The headlines, as they always do, trumpet the numbers: billions in investment, thousands of jobs, a once-in-a-generation opportunity. But as the UK-led infrastructure consortium gears up to bid for the contract to build the stadiums and transport links for the 2026 World Cup, one has to ask: at what cost to the everyday lives of the people who will actually live with the consequences?
Let us take a step back from the boardroom bravado. The 2026 tournament, to be hosted across the United States, Canada and Mexico, is already being billed as the most commercialised World Cup in history. The infrastructure required is staggering: new airports, upgraded motorways, stadiums with capacities that dwarf anything in the Premier League. And the consortium, a collection of British engineering firms with government backing, sees its chance to export expertise and secure lucrative contracts.
But the culture of mega-events has a shadow side. In London, we remember the 2012 Olympics: the shiny new stadium, the legacy promises, the housing that never materialised for those who needed it most. The same pattern repeats globally. Host cities often saddle themselves with debt, and local communities are displaced in the name of progress. The 2022 World Cup in Qatar put a human face on this reality: migrant workers dying in the heat, wages unpaid, and a legacy of unused stadiums.
The consortium’s bid will likely focus on efficiency, sustainability and British know-how. They will speak of ‘legacy’ and ‘inclusive growth’. But the social psychology of such projects is more complex. When a city is rebuilt for a month of football, who gets to stay in the new neighbourhoods? Whose rent goes up? Whose local shop closes to make way for a franchise?
There is also the cultural shift that comes with these events. The World Cup is supposed to be a celebration of global unity, yet the infrastructure often reinforces divides. The new trains, the VIP lanes, the segregated fan zones: they create a city of insiders and outsiders. Those without a ticket become second-class citizens in their own town.
The consortium must tread carefully. If they win the contract, they will be building not just steel and concrete but social relations. The cost overruns are predictable, the planning scandals almost certain. But the real cost, the human cost, is measured in disrupted lives and forgotten promises.
So as the bids are prepared and the politicians smile for the cameras, let us remember the quiet voices: the shopkeeper in Houston, the bus driver in Mexico City, the family in Toronto whose home might be in the shadow of a new flyover. The 2026 World Cup will be a spectacle. But for many, it will also be a burden.
