All things considered, we are for Nancy. This decision was not taken lightly and for many black hours of nocturnal anguish, we despaired of arriving at any conclusion at all. It has left us broken and embittered and determined to studiously avoid such divisive issues in the future.

What began as a quiet, throwaway question - literally lobbed around the sports department with the same cheeky temerity as that which Sven-Goran Eriksson himself faced down on Monday - ended up as a raging debate which threatened to split the entire house down the middle.

"What do you reckon, Ulrika or Nancy?" was the general gist of the contentious query, emanating from the mouth of the racing man or possibly golf, Planet Football or cycling. Nobody is entirely sure at this stage.

But like so many of the questions voiced in the department, it was left blatantly unanswered and after hanging in the air with extraordinary patience, it moved, out of both boredom and mortification, across to the more cerebral environment of the arts department. From there, the conundrum ricocheted down the stairs, called into the library, spread like wildfire through the newsroom, got lost on its way to the canteen and by mid-afternoon was the talk of D'Olier Street.

It was the only story of the day.

Work was arrested by the global nuances of the dilemma. Spontaneous lectures on the merits of the Swedish economy broke out in business section. They sided with Ulrika. Property preferred the conversion potential of neglected 18th-century farmhouses in Tuscany and, by extension, Nancy. Obituaries had prepared favourable comments for both. Books gave only a moving rendition of La Belle Dame Sans Merci by way of opinion. Hasty orders were made for wine and cheese of modest cost and after strenuous debate and due nods to Keatsian academia, the poem was interpreted as a veiled endorsement of Ulrika. One department, agriculture maybe or motoring, grew so frustrated that they eventually plumped for Nancy only because her name (Dell Olio) sounded nicer. It seemed like as good a solution as any.

Foreign Affairs, would, naturally enough, have been able to provide the definitive answer to what had become an infuriating puzzler but they were, unfortunately, overseas.

Tempers failed. Old friends fell out. There were, alas, tears.

Here in sport, alive to the magnitude of the situation, it was decided to banish all stories that didn't relate directly to Sven. Or Ulrika. Or Nancy. So what if the heart of English soccer was about to collapse due to lack of finance? Digital, schmidgital would be our reaction to the Nationwide football league crisis.

Plans for a recently updated map of the skeleton of David Beckham's sore foot were also jettisoned. References to Roy Keane's knee, rumoured to be up and about and looking for action again, were banned by way of memo. It was decided to take the proverbial kitchen sink and hurl it at the story that was gripping all of England.

It became apparent that while Sven wouldn't talk about Ulrika or Nancy and that Nancy would talk only about Ulrika and that Ulrika would talk only to her children in her back garden in Berkshire, Sven's own mother, Ulla, was prepared to philosophise to anyone that would listen.

"The boy is over 50-years-old," she said of the England manager. "You can teach children to walk but you can't tell them what road to take." It was a perfect example of the sort of ambiguous diplomacy her son had so beguiled the English public with prior to the revelations of his misdemeanours.

Word of Sven's public appearance at the launch of England's official World Cup suits on Oxford Street broke and, hawkish as ever, we in the sports department swooped to cover the story, crowding around the television set.

Watching Sven squirm on what was an absurdly high stool, we realised how tame the Irish domestic World Cup dramas must seem to the world in comparison. England offer Burton suits, the passion of spurned Italian lovers, Nordic Ice Queens, the San Lorzenzo restaurant and a saucy and ubiquitous bout of romping for general delectation. Our idea of juicy is another discussion on the merits of Lee Carsley.

As Sven spoke about privacy, resembling a mild mannered lawyer, we grew more and more uncomfortable. Our illusions of Sven had been shattered by all of this. We had come to believe that the Swede was something of a latter-day Alf Ramsey, albeit an imported version. Hard as we tried now, it was difficult not to envisage him romping (romp v 1. - play wildly and joyfully) at every available turn. The whole point of Sven was that he was the antithesis to romping, an activity which had long besmirched the good name of English football. We wondered if it was somehow contagious.

Divorcing ourselves from the image of Sven on the rompage, we thoughtfully debated the wider implications of the story. The fear across the water is that Sven's amorous leanings threaten to bankrupt England's World Cup hopes. It has been promised that the situation will be with us through and beyond the month-long competition.

It was gloomily observed that England would, perversely, more than likely win the thing after this. And that is the way life often works. But that didn't help solve the immediate problem. Nancy or Ulrika? Choose your weapon.

It was impossible to decide. Both women are going through an extraordinarily tough time with Nancy subjected to lunches in Knightsbridge while Ulrika, a veteran of World Cup tabloid turmoil, accepted visits from friends. Both had to resort to wearing shades. Ulrika it has to be said has better taste in protective eyewear. She also has a fiery tongue, likening the pitiable Sven, according to the Daily Mail, to a "Tory politician caught with his trousers down". This phrase also conjured up disheartening aspects of Sven and we began to grow more and more dispirited by the scandal of it all. It will be impossible to look at him in the same way after this, if at all.

Eventually, people returned to work and most of today's newspaper is understandably devoted to this important, deeply affecting and saddening tale.

Needless to say, though, the finer points were argued and turned over beyond deadline and late into the night. Blows, verbal and physical, were, to the best of one's memory, exchanged and, of course, there were more tears of both sympathy and frustration.

It was hard to remember an event or issue that commanded as much vehement rhetoric and heat. People cared for Sven. They worried for Nancy. They feared for Ulrika. It was a heartbreaking case. Hardened cynics broke down and wept for their mothers.

People hugged and wondered why the world just couldn't get along.

And eventually, trembling and wizened, we all knew where we stood, even if we were utterly lost as to why. We wished all three the best in their respective bouts of romping and headed home, glad to at last have arrived at an answer. So after everything, we are for Ulrika.