The high cost of sporting glory

Events such as the World Cup and the Olympics are not the economic juggernauts that their promoters

There is no doubt that the World Cup has been a joyous party for those lucky enough to attend. There is also no doubt that it has been a bon­anza for Fifa, football's governing body. The commercial income accruing to Fifa will come to about £2.2bn for TV rights, sponsorship and merchandising, while an estimated £800m has been spent on organising the tournament and £700m on local development projects.

Fifa, therefore, generates a tidy profit of £700m, which it either retains to promote its own pet projects or disburses to national football associations: a significant bargaining chip in the hands of its 24-man executive committee. In 2004, the projected cost to the South African taxpayer for hosting the finals was R2.3bn, or £200m (the bid book was lost for years until the Mail and Guardian posted it online in June); the current figure is said to be R33bn (£3bn). Fifa does not pay for the stadiums, but gets to put its brand all over development projects in the host country. And what does South Africa get in return for its investment?

The organisers claim that the event will produce an economic stimulus of R55bn (£4.8bn), generating in excess of 300,000 additional foreign tourists and promoting growth across the economy. Similar claims have been made for previous World Cups and other major sporting events, especially the summer Olympic Games. Politicians seem especially fond of claiming that major events bring significant economic benefits. This case rests on two foundations: first, that the building of stadiums and related infrastructure will boost the construction industry, with knock-on effects into the wider economy; second, that there will be a large influx of foreign visitors.

Eye candy

The problem with the first claim is that it is predicated on the assumption that the resources required for construction are lying around idle, waiting for something to do. In reality, modern infrastructure construction requires skilled labour and expensive resources. The question is not whether construction generates income; it is whether this particular form of construction puts resources to best use. It is not difficult to see that the needs of a developing country such as South Africa would be better met by building roads, houses and related infrastructure in the townships rather than building big stadiums. As with the Olympics, facilities for the World Cup are likely to be little used after the event. It's like building a bridge that is going to be used only once.

Take the development of Green Point in Cape Town at a cost of R4.5bn (£400m): the stadium will have hosted just eight games by the end of the tournament. It does offer spectacular views of Table Mountain, but remember just how much this eye candy cost. The original plan was to upgrade the existing stadium in Athlone, at an estimated cost about R1.7bn (£150m). The Athlone redevelopment was attractive because the facility is located in the poor Cape Flats and could have triggered public-sector spending in an underdeveloped area while providing a long-term facility for football fans.

Green Point, by contrast, is located in an affluent area and the mostly white sports fans there are already well provided for in the sports that interest them: rugby and cricket. The local authority had developed the Athlone plan with the South African government. It came into question when Fifa's president, Sepp Blatter, visited the Cape, after an advance delegation realised what a superb TV image a stadium at Green Point would provide. A dubious case was made that Athlone would not provide enough seats, and the semi-final promise was dangled in front of the organising committee. The result: £400m for a few TV shots.

It is questionable whether developing stadiums is a good use of South African government revenue, but the absurdity of the Green Point white elephant seems beyond doubt. Similar questions were raised about the Moses Mabhida Stadium in Durban, which cost R3.1bn (£270m). Local housing activists have bemoaned the waste of resources when so many ordinary people remain without basic facilities. The question of visitor numbers is similarly problematic. It sounds as if the event ought to bring a tourist bonanza, but the records from previous tournaments provide little evidence of any. Take Germany, for example. In June 2006, hotel bookings for overnight stays increased by 1.4 million compared to the previous June - which sounds impressive, until you realise that stays were significantly down on the previous year in May and August 2006, and that 2005 overall was a bad year. The entire 2006 overnight stay figure was only slightly higher than that recorded in 2001. Thus, the World Cup did little to boost German tourism that had stagnated after the 11 September 2001 attacks.

The decision to attend a World Cup hinges on complex factors. Many people who would have visited a location anyway choose to reschedule their trip to coincide with the event. Worse still, others will avoid visiting the country while the event is on. In 2003, there were 14 million visitors to Greece, but in 2004, when it hosted the Olympics, only 13 million. A better comparison with South Africa is the Japan-South Korea World Cup, which was some distance from the main sources of affluent, travelling fans. Japan had an increase in visitor arrivals in June 2002 of 37,646 over the previous year. South Korea suffered a decline of 56,864. South Africa expected a tourist uplift from Europe and the US; experience suggests disappointment.

In 2004, when South Africa was awarded the World Cup, there was talk of visitor numbers as high as 600,000 from people connected to the bid. By last year, Grant Thornton, as consultant to the organising committee, was still anticipating 483,000 visitors, but down­graded its forecast to 373,000 in the spring. Even this number sounds optimistic; hotels in Durban, Cape Town and elsewhere have been reporting occupancy rates in the region of 10-30 per cent, rather than the expected 65-75 per cent. Journalists have been talking about how quiet it is outside the stadiums. Demand for tickets within South Africa and from the rest of Africa has been particularly disappointing and some of the group matches were played in half-full stadiums, as if to emphasise what a waste of money much of the investment has been.

To put it in perspective, visitor numbers from outside Africa totalled 331,000 in June and July last year, while visitors from other African nations exceeded 1.2 million. So it looks as if numbers of tourists to South Africa will be little different from previous years. This is a financial nightmare for South African commerce, including large numbers of small businesses that invested in facilities to meet a much higher level of demand.Yet none of this should come as much of a surprise: if the South Africans had asked for an objective view backed up by data five years ago, they could easily have got it.

So, why are such inflated and misleading claims presented by governments and organisers? The answer is that Fifa and the International Olympic Committee (IOC) are monopolists selling the rights to the most attractive sports events on the planet and, like any good monopolist, they are not prepared to give their property away cheaply. That is why they organise bidding contests among potential host nations. Setting political rhetoric aside, what wins you the bid is the promise to lay on lavish games to the greater glory of Fifa and the IOC, largely at the public expense. These events could be self-funding, but then they would not be so lavish. Fifa and the IOC demand a government guarantee to underwrite the staggering cost. To justify this extravagance, politicians cover themselves by claiming that there is an economic benefit - a quite breathtaking refusal to face the facts.

Voodoo economics

In many cases, one might say that this does not really matter. There is good evidence that the public at large derives a significant feel-good factor from hosting major events and so is quite willing to subsidise them. Wealthy nations such as Germany and the UK can afford (more or less) to cover the cost if that is what people want. And, in the light of the banking bailouts, the subsidies no longer look so huge. Moreover, there is reason to believe that the public is not fooled by the organisers' voodoo economics. When it was announced in 2007 that the cost of the 2012 Olympic Games in London would be closer to £9bn than the original estimate of £2.4bn, few batted an eyelid.

But with South Africa, the issue is more serious. The UK government spends about £80bn annually on education, whereas South Africa spends about £12bn. The UK is spending a sum equal to just over 10 per cent of its annual education budget on London 2012, South Africa about 25 per cent to host the 2010 World Cup. Scarce resources are being diverted from activities that have much greater value added.

This is just not good enough. Historically, most major sports events have been awarded to wealthy nations that can afford to pay for them. Awarding the World Cup to a developing nation is an important step forward, but this achievement should not be bought by using essential resources to provide VIPs with freebies. There is no doubt that these events could be less lavish and remain equally entertaining. Most of us watch the World Cup on TV - we will be watching what is happening on the grass, and not from the blimp, or even the terraces.

There are many ways in which a more equitable World Cup could be organised, but most reforms require a more open and democratised governance at the top. Both Fifa and the IOC could choose to award their prestigious prizes not on the basis of extravagant public spending, but on sporting merit. For example, the nation that did the most to promote participation in sport could be awarded the right to host these events. Nor need they discriminate against the poor, as the key measure would be growth, not the base level at which countries start. However, such reforms require a commitment to pursuing purely sporting objectives, rather than the current system of rampant commercialism for the good of organisations such as Fifa. Football is meant to be the beautiful game, not the bankrupt game.

Stefan Szymanski is professor of economics at Cass Business School and co-author of “Why England Lose" (HarperSport, £7.99)

This article first appeared in the 05 July 2010 issue of the New Statesman, The cult of the generals

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Bernie Sanders and the future of the American left

How an old, white guy is bringing class-based politics to the Democratic primary.

One thing is immediately striking: as he addresses primary rallies across America, arms flailing like a giant bird coming in to land, snow-white hair fizzing skywards like Doc Brown’s in Back to the Future, eyes startled behind the robust spectacles he has worn since childhood, Bernie Sanders looks quite unlike any other presidential candidate.

Perhaps the surprise in those eyes is sparked by the size of the crowds Sanders has been attracting. They are enormous, rivalling the numbers who turned out for Barack Obama back in 2008, and unprecedented for a candidate who is not shy of describing himself as a socialist: 28,000 in Portland and LA, 25,000 in Boston and 15,000 in Seattle. Even in Dallas, not a renowned centre of radicalism, 8,000 turned out to “feel the Bern”.

In these days when slick suits and expensive haircuts are increasingly a turn-off for a public weary of smooth politicians they see as delivering only for the wealthy, Sanders’s persona, like that of Jeremy Corbyn, his equally unkempt British counterpart, has proved popular. But it is his message – an angry chronicling of the depredations facing so many Americans and a solid social-democratic programme for putting things right – that is really pulling in the crowds. Sanders, who is 74, and the main challenger to Hillary Clinton for the Democratic nomination, doesn’t just look different. With his confident calls for a “revolution” to break up the banks and impose higher taxes on the rich, he doesn’t sound like any other recent presidential contender, either.


I first met Bernie Sanders in 1996. I was the publisher of his book Outsider in the House, a political autobiography that appeared the following year (and which has just been reissued by Verso with a new foreword, and more than a hint of optimism, as Outsider in the White House). The occasion was a benefit concert during his successful bid to be re-elected to the House of Representatives from the small, rural state of Vermont.

Sanders’s early years are not well documented, least of all by him. He devotes less than three of the 300 pages in Outsider to the first three decades of his life. He doesn’t much care for the “humble roots” narrative beloved of so many politicians, generally millionaires whose ancestors lived in broken-down cabins. But the raw material is certainly there. The son of Polish immigrants, Sanders grew up in a working-class Jewish family in Flatbush, Brooklyn. At home, money was tight: “Every major household purchase . . . would be accompanied by a fight between my parents as to whether we could afford it,” he wrote.

It was an achievement to gain admission to the University of Chicago, and though he described himself as “not a good student”, that was a result of sacrificing coursework to the cause of social activism. He settled permanently in Vermont at the age of 27, having bought an 85-acre farm in the north of the state for $2,500. Four years later he moved to Burlington, the state capital, where he became involved in city politics, at first in the tiny Liberty Union Party and then as an independent. In 1981 he was inaugurated as mayor and commenced a series of tilts at the state’s congressional seat. He finally entered the House of Representatives in 1991 – the first independent candidate to enter Congress in 40 years.

By the time I encountered him, Sanders was seeking to defend his seat for the third time. The concert where we met was taking place in an old art-deco theatre in Brattleboro, perhaps the most hippiefied community in a state where tie-dye remains as ubiquitous as dairy herds. It was headlined by Pete Seeger, who ran through a panoply from his folk songbook to a packed crowd that knew all the words.

Ten years earlier, Mayor Sanders, a long-time admirer of Seeger, had recorded one of his songs, “Where Have All the Flowers Gone”, on a surreal folk/rap album. Now, he waited until Seeger had finished his set before taking the stage and, speaking in the only manner he seems to know – a gruff, shouted staccato – exhorted Vermonters to join him in the fight against Newt Gingrich and Bob Dole to stop the Republicans from taking over the presidency and the Senate. The response was rapturous. Sanders left the stage like a president concluding a State of the Union speech, gladhanding lines of admirers as he made his way out of the hall.

A few weeks later I met him again, this time at his congressional office in Washington, DC. On the wall of his office I spotted a plaque of Eugene Debs, who ran for Congress and the presidency on a socialist ticket, travelling to every part of the country on a train he called the Red Special and picking up 6 per cent of the popular vote in 1912, when he finished fourth, behind Woodrow Wilson, Theodore Roosevelt and William Howard Taft.

Sanders had invited me to lunch and so we headed off through the underground passageway that leads from the office building to the congressional dining room. We were accompanied along the way by one of his assistants who, in true West Wing style, peppered him with questions and made notes on a clipboard as we walked. We had just started our food when John Kasich, then congressman for Ohio and now governor of the state and a contender for the Republican presidential nomination, wandered over for a chat. Despite Kasich’s reputation as a fiscal conservative, it was evident that he and Sanders had a cordial relationship, and indeed, Sanders invited him to join us for lunch.

It was difficult to reconcile these two contrasting snapshots of Sanders: the rousing air punch in Vermont and the bridge-building handshake in DC. But the more one looks into his career, the clearer it becomes that this dual approach is integral to his remarkable political ascent. Sanders plays it quite differently inside and out, but he plays both sides very hard.

“Bernie doesn’t see a contradiction between working within the system and campaigning to change it,” the journalist Matt Taibbi told me, recalling the time when he shadowed Sanders for several weeks in 2005 while researching a piece for Rolling Stone. “I remember one Thursday afternoon I made a snarky comment about members of the House already sneaking off home for a long weekend and how it seemed to me that many of them were pretty lazy. Bernie scolded me, insisting that most of the people in Congress work very conscientiously. He doesn’t believe the system functions for ordinary people, but he’s not cynical about it either.”

This point was reiterated by Heather Gautney, an associate professor of sociology at Fordham University in New York who previously worked as a researcher in Sanders’s Senate office. “Working with Bernie in DC, I realised what a difficult place it was for someone more interested in movement-building than passing legislation,” Gautney said. “But Bernie was known for getting substantial chunks of the Republican vote in Vermont and he used that same skill to connect with some pretty unlikely allies in Congress.”

Sanders’s legislative record is strikingly good. In the decade after the Republicans took over the House of Representatives in 1995 no other lawmaker attached more amendments to bills that were voted on. He achieved this by using his position as an independent to put together coalitions that spanned both of the main parties, and also by sheer hard work. In his Rolling Stone article, Taibbi describes Sanders waiting patiently for hours to table an amendment in the office of the House rules committee, “a tiny, airless closet deep in the labyrinth of the Capitol where some of the very meanest people on Earth spend their days cleaning democracy like a fish”.

Sanders’s method of working across party lines is not without its critics. Especially on the left, there are voices that wonder if the compromises that inevitably accompany playing the system in DC are too large. Many of Sanders’s positions on foreign policy have skewed towards the militarism and careless disregard for human rights that prevail among the Washington establishment. Although notably, and unlike Hillary Clinton, he opposed the initial vote on the Iraq War, Sanders voted for every bill that came before Congress to fund the occupations of Afghanistan and Iraq. He has supported basing the new F-35 fighter plane at Burlington Airport in Vermont, despite widespread concern from residents about the environmental impact. And he did not oppose the Senate resolution that supported Israel’s attack on Gaza in 2014, which left as many as 2,200 Palestinians dead.

Sanders is clearly happier talking about problems inside the US than foreign policy. In his opening statement to last Saturday’s televised debate between the Democratic candidates, he segued awkwardly from condemning the attacks in Paris to excoriating America’s “rigged economy”. Yet on domestic issues, too, some of his stands have given progressives pause for thought: his opposition to the Trans-Pacific Partnership, a 12-country trade agreement championed by Barack Obama, has always been grounded in an argument in favour of saving jobs for American workers, rather than any notion of international solidarity. His slowness in expressing support for the burgeoning Black Lives Matter movement, something which his campaign has latterly striven hard to correct, was less of a surprise to those aware of his consistent support for the police union while mayor of Burlington. And his position on guns (he voted against the Brady Bill, which mandated background checks on buyers of firearms) is the only area in which Clinton outflanks him to the left.

But perhaps the biggest issue for many progressives is Sanders’s decision to run for president through, rather than outside, the Democratic primary. Though he began his political career in the Liberty Union Party and has stood in every election since as an independent, he is, as Howard Dean, the progressives’ challenger in the Democratic primary of 2003/2004, put it, “basically . . . a Democrat . . . [who] votes with the Democrats 98 per cent of the time”.

As Sanders relates in Outsider in the House, faced in 1996 with the choice of backing Ralph Nader, “a personal friend and an exemplary progressive” running as an independent, or Bill Clinton, whose policies on health care, welfare reform, trade, gay marriage and military spending he sharply disagreed with, Sanders decided to “support” Clinton. “Perhaps ‘support’ is too strong a word,” he frets in the book. “I’m planning no press conferences to push his candidacy, and will do no campaigning for him. I will vote for him, and make that public.”

Sanders has called for a vote for the Democratic nominee in every presidential election since Jimmy Carter left office in 1981, and early this month, on ABC’s This Week, he appeared to have completed a long transition, asserting: “I am a Democrat now.”

This failure to build an electoral force outside the Democrats always leads to a dead end, according to Anthony Arnove, a prominent member of the International Socialist Organisation (ISO) who is also a publisher and literary agent representing a range of leftish writers, including Arundhati Roy. “We’ve seen it over and over,” Arnove said: “a left challenge fires up the base and is then defeated in the primaries by a centrist, or, more accurately, right-wing candidate, who goes on to betray everything those people were mobilised around.”

Sanders’s fundraising almost matched Clinton’s over the summer – in the third quarter they raised $26m and $28m, respectively – and in September he became the first candidate to attract more than a million individual donations. (The average donation to his campaign has been $30.) But his dip in the polls after Hillary’s strong performances in the first nationally televised primary debate, and then again at her House select committee hearing on the 2012 attack on the US consulate in Benghazi, Libya, suggests he will struggle to win the nomination. As of early November he trailed Clinton nationally by 25 points.

In Arnove’s view, Sanders “won’t get further than Super Tuesday [at the beginning of March], when he’ll direct his base to vote for Clinton. This is exactly how the Democrats become a graveyard for progressive politics, when what we desperately need are social movements that can remain independent of both establishment parties and push for their own agenda.”


The revolution to which Sanders often refers is a long way from the sort envisaged by Arnove’s ISO. He is pursuing a fairer capitalism, not its overthrow. “He’s not Trotsky,” as Taibbi put it to me. But there are those inside his campaign who think its primary focus should be building a grass-roots organisation capable of transcending the four-yearly coming together of presidential elections, to create a more permanent basis for a broad, progressive movement.

One such advocate is Adolph Reed, a writer and academic who is campaigning for Sanders in South Carolina. Working with local unions and Labor for Bernie Sanders 2016, which has 70,000 signed-up members, Reed sees the potential in using Sanders’s programme, with its emphasis on basic economic demands such as the minimum wage, universal health care and free college tuition, as a way of drawing together various groups campaigning around single issues such as housing and police racism.

For Reed, who is black, class trumps race as the key to building a movement. “In New Orleans everyone talked about Katrina as having a devastating effect on black people in the city, which of course it did. But when you analyse it, class was a much better predictor of who suffered most there,” he told me. The centre of a class-based movement, Reed argues, will have to be provided by the trade unions. “Despite the fashionability of protests without any specific demands or elected leaderships, no movement initiative is going to have staying power without being anchored in the trade unions.”

Recruiting the unions to work alongside Sanders’s campaign in the way Reed envisages isn’t easy. The American Federation of Teachers and the machinists’ union have already thrown in their lot with Hillary Clinton. And Richard Trumka, the president of the AFL-CIO (America’s national federation of trade unions), has warned individual unions against coming out for Sanders. But Reed can point to significant declarations of support, from postal workers and the National Nurses Union. The AFL-CIO chapters in Vermont and, more surprisingly, South Carolina have also backed his run.

“It’s important to keep Bernie in the race for as long as possible, but the ultimate objective is to develop structures that can continue beyond the election,” Reed said. “It’s premature to say what this network will look like, but Bernie’s campaign provides an important boost to putting it in place.”


From Jesse Jackson to Dennis Kuci­nich to Howard Dean, an array of people’s champions has made a splash in the recent history of Democratic presidential primaries. None, however, has been as explicitly critical of capitalism (or so gruff about it) as Bernie Sanders. His no-nonsense, class-based politics are a measure of how the disenchantment with the ideology of a free market that arrived like a train in the 1980s and ran off the rails in 2008 is now finding its way into the mainstream.

Up until now, the critical moments of left advance in America – the Seattle WTO protests, the anti-war movement, Occupy Wall Street, the campaign for gay rights and, today, Black Lives Matter – have occurred outside electoral politics. There are a couple of good reasons for this. The US electoral system, like Britain’s, makes third-party challenges extraordinarily difficult. And inside the Democratic Party these movements would have been crushed by a conservative leadership around the Democratic National Committee, put in place by Bill Clinton.

One result is a paucity of new progressive voices inside the party. At a moment when, as Gramsci once put it, the old order no longer works but the new order has not yet been born, Sanders, with his New Deal politics and firebrand demeanour, seems not so much a successor to the old order as a throwback to a time that pre-dates it, when politicians spoke with conviction and the society they represented was less unfair. As such, he provides a staging post for a new progressive consciousness (according to a poll by Pew at the end of 2011, more Americans aged 18 to 29 would prefer to live under socialism than under capitalism) that is not yet sufficiently coherent to enter mainstream politics in its own right, either through a serious third-party challenge or the transformation of the Democratic Party.

As a middle-class white man, Sanders has been able to get a pass to promote bold positions that someone with a less privileged identity might have found hard to sell. And his age, paradoxically, has proved not to be a disadvantage with a youthful constituency dismayed by the surrender to expedience that disfigures so much of contemporary American politics. His record has been constant over such a long period that, again like Jeremy Corbyn, he can be relied on not to sell out. Though his politics are less radical, his venerability provides a messianic cloak from the same closet as the one worn by Noam Chomsky, another hero for many young progressives.

So it’s not just today’s professionally polished politicians to whom Sanders presents a stark contrast. Recent progressive movements have embraced an identity politics that was much less prevalent when Sanders started out back in 1970s Vermont. In order to forge the sorts of alliances that are necessary to mount a credible challenge on the national political stage, they will likely have to borrow extensively from his unifying class politics. But their leadership will be younger, blacker, less straight and less masculine than Sanders. In that sense, he represents the last hurrah for the old white guy.

Colin Robinson is co-publisher at OR Books (, based in New York

This article first appeared in the 19 November 2015 issue of the New Statesman, The age of terror