Appy polly loggies, droogies, but I could not watch last night’s “debate” between Coach Walz and Clockwork Orange.

I made it past the explanation of the rules and maybe two questions in and then yelped “Out out out out!” like a doggie.

Bedways was rightways as I saw it. We weren’t going to learn anything from this gloopy chepooka that would change our rassoodocks about these two chellovecks.

The Coach seems a proper moodge who plays by the rules while Clockwork Orange is anything but. He’s a smart, mean grahzny bratchny who would steal the coppers off his dead granny’s eyes for his ante into the Big Game, with a few aces up the old sleeve courtesy of his prestoopnik pals.

And you don’t fight him with facts. A cutthroat britva is what a lewdie needs for this lot, O my brothers.

• O my brothers (and sisters): If you’re not conversant with the nadsat dialect Anthony Burgess devised for his characters, you’ll have to hunt down a glossary. Burgess was opposed to such assistance, but one of my copies went against his wishes.