Good evening, and welcome to Fantasy Football – sorry, Fantasy Politics – starring Andy Burnham as Harry Kane, if that’s not a bit too southern for the Manc Messiah.

England’s seismic World Cup triumph over Mexico in the Azteca Stadium has diverted attention away from the anti-democratic stitch-up going on back home.

But let me, your Uncle Rich, concentrate your minds. A couple of Jude Bellingham belters and a pen from Our ’Arry mustn’t let Spads’R’Us get away with it.

Back home, they’ll be thinking about us . . . Or not, as the case may be.

The more I think about it, the worse it gets. A bunch of Boyz II Men wannabes are stealing the country from us and everybody – especially the Boyz and Girlz in the Bubble – appears to be cheering them on.

Andy Pandy (or Andy Capp, still haven’t decided, you’ll get a vote in the fullness etc) is running round Wembley with the cup.

If King of the South, via Bavaria, Harrykane (all one word according to the broadcasters) and his Band of Brothers actually manage to circumnavigate Lionel Messi and Kylian Mbappe and bring the trophy home, we are facing the hideous prospect of our new, unelected Prime Minister locking arms with the victorious In-ger-land team and singing Wonderwall by Oasis in Downing Street.

Sick bags all round.

The weekend papers were full of speculation about who, what and where ‘Andy’s’ Cabinet would look like.

Will it be David, will it be Ed, here’s what he said to me . . . Que Sera, Sera, whatever will be, will be . . .

Bring on Doris Day – or, in my case, Geno Washington and the Ram Jam Band, at the Gliderdrome, Boston, Lincs.

Day one, I told you this was a constitutional disgrace, regardless of the small print. Day, whatever it is since the Makerfield by-election, it doesn’t get any better.

One of the papers even led its front page on ‘Andy’s’ plans to change the first-past-the-post voting system, so that Reform UK or what’s left of the Tories could never form a government.

Who asked him to do that? Who voted for that? Er, nobody, apart from less than 30,000 mugs in a suburb of Wigan.

Sorry if I keep banging on about this, but it matters.

Full disclosure: I’ve been in the US for the World Cup. On Saturday night, July 4, the 250th anniversary of the foundation of the union, I was on the Redneck Riviera in Florida, watching a Country & Western band in cowboy hats murder Cocaine by J.J. Cale, later covered by Eric Clapton. Think Jake and Elwood, the Blues Brothers, at Bob’s Country Bunker. Bottles of Bud Lite thrown randomly at the chicken wire. This Bud’s for you, guv!

It was right up there with Madness at Kenwood House, North London, circa 2019. Welcome to the House of Fun. But instead of Suggsy’s Wilson, Keppel and Betty fez, it was baseball caps all round.

Fair to say, this was Maga country. Everyone was wearing the red, white and blue, and some ghastly tattoos. Stars and stripes and treble margaritas as a basis for negotiation. Sweet Home Alabama, play that dead band’s song, you get the gist.

Not being a Septic, or wanting to be singled out as a Madness of King George Royalist, I wore my vaguely neutral, faded light blue 30-year old Asbury Jukes, go-to T-shirt. An innocent bystander, but somehow I got stuck between a rock and hard place, a large VAT and fried shrimp in a basket.

And when they started on the Star-Spangled Banner – dreadful dirge that it is – what’s left of the hairs on the back of my Gregory stood to attention. Like most of us – apart from the Jolly Jockos on full-kilted football duty abroad and the ‘All off to Dublin in the Green’ Fenians – we British wear our patriotism lightly. I’ve always found overt displays of nationalism somewhat embarrassing. It’s not what we do.

But there’s something about singing along like common people – all creeds and colours and religions – coming together and expressing love of their country.

Anyway, here’s the point. Yes, the US is a divided nation – torn between Trump and who knows what the hell comes next? My best hope is Rubio. Still, a bunch of Free-Free-Palestine, Corbynite commies have just been elected in New York, so your guess . . .

But when push comes to wossname, they all rally round the flag. My first thought on Saturday night was that if anyone tried flying the Union Flag and singing God Save The King in a boozer in London, they’d be raided by Old Bill.

Far-right, far-right, far-right . . . put your trousers on, you’re bleedin’ nicked, chummy . . . just like that bloke in Chiswick who posted some hurty words on the internet over the weekend . . .

Say what you like about the States, but at least it’s a proper democracy. OK, so half the country hates Trump, but he won’t only be doggone, he’ll be long gone in another couple of years and individual states can defy him with impunity.

However, if it were to be suggested that he should be forced from office halfway through his term and replaced by the mayor of – oh, I dunno – Detroit or Los Angeles, who nobody had voted for, the balloon would go up big time.

There’d be riots and summer’s here and the time is ripe for shooting in the street. Pass me my rifle, Billy Bob.

Yet here in Jolly Old England we’re expected to sit through an anti-democratic coup as if it is the most natural thing in the world. Andy this, and Andy that, and Andy three-bags-full, sir. The knee-taking routine from the Bubble and the BBC makes me want to projectile vomit.

If the Tories, or Reform, were mounting a similar palace revolution, the Not In My Name mob would be storming Westminster, toppling statues and spraying pink paint everywhere.

Anyway, here’s where we came in. The following night I slipped on my England T-shirt to watch Good King Harry’s Band of Brothers defeat Mexico in style.

I’d been reading the Sunday papers’ speculation about Andy Pandy’s new Cabinet. It took me back to 1994, when I was for some reason asked to be a manager on Baddiel and Skinner’s new show Fantasy Football League.

Along with the late, great Peter Cook, BBC football legend John Motson and the glorious Sue Johnston from The Royle Family, we got to pick which players would turn out for our imaginary teams. Mine was called Garrincha’s Dogs, after the great Brazilian winger (don’t ask).

Cookie blew his entire £10million budget on Eric Cantona, then dropped him from the first game because he didn’t like the way Ooh-ah Cantona wore his collar sticking up.

But I digress. What we’re looking at now is Andy Pandy’s Fantasy Football-style politics, bringing back a selection of Spads’R’Us from Gordon Brown’s equally unelected regime. At least Gordon had stood in a General Election, which is more than can be said for Burnham – twice defeated in a Labour leadership contest, and sent back to Westminster by just a third of those eligible to vote in Makerfield.

Now this self-styled King of the North is planning to screw the South to buy bigger televisions for layabouts and populate his Cabinet with the likes of James Purnell, a brace of Milibands and Ed Balls, so he can hold Pixie’s hand if and when she becomes Chancellor.

And as the band on Saturday night didn’t get round to singing Springsteen’s Thunder Road – he’s a bit liberal for the Redneck Riviera – it’s a town full of losers . . .

Makes you proud to be British.