They think it’s all over – it is now.

England’s women’s ‘football’ players have been traumatised by their first dicking.

Sorry, their first dicking in a ‘world cup’ final.

I never actually tuned into the farce itself – I’d had one of those moments during the night when I had awoken and wondered whether the tyre pressure might be low on my car. As a result, I was out at the garage while it was on the box.

For those of you who missed it, the event can largely be summed up as follows:

– Hemp hit the bar and was a few inches from ecstasy.

– Bronze started dribbling, left a gaping hole at the back, and somebody banged it in.

All par for the course for your average bint.

From the highlights I saw, you’d have had a more technically proficient game from a gaggle of toddlers punting a beach ball about on the sands. They would certainly have been running faster and with a lot more enthusiasm.

Perhaps the Lionesses (chortle) might have fared better, had they put as much effort into the fixture as they did into their pre-match fist-pumping fanaticism and their post-match crying.

Equal pay? Equal status? They couldn’t even manage an equaliser after the ref had added 30% more time to the second half.

I have previously referred to them as lipstick lesbians, but I was wrong. The correct label should have been slapstick lesbians.

The biggest disappointment aside from the comedy of errors itself was however the miserable old bat who brought out the anonymous trophy. She could have wheeled out any old crock, and nobody would have realised.

Flanked by a square-jawed tranny Frankenstein security droid with an Adam’s apple bigger than my head and Kenny Everett hands, the chisel-faced über–Lez plonked it onto its hardboard stand where it wobbled as unconvincingly as the players’ near-imperceptible man-titties.

I’d half-expected at least a golden vacuum cleaner.

It all looked so cheap.

Still, it’s over now. And if there were large audiences, at least a critical mass of folk now realise what women’s football is all about.

Beyond Greatness?

Beyond parody.