Hold my Prosecco while I have a whinge.

For the second year in a row, the public has voted a woman footballer the ‘Sports Personality of the Year’.

Their game, their rules.

Good luck to all the women making money from football. I say the same about proper players making zillions from Premier League merchandising. If there’s a market for it, fill your (polyurethane) boots.

But let’s not detach our retinas from reality. Were the voting rooted in fact, Ronnie O’Sullivan would win it every year.

That’s a personality, a genius, and a winner right there.

Women’s football isn’t football, and it isn’t even a sport. It’s twenty-two headless chicks at the slo-mo, pseudo-lez-Olympics.

At best, it’s a vehicle to promote equality at any cost, even if that means a descent into the abyss of abject Arkham Asylum abandon.

It’s sport’s straight pride, which stinks worse than Megan Rapinoe’s fingers.

Woeful, woke wank whistling in the wind.

It gives young girls a scant glimpse of hope before they embark on a life of giros, babies, and getting rogered more than a beat sergeant’s radio.

This year’s voting debacle tells you nothing about Mary Earps and everything about the UK public. It’s a mirror for the current, crass national psyche.

The dickwad underbelly is gripped by Stockholm syndrome – they are hostages of the relentless drip-drip-drip of inane social media content and dribble TV. They have become attached to their abusers, to the point that they are now complicit in an overarching, fecund farce – co-conspirators in an act of national humiliation.

Most tellingly – given their rabid reaction to any soupçon of criticism regarding the awards result – has been the acute anger machine-gunned into naysayers desperate to extract them from captivity. Joe and Josephine Public have morphed into unswerving, chip-spitting advocates for their captors’ radical and bonkers white-is-black ideology.

But let’s not attempt a rescue. Let the twerps enjoy their moment.

After all, it’s all they’ve got.