Well, thank God that shambles is over. I’ve not been as bemused since the World Downs Syndrome Championship when Mongolia chalked up a bonus chromosome in stoppage time.

If a team as manifestly cack as England can triumph in any tournament, this tells you everything you need to know about this dogshit variant of the beautiful game.

It’s a circus, but once again we’ve seen three irons on the shirt, and a whole host of tosspot imposters are going to be medalled for doing sweet FA. The BBC Sports Personality shindig is doubtless now going to be awash with these grim grifters.

Bizarrely, at the game Sarina Wiegman opted to rock the Rosa Klebb vibe, momentarily outlezzing the Spain manager, who herself has a face that requires age verification on Pornhub just to buzz its stoney contours with a Temu multi-speed marrow vibrator. I thought at one stage Saz was going to team up with Kronsteen and trick Bond into procuring a Lektor cryptography device from the Soviet Union consulate, but there you go.

The Spanish coach incidentally had usurped the previous incumbent, who had too close a connection with Senor Rubiales, the geezer who had been canned for an exuberant pucker-up-buttercup on a player as if he’d gone full fingerstink and bowled her down the alley for a strike.

The match itself was an übershambles with both sides seemingly controlled by ADHD teens on pirated PS2s.

One player, with a physique carelessly honed in homage to the late post-steroid Hulk Hogan, was ambling about the turf like her love eggs had been programmed to follow the bass line of a Town Called Malice, though the female commentators lauded every excruciating punt and slice that her whale-like form wildly thrashed out.

Anyway, back to what passed as a game, and at the end of normal time, if we can confidently attribute the term normal to any of this horseshit, the captains flipped a coin to decide which end they’d prefer for extra time.

I unsuccessfully guessed ‘the ass’.

The pantomime horses then galloped around aimlessly for an extra thirty minutes, as if somebody was threatening them with cock, and we settled in for penalties. These were not exactly the epitome of professional excellence, and I had been hoping that the payers might have injected some spunk into proceedings by bending over backwards and firing out some lubed-up nerf balls.

They sadly went the traditional route.

Spunk is after all kryptonite to most of these gals unless it comes via a post-retirement civil partnership turkey baster.

The final moment of victory was predictably reserved for Chloe Kelly, who converted her penalty and presented to the world her severe Croydon facelift, giving the appearance of a self-satisfied Mao Tse-Tung holding in a big piss.

After the match, we were further forced to endure an embarrassing moment as a horse-faced fanny assassin was interviewed post-match and was offered a microphone that appeared to have been sculpted in the shape of Mother Theresa’s fist. We were spared the spectacle of her backing onto it, which would have necessitated a giant Tetrahedron crane for a successful disengagement, so we should be grateful for small mercies. Spectacularly, Lucy Bronze might have played the game with a fractured tibia, but let’s not forget that any appreciation of this crapola is founded on a fracture in society’s resistance to gaslighting.

It’s not all doom and gloom, though. During the presentation ceremony, I thought for a moment I could hear the faint sobbing of Mary Earps, who had at her own behest missed out on a second successive Euros medal.

I was wrong, though, because she wasn’t there at all.

Every cloud, and all that.