As the 2026 World Cup looms on the horizon, the bidding process has become a theatre of promises and perils. The UK's bid chief, a man known for his steely resolve, has sounded a rare note of caution: the infrastructure pitfalls are more treacherous than the public imagines. This is not merely a story of stadiums and transport links, but a human narrative of cost, community, and cultural shift.
I stood in the shadow of Wembley last week, watching families queue for a friendly match, unaware that their daily commute might soon be rerouted for a global spectacle. The bid chief's words echoed in my mind: 'The legacy is not just about concrete, but about the lives disrupted and the promises fulfilled.'
Consider the mathematics: a World Cup demands airports expanded, roads widened, and housing repurposed. The human cost is felt in the small enterprises that vanish under the weight of construction, in the neighbourhoods that shift from quiet havens to transient hubs. Yet the cultural shift is equally profound. A city that hosts the World Cup becomes a global stage, its identity rewritten by the thousand cameras that capture its streets.
In London, the bid's champions speak of regeneration. But regeneration has a shadow. The affordable flats replaced by luxury hotels, the market stalls cleared for sponsor zones. The bid chief's warning is a reminder that the beautiful game has a price tag, and it is often paid by the invisible ones: the commuters, the small traders, the residents whose daily rhythm is sacrificed for a month of glory.
The 2026 World Cup will dazzle, no doubt. But as Clara Whitby, I cannot help but wonder: will the people left in its wake feel the same joy, or just the echo of a passing parade?
