Discretion being the better part of valour, and the whole nine yards of cowardice, we will steer clear of the murkier elements of the Mark Clattenburg affair, if you don’t mind.

It’s hard enough to sell a book. Personal tragedy, crippling addiction, news about sexuality, an exchange of riches for rags, or vice versa; all might be considered saleable assets at this commercially sensitive time.

Exclude me, if you will, from the ranks of the ‘media toerags’ whose foul agendas were purportedly dashed in Abbotstown on Wednesday night.

‘Ooofff!’

Such are the peculiarities of footballing hysteria that a series of subtle, successfully-executed dives will bring about nothing like the binge of handwringing a bunch of botched, largely fruitless ones will.

It has been a quiet hobby horse of mine for a while — at least quiet in the sense that I badgered anyone that would listen about it, but was never likely to attempt the legwork involved in researching the matter.

An admission: Notwithstanding those unsporting protestations last week, I did, despite all the hideous codology associated with the event, eventually give in to the lure of the Ryder Cup.

By the dawn of spring, Mario would either be long gone or be breaking his back foraging for ball out around wing-forward

Once more, Ron Atkinson must ruefully ponder his terminal exile from football since the day racist nonsense tumbled out of his mouth in the privacy of a largely deserted gantry position in Monaco.

Do forgive me, but I can’t quite manage to get exercised about this or any other Ryder Cup, which is a pity, because the format is tantalisingly engrossing. There are a few very specific reasons.