Growing up, I struggled to fathom the madness of the Ryder Cup.

Ordinary European sides would regularly stand toe to toe with star studded American ones. Colin Montgomerie, plagued by a perceived lack of mental strength that denied him a solitary Major win, would transform into a golf machine under pressure. The nigh on immortal Tiger Woods would often be reduced to rubble. Traditional etiquette would give way to bedlam.

Of course, over time things became clearer. The team dynamic, the passion, the camaraderie, I learnt the Ryder Cup simply didn’t fall in line with how golf was supposed to play out.

But with the curtain now drawn on the latest edition of the game’s most absorbing spectacle, and an ultimately convincing win for Thomas Bjorn’s European side in Paris, one thing remains refreshingly obvious.

The insanity is as strong as ever.

Where else for example, would Tommy Fleetwood simply smile as a middle-aged man screamed he wanted his babies?

In searing heat on day one, an American father and son sported Tigger the Tiger costumes and a Canadian family, all draped in maple leaf flags, whooped and hollered for Europe.

At both the opening and closing ceremonies, guest host David Ginola, yes former professional footballer David Ginola, waltzed about with the air of a children's entertainer at a two star hotel in Magaluf.

None of the above made sense, and nor did they need to. All simply blended in with the frenzy.

As usual, pre-match predictions had by in large, all come back to that bi-annual line of ‘the Americans look stronger on paper’.

On the actual course however, from Friday afternoon onwards anyway, they were anything but.

Jim Furyk was class personified throughout, but in no other sporting concept does history judge a captain as brutally as it does in the Ryder Cup. Win and you masterminded it, lose and you failed. The rest is just detail.

But unfortunately for Furyk, the partnership of Jordan Spieth and Justin Thomas aside, there was devil aplenty in this particular detail.

His wildcard picks were a disaster, Bjorn’s were inspired.

Sergio Garcia, Ian Poulter, Paul Casey, Henrik Stenson, all selections that smacked of nostalgia, and forlorn hope that out of form players would rediscover old magic. Some dubbed it 'jobs for the boys', but critically, they were boys that Bjorn trusted. A grand total of 9.5 points between them, capped by Poulter seeing off World No 1 Dustin Johnson on that final, dizzy afternoon, indicates why.

Like I said, little about the Ryder Cup ever adds up.

And the (now great) Dane has inadvertently created Europe’s new power couple in Fleetwood and Francesco Molinari. Both reveled, both were adored by the galleries, and as significantly as anything, both muted Patrick Reed.

In the end, the final scoreline of 17.5-10.5 appeared a hiding. And yet such is the beauty of it all, that for one tanatalising hour yesterday afternoon, everything appeared in the balance. The projected score was narrowing, the American momentum was gathering, and a dreaded reversal of the miracle in Medinah six years ago was a distinct possibility. Perhaps the previously dubbed ‘best ever’ USA side would come good after all.

The unflappable Molinari soon put paid to that. And long before Alex Noren provided the Spielberg finish with a moment that signified the togetherness of the European team as much as any other, holing a monster putt on the 18th and being a mobbed by team mates and caddies alike, the contest was done.

As a venue, Le Golf National struck gold. In truth, the city of Paris was scarcely bothered by the Ryder Cup. Sure, transport systems were in place, but advertising was at a premium. Those selling coffee and croissants at train stations charged around in the face of the avalanche, seemingly panicked by the unexpected influx.

But the event didn’t need the city centre to embrace it. Sell out crowds on all three days had already seen to that – and to say the atmosphere was highly charged would be the equivalent of saying Poulter looked focussed at the first tee on Sunday. A ludicrous understatement.

Indeed, seldom do you hear calls to tinker with the Ryder Cup. In other sports, formats are constantly evolving in major tournaments – a 48 team World Cup in football, bonus points in the Six Nations, and god knows what these days in cricket.

But the beauty of the greatest show in golf? Doesn’t need it.

Keep the four balls in the morning, keep the foursomes in the afternoon, keep the singles on Sunday. Keep the drama, the tension, the heart palpitations when roars go up around the course, the crowd interaction, the passion. Keep the notion that a group of grown ups can all be dressed from head to toe as banana man and not look out of the place.

Simply put, keep the madness.