Clive Tyldesley for F365 on the ugliness of the Infantino close-up and a make-believe World Cup

Clive Tyldesley has seen enough of those seemingly compulsory close-up shots of Gianni Infantino in the Qatar stands. The delusional FIFA president has won.

It’s the close-up of Gianni that gets me. Every time. I could almost buy into his alluring Arabian Nights if it wasn’t for that recurring image of his easy sense of entitlement. In those few crass, comedic seconds of obligatory TV recognition, you can nearly see his compulsory clause being inserted into the broadcast contract and hear the voice of David Conn explaining the grubby deal in the next Netflix documentary. There is Sig Infantino fiddling on his phone while football burns.

If you are still outraged by the staging of a World Cup in Qatar, blame him not the Emir. And then ask yourself if you played a part in letting it happen. Qatar is its own little world and we don’t have to live in it. Or we don’t have to until it is chosen to host the most important event in our professional lives. And if you agree that the World Cup should be rotated around the globe then who knows, maybe Doha is as good a place as any to stage the Arab version. Maybe.

Maybe FIFA should have looked for an alternative the moment the first body bag arrived in Pakistan; maybe we should have all insisted they did. I applaud the journalists who keep reminding us of the real price paid for the majesty of the Qatari stadiums but the words must make empty reading for the bereaved families thousands of miles away and the truth is that most of us who covered the tournament have conveniently moved on to who partners Harry up front.

The fact that most of those stadiums will be downsized or dismantled once the credits have rolled is the defining one. The Lego version of the 974 Stadium will presumably be this year’s ungettable Christmas present. The stadium itself is just a load of blocks assembled snugly and temporarily together. It’s make-believe.

Qatar is merely a stage; the World Cup is simply a show. This is only the next stop on the tour. The real world can be seen wildly celebrating goals in cut-away camera shots from fan parks in Sydney, Tokyo and London. But in downtown Doha the mood is managed and massaged by the sheer civilised comfort of this World Cup.

I’m not going to lie – I enjoyed it for that. You inevitably base your judgment of a production on what you see from the best seat in the house. Every match volunteer and hotel employee I encountered was warm and welcoming but I didn’t get to go backstage with them. Each one of those stadiums was distinctively themed and dressed and yet they all seemed somehow the same.

The tournament was different because everything was built and presented to the same luxurious spec: that Disney branding I wrote about last time.

Different isn’t always wrong. There is a different pleasure to be derived from attending matches without the prickly menace and unease that accompanies massed gatherings of partisan fans. The vulnerable ones feel safer, the sober ones are not alone. Huge crowds are being accommodated without any push and shove. You can take the children. You need a pretty penny or a free lunch to afford to be there in the first place but then… yes, you can take the children. Just not the gay ones.

And perhaps that is fine for a fleeting global showpiece played once every four years. For most football fans, a World Cup will only ever be a television event; the spectators are mere extras to the main cast of this boxset. We’ve all read about the fake fans, we all know and probably understand the level of high-end corporate patronage. Some of those spectators lend a uniquely vivid colour and distinctive soundtrack to the games, others start a Mexican Wave after five minutes without a corner kick. You pay your big money, you get to make your choice.

At the last game I commentated on, I got the distinct impression that the majority of the 83,720 present had come to see Cristiano Ronaldo rather than Portugal or Switzerland. His was the only name of a nation or person that I actually heard chanted during my stay; just a glimpse of him sitting on the substitutes’ bench was enough to garnish a sizeable roar of approval. I don’t think there are too many Catholics in Doha but it was akin to a papal visit. The locals just wanted to be in the same place as one of the most famous men in the world. It’s fandom but not as we know it, captain.

It’s a madness but, again, it’s our madness. We may be time-zones detached from the melodrama of it all but we spend a month arguing about Tite dancing with his players. Despite the fact that many of the players can and indeed do do it on a cold, rainy night in Hull, this is a disparate version of the game we love, an alternative universe. For one month only.

The World Cup is actually an inflated variant of the football we lap up during all of the endless weeks in between. It’s escapist and ephemeral. Here today, YouTubed tomorrow. It won’t be long before a Sky presenter tries to convince us that we’ve missed Brentford’s Monday Night encounter with Forest. A return to the familiarity of a David Moyes scowl will be oddly reassuring after Gianni’s smug close-up.

Infantino’s opening speech was delusional to everybody but him and those who shared his vision of a sanitised showcase for the world’s favourite sport. Like it or not, the tournament has faithfully followed the Hollywood script he wrote for it. The protests have faded along with the crackdown on penalty-box shirt-tugging, the One Love armbands have been consigned to memorabilia collections and there’s been enough added time for most of the faces magically painted across Doha’s skyscrapers to play their way into the last eight.

Gianni has won and, worse still, we are enjoying it in our millions. No wonder he looks so pleased with himself.