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Confusion, exasperation and dating apps – my month as a gay reporter at the Qatar World Cup – The Athletic

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The morning after Germany were dramatically knocked out of the World Cup in the group stage, I took a walk around the backstreets of Doha.

For the first time in my life, I was confronted, in person, by a sign telling me I was not welcome. Across Qatar’s capital, we often saw flags, usually for the 32 nations competing at the World Cup. This time, alongside Qatari national flags and a banner saying, “Welcome”, I saw a piece of paper: a rainbow flag with a no-entry symbol over the top of it. Beneath it, in red letters, the sign said: “Not allowed in Qatar”.

Qatar sign

A sign in Qatar: LGBT behaviour is not allowed (Photo: Adam Crafton)

In Britain, I had read about signs like this, whether they were against black people, Irish people or immigrants in years gone by. I am not making a direct comparison; I am not trapped in a hostile environment. For me, this was merely a moment in time. For others, it can be a lifetime.

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I was a gay reporter in Qatar for four weeks. I travelled with immense privilege. I came from Britain, a country whose government has close economic and security ties with Qatar. I work for a major sports media publication, The Athletic, which is owned by one of the world’s most famous media companies, The New York Times. I travelled with a burner phone and a burner laptop. I had access to a 24/7 security team, which I could call upon at any moment.

The Athletic team in Qatar numbered more than 20 people across the tournament, all of whom were supportive and caring. I knew that I was unlikely to come under duress, even if I criticised the Qatari regime and its approach to migrant workers or LGBT+ issues. I was fortunate, too, that The Athletic’s football editor is a gay man who felt the issue should be explored. And, in this situation at least, to be gay affords a blessing not granted to other minority groups: it can be hidden. As such, I set out feeling empowered.

Yet as I said my goodbyes in England, I could sense a little anxiety in the voices of friends and relatives. My parents might be too prudish to say, “Adam, keep your f***ing pants on,” but there were worried expressions and, “You will be careful there, won’t you?”

I am not portraying myself as a victim or a brave pioneer, or anything in between. But due to the composition of sports journalism desks across Britain, I am not aware of any other openly LGBT+ British sportswriters who were on the ground in Qatar.

In this story, I am not neutral and will not pretend to be. I believe that people should not be discriminated against for the way they are born. I believe in rights and freedoms. I believe that the most marginalised minorities, wherever they may be, should be liberated. But I am also a reporter and that means speaking to and listening to as many viewpoints as possible and relaying those experiences. In Qatar, it meant speaking to those who consider me an abomination. It meant meeting Qatari LGBT+ people, some who challenged me. It meant detailing and understanding how and why LGBT+ people — and that bloody armband — became one of the themes of the tournament.

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So here is a gay guy’s account of the past month, reporting the World Cup in Qatar.

Arriving in Doha, I’d already been in contact with queer people residing in Qatar through social media. But I was curious to learn more about the “scene”. In London, the easiest way to do that is to open up the ‘Yellow Facebook’ (Grindr) and speak freely. In Qatar, on my burner phone, I had not yet logged into a Grindr account, and it was not possible via cellular data or wi-fi. (In Saudi Arabia, it is delisted from the app store.)

I assessed alternatives. Tinder operated as usual, as did Hinge. For the uninitiated, these are dating apps available to people of any sexual orientation — you select preferences after registering. Grindr, however, is more of a hook-up app and is often the most direct window into the local gay community. In its place, I downloaded Scruff (an international dating app for men seeking men), which, for some reason, had not been blocked.

Soon enough, a grid of shirtless torsos popped up and I waited to see what happened. Very quickly, Doha Scruff seemed similar to London Grindr, with some men saying “Hello, how are you?”, others sending unsolicited nudes, and a few demanding to know whether I prefer to f*** or be f***ed.

On Tinder, it is more mild-mannered, but there were hundreds of men to swipe through over the month, some of whom were Qataris dressed in thobes. There were gay or bisexual men from across the Gulf region. One account, which I presume was up to mischief, had an image of the Qatari Emir as its profile picture.

There were tourists on there, visiting Doha for the World Cup — hola y felicitaciones, if you are reading, Alejandro from Argentina — and plenty of foreigners working in Qatar, though mostly white and in middle-class work rather than low-paid migrant workers from the Global South, who may be deemed more disposable if caught misbehaving.

Gianni Infantino speaks controversially ahead of the tournament (Photo: Christopher Lee/Getty Images)

Homosexual behaviour is illegal in Qatar, as is sex outside of marriage, regardless of sexual orientation, so some of what I am describing may come as a surprise. Local Muslims, in particular, appeared to be taking a substantial risk, even just by making a proposition. Given the risk of imprisonment, or worse, is sex with a stranger really worth it?

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“I go to a hook-up because I crave company and connection, even if it is fleeting,” says one gay man, whose identity is concealed to protect his identity. “But then I leave alone. And the loneliness grows. So then I do it again, for a quick fix, to feel like I am alive, before returning to my lonely place.”

There are horror stories, such as the case reported by The i newspaper before the World Cup of the Filipino man lured to a hotel room on an app, only to be greeted by six police officers who raped him.

The conversations I had were less horrific. Some gay men said they lead secretive lives with partners. They described a don’t-see-don’t-tell culture, where there is security as long as a person’s sexuality is not publicised.

Other experiences were less bearable. Several gay men described their fear of police entrapment, as well as cases of brutal sexual abuse. The hostility is worse for those considered feminine, or trans, underlining that so much about homophobia is underpinned by warped perceptions of machismo.

Before the tournament, many Western journalists had obsessed over whether men would be able to hold hands in Doha. Yet on the ground, those concerns appeared ridiculous, as it was not unusual to see South Asian men, in particular, holding hands in public while walking down streets. It is in no way perceived as an expression or indication of sexual orientation but instead of friendship. Therefore, it is of no interest to law enforcement agencies. This highlighted how important it is to consider social dynamics not only through a Western gaze but it does not mean that the questions about laws, rights and societal shaming are any less relevant.

When arranging to meet people, there was often a pang of doubt. I’d read enough and heard enough about entrapment, so any meetings were held in public settings, which perhaps limited quite how honest about their lives people were able to be. Despite that, several said they felt more comfortable speaking in public environs during the World Cup, where it felt like the attention of security services was elsewhere to manage the demands of the tournament.

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I knew of lesbian women travelling to the tournament, but it was not straightforward for me to make contact with lesbian locals as they were not going to match with a man. Also, guardianship rules in Qatar can mean women need permission to travel or marry. It makes lesbian women almost invisible in Qatari society.

Several gay men were resigned to unfulfilled personal lives, forced to marry women to suit society, whether in Qatar or neighbouring states. They explained that family and religion do the job of the state, imposing a cloak of shame over homosexuality. One said he was prepared to set aside his own happiness because he feared his father would be stigmatised by his family if he was known to have a gay son.

This person shared so many of the same interests as me. Our conversation could have taken place anywhere in the world, chatting about the World Cup, celebrities we fancy, music we listen to. Yet, because of where he was born, his life is so much harder than mine, so much more unfair. He has enjoyed gay sexual encounters but never in his own country, for fear of reprisals. He said he had no gay friends with whom he could share his feelings. He was alone in his own head, wandering in circles of decreasing self-esteem.

Some turn to psychological support. Affirmative therapy is rare. Instead, queer people endure institutionalised harm. I was shown, for example, cases of psychologists speaking out against homosexuality on social media. If that is what they say on those accounts, what do they say to LGBT+ people behind closed doors? It was startling to speak with Qatari heterosexuals and hear, in their own words, how they saw the debate.

This is what Abdulrahman, a Qatari man I spoke to outside a stadium before a World Cup fixture, said: “The LGBT — I know they are everywhere, but you cannot just say, ‘Go and give them freedom’. This is my religion. I cannot have that. You can’t go to a Sikh person and force them to eat some meat because that is against their religion. I know LGBT is a big thing now around the world, but for me as a Muslim, I don’t mind people doing it as long as it doesn’t affect me or my children. That’s the thing.”

How does he know his child would not be impacted? “He will know for himself what’s right and what’s wrong. You cannot go and brag about it outside. But if he thinks that (he is gay), then I would talk to him and educate him about it.”

The support he is suggesting does not sound overly positive. He then says: “By the way, I studied sexuality…”

Pardon? “At the University of Brighton in England.”

Brighton is often described as England’s gay capital, which makes the conversation unintentionally funny — to me, anyway.

We find some common ground: “It’s not something you can control,” he says. “It’s something within you. But we still have a long way to go. He’s only five.”

We shake hands and move on.

During the World Cup, a culture war broke out in Qatar. In October, seven European federations — England, Wales, Belgium, the Netherlands, Denmark, Germany and Switzerland — announced they would wear a OneLove armband at the tournament. The armband design was not any of the rainbow designs used to promote the LGBT+ movement.

Instead, it was a multi-coloured pattern that stopped short of declaring itself as a statement relating specifically to LGBT+ people or gay rights in Qatar. A 959-word statement on the English FA’s website described the armband as a campaign to “stop discrimination” but did not mention the words “gay” or “LGBT” in relation to the armband.

The FA chief executive Mark Bullingham described the armband “as a visible show of support for inclusion in football — something we strongly believe in and have consistently supported”. Again, he did not specify the particular form of inclusion targeted. It was also made clear the armband would be worn for international fixtures for the whole season, rather than solely in Qatar.

If this was a protest, therefore, it was a pretty polite one. The English FA made no reference to the laws in Qatar that criminalise same-sex relations. It felt like an act designed to do just enough to appease those back home who expected the FA to speak up, while also not doing so much that it offended their Qatari hosts.

Yet as the tournament edged closer, tension arose. The European federations informed FIFA of their intention to wear the armbands at the tournament but received no response, despite a public announcement. Then, a fortnight before the tournament, FIFA’s president Gianni Infantino and secretary general Fatma Samoura wrote to the 32 competing federations and implored them to “focus on the football”. They added that football should not “be dragged into every ideological or political battle that exists”.

A few days later, Qatar World Cup ambassador and former international footballer Khalid Salman told a German broadcaster that to be gay is “haram”, meaning forbidden in Arabic.

He said: “I am not a strict Muslim, but why is it haram? Because it is damage in the mind.”

Then, on the weekend the World Cup began, we had Infantino’s press conference, which instead became a 57-minute speech in which he railed against Western criticism and scrutiny of Qatar, where he has resided in recent years.

“Today I feel Qatari,” he said. “Today I feel Arabic. Today I feel African. Today I feel gay. Today I feel disabled. Today I feel (like) a migrant worker.”

He added: “Of course, I am not Qatari, I am not an Arab, I am not African, I am not gay, I am not disabled. But I feel like it because I know what it means to be discriminated (against), to be bullied, as a foreigner in a foreign country. As a child, I was bullied — because I had red hair and freckles, plus I was Italian, so imagine.”

Harry Kane plans to wear the OneLove armband (Photo: Getty Images)

Harry Kane wearing the OneLove armband before the World Cup (Photo: Getty Images)

This was my first full day in Doha and when I tweeted criticism of Infantino’s speech, people replied with images of a rainbow flag in flames, warnings to “shut the f*** up u gay peace (sic) of shit”, and I received direct messages telling me to rot in hell.

The next 48 hours would set the tone for the rest of the tournament. FIFA secretary general Samoura is a 60-year-old Senegalese lady who previously worked in senior positions at the United Nations. During a meeting with the European federations at the Fairmont Hotel, she “ripped into” the OneLove nations for their desire to wear the armband, according to sources who wished not to be named when relaying private conversations. FIFA sources countered that it was a “robust conversation on both sides”.

This all became a bit more peculiar when FIFA launched its own rival armband campaign, with generalised slogans such as “Save The Planet”, “Share the Meal”, and “No Discrimination”.

FIFA, therefore, argued that the European federations would be countering its equipment regulations, which state: “For FIFA final competitions, the captain of each team must wear the captain’s armband provided by FIFA.”

The European federations tried to argue back but were told that match officials may remove armbands and there could be sporting sanctions, such as yellow cards. Before England played Iran on the first Monday, a delegation, which included FIFA’s head of media relations Bryan Swanson, visited the England base. The Dutch federation’s executive Gijs de Jong told The New York Times that the FIFA delegates even implied that one-match bans may be applied. Swanson’s presence, alongside FIFA competitions director Manolo Zubiria, was particularly notable — only 48 hours earlier, he had inserted himself into Infantino’s press conference.

Swanson said: “I am sitting here, in a privileged position on a global stage, as a gay man here in Qatar. We have received assurances that everybody is welcome, and I believe that everybody will be welcome in this World Cup. Just because Gianni Infantino is not gay, does not mean that he doesn’t care.”

FIFA would not comment formally but sources, who wouldn’t speak on the record in order to protect their jobs, said that the OneLove opposition was “never anti-gay” but instead about reminding people of the regulations to which they previously signed up. This is rather undermined by the fact that Samoura made clear in her reproach that it would be seen as an attack on Qatar.

And so, the federations dropped the OneLove armbands before they had even kicked a ball.

The row was a defining moment in the tournament. Many federations went quietly. England manager Gareth Southgate said in a press conference that his players were not involved in discussions to drop the armband, which was a marked difference from the approach taken when the English FA discussed how to challenge racism.

Some of the more cynical commentators in the right-wing British press suggested the decision to ditch the armband undermined their stance on racism or child poverty. That, to me, is a damaging viewpoint, aimed at dividing causes that ought to be united.

But it did reveal a reality many people know but very few say: we often feel most passionately about causes that directly affect ourselves or those we consider most like ourselves. During this tournament, there was no player or coach or national federation executive who was openly gay and prepared to talk about their experience. Elite men’s football and the state of Qatar are united in that trait: gay men are often invisible and their experiences go unheard.

Nobody present could humanise the culture war. At the very least, when we talk to migrant workers, we can put a face, name or a family to them. The discussion is all the more powerful for it.

No football player or coach communicated the purpose of the armband they wished to wear, or the importance of rights and freedoms, or sought to convey in any way what life might be like for a Qatari queer person or a gay supporter elsewhere. So all these lives were reduced to a row about a rainbow, which wasn’t even a rainbow.

For all these reasons, several local Qataris, who wished to remain anonymous to protect their freedom, said to me that the European federations appeared more interested in giving the impression of supporting them than doing anything meaningful. They said they feared the initiative had caused more harm than good.

Some regional queers, though not all, were angry with Western media for how it covered the issue and with journalists who supported the armband. One described it as “rainbow imperialism” — the West once again imposing its culture on the Middle East. He said he did not want to be subsumed into a rainbow, or a pride movement, and that he found that the highly white and highly chiselled front pages of gay magazines in the West did not represent him any more than he felt represented by Qataris who strip him of his rights and dignity. He found it difficult to forego any part of his identity: he is a Muslim man, a Qatari man, an Arab man, a queer man. He was proud of the first Arab World Cup and raged against what he perceived to be negativity by the western media in relation to Qatar’s suitability to host a World Cup.

He felt, too, that lives such as his were being used as tools to undermine Qatar by people who cared more about knocking down a Muslim state than truly engaging with queerness in the Middle East. He feared that acts such as rainbow flags would harden opposition regionally, and people like him would be the ones to take the backlash long after people like me had arrived back in London.

The tension escalated when the German team responded to the armband dispute — they, too, ditched it — by posing with their hands over their mouths before their first group game against Japan. The German politician Nancy Faeser wore the armband in the stands, sat beside Infantino.

This provoked a response from Qatari locals and others attending the tournament from the Arab world. A new framing emerged: locals argued that the armband represented Islamophobia and the imposition of “Western values” on the Middle East. Those of us who used social media to persistently outline aspects that we perceived to be homophobic laws or rhetoric were branded as racist or orientalist, as well as receiving increasing volleys of abuse.

Offline, attitudes stiffened on the ground. Supporters had been told before this tournament that any areas under FIFA’s jurisdiction — including fan zones and stadiums — would allow rainbow flags or paraphernalia.

Germany players pose with their hands covering their mouths (Photo: Alexander Hassenstein/Getty Images)

In December 2020, FIFA’s then-chief social responsibility and education officer Joyce Cook said: “We will see a progressive change in all of those aspects, and rainbow flags, t-shirts will all be welcome in the stadium, that’s a given. They understand very well that is our stance.”

Qatar’s own World Cup chief executive Nasser Al-Khater said: “When it comes to the rainbow flags in the stadiums, FIFA have their own guidelines, they have their rules and regulations. Whatever they may be, we will respect them.”

One of the greatest deceits of this World Cup is that those who wished to represent LGBT+ people at this tournament contravened FIFA and the Qatari organisers. In their own words, laid out above, they said it would be fine, although the Supreme Committee had often inserted a caveat to say their culture should be respected.

I had privately met the Supreme Committee secretary general Hassan Al-Thawadi several times before the tournament. On one occasion, he told me he had read The Athletic’s previous reporting on the plight of LGBT+ people in Saudi Arabia and said he found it moving. I considered him to be engaging, intelligent and sensitive in person. I trusted him when he said to my face that gay visitors would be made to feel safe and welcome.

That confidence dwindled in the run-up to the tournament and went out of the window as I flew to Doha. Two days before the tournament, Qatar changed its mind about selling alcohol in stadiums and fan zones (apart from in hospitality areas). I was not particularly bothered by Budweiser not being readily available, but the willingness of the Qataris to rip up a huge commercial agreement between FIFA and Budweiser demonstrated that the state was prepared to move the goalposts on issues it considered sensitive to their interpretation of Islam.

Soon enough, it was our turn to be betrayed. At matches, rainbow hats were stripped from Welsh supporters. An American journalist, Grant Wahl, was stopped and briefly detained by security for wearing a rainbow t-shirt while attending a match. An England fan, Anthony Johnson, said he was stripped naked by security when he arrived wearing rainbow clothing for a match between the Netherlands and Qatar. He told The i newspaper: “They said I had some metal on me and ushered me into a private area where they asked me to first take off my shorts, then my shoes, then take my pants down, then my underwear, then strip fully naked.”

Alex Baker, an English gay football fan, tried to take a flag into the match between England and Iran that was greyscale, rather than rainbow colours. It read: “No Pride Without All”. He told The Times of London: “When a female security guard asked to check my bag ahead of the Iran game, she ignored the t-shirt but went immediately for the flag. She took one look at it and said, ‘That’s not coming in’. I asked her why but she didn’t answer. She just pointed to a bin.”

The stadiums are, in theory, under FIFA’s jurisdiction, yet its communications office pinned the blame on local security forces, while Qatari communications workers said anything happening at stadiums should be put to FIFA. It was mind-bogglingly exasperating.

As a football lover, things were happening that I hugely enjoyed. Saudi Arabia’s win against Argentina was one of the great days of the competition, where two fanbases who travelled in large numbers produced an authentic atmosphere in the stadium. Morocco became one of the great storylines in World Cup history, and the more I spoke to their supporters, the more I felt charmed and moved by their narrative. This was the first Arab World Cup at its best; Moroccan mums dancing on the pitch, supporters enjoying themselves and nations across the Middle East and Africa, as well as countries such as India, accessing the world’s greatest talent at close quarters. More importantly, positive representation of Muslim men was long overdue in the global media and this World Cup did much to provide that.

But everything was still kicking off about the OneLove armband. Supreme Committee chief Al-Thawadi described it on talkSPORT radio as a “very divisive message”.

When I went to see Qatar play Senegal in their second game of the tournament, a new armband emerged: the Palestinian flag. Support for the Palestinian cause was sustained throughout the tournament, usually with flags.

“We don’t approve that (OneLove) here,” one supporter wearing the armband told The Athletic. “It is odd for us. So if you come talking about your rights, the things you ask for, then we also go for the same thing. If people come to Qatar or Arab countries, then you have to respect everything.

“The idea of homosexuality, I do not like it. When I go to the UK, whatever happens in front of me, it is not my issue because it is not my country. So I expect you to respect everything when you come to my country.”

Jassim, a Qatari, told me: “The Palestine armband was a counter-protest because we know they don’t like the flag of Palestine, the people who raise the rainbow flag.”

I tell him that he is generalising. I say that some of the most engaged advocates of Palestine I know are from the British LGBT+ community. He says: “The West are using your issue. They don’t really care about the rainbow flag, they just want to use it to put pressure on us. It’s not accepted here.”

The grassroots response intensified. When Germany played Spain in their second game, Qataris turned up to the match carrying cardboard cut-outs or masks of the German footballer Mesut Ozil.

A son of Turkish immigrants, Ozil blamed racism towards him from some Germans and then-president of the German FA, Reinhard Grindel, for his retirement from international football after the World Cup in 2018. “In Grindel’s eyes, I am German when we win, but I am an immigrant when we lose,” Ozil wrote.

The point was clear: how can the Germans lecture anyone on morality if this is how they treat one of their greatest players? It was classic whataboutery, pointing to a thing people did wrong previously to undermine the German criticism of an ongoing issue in Qatar. It seemed, also, to be an attempt to rally the Arab and Muslim world around Qatar and against LGBT+ representation.

Viral social media posts suggested Germany had stopped Ozil from speaking out about the mistreatment of Uighur Muslims by China, yet Ozil spoke about the cause long after his retirement from the national team. In fact, Ozil had criticised other Muslim countries for “staying quiet” in December 2019. In the summer of that year, Saudi Arabia, the United Arab Emirates and Egypt added their names to a letter praising China’s “contribution to the international human rights cause”. Qatar refused to sign that declaration because of concerns over the mistreatment of Uighurs, but last month it voted against debating the ethnic group’s persecution in a UN rights council meeting.

When Germany went out of the competition at the group stage, there were celebrations in parts of Qatar. Qatari television presenters placed their hands over their mouths and waved them goodbye.

There were more sinister moments. When Wahl, the US journalist, tragically passed away during the quarter-final between Argentina and the Netherlands, one Qatari sociologist went on television to mock his death, because Wahl had previously gone viral as the journalist who dared to wear a rainbow shirt to a game. Dr Abd Al-Aziz Al-Khazraj Al-Ansari described Wahl as the “king of the sissies” and said he would “party over that dead pig’s corpse”.

Several days later, I received a direct message from another account that mentioned Grant’s passing and said: “Hopefully you’re next, faggot.”

On social media, discussion about homophobia was reduced to shouting, memes or abuse, but I continued to have difficult conversations in person. During one discussion with a Qatari lady, which was otherwise highly engaging, she said, matter of factly, that “rainbow flags could be the starting point for a path that leads to paedophilia”. She told me she understood the “animal kingdom” and added “whatever I get up to behind closed doors” is none of her business.

She also told me that the West is teaching children to be gay, pointing to news reports she had seen in the right-wing British and American media. I asked what she meant and she explained young children were now being brainwashed by books or television programmes. I said schools may use books where a family unit shows two mums or two dads to help children understand that the child sitting next to them may have a different experience, and to ensure that LGBT+ children do not grow up thinking that being different is abnormal or a source of shame.

I realised I was wasting my time, trying to understand somebody who had no interest in understanding me.

By now, nobody at the tournament was prepared to condemn what was happening and the football community made things worse. FIFA employee Arsene Wenger praised “teams who were mentally ready, with a mindset to focus on competition and not the political demonstrations”. John Barnes, the former England international (and former ambassador for Qatar’s World Cup), appeared on British TV and radio, arguing the importance of respecting the culture of a country, even if that culture discriminates against you.

Some Western journalists seemed to realise it was lovely to be in Doha staying in five-star hotels. They wrote pieces or published videos questioning whether the criticism about the hosts had gone too far. They seemed surprised that Qatari people are largely pleasant, which seemed peculiar to me, because the criticism had been of the government’s treatment of workers, rather than suggesting Qatari people are inherently flawed.

Those who previously spoke up for gay people seemed to be deserting us. David Beckham, who once upon a time posed for gay magazine Attitude, had taken the Qatari cash and did not say a word. Rio Ferdinand, who recently made a documentary about LGBT+ people in football, published paid adverts with Visit Qatar.

Beckham adverts were across Qatar (Photo: Alex Pantling/Getty Images)

I felt injustice burning inside. It intensified due to the hypocrisy of what was permitted inside and outside stadiums. FIFA and the Qataris kept insisting football and politics should not mix, which is why there was a clampdown on rainbow paraphernalia and Iranian women wearing “women, life, freedom” t-shirts (the Qatari and Iranian governments have good relations).

Yet at the same time, banners with messages about Palestine were waved through. It seemed to me that these causes were similar; people being oppressed in different parts of the world, subjected to highly-damaging conditions. But only the causes politically expedient to the hosts were allowed in the stadium. Local news publications increased the gaslighting, such as Doha News releasing a video describing it as the most “family-friendly” World Cup ever. This was true, but only if your face fit, and it felt like a loaded term against the LGBT+ community.

I found myself becoming irritable, a whingebag, struggling to take pleasure from the many positives of the tournament. I became paranoid. I sensed some journalists metaphorically rolling their eyes as I continued to cover this. “He’s off again,” I imagined them saying. “Is he a journalist or an activist?”

It was a vicious cycle. The more I spoke, the more abuse I received. Internet homophobes were empowered. Messages that may previously have been sent as direct messages were now sent publicly.

The professional had become fiercely personal. I have too many friends who feel that men’s football is not a place for them to simply put up and shut up. It sounds utterly hysterical and self-absorbed, but in the heat and intensity of a four-week tournament, it felt almost existential. When I saw the crossed-out rainbow sign and those words — “not allowed in Qatar” — I felt like a little boy, shouting into a void, being told I was wrong, sinful, worthy of mockery and belittlement. So I did what any little boy does, called my mum, and had a little cry.

If my personal side was by now creaking, the professional side of me wanted to understand why.

Why had this cause become such a lightning rod at the tournament?

The conspiratorial view is that this row, enabled by FIFA, suited Qatar. The country has endured turbulent relations regionally, most notably under a blockade by its neighbours between 2017 and 2021, and numerous sources close to the Qatari regime, who wished not to be named when relaying private discussions, said the fear of Saudi incursions is never far away.

As such, a row over a rainbow, as well as clamping down on alcohol, played extremely well regionally. The battle between conservatives and progressives is intense in the Gulf countries, and there are significant portions of the population who are wary of social change. This pandered to the hardliners.

Qatar knew, also, that the “lines to take”, from a communications perspective, were a relatively easy sell. Men’s football is hardly a nirvana for gay supporters or players. Eight of the nations at the World Cup outlaw homosexuality. At the World Cup in 1966, homosexuality was illegal in the host nation: England. Besides, where was all this chat in Russia in 2018? (Fair point, although it should be said last year’s European Championship, partly hosted in Hungary, also came under major scrutiny.)

These became common refrains. It seemed to be an easier argument for Qatar to win than the mass exploitation of some of the world’s poorest people, so as a form of deflection, it was pretty handy.

Others perceived it more innocently. One former communications professional in Qatar, who wished not to be named to protect relationships, said: “On the LGBT stuff, I think they just didn’t know what to do. They just didn’t have a narrative around it. For years, they had said things like, ‘Everyone is welcome’, but it was always caveated with, ‘You need to respect our culture’. At some point, that balance had to break in one direction or the other. They probably thought, ‘Let’s just manage it and hope that other things become more important and we can get away with it’.”

From a Qatari perspective, they more than got away with it. They consider this World Cup to have been a $200billion (£165bn) success. The Athletic has even been told that Al-Thawadi and Al-Khater have received substantial bonuses, such is the Emir’s pleasure with the way the tournament panned out. The Supreme Committee responded to say it is “unaware” of the point raised about bonuses.

As for FIFA, the final insult came at the final, when the World Cup trophy was brought onto the field by the former Spain international Iker Casillas. He was last publicly seen pretending to come out as gay in October, in what would have represented a landmark moment for the sport, only for it to subsequently appear to be a joke — Casillas claims he was hacked.

At a tournament of relentless gaslighting, it was a fitting denouement.

(Top photos: Getty Images; design: Samuel Richardson)