Christopher Bucktin: 'Trump, Muppets and Temu half-time show that exposed World Cup final's Americanisation'

The World Cup final should be the purest 90 minutes in sport. Instead, FIFA decided the occasion needed improving by turning half-time into the sort of entertainment you might find at a shopping centre opening.

Before Spain could lift the trophy, supporters had to endure a Temu half-time show, Argentinas attempt to turn football into UFC and Donald Trump behaving as though he had scored the winner, saved a penalty and built the stadium himself. This was the Americanisation of the World Cup in all its bloated glory. Everything had to be louder, longer, shinier and attached to a sponsor. The football itself began to feel like an awkward guest who had turned up without buying a hospitality package.

For weeks, FIFA had already chopped matches apart with hated hydration breaks which arrived at suspiciously perfect moments for broadcasters to milk another herd of cash-cow adverts. Player welfare was the excuse. The advertisers appeared to be the ones in urgent need of refreshment.

Footballs great appeal is its flow. Pressure builds, momentum swings, and supporters barely dare look away. FIFA studied that magic carefully and decided what it really needed was another opportunity to sell pickup trucks, takeaway pizza and tablets for heartburn caused by the takeaway pizza.

Then the final arrived and gave us the pathetic half-time show, dismissed by Wayne Rooney with the expert verdict: c**p. Madonna, Justin Bieber, Ronaldo and Ronaldinho were joined by dancers, choirs, flashing lights and puppets. With Trump waiting in the stands, it was difficult to tell where the Muppets ended, and the presidential party began.

These were global superstars reduced to props in Americas desperate effort to turn the World Cup into the Super Bowl with shin pads. Ronaldo and Ronaldinho once lit up finals through genius. Now they were trapped in a production that appeared to have been organised by sixth-formers using a voucher, a smoke machine and the entire contents of the drama cupboard.

The whole thing was noisy, tacky and painfully pleased with itself. FIFA wanted a cultural moment. It produced a school talent show sponsored by the local vape shop, with Kermit drafted in after reading the script. Worse, the extended interval interfered with the match. Spain had been in the ascendancy, yet their players were left cooling down while FIFA wheeled out pop stars, puppets and enough scenery to delay a Broadway musical.

Half-time is for treatment, tactical instructions and recovery. It should not last long enough for Trump to finish telling somebody how large his crowd was, how unfair the boos were and why he probably deserved the Golden Boot. When the football resumed, Argentina provided a different form of American entertainment.

Their defeat descended into UFC, which must have thrilled Trump, a man who enjoys sport most when somebody is being punched, and he can stand close enough to appear in the photograph afterwards. Argentina had carried an ugly edge throughout the tournament. They kicked, snarled, surrounded officials and behaved as though intimidation had been drawn on the tactics board beside corners and free-kicks.

FIFA must respond with serious suspensions and fines. The governing body cannot preach respect, plaster the word across every spare advertising board and then suddenly develop poor eyesight when one of the games biggest teams treats the final whistle as the opening bell.

Yet even Argentinas meltdown was not the final indignity. Trump had been badly booed whenever his face appeared on the giant screens. It became the most popular part of the entertainment, and the only audience participation FIFA had not rehearsed for weeks. When he walked out for the presentation, the boos grew louder. Trump wore the frozen grin of a man trying to convince himself that tens of thousands of people were cheering his name in a difficult European accent.

Then Spain lifted the trophy, and he refused to leave. He remained beside the winners like a lodger who had stopped paying rent, eaten everything in the fridge, changed the Wi-Fi password and was now asking whether his relatives could stay until Christmas.

Even Gianni Infantino, Trumps most devoted fan boy, tried to usher him away. Watching the FIFA boss attempt to shift him was like seeing a nervous waiter tell a billionaire that the restaurant closed 45 minutes ago and the chairs were already on the tables. Trump ignored him. He stayed planted beside Spain, grinning at the cameras as though their prize for winning the World Cup was appearing in his latest campaign photograph.

Beside him, Infantino wore white trainers with a suit. He should have been holding a white flag and surrendering his job. Under him, FIFA allowed America to take the worlds game and force it into the shape of its television industry.

Matches were stopped for adverts. Half-time became a concert. Football legends became stage furniture. Players became supporting actors. Trump turned the presentation into a campaign appearance and then had to be encouraged towards the exit like a stubborn uncle at closing time.

Spain supplied the football, the class and the dignity. FIFA supplied the Muppets. Argentina supplied the punches. Trump supplied the boos. Between them all, they turned the beautiful into an ugly spectacle.

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