There is nothing wonderful in the world that men in suits can’t find a way of spoiling. Football World Cups used to be great: massive events to which the world’s eyes were glued. Not one of us watched, or went to, West Germany, Argentina, Spain, Mexico or Italy and thought: “You know what? This is all very well – but if only it was all a bit bigger.”
It was plenty big enough, but not big enough for the men in suits, for they had willies to wave, and so the tournament had to grow, because growth is good and bigger is always better. So now we have 48 teams competing not in one country but over a whole continent.
My first World Cup was in Germany in 2006. I was working there – as much as I can describe with a straight face any job that was so joyful as “work”. For Croatia’s first match, I marched with what felt like a million Croats and Brazilians to the Olympic stadium in Berlin. Waves of national supporters swept through the city as their countries played. It was extraordinary and magnificent. But even then the claws of the corporates were starting to gain purchase.
As the tournament progressed, instead of the crowds’ passion getting louder and prouder, the atmosphere went the other way. With each round, the real fans’ share of match tickets shrank. They weren’t even priced out – the tickets just weren’t available to them, because the sponsors’ needs came first. Come the final, the proper Italy fans were to be seen packed into a small section behind one goal, the proper French behind the other. In those cheap seats, they clapped; elsewhere, the sponsors’ guests clacked their lanyards together.
From what we’ve seen of the ticketing this time round, it looks as though the organisers are getting stuck into the big-money phase early doors, so at least we know where we stand. Meanwhile, I hear of groups of fans booking package holidays to Spain or wherever to binge-watch the matches together there. I’m sure there’ll be some discrediting scenes when England play. But somehow, miserably, the true spirit of World Cuppery will be more alive in these places than across the Atlantic.
• Adrian Chiles is a broadcaster, writer and Guardian columnist
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