discusses the matter at length and outlines the significance of mama-bashing as the ultimate insult in certain cultures.

Now, while I love my mum and am prepared to concede that there might be a cultural aspect to the gravity of the insult, it just doesn’t seem enough. Same goes for being called a ‘terrorist’, if that is indeed what happened – surely an elite sportsperson with years of experience knows better than to react with anything but laughter?

All of this is a roundabout way of asking about the strength of insults. Is there something someone could say to you that would make you snap like that? Can you imagine a situation whereby you felt you had no other option but to retaliate physically?

I cannot – which may be a failure of imagination, or may mean that I have not been properly insulted yet.

(This is not an invitation.)