The latest edition of the FIFA World Cup is underway, and it already has the makings of a crass omnishambles.

The Mexico-South Africa opener was refereed by some posturing goon, who was darting around, spaz-carding, like someone had marinated his love eggs in Chakalaka.

The defender, Sithole, so christened after his parents had conceived him during a weekend break in Yeovil, had the sort of mare that used to get scrawny hoods necklaced in Soweto. It couldn’t have bombed harder if they’d fielded the HIV virus itself.

The South Africans almost snatched a consolation, but that was after the match when a Range Rover pulled up at traffic lights and someone bricked the driver’s window before shooting his old woman in the face.

The World Cup, which essentially means Europe plus Brazil and Argentina, has long since been a turgid cesspit of corruption.

Not content with awarding Trump the FIFA Peace Prize – an ornate lampshade fashioned from the fresh skin of a Gazan child – the 2034 tournament will beheading to Saudi after an uncontested bidding process. That’s right on brand for the unholy cock conglomerate of wonga-crazed sociopaths.

The term ‘FIFA ranking’ has never been more fitting.