England’s football clubs are playthings for the global elite

ON AUGUST 21ST Newcastle United took on Manchester City in England’s Premier League. Looked at one way, the game was a pulsating 3-3 draw, played out before 52,000 people—most of them Geordies fanatically cheering on Newcastle in a packed St James’ Park. Looked at another way, it pitted a team largely owned by Saudi Arabia’s sovereign-wealth fund against one owned by a company controlled by a member of Abu Dhabi’s royal family.

Neither regime is noted for its sympathy for human rights. Saudi Arabia’s links to the murder of Jamal Khashoggi, a journalist killed in its consulate in Istanbul in 2018, are well known. Amnesty International says campaigners for human rights in the country “continued to be detained arbitrarily, sentenced after grossly unfair trials or silenced following conditional release”. In March Saudi Arabia executed 81 people in a single day. As for Abu Dhabi, Amnesty says of the United Arab Emirates, of which it is one, that “the government continued to commit serious human-rights violations, including arbitrary detention, cruel and inhuman treatment of detainees, suppression of freedom of expression and violation of the right to privacy.”

Not so long ago, English football was a far more parochial affair. Clubs tended to be owned by local businessmen who had made their money in property or industry. A case in point was Sir Jack Hayward, a property developer who bought Wolverhampton Wanderers for just over £2m (then $3.6m) in 1990 and ploughed a lot of money into improving Molineux stadium and building up Wolves’ playing strength. Hayward sold his stake in 2007. Wolves is now owned by Fosun International, a Chinese conglomerate.

The TV money that has flowed into the Premier League has attracted not just global football stars and global audiences, but global investors. Many of these see an English club purely as a business proposition, part of a diversified portfolio of sporting assets. Eight of the league’s 20 teams are largely in American hands. Liverpool is owned by the Fenway Sports Group, which also controls the Boston Red Sox baseball team. Shahid Khan, the Pakistani-American businessman behind Fulham, also owns the Jacksonville Jaguars American football team and a wrestling outfit. The Glazer family, owners of Manchester United (and loathed by many United fans), also own the Tampa Bay Buccaneers, another NFL team.

For others, ownership of a football club is a form of conspicuous consumption; a trophy asset that shows the purchaser is part of a global elite. Sports franchises are not certain moneymakers; as fast as the money comes in the front door from fans and TV companies, it goes out the back in the form of transfer fees and players’ wages. Roman Abramovich, a Russian oligarch, funded £1.6bn ($1.9bn) of debt at Chelsea, a west London club with an expensive player habit.

Sovereign nations have even deeper pockets than wealthy businessmen to finance big clubs. Some critics regard buying a football club as a form of “sportswashing”, the practice of using the game to distract attention from a government’s oppressive actions at home. The same motivation persuades countries to host prestigious sporting events, such as when Russia was the venue for the winter Olympics in 2014 and the World Cup in 2018. This winter’s World Cup is in Qatar, another country heavily criticised by Amnesty.

Until recently, the Premier League has shown little concern about the sources of club owners’ money. The Saudis’ takeover of Newcastle was significantly delayed, but the obstacle appeared not to be the regime’s human-rights record (or Khashoggi’s murder) but an allegation that the they had pirated the sporting broadcast rights of BeIn, a Qatari group.

Russia’s invasion of Ukraine this year gave the Premier League a further headache because of Mr Abramovich’s ownership of Chelsea—and his links to Vladimir Putin. He was later placed under sanctions by the British government, which included restrictions on the club’s commercial activities. Chelsea was eventually bought for £2.5bn by a largely American consortium, in a deal that prevented Mr Abramovich from getting the proceeds.

It is significant, however, that this shift took place because of government policy. Football has taken the money from global plutocrats and authoritarians because, by and large, Britain has done the same thing. Its governments have happily allowed them to buy property and businesses and shelter their assets in the country.

Newcastle fans complained for years about what they regarded as the penny-pinching of Mike Ashley, a sportswear tycoon who was the previous owner. Many were delighted to get the Saudi cash and resentful of the idea that their club should be held to a higher ethical standard than others. The club has prospered under the new owners, who have financed some useful signings. Its third-choice kit of white and green is similar to that of the Saudi national team. Unless Britain turns protectionist, Premier League clubs are likely to remain the playthings of the global elite—including global authoritarians.■