In a move that has sent diplomatic teacups rattling from Washington to Westminster, Donald Trump has reportedly given the World Cup final the swerve, leaving a gap in the VIP seats large enough to park a golden escalator. Sources close to the White House, which is to say a man in a damp raincoat loitering near the West Wing bin, have confirmed that the 45th President will be otherwise engaged. Quite what could be more pressing than watching 22 men chase a ball round a pitch in a country he once described as 'not the best, but definitely one of the countries' remains a mystery.
Perhaps he's having his hair done. Perhaps he's drafting a strongly worded tweet about the width of the Panama Canal. The official line is 'scheduling conflicts,' which is diplomatic-speak for 'we'd rather chew our own ties than sit next to Angela Merkel for three hours.
' The British press, never ones to let a good transatlantic spat go to waste, have been having a field day. The Daily Mail's front page screamed 'YANKEE SNUB!' in a font normally reserved for alien invasions.
The Guardian ran a thinkpiece on the psychosexual implications of Trump's aversion to football. And the BBC's political editor was spotted weeping gently into a gin and tonic. But let's not be naive.
This isn't about football. It's about a man who sees the world as an extension of his own ego, a vast golden mirror in which he can admire his reflection. To attend the World Cup would be to share a stage with other world leaders, to be just one face in a crowd of patriots.
And Donald Trump does not do crowd scenes. He does solos. He does encores.
He does the slow, dignified walk-off while the audience begs for more. The snub has, predictably, been met with a mixture of outrage and relief. Outrage from the usual suspects, the pundits who believe that international sport is a sacred bond between nations.
Relief from the rest of us, who suspect that Trump's presence would have turned the event into a cross between a WWE match and a Nuremberg rally. The irony, of course, is that this absence may do more to unite Europe than any number of trade deals or military alliances. Nothing brings people together like a shared enemy.
And if that enemy happens to be a man with a spray tan and a pathological fear of soccer, then so be it. The World Cup will go on. The teams will play.
The crowds will roar. And somewhere, in a gold-trimmed bunker, a man will be watching the coverage with one eye, the other fixed on a mirror, wondering if his legacy is big enough to fit on a stadium banner. It is not.
And that, my friends, is the real tragedy.
