Even after a few hours of sober reflection it was still hard to identify exactly which bit of the reliably nauseating 69th Ballon d’Or ceremony was the single most nauseating bit of the reliably nauseating 69th Ballon d’Or ceremony. One thing is certain. We have a powerful shortlist here. The competition is generational. But this is also the elite, the god tier. And as ever there must be a winner.
Was it the first nauseating thing at the Théâtre du Châtelet; the crowd of otherwise normal Parisians transformed into fame‑zombies, thronged against the barriers four hours before the ceremony, whooping and gawping as bored-looking blokes moved broadcast boxes around, baying at passing female TV presenters, spectating the buildup to an awards do in a state of celebrity delirium?
