Much has been made about the cosplaying of women footballers – you know, the whole on-pitch slo-mo performative dance, together with the vacuous press conferences, minging magazine articles, asshole adverts, unmeritorious medals, and the tosspot Tik Tok turdbait.

The overreach and grim gaslighting are embarrassing. Perhaps a thumping by Spain in the Euro final might give us something of a reset.

Please, let it happen.

The dim disease is taking hold, and it’s enough to make you choke on your ball gag.

Most nauseating of all are the pussy-whipped drips who are forced at the point of a knitting needle to squeeze out excessively gushing supportive commentary for this crud on the social media accounts they predictibly share with their wives. These emasculated guff muffins probably self-identity as ‘feminists’ in public and ‘worthless’ in private.

What I find fascinating about the Lionesses is that they’re not just shite at football, but apparently pisspoor at lesbianism too. You’d have thought that statistically speaking a few might have gone full Mr T, but many seem hell-bent on making a fabulous fist only of femme presentation with all the daintiness that goes with it.That doesn’t translate well onto a football pitch. Not content with cosplaying football, they’re cosplaying feminine roles too.

More surprising is the fact that, given the multi-faceted international relationship web in the game, there are not a few more harder tackles going in, so to speak, from all the bitter exes. As it is, the only fluid exchanges take place off the pitch, with the goalies picking more hairs out of their teeth than they do balls out of the net.

That’s a lot of hair and ball – possibly to compensate for an absence of the real thing.

You also have to laugh at the reasonable chunk of players (not the reasonably chunky ones unless you want a swift visit from the Old Bill) who do not allow details of their personal fumblings to hit the papers, when you consider that they will go to inordinate lengths to ram all manner of other personal minutiae down the throats of a weary public.

These are the ones who of course still can’t face Mum and Dad about their gash gagging, or who are probably still hopelessly trapped in their teen grooming network hell and are wholly dependent on monster munch for their shoe money. You’ll never see any of those celesbians risk the exposure of a superbly executed scissor kick.

Jeffrey Epstein must be spinning hoops in his grave. He was vilified for setting up Lolita Island, while women’s football has forever been grooming young snatch into every available wizard’s sleeve.

At least the FA radiates propriety as a cornerstone of consensual, Stonewall-accredited lesbianism, though that hasn’t prevented the somewhat unfortunate acquisition by the Women’s FA HQ of the moniker The Carpet Warehouse.

I just hope that the world of butchball prescribes itself a course of honesty pills and rubs the magic bean of authenticity. It might then cheer up all those miserable hatchet-faced clam-rammers, allow them to settle into a sustainable niche, and free up all those cops burdened with probing hurty words on social media.

We then might all see a benefit to the farce.