Deary me – the Afcon tournament is hardly a more appetising spectacle than the Women’s ‘World Cup’, which itself registered an 11/10 on the toss-o-meter.

I’d rather plunge my unprotected fingers into Mary Earps’ Instagram page than allow any more of the light from that sub-Saharan sportsqueef to enter my retinal photoreceptors.

There’s certainly not as much testosterone in the air as in the Butcholympics, and that’s saying something when all those juiced-up Stretch Armstrongs are bouncing around aimlessly dodging imaginary spears.

Have you ever seen a game when a goal in the last minute was overturned and a penalty given to the other side? That had to be worth at least three goats and the eternal blart of a village pre-teen.

It stank worse than the crowd’s sandals.

None of the Nigerians protested though – only a mega advance-fee sting counts as real fraud in Mumbojumboville – but it has transpired that the linesman was a Gambian prince with $24m that he urgently needed to transfer to a Swiss bank.

That’s probably why the FIFA officials jumped at it.

The problem with the tournament is that all the politically correct gimps who crave their slice of that lovely skimmed Oxfam loot are under the post-fact cosh to afford maximum credibility to Bongoball even though it’s clearly unmitigated crud. Next, they’ll be screening it on the BBC.

Oh, wait a minute – they are.

You wouldn’t believe all the sub-Aluko pundits in the studio jumping for joy at the excruciating scuffball frenzy of sunglasses vendors flapping their uncoordinated chicken limbs.

Well, I’m sure you would after having witnessed the UK media love-in lauding the recent fingerfest of female faux football.

It almost makes you almost want to tune back into the Lezolympics and the Tik-Tock turds all over again.

Roll on the League Two play-offs.