The Ballon d’Or is everything football shouldn’t be. Thank goodness for Harry Kane

Thank goodness for Harry Kane.

After a painful evening of manufactured suspense, chaotic organisation and ultra cringe, football’s most prestigious individual award was rescued by a man who embodies the opposite of everything the Ballon d’Or has come to represent: humility, class, and old-fashioned decency.

Kane, 33, was a thoroughly deserving winner. He has scored 89 goals for club and country since last August, in that time captaining England to third-place at the World Cup and steering Bayern Munich to the semi-finals of the UEFA Champions League and another Bundesliga title.

When he finally took the stage, Kane’s speech was a refreshing tonic. He thanked his teammates, coaches and family, his former club Tottenham Hotspur, gave an inspirational message to young boys and girls about the importance of hard work, and singled out his wife as a partner in his success: “It is something we can celebrate, not me. We’re a team.”

Kane became the first English player to receive the honour, voted on by one journalist from each of the top 100 countries on FIFA’s world rankings, since Michael Owen in 2001.

Owen, as it happens, was interviewed on the red carpet beforehand by a reporter who asked him what his best finish was, clearly unaware that he’d actually won it.

It was that kind of night.

Barack Obama recently described Donald Trump’s White House renovations as “looking like Saddam Hussein opened a Cheesecake Factory”. One wonders what he would make of the Ballon d’Or, which feels like it is clad in the same sort of golden nonsense.

This was the event’s London debut, the first time France Football magazine had taken its annual ceremony outside France. This was done to mark the 70-year anniversary of English legend Stanley Matthews winning the inaugural award in 1956; he collected his trophy at Blackpool Town Hall alongside a decorative china plate presented by the town’s mayor. How quaint.

Today’s trophy is 55 per cent bigger, and rests on a pile of literal fool’s gold, which kind of says it all.

Like the broader football industry, the Ballon d’Or has evolved into a grotesque spectacle of self-importance, warped by the intense Messi-Ronaldo rivalry era and turbocharged by the modern attention economy.

What was once a recognition of individual excellence has become an interminable, year-long popularity contest, fought by some of the worst people on the internet. Players openly covet the prize, clubs campaign on their behalf, and winning it has become an end in itself, rather than a byproduct of collective success.

This year’s circus was 45 minutes late because of traffic jams. Meanwhile, outside the London Palladium, dozens of fans tried to break through a security barricade to get closer to their subjects of worship. A fitting punishment would have been forcing them to come inside and sit through the whole thing, which went for three hours. Three hours!

There was a musical act, because of course there was: French Montana, modern football’s go-to hip-hop artist for some reason, and British R&B singer Jorja Smith, who is actually good.

Once they were done, the official soundtrack of the night became the constant booing and groaning from a boorish audience eager to be put out of their misery. Each time co-hosts Kate Scott and Thierry Henry cut to a commercial break, or said something that wasn’t the confirmation of an award winner, they were jeered.

The lead-up to Kane’s coronation was painful. Ronaldo (the OG, not Cristiano) was brought on stage to open the envelope and announce the winner – but not before, much to everyone’s annoyance, he was forced into a brief round of excruciating small talk with Scott and Henry. Asked to choose which of the 10 shortlisted players he would pay to watch, Ronaldo selected Luis Figo, his former teammate, deftly wriggling out of trouble.

Henry is usually such a smooth operator, but somehow compounded the awkwardness here. He needlessly (and rudely) corrected Scott’s pronunciation of the name of the great Brazilian midfielder Socrates. Then he asked Lamine Yamal whether his Kopa Trophy, given to the world’s best player under 21, was “the one you really wanted to win”, putting the young lad on the spot. It was first-hand embarrassment for Yamal, and second-hand embarrassment for everyone watching.

To be sure, the Ballon d’Or has plumbed much lower depths than this. Who could forget 2018, when French DJ Martin Solveig famously asked Ada Hegerberg, the inaugural Ballon d’Or Feminine recipient in 2018, whether she knew how to twerk? Or the 2024 boycott by Real Madrid, after learning that Vinicius Junior was unlikely to win?

For all its glittering excess, the Ballon d’Or could learn a thing or two from its latest winner: less is a lot, lot more.