Ah, you great cheese-eating surrender monkey. Couldn't take the trash talking comme il garcon, mais oui? That spaghetti strangler Materazzi got to you, yes you, the man who was rated as one of the best when it came to the penalty kick.
If you had timed that head-butt right, mon ami, you could have induced cardiac fibrillation and Signor Materazzi would be dead by now, to trash-talk no more. Instead, you let your temper get the better of you and before you could turn around, the red card was waving in your Gallic face.
Couldn't have been much fun, to sit in the locker room and listen to the Italians cheer their victory. Don't let it trouble you too much, Zinedine. I was pulling for the Azzurris, since the USA dropped out and Ireland never even made it to the qualifying rounds. I do love French food and French wine, and as for the champagne, mon Dieu, c'est magnifique. But I'm partial to pasta alla norma, washed down with a charming barbaresco, and who could turn down a cannoli?
What a way to end your career. What a stupid, stupid, stupid way to say goodbye.
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