NOT so long ago, a TV broadcaster trumpeted its forthcoming World Cup coverage with a slogan something like “90 minutes of gut-wrenching, heart-pounding tension. Can’t wait”.

Outside of emotional European nights, I’d begun to forget what that felt like.

But now it’s back. It’s April, and we’re still involved in the Premier League title race. Maybe we’re still the outsiders, but there’s no mistaking the real thing.

Twice within 48 hours, a nervous tension built slowly in my stomach that would normally have me reaching for the Milk of Magnesia.

Curiously though, the discomfort I was feeling was almost pleasurable. Was this a new super-bug, steadily devouring you from the inside while releasing endorphins into your system to make you enjoy the experience and eschew the normal remedial antacids?

Or was my digestive system finally giving up the ghost after a lifetime of dodgy bitter and post-pub kebabs?

No; though the symptoms were similar, the cause, though barely remembered, was unmistakeable: PMT (Pre-Match Tension), followed by IBS (Irritating Babel Syndrome). Very much football-related afflictions, but as real to your bowels as any bacteria lurking in an undercooked chicken tikka.

Saturday was bad enough.