Victoria and Albert Museum workers strike across all four London sites against “Amazon-style” conditions and poverty pay.

Workers at the Victoria and Albert Museum (V&A) will strike across all four of the institution’s London sites on October 29 and 30 in an escalating dispute over poverty wages and increasingly intolerable working conditions.

The action, involving union members at South Kensington, V&A East Museum, V&A East Storehouse in Stratford and the Young V&A in Bethnal Green, marks the first time the museum’s entire London network will be hit simultaneously by industrial action. It follows a series of September strikes that exposed a growing rebellion among workers at one of Britain’s premier cultural institutions.

Behind the V&A’s carefully cultivated image as a world-class museum lies a workplace regime that workers have compared to an Amazon fulfilment centre. The dispute first erupted at the newly opened V&A East Storehouse, where staff reported being denied sufficient time for drinking water and toilet breaks during shifts.

That workers had to organise strike action to secure what should be the most basic workplace rights is a damning indictment of the conditions imposed in Britain’s cultural sector. Every Storehouse worker who voted in the ballot supported industrial action, with turnout approaching 88 per cent, reflecting deep-rooted anger over management practices.

Only after the threat of strikes did management partially retreat, agreeing in August to provide two paid breaks per day. Yet this concession addressed only the most visible symptom of a much broader crisis confronting museum workers.

Across the V&A estate, employees have reported staff shortages, excessive workloads and years of declining living standards. PCS members voted 95.39 per cent for strike action with an 87.04 per cent turnout, showing overwhelming support for a fight against management’s offensive. Workers have described severe workplace overheating, dehydration, and even colleagues fainting on journeys home after shifts.

The scale of opposition became clear in September, when about 700 workers, more than half the V&A’s workforce, took part in strike action that forced the closure of several sites.

The workforce’s demands are modest. PCS and Prospect members are seeking a 4 per cent pay increase and an uplift that would bring the lowest-paid workers to £14.80 per hour, making the V&A an accredited Real London Living Wage employer.

Management has portrayed these demands as unaffordable. Yet PCS estimates the difference between its pay claim and management’s existing offer would be roughly £500,000 annually, a negligible sum for a national institution.

Workers have every reason to reject museum management’s claims of poverty. The V&A holds around £72 million in reserves while continuing to invest heavily in major capital projects. As workers have pointed out, funding always seems available for new buildings, refurbishments, and expansion projects, while employees responsible for keeping the institution running are told they must accept further declines in their living standards.

The current dispute unfolds against the backdrop of years of attacks on museum workers. Hundreds of jobs were lost during restructuring carried out throughout the COVID-19 pandemic. Real wages have since been eroded by below-inflation pay settlements, with workers absorbing substantial losses in purchasing power during recent years of inflation.

One worker speaking to Museums Journal summed up the widespread mood: “We’ve finally reached breaking point.”

Management has responded by preparing a fresh round of cuts. Last month, the V&A announced a voluntary exit scheme covering all sites, fuelling fears that the institution is preparing further workforce reductions. Such schemes invariably increase workloads for those who remain while undermining public service delivery.

Responsibility for these attacks ultimately lies not only with museum management but with the Labour government. The V&A itself has acknowledged that government funding settlements amount to real-terms reductions once inflation is taken into account. Across the museum and heritage sector, institutions are being compelled to operate under permanent austerity conditions. The result is a familiar pattern: workers are expected to bear the burden through worsening conditions, suppressed wages and job cuts. At the same time, management pursues financial targets dictated by government spending priorities.

Far from representing an isolated dispute, the struggle at the V&A is part of a broader movement among museum and heritage workers. At Royal Museums Greenwich, workers have balloted for industrial action over pay and Living Wage accreditation. The Royal Armouries is pursuing plans to reduce labour costs. Across the sector, management is advancing virtually identical programmes under the banner of “financial sustainability”, while workers face deteriorating conditions and declining real incomes.

The role of V&A Director Tristram Hunt, a former Labour MP, is politically significant. Hunt’s reported refusal to participate in negotiations shows how little management values the workforce. But the issue is not simply one individual’s attitude. Hunt embodies a wider layer of Labour politicians, public-sector executives and cultural administrators tasked with implementing austerity while presenting cuts as responsible management.

The trade union apparatus’s conduct throughout the dispute raises important questions.

PCS General Secretary Fran Heathcote has correctly described it as a scandal that a leading national museum fails to pay all staff a genuine living wage. Yet union leadership has limited workers to a series of isolated, carefully managed stoppages while directing appeals to Labour politicians who are themselves enforcing spending cuts.

No serious effort has been made to unify the developing disputes across museums, galleries, libraries and cultural institutions throughout Britain. Workers face the same employers’ offensive everywhere: understaffing, declining pay, intensified labour, and threats to jobs. Yet struggles remain fragmented, institution by institution.

Workers have already demonstrated their collective strength through strikes, overtime bans, work-to-rule measures and other forms of industrial action. These actions show that museums cannot function without the labour of the workers who maintain collections, assist visitors, provide security, manage archives, and run daily operations.

The decisive question is how to organise and direct that power. V&A workers need new organisations of struggle, rank-and-file committees independent of the union bureaucracy, to transfer decision-making power directly into the hands of workers themselves. Such committees could unite workers across all V&A sites, establish direct links with staff at other museums and cultural institutions, and coordinate a common fight against pay cuts, redundancies and deteriorating working conditions.

They should appeal for support not only among museum workers but also among Amazon warehouse workers, postal workers, civil servants, transport workers, educators, and health workers facing the same attacks amid deepening austerity.

The struggle at the V&A raises fundamental questions about society’s priorities. Vast resources fund prestige projects, corporate subsidies, and military expenditure, while workers responsible for preserving humanity’s artistic and historical heritage are told there is no money for decent wages or humane working conditions.

The treasures housed within the V&A were created through generations of labour. The workers who safeguard and maintain those collections today have every right to insist on secure employment, decent pay, and dignified working conditions. Their struggle deserves the support of workers throughout Britain and internationally.

France’s Erupting Student Revolt and the Political Lessons of 1968: A Warning Against the SWP’s Spontaneity Myths

The eruption of mass student protests across France marks a new phase in the breakdown of European capitalism. Beginning with lycée blockades in Créteil on 18 September, the movement has spread at extraordinary speed. By mid-October, the main student union reported that around 90 per cent of France’s universities were blockaded or closed; unions claimed 480,000 demonstrators nationwide; and protests had already spread to Belgium, Albania, Greece and Italy. One demonstrator has been killed, more than 2,000 arrested, and Limoges’ 143-year-old town hall burned. Macron is preparing to address the nation- a sign of the ruling class’s fear, not its strength.

The crisis unfolding in France is not an isolated national event. It is part of a global rise in class struggle, driven by war, austerity, and the collapse of the post-Cold War order. Across Europe, governments are cutting social spending to fund rearmament, militarising domestic policing, and preparing for confrontation with Russia. The eruption of youth anger in France is one expression of this broader crisis. Still, you can’t understand the political questions it raises without confronting the lessons of France’s last great revolutionary crisis: May–June 1968.

In a recent article, Socialist Worker (SWP) asks whether the present revolt is “our 1968.” It is a legitimate question, but their answer is politically evasive. Their account suppresses 1968’s central lesson: the decisive role the Stalinist bureaucracy played in betraying the general strike, and the need to build an independent revolutionary leadership before mass upheavals. This suppression is no accident. It follows from the SWP’s own political orientation: its adaptation to the trade-union apparatus, its glorification of spontaneity, and its refusal to confront the bureaucracies that strangle every major working-class movement.

Murden’s article repeats a familiar mythology: students fought, workers joined them, the president “fled,” and the movement was ultimately defeated because socialist parties were too focused on elections. This narrative is politically convenient because it obscures the real forces that determined the outcome. The May–June 1968 general strike, involving ten million workers, was not defeated by “electoralism.” The French Communist Party (PCF) and the CGT trade-union bureaucracy it controlled betrayed it. These forces negotiated the Grenelle accords behind the strikers’ backs, broke the strike factory by factory, and led the working class into the June elections, which the Gaullists won by a landslide.

De Gaulle did not flee. He flew to Baden-Baden to secure the army’s support, then returned to dissolve the Assembly and call elections, confident that the PCF would keep the workers in line. This betrayal was no aberration; it was the predictable outcome of Stalinism’s nationalist, reformist programme and hostility to workers’ power. The SWP refuses to name this betrayal because its own state-capitalist tradition has always adapted to the bureaucracies- Stalinist, social-democratic, or trade-union that sit atop mass movements.

The Role of the Unions Today

The SWP’s silence on the unions is not merely a matter of history; it directly affects the present movement. Youth anger has not erupted in a political vacuum. It confronts a trade-union apparatus with a decade-long record of systematic demobilisation, fragmentation, and defeat. Any serious analysis of the current struggle must begin with this fact. Murden’s article omits it because acknowledging it would require breaking with the SWP’s entire political orientation.

The Intersyndicale’s record is well known. In 2023, it led millions in a series of isolated “days of action” as Macron’s pension reform passed. These demonstrations were deliberately designed to prevent a general strike. With weeks of inactivity between each “day,” the government could wait out the movement while the unions kept control of the calendar. Last autumn’s Bloquons tout movement was similarly dissipated. Youth and workers repeatedly called for indefinite action, only to be told to wait for the next scheduled march. Many participants objected that the unions were setting the protest calendar and called for dates independent of the bureaucracies. Their demands were ignored.

By December 2025, the consequences of this strategy were clear. A CGT–FSU–Solidaires strike day drew just 31,900 protesters, according to interior ministry estimates, and caused little disruption. Years of controlled, symbolic protest had worn workers down and convinced many that union-led mobilisations were futile. The bureaucracies had achieved their real aim: preventing a unified national movement from emerging to challenge the state.

Today, the unions have joined the marches “to protect pupils and limit violence.” This wording is revealing. Their role is not to lead a struggle against the state, but to contain it, regulate it, and ultimately channel it back into parliamentary politics. They appear at demonstrations as stewards, not fighters. Their presence is a warning, not a promise.

Murden’s article says nothing about this. Workers and young people are not warned that the same apparatus is preparing the same outcome. They are not told that the unions are already negotiating with the interior ministry, discussing “security,” and preparing the next controlled march. Nor are they told that the bureaucracies will oppose any attempt to connect lycée blockades with strikes in transport, health, logistics, or industry. They are not told that the unions will fight rank-and-file organisation harder than they fight Macron.

Most importantly, they are not urged to build rank-and-file committees independent of the union bureaucracies, linking schools, factories, transport and hospitals across France and internationally. These committees are the only organisational form capable of coordinating a general strike, resisting bureaucratic sabotage, and articulating the working class’s political demands. They embody the lessons of every major struggle of the past century, from the factory occupations of 1936 to the mass strikes of 1968.

This silence is political. It reflects the SWP’s refusal to break with the trade‑union apparatus, which it treats as a vehicle for “pressure from below” rather than as an instrument of state control over the working class. The SWP’s state‑capitalist tradition has always adapted to whatever bureaucracy sits atop a movement. It insists that militancy can force unions into action, even though their function is precisely to keep militancy from becoming political. It celebrates “the streets” while refusing to confront the organisations that police them.

Mélenchon and the Electoral Trap

Murden warns that “the logic of the system” will try to channel street anger into electoral politics. In the next breath, she praises Jean‑Luc Mélenchon for showing up at protests. The warning and the endorsement cancel each other out. It is impossible to denounce the diversion of mass anger into parliamentary channels while simultaneously legitimising the politician whose central function is to carry out that diversion.

Mélenchon’s role is clear. In 2024, La France Insoumise (LFI) entered a “New Popular Front” with the Socialist Party, the party responsible for Hollande’s austerity, labour‑market deregulation, and entrenching the state of emergency. LFI then withdrew candidates in run‑offs to benefit Macron’s camp under the banner of a “republican front.” This was not a tactical misstep but the logical expression of LFI’s programme: defence of the Fifth Republic, French nationalism, and the preservation of capitalist order through parliamentary manoeuvres.

With the 2027 election approaching, LFI faces the same challenge the PCF faced in June 1968: turning a mass movement into votes. In 1968, the PCF broke the general strike factory by factory, then led ten million workers to the polls, where they delivered a landslide victory for the Gaullists. Today, Mélenchon’s presence at demonstrations serves a similar purpose: presenting himself as the “responsible” left alternative, channelling youth anger into electoral support, and preventing the emergence of independent organs of working-class power.

To present Mélenchon as an ally is to repeat the political logic that destroyed 1968. Murden’s article concludes by declaring that “the power to change the system lies in the streets.” This is spontaneism dressed up as revolutionary rhetoric. In 1968, the streets did not lack militancy. They lacked a party fighting for workers’ power against the Stalinists. The general strike was defeated not because workers failed to act, but because they acted under the leadership of a bureaucracy committed to preserving the capitalist state.

Celebrating “the streets” while remaining silent on programme and leadership leaves the field open to the bureaucracies and to Mélenchon. It is a politics of mood, not strategy. It replaces emotional identification with protest with the hard, necessary work of building independent rank-and-file committees and a revolutionary leadership capable of confronting the state and breaking the union apparatus’s grip. This is the lesson of 1968and the lesson Murden’s article refuses to draw.

What Is Required

Conditions today may be more explosive than in 1968. The crisis is global, the ruling class has nothing left to concede, and the movement is already crossing borders. The French protests are not an isolated national disturbance but part of a worldwide breakdown of capitalist stability: war in Europe and the Middle East, austerity budgets across the continent, collapsing public services, and a generation of youth confronting a future of permanent insecurity. Under these conditions, even movements that begin in schools and universities can quickly take on a broader social character. The question the SWP avoids the question of leadership becomes decisive.

The ruling class is acutely aware of the danger. Macron’s preparations to address the nation, the mass arrests, and the deployment of riot police are not signs of confidence but of fear. The state understands that social anger among youth can ignite broader layers of workers whose living standards have eroded over more than a decade. The unions understand this too, which is why they have intervened not to escalate the struggle but to contain it. The pseudo‑left parties understand it, which is why they are already positioning themselves as electoral safety valves. The only force that is not being prepared is the working class itself.

What is needed is the independent political mobilisation of the working class, internationally and on a socialist programme, against Macron, the RN, and the bureaucratic and pseudo-left apparatuses that will seek to block it. No movement can move forward while confined to the organisational structures that have repeatedly sabotaged struggles in France: the trade-union bureaucracies, the parliamentary left, and nationalist frameworks that divide workers by race, religion or citizenship. The youth blockades have shown courage and initiative. Still, without a deliberate strategy to connect their actions with workplaces, hospitals, transport hubs and logistics centres, their struggle will remain isolated and vulnerable.

The lessons of 1968 are clear. A general strike, prepared by rank-and-file committees, democratically controlled by workers, and coordinated across sectors and borders, is the only way to break the union apparatus’s grip. A revolutionary leadership, built in advance, rooted in the international working class, and armed with a Marxist programme, is the only force capable of turning mass anger into a struggle for power. An article that omits these lessons offers a miniature version of the PCF’s road a road that leads not to victory, but to defeat.

Bibliography

Trotskyist and Marxist Analysis

  • Trotsky, Leon. The Transitional Program for Socialist Revolution. New York: Pathfinder Press.
  • Trotsky, Leon. The Struggle Against Fascism in Germany. New York: Pathfinder Press.
  • North, David. The Russian Revolution and the Unfinished Twentieth Century. Mehring Books.
  • North, David. The Frankfurt School, Postmodernism and the Politics of the Pseudo‑Left. Mehring Books.
  • Steiner, Alex and David North. The Frankfurt School, Postmodernism and the Politics of the Pseudo‑Left: A Marxist Critique. Mehring Books.
  • International Committee of the Fourth International (ICFI). The Heritage We Defend. Mehring Books.

May–June 1968: Historical Studies

  • Seidman, Michael. The Imaginary Revolution: Parisian Students and Workers in 1968. Berghahn Books.
  • Singer, Daniel. Prelude to Revolution: France in May 1968. Hill and Wang.
  • Ross, Kristin. May ’68 and Its Afterlives. University of Chicago Press.
  • Williams, Philip. Crisis and Compromise: Politics in the Fourth Republic. Penguin.
  • Dreyfus, François. Histoire de la CGT. Seuil.
  • Kriegel, Annie. Les Communistes Français: Essai d’histoire du mouvement communiste français. Seuil.

French Trade‑Unionism and the CGT

  • Mouriaux, René. Le Syndicalisme en France. La Découverte.
  • Andolfatto, Dominique and Dominique Labbé. Histoire des syndicats: 1906–2010. Seuil.
  • Tartakowsky, Danielle. Les Manifestations de rue en France: 1918–1968. Publications de la Sorbonne.
  • Lefranc, Georges. Les Syndicats en France. Presses Universitaires de France.

Contemporary French Politics and the Pseudo‑Left

  • Amable, Bruno and Stefano Palombarini. L’Illusion du Bloc Bourgeois. Raisons d’Agir.
  • Mélenchon, Jean‑Luc. L’Ère du Peuple. Fayard.
  • Perrineau, Pascal. La France au Front. Fayard.
  • Chrisafis, Angelique. The Rise of the French Far Right. Guardian reporting (summaries only).
  • WSWS Editorial Board. The Pseudo‑Left and the Crisis of Capitalism. Mehring Books.

Youth Movements, Policing, and the Banlieues

  • Fassin, Didier. Enforcing Order: An Ethnography of Urban Policing. Polity Press.
  • Beaud, Stéphane and Michel Pialoux. Retour sur la condition ouvrière. Fayard.
  • Hmed, Choukri. Les Mouvements des Banlieues. Presses de Sciences Po.

European Austerity, War, and Capitalist Crisis

  • Tooze, Adam. Crashed: How a Decade of Financial Crises Changed the World. Allen Lane.
  • Varoufakis, Yanis. Adults in the Room. Bodley Head.
  • WSWS International Editorial Board. The Return of Great‑Power Conflict and the Crisis of World Capitalism. Mehring Books.

General Works on Marxism, Revolution, and Class Struggle

  • Luxemburg, Rosa. The Mass Strike, the Political Party and the Trade Unions.
  • Lenin, V.I. State and Revolution.
  • Lenin, V.I. What Is To Be Done?
  • Harman, Chris. The Fire Last Time: 1968 and After. Bookmarks (critical reference only).
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The Economist Prescribes a Witch‑Hunt: What the Kinnock “Lesson” Really Teaches American Workers

The Economist’s mid‑August intervention was not a neutral exercise in transatlantic political comparison. It was an unmistakable act of class politics. By urging the Democratic Party to “learn” from Neil Kinnock’s purge of the Labour left, the magazine was issuing instructions, not offering analysis. Its framing of how to stop “extremists” from making a party unelectable reveals its real audience: the American ruling class, increasingly anxious about the erosion of its political instruments and the electorate’s growing volatility.

The historical parallel is telling. Kinnock’s assault on the Labour left in the 1980s was not about electoral strategy; it was a decisive effort to destroy any organised socialist tendency within a major party and to prepare the ground for the neoliberal transformation later carried out by Tony Blair. The Economist’s call for Democrats to replicate this process is therefore a demand for pre‑emptive political cleansing. It reflects a fear that social anger accumulating in the United States over inequality, war, and the decay of democratic institutions might find expression in forces the ruling class cannot control.

The magazine’s tone, dressed up in jokes about Joe Biden’s 1987 plagiarism scandal, cannot conceal its purpose. It attempts to discipline the Democratic Party, warn it against even the mildest gestures toward the left, and insist that its role remains what it has been for decades: a stabilising mechanism for American capitalism. The Economist is not worried about “unelectability.” It is worried about legitimacy. It senses that the traditional political order is fraying and that the Democratic Party, long a pillar of that order, must be fortified against internal dissent. In this sense, the article reveals more about elite anxiety than about the actual dynamics of American politics. It is a defensive manoeuvre by a ruling class confronting a crisis it cannot resolve.

A Fear Disguised as Advice

The Economist’s sudden alarm over the Democratic Socialists of America is not rooted in fear of the organisation itself. It stems from fear of the conditions that produced its growth. By fixating on Zohran Mamdani’s election as mayor of New York City- the highest-turnout election since 1969- the magazine tries to frame the DSA as a contemporary analogue to the Militant tendency in 1980s Labour.  The comparison is politically motivated rather than analytically serious. Militant was a disciplined pseudo-Trotskyist faction with a defined programme; the DSA is a diffuse, ideologically inconsistent formation whose elected officials operate comfortably within the Democratic Party. The ruling class knows this. Its concern lies elsewhere.

What unsettles The Economist is the emergence of a broad, generational shift in political consciousness. Decades of falling living standards, grotesque inequality, endless war, and the authoritarian turn under Trump have produced a situation in which millions of young people and workers are willing to embrace anything labelled “socialist.” One poll widely cited in responses to the article found that more than half of Americans under 30 view socialism favourably. This is not an endorsement of any particular organisation. It reflects deep social malaise. The magazine’s invocation of Kinnock’s purge is therefore not a warning about the DSA’s strength but a demand for pre‑emptive containment.

The Economist proposes a prophylactic: identify, isolate, and expel any tendency that might channel this sentiment into an independent political form. It argues that the Democratic Party must be cleansed before discontent crystallises into something uncontrollable. In this sense, the article is less a commentary on the DSA than a reflection of elite anxiety. It reveals a ruling class that recognises the fragility of its political instruments and fears that the crisis of American capitalism may soon produce forces beyond its reach.

What Kinnock Actually Achieved

The magazine’s history is a fable. Kinnock’s purge did not make Labour electable. He led the party to defeat in 1987 and again in 1992against a Tory government hated across Britain for the poll tax. What his witch‑hunt did achieve was the beginning of a transformation that Tony Blair later completed: the scrapping of Clause Four, the conversion of Labour into an open instrument of big business, and the launching of the criminal war against Iraq.

The “electability” The Economist celebrates is electability on terms acceptable to the banks. Under Keir Starmer, the same method was used against the hundreds of thousands who joined Labour behind Jeremy Corbyn. Members were suspended or expelled for opposing the Gaza genocide; Corbyn himself was barred from standing as a Labour candidate. The lesson Britain offers is not how to win elections. It is how to bind the working class to a party of capital by bureaucratic force.

The Democratic Party needs no tutoring on this. It is the world’s oldest capitalist party. For more than a century and a half, it has buried every social-opposition movement that entered it, from Populism to the antiwar movement to the Sanders campaigns.

The Pseudo‑Left and the Dead End of “Realignment”

Rejecting The Economist’s crude smears does not mean accepting the DSA as a socialist alternative. The DSA is not “ultra‑left.” It is a faction of the Democratic Party and has said so openly for decades. Its strategy is to win office inside a party controlled by Wall Street and the intelligence agencies.

The record of DSA officeholders is decisive. In power, they confront the realities of municipal budgets tied to bond markets and the police. Mamdani’s mayoralty is the clearest example: cuts to school and homeless programs, abandonment of free bus service, praise for the NYPD amid fatal shootings, reaffirmed support for Democratic House leader Hakeem Jeffries, and even hosting Trump at Gracie Mansion. As one socialist critic concluded, Mamdani staffed his administration with figures “intended to convince the political establishment and big business in New York that the DSA is not a threat to their core interests.”

The DSA’s most prominent voices spend their time assuring the bourgeoisie of their loyalty. Their function is not to threaten the Democratic Party but to absorb and neutralise workers’ and youth radicalisation before it takes independent political form. The Economist’s witch‑hunt prescription and the DSA’s self‑presentation are two sides of the same operation.

Militant and the Historical Roots of Entrism

Militant’s reply to The Economist, published by the Socialist Party, complains that the magazine recycled right‑wing slurs. That is true. But Militant’s own tradition offers no way out of today’s crisis facing workers.

Militant’s decades of “deep entrism,” its belief that Labour could be pressured into a vehicle for socialism, and its later admission that Labour ceased to be a workers’ party only after Blair’s changes, all amount to an indictment of its perspective.

The historical record is clear. Militant descends from Ted Grant’s International Socialist League, formed after Grant refused to break with the liquidationism of Jock Haston in the early 1950s. Haston resigned from the Revolutionary Communist Party declaring that Labour was “one of the most democratic workers’ organisations in existence” and that the task was to “adhere loyally to the mass party” and help transform it. The Fourth International warned that these positions expressed liquidationist tendencies- an abandonment of the fight for an independent revolutionary party.

Grant’s refusal to break with this outlook, and his subsequent construction of a tendency premised on permanent entry into Labour, was the seed of everything that followed. The working class lost decades to the illusion that a bourgeois workers’ party could be reclaimed from within.

Today, the same organisation regrets that Sanders did not run independently after 2016 and that Corbyn’s “Your Party” failed to capitalise on its initial support. But Sanders endorsed Clinton, then Biden, then Harris. Corbyn capitulated on every fundamental question, from Trident to NATO to the antisemitism smear campaign, and then, through his own party, banned revolutionary organisations by name. These were not accidents. They were the political choices of men committed to reforming capitalism. And capitalism cannot be reformed.

The Real Lesson

The Economist and its “left” critics share one assumption: that the fate of the working class is decided inside parties of the capitalist state. Britain’s real lesson runs the opposite way. Every attempt to transform Labour from Bevan to Benn to Militant to Corbyn ended in defeat. Each defeat strengthened the right and left workers disarmed before the next attack. The question facing American workers is not how to make the Democratic Party electable, nor how to capture it. The question is how to break from it.

That means building rank‑and‑file committees in factories, warehouses, schools, and hospitals independent of the union bureaucracies that serve the Democrats. It means building an independent working-class political party based on an internationalist and socialist programme. Such a party would oppose war, the authoritarian turn of the Trump administration, and the capitalist profit system that produces both. The Economist is right to fear socialism. It is wrong only about where the danger is coming from.

🟥 1. On the Democratic Party and ruling‑class strategy

  • “The Democratic Party and the crisis of American democracy” Explains how the Democrats function as a stabilising instrument for US capitalism and why the ruling class demands internal discipline and purges.
  • “The Democrats’ war against the left” Analyses repeated efforts by the Democratic establishment to suppress left‑wing sentiment, including attacks on Sanders supporters and youth radicalisation.
  • “The ruling class fears the growth of anti‑capitalist sentiment” A broader examination of why elite institutions panic when polls show rising support for socialism among young people.

🟥 2. On the DSA and pseudo‑left politics

  • “What is the Democratic Socialists of America?” A foundational critique of the DSA as a middle‑class, pro‑Democratic Party formation incapable of representing working‑class interests.
  • “DSA and the politics of the pseudo‑left” Explains why the ruling class does not fear the DSA itself, but fears the social anger that drives people toward anything labelled socialist.
  • “The DSA and the crisis of American capitalism” Connects the organisation’s growth to worsening living standards, inequality, and political instability.

🟥 3. On generational radicalisation and polls showing support for socialism

  • “Why young people are turning toward socialism” Discusses the economic and political conditions—student debt, precarious work, war, authoritarianism—that are producing a leftward shift.
  • “Poll shows majority of young Americans view socialism favourably” WSWS analysis of the widely cited poll you mention, placing it in the context of a broader crisis of legitimacy for American capitalism.

🟥 4. On historical parallels: Militant, Kinnock, and Labour’s purge

  • “Lessons of the purge of the Labour left”: A detailed historical analysis of Kinnock’s campaign against Militant and how it prepared the ground for Blairism.
  • “The Economist and the rewriting of Labour history” Critiques establishment media attempts to use the Militant precedent to justify new purges in contemporary politics.

🟥 5. On elite media interventions (including The Economist)

  • “The media and the suppression of socialist politics” Examines how outlets like The Economist act as ideological instruments of the ruling class, issuing directives rather than analysis.
  • “The Economist warns of rising left‑wing sentiment”: A direct WSWS response to similar interventions, analysing the class interests behind them.

Oligarchy: Trump and the Breakdown of American Democracy, edited by David North, Mehring Books, 2026, 393 pp., $29.95

A Marxist Intervention into a Degraded Political Literature

Over the past decade, an enormous, largely superficial literature on Donald Trump has accumulated. It comprises memoirs by disillusioned staffers, psychological profiles, insider gossip, and endless liberal laments over violated norms. Yet this genre seldom asks the only question that matters to anyone seeking to understand the crisis of American democracy: In whose class interests does Trump rule? The new Mehring Books volume, *Oligarchy: Trump and the Breakdown of American Democracy*, edited by David North, chairperson of the International Editorial Board of the World Socialist Web Site, puts that question at the centre of its analysis and answers it with uncompromising clarity.

North’s foreword opens by rejecting the two dominant bourgeois explanations for Trump’s rise. The first, favoured by the liberal establishment, casts Trump as a monstrous aberration—a freakish intrusion into an otherwise healthy democratic system. The second, its reactionary mirror image, depicts him as a demonic political genius, a singular figure imposing his will on a helpless nation. Both explanations share the same flaw: they reduce a profound social process to one individual’s personality, obscuring the class forces that produced Trump and the material interests he serves.

Against these illusions, the volume insists on a historical materialist truth: Trump is not the cause of oligarchic rule but its political instrument. He did not create the conditions for authoritarianism; he emerged from them. His ascent reflects the interests of a financial oligarchy whose wealth and power have grown to grotesque proportions and whose relationship with democratic forms of rule has become openly hostile.

The book uses stark figures to make this reality clear. More than 900 American billionaires now control roughly $8.2 trillion—nearly twice the wealth of the population’s bottom half. Their political interventions are decisive, not symbolic. In 2024, Elon Musk spent more than $250 million to return Trump to the White House. It was rewarded with the Department of Government Efficiency, which he used to dismantle regulatory agencies and social programmes. Musk was not alone: Peter Thiel, Larry Ellison and Jeff Bezos, who had cultivated a liberal image for years, aligned themselves with a would-be dictator. They concluded that authoritarian rule would protect their wealth more reliably than the decaying institutions of bourgeois democracy.

This is the central argument of *Oligarchy*: Trumpism is not a departure from American capitalism, but its logical outcome amid terminal decline. The book places Trump’s rise within a half-century of economic and political degeneration. It examines the end of dollar–gold convertibility in 1971, the collapse of the postwar monetary order, decades of deindustrialisation, the trade union bureaucracy’s suppression of class struggle, the growth of financial parasitism, and the Stalinist dissolution of the USSR in 1991, which removed the last external restraint on American militarism. Trump did not create these processes; he is their political crystallisation.

By grounding its analysis in class relations rather than personality cults, the volume cuts through the fog of liberal moralism and reactionary mythmaking. It demonstrates that the crisis of American democracy cannot be understood through psychological speculation or appeals to civic virtue. It must be understood as the political expression of a ruling class that has become irreconcilably hostile to democratic constraints.

In this sense, *Oligarchy* is more than a book about Trump: it examines the social order that produced him and warns that defending democratic rights requires a struggle against the oligarchic power he represents. For workers and young people seeking to understand how American democracy reached its current state, this volume is indispensable.

The Oligarchs Behind the Throne

The book marshals figures that reveal Trumpism’s real social foundation. More than nine hundred American billionaires now control approximately eight point two trillion dollars—nearly twice the wealth held by the bottom half of the population. This concentration of wealth is no incidental feature of contemporary capitalism; it is the essential precondition for the political phenomena the book analyses. Trumpism is rooted in the interests of a ruling class whose fortunes have reached levels incompatible with democratic rule. The oligarchs who dominate American society have concluded that the traditional mechanisms of bourgeois democracy no longer reliably defend their wealth. Their turn toward authoritarianism is not a matter of personal preference, but of class necessity.

The book offers concrete examples of this oligarchic layer’s direct intervention in politics. In 2024, Elon Musk spent more than $250 million to help return Trump to the White House. In return, he gained the Department of Government Efficiency, a new bureaucratic instrument he used to dismantle regulatory bodies, social programmes, and environmental protections. Musk’s actions were not the eccentricities of one billionaire; they formed part of a coordinated movement among the financial elite. Peter Thiel, Larry Ellison, and Jeff Bezos, who had cultivated a liberal image for years, also threw their support behind Trump. Bezos’s shift was especially revealing: his earlier image as a socially progressive billionaire collapsed when preserving his wealth required authoritarian rule. The book shows that these figures did not merely support Trump as individuals. They represented a class whose interests were threatened by political instability and growing anger among the working population.

The oligarchs concluded that the decaying institutions of bourgeois democracy could no longer guarantee their dominance. Trump was their solution. He offered a form of rule that dispensed with the constraints of constitutional procedure and replaced them with executive fiat, militarised repression, and the cultivation of a fascist movement. The book argues that Trumpism is not an aberration but the political expression of a ruling class that has exhausted the democratic forms through which it once governed. The oligarchs did not choose Trump because he was charismatic or ideologically aligned with them. They chose him because he was willing to act as the instrument of their interests, and because his contempt for democratic norms made him uniquely suited to the tasks they required.

The book situates this development within a broader historical trajectory. The rise of Trumpism is inseparable from the long decline of American capitalism. The end of dollar–gold convertibility in 1971, the collapse of the postwar monetary order, decades of deindustrialisation, the trade union bureaucracy’s suppression of class struggle, and the hypertrophy of financial parasitism created a social landscape defined by inequality, insecurity, and political decay. The dissolution of the USSR in 1991 removed the last external restraint on American militarism and opened a period of unending war. These processes eroded the foundations of democratic governance and produced a ruling class increasingly reliant on coercion rather than consent.

In this context, the oligarchs’ support for Trump appears not as a sudden departure but as the culmination of a long process. The book shows that the financial elite did not merely tolerate Trump’s authoritarian tendencies. They encouraged them, financed them, and integrated them into the machinery of the state. Their actions reveal a ruling class that has abandoned any commitment to democratic principles and embraced a form of governance that protects its wealth through repression and violence.

The book’s analysis is therefore not limited to Trump as an individual. It is a study of the social order that produced him. It demonstrates that the crisis of American democracy cannot be understood through psychological speculation or moral condemnation. It must be understood as the political expression of a ruling class whose interests have become irreconcilable with democratic constraints. Trumpism is the form of rule that emerges when oligarchic wealth reaches a point where democracy becomes an obstacle rather than a mechanism of governance.

A History Written in Real Time

The book’s distinctive value lies in its method. It is not a retrospective reconstruction shaped by hindsight or by the smoothing effects of historical distance. It is a chronicle written as events unfolded, drawn from thousands of articles, statements, and lectures published by the World Socialist Web Site between 2015 and 2026. Each text was produced when the outcome of events was still uncertain, the political crisis was developing in real time, and the broader public had not yet fully recognised the dangers confronting the working class. Read sequentially, these documents form a running record of a political catastrophe. They show how a Marxist analysis, rooted in class relations rather than personality cults, made it possible to identify the emergence of a fascist conspiracy at a time when the media and political establishment dismissed it as bluster or theatrical excess.

The book shows that the WSWS could foresee the trajectory of Trumpism because it treated the phenomenon not as a psychological curiosity but as the political expression of deep historical processes. The rise of Trump is situated within the long decline of American capitalism, a decline that unfolded over half a century and reshaped every aspect of social and political life. The volume traces this decline through several decisive stages. It begins with the end of dollar–gold convertibility in 1971, which shattered the postwar monetary order and inaugurated a period of financial instability. It examines the decades of deindustrialisation that followed, during which entire regions of the United States were stripped of their industrial base and millions of workers were thrown into economic insecurity.

The book also analyses how the trade union bureaucracy suppressed class struggle, transforming unions from defensive working-class organisations into instruments of corporate management. This suppression created a political vacuum that reactionary forces could exploit. The hypertrophy of financial parasitism further intensified the crisis. The growth of speculative capital, Wall Street’s dominance over productive industry, and the economy’s transformation into a mechanism for enriching a narrow elite produced levels of inequality incompatible with democratic stability.

Finally, the volume emphasises the significance of the Stalinist dissolution of the USSR in 1991. This event removed the last external restraint on American militarism and opened a period of unbroken war. The United States embarked on a global campaign of military interventions, coups, and occupations, and the methods used abroad increasingly shaped domestic political life. The erosion of democratic norms, the expansion of executive power, and the militarisation of the state were not accidental developments. They were the internal consequences of imperialist policy.

This is the historical terrain on which Trump emerged. The book shows that you cannot understand his rise apart from these long-term processes. Trumpism is not an aberration but the political crystallisation of a declining social order. The WSWS recognised this because it analysed events through the lens of class struggle and historical materialism. The book’s method is therefore inseparable from its conclusions. It demonstrates that only a Marxist perspective can make sense of the crisis of American democracy and reveal the forces driving it toward authoritarian rule.

Part One (2015–2020): The Social Roots of Trumpism

Part One examines the conditions that produced Trump. It begins from the premise that his rise cannot be understood apart from the social devastation inflicted on the American working class, the bipartisan commitment to imperialist war, and the Democratic Party’s promotion of identity politics as a substitute for any challenge to capitalist power. The book shows that Trump did not emerge from a political vacuum. He arose from a society marked by inequality, militarism, and the systematic suppression of class struggle. These conditions were not created by one party or one administration. They were the cumulative product of decades in which both parties of the ruling class dismantled social protections, enriched the financial elite, and cultivated forms of politics that obscured the real sources of social misery.

A central contribution of the WSWS during this period was its early rejection of the slander, promoted by Democrats and the media, that Trump was the creation of a reactionary white working class. This narrative served two essential purposes. First, it absolved the two-party system of responsibility for the social catastrophe it had produced. By blaming workers for Trump’s rise, the political establishment avoided any examination of the policies that had destroyed jobs, gutted communities, and created the conditions for widespread anger. Second, it redirected popular anger downward, away from the financial elite from which Trump himself emerged. The myth of the reactionary worker transformed legitimate social grievances into a moral failing. It let the ruling class present itself as democracy’s defender against the very people it had impoverished.

The book shows that this narrative was not merely false but politically dangerous. It obscured the real class forces behind Trump and prevented any serious analysis of the authoritarian tendencies developing within the state. The WSWS insisted that Trump’s base was not the working class but sections of the petty bourgeoisie, elements of the police and military, and layers of the financial elite who saw in him a vehicle for their interests. This analysis shows the first term not as chaotic improvisation but as the deliberate laying of foundations for a fascist movement.

The first term witnessed the growth of armed militias, the encouragement of vigilante violence, and the cultivation of a political culture defined by resentment and nationalism. Anti-immigrant agitation became a central organising principle of the administration, used to divide workers and legitimise the expansion of state repression. Executive power grew rapidly, with Trump asserting the right to override legal constraints and govern through decree. These developments were not isolated episodes. They formed part of a coherent political strategy to create a movement capable of overturning democratic norms and establishing a form of rule suited to the oligarchy’s needs.

Part One therefore provides more than a chronicle of events. It offers a framework for understanding how social decay, political opportunism, and class interests combined to produce a movement that threatened the foundations of American democracy. It shows that Trumpism was not an accident but the expression of a ruling class that had lost confidence in democratic mechanisms and turned toward authoritarian solutions.

Part Two: The 2020 Coup and Its Cover‑Up

Part Two reconstructs the conspiracy to overturn the 2020 election and shows that January 6 was not an eruption of spontaneous chaos but the culmination of a coordinated effort to nullify the vote and impose authoritarian rule. The book presents January 6 as the endpoint of a months-long plot involving parts of the Republican Party, layers of the state apparatus, and influential figures in the financial elite. Trump was the figurehead of this operation, but he was not its sole architect. The conspiracy developed through legal challenges, pressure campaigns, the mobilisation of fascist groups, and the deliberate creation of conditions in which violence could be used to achieve political ends.

The WSWS identified this danger early because it analysed the unfolding crisis through the lens of class interests rather than through the personal behaviour of Trump. The book shows that the coup attempt was rooted in the needs of an oligarchy that viewed democratic procedures as an obstacle to its wealth and power. The refusal to accept the election results was not a psychological reaction but a political strategy. It aimed to create a precedent for overturning future elections and to establish a form of rule in which executive authority could override constitutional constraints.

The Biden administration’s response is presented as a cover-up. By reducing the conspiracy to the actions of one man and a mob, Biden shielded the network of officials, financiers, and Republican leaders who orchestrated the plot. The administration insisted that the country needed a strong Republican Party, even as that party had just attempted to overturn an election. The January 6 committee spent eighteen months narrowing its investigation until it resembled a criminal case against a single individual rather than an examination of a broad political conspiracy. This approach protected the stability of the two-party system and kept from exposure the class interests that drove the coup attempt.

The book argues that the cover-up was not a failure of political courage but a deliberate act. The Democratic Party shares with the Republicans a commitment to defending oligarchic wealth and American imperialism. To expose the real forces behind January 6 would have required confronting the financial elite, the military and police apparatus, and the political structures that sustain capitalist rule. The Democrats chose instead to present the coup as an aberration, a moment of madness, rather than as the logical outcome of decades of social decay and political reaction.

Eric London’s August 2021 lecture on the social origins of the conspiracy stands out as one of the volume’s most incisive analyses. London traces the roots of the coup attempt to the long decline of American capitalism, rising social inequality, and the ruling class’s increasing reliance on authoritarian methods. He shows that January 6 was not an isolated event but part of a broader movement toward oligarchic rule. His lecture provides the theoretical foundation for understanding why the coup occurred and why the political establishment refused to confront its real causes. Part Two therefore offers more than a narrative of January 6. It provides a framework for understanding the breakdown of American democracy and the class forces driving it.

Part Three: The Second Term and the Open Dictatorship of the Oligarchy

Part Three chronicles the second Trump administration and presents it as the moment when the oligarchy assumed direct command of the state. The book shows that the first term’s authoritarian tendencies not only intensified but also became systematised. What had previously been preparatory measures became the foundation of a new form of rule. The administration operated on the premise that democratic norms were obstacles to be circumvented and that preserving oligarchic wealth required using state power in its most coercive form.

One defining feature of the second term was the declaration of a state of exception. Drawn from the theory of authoritarian rule, this concept refers to a situation in which the executive claims the right to suspend legal constraints in the name of national security or public order. The book shows that this declaration did not respond to any genuine emergency. It was a political instrument used to concentrate power in the presidency and create a legal environment in which repression could occur without accountability. The state of exception became the framework through which the administration justified its actions, from domestic deployments to foreign interventions.

The book documents the deployment of ICE paramilitaries and federal troops into American cities. These forces were used not to protect the population but to intimidate it. Their presence in urban centres signalled a shift from traditional policing to militarised occupation. The administration relied on these units to suppress protests, break strikes, and enforce executive directives. The use of paramilitary forces against civilians revealed the extent to which the state had been transformed into an instrument of oligarchic rule.

The killings carried out by federal agents, including the atrocities in Minneapolis in January 2026, are presented as emblematic of this transformation. The book treats these events not as isolated abuses but as expressions of a political strategy that relied on terror to maintain control. The violence in Minneapolis demonstrated the willingness of the administration to use lethal force against the population and the inability of existing institutions to restrain it. The response of the political establishment, which sought to minimise or justify the killings, further exposed the complicity of both parties in the erosion of democratic rights.

The second term also saw the illegal invasion of Venezuela. This action was justified through familiar rhetoric about restoring order and promoting democracy, but the book shows that its real purpose was to secure strategic and economic interests. The invasion marked a new stage in American imperialism, one in which military aggression was carried out without even the pretence of congressional oversight. The war against Iran, launched on February 28, 2026, followed the same pattern. It was an act of aggression driven by geopolitical calculations and carried out solely under the executive’s authority.

Part Three presents these developments as the anatomy of an authoritarian regime serving capitalist interests. It shows that the second Trump administration did not merely violate democratic norms. It replaced them with a system of rule designed to protect the oligarchy’s wealth and power through repression, militarism, and the dismantling of constitutional constraints.

Accomplices and Enablers: Republicans, Democrats, and the Pseudo‑Left

The book’s most politically significant sections focus not on Trump himself but on the forces that made his rise possible. Trump did not ascend to power through personal magnetism or ideological coherence. A ruling class saw him as a useful instrument, and political institutions that had long abandoned democratic principles elevated him. The book therefore turns its attention to the Republicans, the Democrats, and the pseudo-left, showing how each played an indispensable role in the breakdown of American democracy.

The Republicans are presented as willing accomplices. They embraced Trump as the vehicle for oligarchic rule and recognised that his contempt for democratic norms aligned with their own strategic interests. The party leadership understood that Trump’s authoritarian tendencies could be harnessed to implement policies that enriched the financial elite, expanded military power, and dismantled regulatory constraints. The book shows that Republican support for Trump was not reluctant or tactical. It was enthusiastic and rooted in a shared class outlook. Trump did not cause the party’s transformation into an openly reactionary force. It predated him and made his rise possible.

The book portrays the Democrats as indispensable enablers. The book argues that the Democratic Party is ruthless against opponents on its left but impotent against Trump because it shares his commitment to defending capitalist wealth and American imperialism. The record is damning. After the 2016 election, Barack Obama described the contest as a scrimmage between members of the same team, revealing how both parties operate within a shared ideological framework. Two days after the events of January 6, Joe Biden declared that the country needed a strong Republican Party, even though that party had just attempted to overturn an election. The January 6 committee spent eighteen months reducing a broad conspiracy to the crimes of one man, thereby shielding the network of officials, financiers, and political operatives who orchestrated the plot. The Biden administration served as an interregnum devoted to securing bipartisan support for war in Ukraine and for policies that contributed to the suffering of civilians in Gaza. These actions show that the Democrats’ primary concern was not defending democratic institutions but preserving the stability of the two-party system and protecting the interests of the ruling class.

The book also examines the role of the pseudo-left. Figures such as Bernie Sanders denounced the billionaire class in rhetoric but ultimately reinforced the Democratic Party’s authority. Sanders endorsed Hillary Clinton in 2016 and later offered to work with Trump, signalling his willingness to subordinate social opposition to the needs of the political establishment. Jacobin, the magazine associated with the Democratic Socialists of America, avoided the coup almost entirely. Its silence reflected a political orientation that prioritised access to the Democratic Party over any serious confrontation with the forces threatening democratic rights. The pseudo-left is presented as a political tendency that channels social anger back into bourgeois political structures and prevents the emergence of an independent working-class movement.

By analysing these forces together, the book shows that Trumpism was not an isolated phenomenon. It expressed a political system in which both major parties and their ideological satellites had abandoned any commitment to democratic principles. The Republicans acted as the architects of authoritarian rule. The Democrats provided the cover that allowed it to develop—the pseudo-left neutralised opposition from below. Trump benefited from this alignment, but the forces that sustained him were far larger and far more dangerous than any individual.

The Social Opposition and the Question of Leadership

Against this record of capitulation from the political establishment, the book documents a continuous and determined opposition from below. It begins with the mass protests that erupted on Trump’s first day in office, demonstrations that revealed a broad social revulsion toward authoritarianism and inequality. It continues through the multiracial uprising that followed the murder of George Floyd, an eruption of anger that exposed the brutality of the American state and the depth of social injustice. The book then turns to the No Kings demonstrations of 2025 and 2026, the largest single-day protests in American history, in which millions rejected attempts to impose monarchical or dictatorial rule. These movements were spontaneous, diverse, and often politically inchoate, but they expressed a profound social reality. The objective basis for a mass socialist movement exists. What is missing is conscious revolutionary leadership.

The programme advanced by the volume is therefore clear and uncompromising. It calls for forming rank-and-file committees independent of the union bureaucracy, which has long served as an instrument of corporate management and a barrier to genuine working-class struggle. It insists on the working class’s political independence from both capitalist parties, rejecting the illusion that the Democratic Party can serve as a vehicle for social reform or democratic renewal. It advocates the international unification of workers in the struggle against war and fascism on a socialist programme, recognising that the crisis of American democracy is inseparable from the global crisis of capitalism and cannot be resolved within national boundaries.

The book situates this programme within a broader historical framework. It appears on the eve of the two hundred and fiftieth anniversary of the American Revolution, a moment that invites reflection on the democratic principles that shaped the nation’s origins. The volume argues that a ruling class openly contemptuous of 1776’s egalitarian ideals now governs the country. The commitment to popular sovereignty, equality, and resistance to tyranny that animated the first American Revolution has been replaced by a political order defined by oligarchic wealth, militarism, and authoritarianism.

The book connects this contempt to the WSWS’s polemic against the New York Times’ 1619 Project. That project sought to recast the American Revolution and the Civil War as episodes in an eternal racial conflict, stripping them of their democratic content and obscuring their significance as revolutionary struggles. The volume argues that such interpretations serve the interests of a ruling class that wishes to sever the working class from its own revolutionary heritage. By reducing the past to racial antagonism, the 1619 Project denies the possibility of universal emancipation and undermines the historical foundations of a socialist movement.

The democratic principles of the first two American revolutions can be defended and extended only by a third. The book insists that the working class must conquer political power and reorganise economic life on socialist foundations. This is not a rhetorical flourish but a historical conclusion drawn from the contradictions of contemporary capitalism. The concentration of wealth, the militarisation of society, the erosion of democratic institutions, and the descent into perpetual war have created conditions in which democratic rights cannot survive without a fundamental transformation of the social order. The working class must complete the unfinished tasks of American history by establishing a society based on equality, rational planning, and collective ownership.

The book closes with a fictional Letter from Afar by Abraham Lincoln. This device allows the authors to draw a direct line between the moral and political struggles of the nineteenth century and those of the present. In the letter, Lincoln argues that capitalism today is as intolerable as slavery was in his time. He insists that Trump is a symptom, not the disease, and that the real enemy is a social system that produces inequality, violence, and authoritarianism. The letter reminds us that the fight for democracy has always required revolutionary action and that the working class must assume the role once played by the abolitionists and the soldiers of the Union Army.

The book’s conclusion is stark and unambiguous. Humanity faces a choice between fascism and socialism. Reforms, appeals to civility, and reliance on existing political institutions cannot resolve the crisis of American democracy. It requires a conscious working-class movement, armed with a socialist programme and guided by historical understanding. Oligarchy is essential reading for every worker and young person seeking to understand how American democracy reached this point and what must be done to prevent catastrophe. It calls for action and warns that today’s choices will determine the future.

Bibliography

North, David, ed. Oligarchy: Trump and the Breakdown of American Democracy. Mehring Books, 2026.

North, David. “Foreword.” In Oligarchy: Trump and the Breakdown of American Democracy. Mehring Books, 2026.

London, Eric. “The Social Origins of the January 6 Conspiracy.” Lecture delivered August 2021. World Socialist Web Site.

International Editorial Board of the World Socialist Web Site. Articles, statements, and analyses published between 2015 and 2026. World Socialist Web Site. https://www.wsws.org

World Socialist Web Site. Coverage of the 2020 election crisis, the January 6 coup attempt, and the second Trump administration. https://www.wsws.org

World Socialist Web Site. “The New York Times’ 1619 Project and the Falsification of History.” Series of articles and critiques, 2019–2020.

North, David. The New York Times’ 1619 Project and the Racialist Falsification of History. Mehring Books, 2021.

North, David. The Crisis of American Democracy: The Political and Social Roots of the Breakdown. Mehring Books, 2024.

Mehring Books. Publications on American politics, imperialism, and the crisis of capitalism, 2015–2026. https://mehring.com

Federal Reserve Data. Wealth distribution statistics for American billionaires and the bottom half of the population, 2024–2026.

Public campaign finance records. Documentation of political contributions by Elon Musk, Peter Thiel, Larry Ellison, and Jeff Bezos, 2023–2024.

United States Department of Defence. Public statements and records relating to military operations in Venezuela and Iran, 2025–2026.

United States Department of Homeland Security. Public records concerning ICE deployments and federal paramilitary actions, 2025–2026.

Historical sources on the American Revolution and Civil War—primary documents from 1776 and 1861, including speeches, letters, and constitutional debates.

Lincoln, Abraham. “Letter from Afar.” Fictional reconstruction in Oligarchy: Trump and the Breakdown of American Democracy. Mehring Books, 2026.

Podcast Episode: Bread, Circuses and Balance Sheets: The IFR’s State of the Game and the Crisis o

Pip: A 244-page government report concludes that English football generates nine billion pounds a year and nearly every club loses money — and calls this a paradox. freerein61 has a different word for it.

Mara: The post is a Marxist reading of the Independent Football Regulator's State of the Game report, covering financialisation, ownership, labour, and what a regulator can and cannot do. Let's start with the report itself and what it actually reveals.

Bread, Circuses and Balance Sheets: The IFR's Report and Capitalist Football

Pip: The IFR presents its State of the Game report as sober, technocratic analysis — a neutral audit of English football's finances. The post's argument is that the document is actually something more uncomfortable: an accidental indictment of the system the regulator was built to protect.

Mara: The post frames it this way: "Its authors describe a 'paradox' at the heart of the sport: unprecedented wealth alongside systemic insolvency. A Marxist analysis shows there is no paradox at all. What the IFR calls a puzzle is simply capitalism's logic asserting itself with brutal clarity."

Pip: That reframe is the spine of the whole piece. If the wealth and the insolvency are not separate phenomena but two sides of the same process, then the regulator's toolkit — stress tests, action plans, enhanced oversight — is aimed at the wrong target entirely.

Mara: The numbers bear that out. Premier League revenue has grown thirty-fold since 1992, but costs have risen faster. Ninety-four per cent of clubs in the top five divisions lose money. The post notes that seventeen EFL and National League clubs would lose money even if they paid their players nothing — which rather undercuts the report's framing of wage inflation as the root cause.

Pip: So the disease is structural, and the regulator is prescribing paracetamol.

Mara: On financialisation specifically, the data are striking. Transfer factoring has increased fourteen-fold in four years. One point two billion pounds in future transfer receipts has already been sold. Interest payments have quadrupled. Five lenders control 93.6 per cent of the transfer finance market. The post reads this as fictitious capital in Marx's strict sense — value that does not yet exist, monetised and spent before it is earned.

Pip: Clubs selling tomorrow's income to survive today's arms race. The post is clear that this is not mismanagement; it is what the structure compels.

Mara: Ownership tells a similar story. Non-domestic owners control 75 per cent of Premier League revenue. North American capital controls nearly half the pyramid. The average indicative return across clubs is minus 41 per cent, yet capital keeps flowing in. The post argues this is not irrational — football offers soft power, speculative upside, and, as the IFR itself notes, exposure to money laundering through offshore structures and opaque sponsorship arrangements.

Pip: A loss-making investment that doubles as a geopolitical branding exercise and a conduit for surplus capital. The post also takes the regulator's own stated priorities as evidence of its limits — its first distribution goal is preserving the Premier League as the world's leading league, and the top club earns 605 times the revenue of the smallest National League side.

Mara: Engels described the capitalist state as the "ideal collective capitalist" — managing the system's common affairs to preserve it as a whole. The post applies that framework directly to the IFR: a regulator the Premier League endorsed, whose tools stop well short of challenging debt dependency, multi-club ownership, or the private model itself.

Pip: Fans get a voice, not a vote. Supporters must be "considered." The post's alternative — pooled broadcast income, debt caps, 50-plus-one ownership, community control of grounds — is framed not as utopian but as the minimum required to reverse what the report documents.

Mara: The closing argument is that the IFR has produced the most detailed evidence yet of football's transformation into a financial asset class, while its prescriptions aim only to make that asset class more orderly. The regulator can manage symptoms; it cannot cure the disease.

Pip: Which means the most damning thing about the report is not what it gets wrong — it's how much it gets right, and what it refuses to conclude.


Mara: The IFR's own data make the case that the post is arguing — the regulator just declines to follow it to its conclusion.

Pip: A 244-page document that describes the disease in forensic detail and then recommends better handwashing. The next episode will have more to say about who gets to ask the harder questions.

Bread, Circuses and Balance Sheets: The IFR’s State of the Game and the Crisis of Capitalist Football

The Independent Football Regulator’s State of the Game report presents itself as a sober, technocratic assessment of English football’s financial health. In reality, it is an extraordinary document: a 244-page anatomy of a social institution hollowed out by capitalist irrationality—and an unwitting indictment of the very economic system the regulator exists to stabilise. Its authors describe a “paradox” at the heart of the sport: unprecedented wealth alongside systemic insolvency. A Marxist analysis shows there is no paradox at all. What the IFR calls a puzzle is simply capitalism’s logic asserting itself with brutal clarity.

English football today is the clearest example of competitive accumulation. Clubs are compelled to spend beyond their means—not because they are reckless or poorly managed, but because the industry’s structure leaves them little choice. Since 1992, Premier League revenue has grown thirty-fold, far outpacing the wider economy, while costs have risen even faster. Ninety-four per cent of clubs in the top five divisions lose money. This is not a departure from capitalist norms; it is their fulfilment. The IFR cannot acknowledge this, because doing so would mean admitting that the crisis is systemic, not accidental.

The report’s own data show how sport has been transformed into a financial asset class. Labour-power is converted into amortised capital, future transfer fees are sold off as fictitious capital, grounds and badges are pledged as collateral, and a handful of lenders extract value regardless of sporting outcomes. Football has become a site of financialisation, governed not by sporting logic but by the imperatives of debt, leverage and speculative investment. The IFR documents this process in forensic detail while refusing to confront its implications.

Ownership patterns point to the same reality: global capital, multi-club networks, and North American investment groups dominate the game. Returns are overwhelmingly negative, yet capital keeps flowing in—not for sporting reasons, but because football offers global reach, cultural legitimacy, and opportunities for speculation, soft power, and, as the report notes, money laundering.

The regulator’s role is not to challenge this system, but to preserve it. Its proposals amount to managerial tinkering that keeps the Premier League dominant and the pyramid intact, while leaving the underlying relations of ownership, finance, and exploitation untouched. Rather than resolve football’s contradictions, the IFR merely catalogues them, revealing the need for a fundamentally different model.

The so‑called paradox: wealth without stability

David Kogan’s foreword presents English football as both the world’s richest, most competitive league system and one on the verge of collapse. The figures are stark: clubs generated £9 billion in revenue last season, yet 94 per cent of those in the top five divisions lost money. No other major industry could report such figures without prompting immediate questions about systemic failure. Yet the IFR treats this as a managerial problem: poor governance, inadequate oversight, and clubs failing to “live within their means.” This is the ideological reflex of bourgeois regulation: to blame crises on individual actors’ behaviour rather than on the system’s structure.

A Marxist analysis begins from the opposite premise. When nearly every firm in an industry fails in the same way, the cause lies not in management but in the structure of accumulation. Marx explained long ago that competition forces capitalists to expand, invest and outspend their rivals to survive. The capitalist does not accumulate because he is greedy or irrational; the system compels him to. English football clearly illustrates this dynamic. Clubs spend beyond their means not because they are reckless, but because they have to. Falling behind in the competitive arms race risks relegation, lost broadcast income, collapsing commercial revenue and, ultimately, extinction.

The IFR’s own data confirm this. Since 1992, Premier League revenue has grown thirty-fold, far outpacing the wider economy, while costs have risen even faster. Wage bills, transfer amortisation, agent fees, stadium financing, and debt servicing have all increased alongside revenue. The report presents this as a failure of “financial management,” as if clubs could spend less without jeopardising their competitive position. But in a system driven by accumulation, restraint is punished. A club that refuses to overspend isn’t prudent; it gets relegated.

This is why the IFR cannot acknowledge the crisis’s real nature. To do so would mean admitting that the contradictions it describes are not deviations from normal capitalist functioning, but its inevitable outcome. The regulator must therefore frame the crisis as a technical problem—liquidity, governance, and risk—rather than a structural one. It must pretend that stress tests, action plans, and “enhanced oversight” can correct football’s financial instability, rather than fundamentally transforming ownership, finance, and distribution.

The report’s language reflects this ideological constraint. Kogan describes a “paradox”: unprecedented wealth alongside systemic insolvency, as though the two were unrelated phenomena that mysteriously coexist. But there is no paradox: wealth and insolvency are two sides of the same process. The more revenue the game generates, the more capital flows in. The more capital flows in, the sharper the competitive pressures become. As those pressures intensify, clubs must spend more, and their losses deepen. The IFR describes the symptoms while refusing to name the disease.

The Political Economy of Football’s Financialisation

To understand the IFR’s findings, we should place English football within the broader political economy of late capitalism. Over the past three decades, it has undergone the same transformation as other major sectors of the global economy: a shift from production to financialisation, from profits generated through activity to profits extracted through ownership, leverage and speculation. Once a commercial entertainment industry, football has become a financial asset class, governed less by sporting logic than by the imperatives of capital accumulation.

This transformation did not happen overnight. Football’s first metamorphosis—from a working-class pastime to a commercial commodity—came in the early twentieth century. Its second, from commodity to global media product, gathered pace with television and culminated in the Premier League’s 1992 reorganisation. But the decisive shift came after the 2008 financial crisis, when the collapse of productive investment across advanced capitalist economies pushed capital into new fields of speculation. With its global reach, predictable revenue streams and intense brand loyalty, football became an ideal arena for financial expansion.

Financialisation means that profit comes less from producing goods or services and more from manipulating financial instruments. In football, it turns every aspect of the sport into a tradable asset. Player contracts are amortised like industrial machinery; future transfer fees are sold as receivables; and stadiums, training grounds and even club badges are used as collateral. Multi-club ownership groups operate like private equity portfolios, moving players, revenues and liabilities across borders to maximise returns. Debt is no longer a temporary burden but a permanent operating condition.

The IFR’s own data show the scale of this transformation. Transfer factoring has increased fourteen-fold in four years, and £1.2 billion in future transfer receipts has already been monetised. Interest payments have quadrupled as borrowing costs have surged, while five lenders now control almost the entire transfer finance market. This is no marginal development; it is a structural reorganisation of the sport, driven by the dominance of finance capital.

Marx, Hilferding and Lenin all described how, once dominant, financial capital subordinates productive activity to its own logic. That logic now governs English football. Clubs borrow not to invest in long-term development, but to keep pace with the competitive arms race. They sell future transfer fees not out of prudence, but because the system compels them. Financialisation does not stabilise football; it destabilises it, creating fragility, dependency and exposure to shocks. Relegation clauses mean sporting failure can trigger creditor seizure, reducing clubs to shells through which capital circulates.

Why football? Because it offers what late capitalism craves: scarcity, global visibility, emotional attachment and cultural legitimacy. It is one of the few sectors where losses can be tolerated for years because the club retains symbolic value as an asset. As the IFR notes, the sector is also vulnerable to money laundering, offshore structures, and opaque sponsorship arrangements. Distressed clubs become conduits for capital flows unrelated to sport.

The IFR documents this transformation with forensic detail while refusing to confront its implications. It describes the symptoms of financialisation, debt dependency, factoring, and multi‑club networks, but treats them as technical problems rather than structural ones. It cannot admit that English football’s crisis is not a deviation from capitalist functioning but its fulfilment. To do so would be to question the very model the regulator exists to preserve.

From commodity to media product to financial instrument

Football’s first transformation from a working-class pastime into a commercial commodity occurred in the early 20th century, as clubs evolved from voluntary associations into businesses selling gate receipts, advertising space, and professional players’ labour-power. Its second transformation from commodity to media product followed the rise of television and culminated in the Premier League’s 1992 reorganisation. Broadcasting turned football into a mass-produced cultural product, shaped by scheduling, advertising, and global distribution. But the decisive shift came after the 2008 financial crisis, when football became a financial instrument.

This is not a metaphor; it is literal. Clubs borrow against future transfer fees. Contracts are amortised like industrial machinery. Clubs pledge grounds and badges as collateral. Revenues are securitised. Multi-club groups operate like private equity portfolios. Every component of the sport- labour, infrastructure, intellectual property, and future income- is converted into an asset that can be traded, leveraged, or used as security. The IFR’s data show the scale of this transformation with forensic clarity: transfer factoring has risen fourteen-fold in four years, £1.2 billion of future receipts have already been sold, interest payments have quadrupled as the cost of debt has surged, and five lenders control almost the entire market for transfer finance. This is not a marginal development; it is the sport’s structural reorganisation under the dominance of finance capital.

What Hilferding described in *Finance Capital*- the fusion of banking and industrial capital into a financial oligarchy that extracts value regardless of productive outcomes- is now evident on the balance sheets of English football clubs. Lenin’s analysis of how these oligarchies dominate entire sectors and turn them into instruments of speculation applies with almost uncanny precision. English football has become one of those sectors.

Financialisation means profit comes less from producing goods or services and more from manipulating financial instruments. In football, this shows up in the conversion of every aspect of the sport into tradable assets: player contracts become depreciating capital goods, transfer fees become receivables, stadiums become collateral, clubs become vehicles for debt-fuelled expansion, and multi-club networks become platforms for arbitrage, talent extraction, and regulatory evasion.

The consequences are profound. Financialisation does not stabilise football; it destabilises it, creating fragility, dependency and exposure to shocks. Relegation clauses mean sporting failure can trigger creditor seizure, while clubs become shells through which capital circulates. The IFR documents this fragility but cannot explain it, because doing so would require acknowledging that the instability is structural, not accidental.

Why football? Because it offers exactly what late capitalism craves: scarcity, global visibility, emotional attachment and cultural legitimacy. Few sectors can absorb years of losses while their core asset- the club- retains symbolic value. As the IFR itself notes, football is also vulnerable to money laundering, offshore structures and opaque sponsorship arrangements. Distressed clubs can become conduits for capital flows unrelated to sport.

Financialisation also helps explain why capital continues to flow into football despite negative returns. The IFR reports an average indicative return of minus 41 per cent across clubs, yet ownership is becoming more global, institutional and concentrated. This is not irrational; it reflects financial capital’s pursuit of control over assets it can leverage, securitise, or use to anchor broader commercial ecosystems. A Premier League club is more than a football team: it is a content engine, a data-harvesting platform, a global brand, a political instrument and a financial vehicle.

The IFR describes the symptoms of this transformation- debt dependency, factoring, and multi-club networks- but treats them as technical rather than structural problems. It cannot admit that English football’s crisis is not a deviation from capitalism but its fulfilment. Doing so would mean questioning the very model the regulator exists to preserve.

Why football?

Football is uniquely suited to financialisation because it possesses characteristics that make it a coveted prize for capital. Few industries offer such a potent combination of global reach, emotional intensity, predictable revenue, scarcity and cultural legitimacy. These features are not incidental; they are precisely what make football attractive to finance capital in an era of stagnation, falling productive investment and the search for new fields of extraction.

Its global reach is unmatched. The Premier League reaches hundreds of millions of homes, giving capital access to a ready-made global consumer base. In a world of saturated traditional markets, football offers immediate access to audiences on every continent. Its emotional connection is even more valuable. Football clubs command a level of brand loyalty that no commercial product can replicate. Supporters do not switch allegiances based on price or quality. Their loyalty is inherited, irrational and lifelong. For capital, this is ideal: a captive market whose consumption is driven by identity rather than choice.

Football also offers predictable revenue streams. Broadcast rights, sponsorships, merchandise, digital content and hospitality packages bring in recurring income that can be securitised, borrowed against and bundled into financial products. Predictability is the lifeblood of financialisation. Then there is scarcity. Only a handful of elite clubs exist, and there is just one Premier League. Scarcity drives valuations, intensifies competition among investors and ensures that even failing clubs retain symbolic and financial value.

Finally, football enjoys cultural legitimacy. It presents itself as tradition, community, and heritage, masking the extraction taking place beneath the surface. This legitimacy gives political cover to private equity firms, sovereign wealth funds, and multinational corporations. In a low-growth economy, football offers something rare: an asset class with global visibility and political utility. It serves as a vehicle for surplus capital, a platform for soft power, and, as the IFR itself notes, a conduit for money laundering through offshore structures, opaque transfers, and sponsorship. Football’s financialisation is no accident. It is structural, and the IFR merely catalogues its symptoms.

Financialisation as crisis

Financialisation does not stabilise football; it destabilises it. The IFR’s own data reveal a sport whose financial architecture has been reshaped around debt, leverage and speculative instruments. Debt dependency, transfer factoring, leveraged ownership and sprawling multi-club networks do not build resilience; they create fragility. They tie clubs to financial obligations that become more burdensome precisely when sporting performance declines. Relegation clauses now embedded in most Premier League loans mean sporting failure can trigger creditor seizure when a club is at its weakest. A bad season becomes not just a sporting setback but a financial catastrophe. Clubs stop being community institutions and become shells through which capital circulates.

Factoring shows this dynamic with brutal clarity. When a club sells future transfer receipts to raise cash now, it mortgages tomorrow’s income to cope with today’s pressures. This is fictitious capital in Marx’s strict sense: value that does not yet exist, monetised and traded as if it were already real. The IFR reports that factoring has increased fourteen-fold in four years, with £1.2 billion in future receipts already sold. This is not prudent financial management; it is a symptom of systemic desperation. Clubs are not planning for the future; they are consuming it.

Leveraged ownership compounds the instability. Owners buy clubs with borrowed money, load the debt onto the club, and extract returns through management fees, refinancing, and asset sales. Multi‑club networks extend this logic across borders, treating clubs as nodes in a financial ecosystem rather than as sporting entities. Players move to meet balance‑sheet needs rather than tactical ones. Revenues are shifted to optimise tax and regulatory arbitrage. The club becomes a financial vehicle first and a football team second.

The IFR’s report is, unintentionally, a catalogue of these contradictions. It describes a sport that generates enormous wealth but cannot sustain itself, because financial channels siphon that wealth away before it can stabilise the system. The crisis is not accidental; it is structural. Football’s financial instability is not caused by mismanagement, incompetence or isolated excess. It is the predictable result of reorganising the sport around the imperatives of financial capital. The regulator documents the symptoms but cannot name the cause. Doing so would mean acknowledging that English football’s crisis is not a deviation from capitalism but an expression of it and that no amount of technocratic oversight can resolve contradictions rooted in the system itself.

Labour as a cost, labour as an asset, labour as a battleground

The report’s treatment of labour is revealing. The report presents players almost exclusively as a cost, a liability to manage, rather than as the producers of the commodity behind the game’s enormous revenues. Wage bills have risen 33 per cent across the Premier League pyramid, 32 per cent in the Championship, 71 per cent in League One, and 63 per cent in League Two. Twenty clubs spend more than 80 per cent of their revenue on salaries. The regulator’s response is predictable: cost control, wage restraint, “responsible spending.” In other words, disciplining labour.

First, players are not simply workers; they are labour-power converted into financial assets. Modern football treats labour not just as a production cost but as a capitalised resource. Contracts are amortised like industrial machinery: depreciated over time, securitised, borrowed against and used as collateral in complex financial arrangements. Agent fees, now £584 million, are part of this same machinery, serving as transaction costs in a financialised market for labour-power. The doubling of amortisation to £2.6 billion is no accounting quirk; it marks the conversion of labour into fictitious capital: value that exists only on balance sheets, yet is traded and leveraged as if it were real.

This transformation is central to football’s financialisation: labour-power becomes a financial instrument, with its value fluctuating according to market conditions, performance metrics, and speculative expectations. The IFR describes this process without understanding it, treating amortisation as a technical matter rather than as a structural reorganisation of labour under finance capital.

Second, wage restraint is class struggle. The PFA’s successful challenge to salary caps in 2020, and its current High Court action, are not “governance friction.” They are organised workers resisting an attempt to fix their share of the surplus. The IFR cannot admit this because it would require acknowledging that labour has interests irreconcilable with capital. The regulator’s framework assumes harmony among stakeholders, owners, leagues, players, and fans, and treats conflict as a managerial problem. But wage restraint is not a governance issue. It is a matter of class power.

The report’s language exposes this ideological blind spot. It describes wage inflation as a “risk,” a “pressure,” and a “threat to sustainability.” Nowhere does the IFR consider that rising wages reflect labour’s bargaining strength in a sector where workers create enormous value. The regulator’s job is to protect clubs’ financial stability, not workers’ living standards or bargaining power. As a result, it frames wage growth as a pathology rather than as a sign of labour asserting itself.

Third, the category “player wages” masks profound stratification. A Premier League star earning £300,000 a week has little in common with a League Two professional on a precarious one-year deal. Yet the IFR treats “player wages” as a single category, obscuring class divisions across the labour force. The report focuses on elite wage inflation while overlooking the conditions most football workers face: academy staff, cleaners, stewards, groundskeepers, analysts, youth coaches, and hospitality workers. The analysis renders these workers invisible. The IFR’s framework counts their labour only where it intersects with financial risk.

This invisibility is ideological. It reflects the regulator’s assumption that players perform the “real” labour of football, and that the “real” costs are those that affect balance sheets. The thousands of workers who make football possible maintaining stadiums, training youth players, cleaning facilities, managing logistics, providing security, and running matchday operations are treated as background noise. Their exploitation goes unanalysed because it is not financialised.

The most devastating statistic is the one the IFR buries: seventeen EFL and National League clubs would lose money even if they paid their players nothing. That fact alone undermines the report’s central claim that wage inflation is the root problem. If clubs cannot break even without paying a single player, wages are not driving insolvency; the business model is. Ownership structure, reliance on debt, value extraction through financial channels, volatile revenue streams, and the competitive arms race drive the crisis.

But the IFR cannot say so. To do so would mean admitting that labour is not the problem; capital is. It would mean acknowledging that the financialisation of football has created a system that blames workers for a crisis caused by owners, lenders, and speculative investors. It would also mean recognising that wage restraint is not a solution but an attack on labour. The report thus treats labour as a cost to be controlled rather than a source of value. It documents the symptoms of exploitation but refuses to name the exploiters. It catalogues the contradictions in football’s labour market while defending the system that creates them. In doing so, it reveals regulation’s limits under capitalism: labour can be disciplined, but capital cannot be challenged.

Finance capital takes control.

The report’s most explosive revelations concern finance capital’s penetration into every pore of the sport. What the IFR documents, often without grasping its significance, is English football’s near-total subordination to the logic of financialisation. Transfer factoring has increased fourteen-fold in just four years. £1.2 billion in future transfer receipts has already been sold- income that does not yet exist, monetised and spent before a single pound has been earned. Interest payments have surged from £97 million to £455 million as the cost of debt has tripled. Five lenders control 93.6 per cent of transfer finance, with one lender alone controlling nearly half. This is not a competitive market. It is an oligopoly.

None of this is accidental. It is the predictable outcome of reorganising football according to the imperatives of finance capital. Hilferding, writing more than a century ago, described how banking and industrial capital fuse into a single financial oligarchy that extracts value regardless of productive outcomes. Lenin showed how such oligarchies dominate entire sectors, turning them into instruments of speculation. English football is now one of those sectors. The IFR’s data could have been lifted directly from Finance Capital or Imperialism.

Factoring future fees is fictitious capital in Marx’s strict sense: money raised today against value that does not yet exist. Clubs sell tomorrow’s transfer income to survive today’s pressures, mortgaging their future to remain competitive in the present. This is not prudent financial management. It is systemic desperation. The club consumes its future to survive its present.

The collateralisation of heritage assets is equally revealing. Grounds, badges, and training facilities, the physical and symbolic infrastructure of the people’s game, are increasingly pledged as security for loans. The IFR notes that 60 per cent of Premier League clubs have relegation‑triggered repayment clauses. This means sporting failure can trigger creditor seizure. A bad season is no longer merely a sporting setback; it is a financial catastrophe. The club’s identity, history and community assets become bargaining chips in negotiations with lenders.

Leveraged ownership compounds the instability. Owners acquire clubs with borrowed money, load the debt onto the club itself, and extract returns through refinancing, management fees and asset sales. Multi‑club networks extend this logic across borders, treating clubs as nodes in a financial ecosystem rather than as sporting institutions. Players move to meet balance‑sheet needs rather than tactical ones. Revenues are shifted to optimise tax and regulatory arbitrage. Clubs become shells through which capital circulates.

The IFR’s report is, unintentionally, a catalogue of these contradictions. It shows a sport that generates enormous wealth yet cannot sustain itself because financial channels siphon that wealth off before it can stabilise the system. The crisis is not accidental. It is structural. Football’s financial instability is not the result of mismanagement, incompetence or isolated excess. It is the predictable outcome of reorganising the sport according to the imperatives of financial capital.

The regulator documents the symptoms but cannot name the cause. To do so would be to acknowledge that English football’s crisis is not a deviation from capitalism but its expression and that no amount of technocratic oversight can resolve contradictions rooted in the system itself.

Ownership without roots, capital without loyalty

The IFR’s ownership data show a sport transformed into a global asset class. English football is no longer a national game but a marketplace for international capital. Non‑domestic owners now control 75 per cent of Premier League revenue. North American capital controls nearly half of the entire pyramid. Eighty‑five per cent of Premier League clubs belong to multi‑club or multi‑sport groups, integrated into sprawling corporate networks that treat football teams as interchangeable units within a global portfolio. This is not cosmopolitan modernisation. It is the sport’s financial colonisation.

The most striking fact is that returns are overwhelmingly negative. The IFR reports an average indicative return of minus 41 per cent across clubs, with only 21 of 76 making a positive return. Yet capital continues to flow in. The report cannot explain this. It treats negative returns as a puzzle, as though investors were behaving irrationally. But a Marxist analysis can. Capital does not enter football to earn conventional profits. It enters because football offers value extraction, political leverage, and speculative opportunity unavailable in the productive sectors of a low‑growth economy.

Football offers speculative opportunities. Promotion windfalls can transform a club’s valuation overnight. Leveraged buyouts let owners acquire clubs with borrowed money and load the debt onto the club. Asset stripping selling stadium land, training facilities, or intellectual property can generate returns even when the club loses money. The IFR notes that distressed clubs are particularly vulnerable: their financial weakness makes them easy targets for acquisition, refinancing and exploitation. The “community club” becomes a conduit through which capital passes, its heritage assets collateralised, its future income securitised, its identity commodified.

Football also offers soft power. Sovereign wealth funds, oligarchs, and politically connected investors use clubs to project influence, launder reputations, and embed themselves in Western cultural institutions. Ownership becomes a diplomatic tool. The club becomes a platform for geopolitical branding. The IFR acknowledges this obliquely, noting concerns about “suitability” and “integrity,” but it cannot confront the political reality: English football has become a theatre for state power.

Then there is the laundering of surplus capital. In a low‑growth economy, productive investment yields diminishing returns. Capital seeks outlets to move, disguise, or recycle money through complex financial structures. Football provides precisely this. As the IFR itself notes, the sport is exposed to money laundering through offshore ownership, opaque sponsorship deals, and transfer arrangements routed through tax havens. Transfers often involve multiple intermediaries, shell companies, and inflated valuations, providing ideal mechanisms for moving capital across borders. Sponsorship deals from offshore entities allow funds to enter clubs with minimal scrutiny. Distressed clubs, desperate for liquidity, are the easiest entry points.

Multi‑club ownership networks intensify these dynamics. They let capital move players, revenues, and liabilities across borders, exploiting regulatory differences and arbitrage opportunities. Clubs become nodes in a global financial ecosystem, with their sporting identity secondary to their role in the network. The IFR describes this trend but cannot analyse it. It treats multi‑club ownership as a governance challenge rather than a structural expression of financial imperialism.

The regulator’s data reveal a sport whose ownership model is not merely globalised but financialised. Clubs are not owned to win matches. They are owned to extract value, launder capital, project influence and anchor wider commercial ecosystems. The IFR catalogues these realities but cannot name them. To do so would be to admit that English football is no longer a sport governed by sporting logic but an asset class governed by the imperatives of global capital.

The regulator as the ideal collective capitalist

Engels described the capitalist state as the “ideal collective capitalist”: an institution that manages the bourgeoisie’s common affairs, sometimes against individual capitalists, to preserve the system as a whole. The IFR fits this description precisely. Its first goal is to protect the hierarchy. The report’s distribution aims begin with preserving the Premier League as the world’s leading league and the Championship as the leading second tier. Inequality is to be eased, not ended. The top club earns 605 times the revenue of the smallest National League club.

The industry welcomes the regulator. The Premier League endorsed the report and claims its own proposals already meet the IFR’s objectives. A regulator embraced by the dominant firms is not a regulator that threatens them. Its tools are mild: action plans, stress tests, risk assessments. No hard liquidity floors until 2028–2030. No limits on transfer‑finance exposure. No challenge to debt dependency, multi‑club ownership or the private model itself. Fans receive a voice, not power. Clubs must “consider” supporters’ views. The model allows no mutual ownership, 50+1, or public stakes. Supporters remain consultees, not owners. Even Kogan’s stated fear that the supply of owners and media money may dry up reveals the limits of the IFR’s worldview. The worry is that capital might stop flowing in. No one ever asks whether capital should run the game at all.

The IFR has produced the most detailed evidence yet of how English football has been transformed into a financial asset class. Its data, often presented with bureaucratic neutrality, amount to a devastating indictment of the system the regulator exists to preserve. But its prescriptions aim only to make the commodity sustainable, not to liberate the sport from the market. The IFR’s task is not to challenge capital’s domination of football but to ensure that domination continues in a more orderly, less visibly chaotic form.

A Marxist programme begins where the report ends. To reclaim football as a social institution rather than a financial instrument, we must dismantle the foundations of the current model. That means pooling broadcast income across the entire pyramid to end the grotesque inequality that makes competitive overspending inevitable. It means capping debt and banning factoring so clubs can’t mortgage their future to survive the present. It means supporter and worker ownership on a 50+1 basis or stronger, ensuring that those who produce and sustain the game control it. It also means public or community ownership of grounds, removing heritage assets from finance capital’s collateral chains. Finally, it means recognising all club workers—not only players—as producers of the game, with rights, protections, and democratic power.

These measures are not utopian. They are the minimum required to reverse the financialisation documented in the IFR’s own report. They would transform football from an asset class back into a public good. They would replace extraction with stewardship, speculation with solidarity, and debt dependency with democratic control. The regulator can manage symptoms. It cannot cure the disease. It can stabilise insolvency, not prevent it. It can discipline labour, not restrain capital. It can protect heritage assets as collateral, not as community property. It can preserve the hierarchy, not democratise it.

The IFR’s State of the Game is therefore more than a report. It is a mirror held up to a decaying system. It shows a sport that generates extraordinary wealth yet cannot sustain itself because financial channels siphon it off. It shows a regulator tasked with preserving a model that produces crisis. And it shows, unintentionally, that the only real alternative lies outside market logic. Football must be reclaimed as a social institution, not a financial instrument. Only then can the contradictions the IFR describes be resolved, not through technocratic oversight, but through democratic control, collective ownership and the abolition of football’s subordination to capital.

Bibliography

Marxist Theory and Political Economy

  • Marx, Karl. Capital: Volume I. London: Penguin Classics, 1990.
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Football Governance, Economics and Financialisation

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Money Laundering, Offshore Capital and Sport

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Intelligence, Capital, and the Road to World War: The Meaning of David S. Cohen’s Program for the Corporate State

A Programmatic Statement of the American Ruling Class

In September 2026, the Council on Foreign Relations’ flagship journal, Foreign Affairs, published an article whose importance goes beyond the immediate policy debate it seems to address. Its author, David S. Cohen, is more than an academic or minor commentator. He has a career that places him at the heart of the connection between Wall Street, the intelligence community, and the Democratic Party: he was deputy director of the CIA under Barack Obama and Joe Biden, served as Treasury undersecretary for terrorism and financial intelligence, and is now a senior partner at WilmerHale, a leading Washington law firm. Cohen’s background makes it hard to dismiss his words as mere speculation or bureaucratic quirks. Instead, they represent a clear statement from the American ruling class during a serious crisis.[1]

Cohen’s argument is stark and remarkably frank. He advocates that the CIA and NSA should be officially incorporated into the profit-driven activities of American companies. He argues that these intelligence agencies should collect proprietary data overseas and pass it directly to US businesses in key sectors such as semiconductors, AI, aerospace, and weapons production. Essentially, the spy agencies should act as R&D arms of corporate America, providing exclusive intelligence to firms whose success is critical to the strategic competition with China.

This proposal signals a new phase in the decline of American capitalism and the rise of global conflict. It reflects how an imperialist power, facing economic downturn, tries to offset this by deploying its coercive tools—military, intelligence, and financial assets. As the U.S. can no longer sustain leadership through industrial or technological edge, it increasingly depends on its unmatched coercive measures: its military strength, surveillance systems, and dominance over global finance. Cohen’s idea encapsulates this strategic change.

The article’s importance lies not in its novelty but in its honesty. Over many years, the US has used its large surveillance networks to collect intelligence that supports American corporations. The European Parliament exposed the ECHELON network in the late 1990s; it intercepted communications from European companies that competed with US firms. In 2000, ex-CIA Director James Woolsey confirmed that the US monitored European businesses. The 2013 Snowden revelations revealed NSA efforts to target Petrobras, hack Huawei’s servers, and follow trade negotiations. At the time, WSWS noted that NSA actions against Huawei resembled Washington’s accusations that Huawei was spying on the US.

Cohen proposes to openly acknowledge what has long been practised: removing the pretence that intelligence gathering and sharing with private corporations like Boeing, Lockheed Martin, or Nvidia are separate. The supposed distinction was always a fiction. Now, Cohen insists on discarding this illusion. This change signals that the American ruling class is preparing society for the acceptance of intelligence agencies operating on behalf of private corporations, which is a characteristic indicator of imperialist decline.

View this development within the wider context of American capitalism, the evolution of the intelligence sector, and the international crisis of imperialism. Cohen’s suggestion is not an anomaly but a natural outcome of long-standing trends: the merging of finance capital with the state, the militarisation of economic policy, and the adaptation of intelligence agencies into tools for corporate strategy.

The United States faces a world where its economic dominance is diminishing. China has overtaken the US in manufacturing and leads in several industrial sectors, while rapidly advancing technologies vital to military strength. The American elite sees this not as a challenge to address through investment, planning, or social reforms, but as a threat that requires coercion. The “all tools” approach Cohen mentions reflects war-preparation language. The sectors he highlights—semiconductors, AI, aerospace, weapons systems—are exactly those central to the Pentagon’s planning for potential conflict over Taiwan.

Cohen’s proposal signals more than a policy change; it clearly declares intent: intelligence agencies will serve corporate interests directly, and the corporate sector will become part of the war effort. The lines between the state and capitalism, foreign policy and corporate strategy, national security and profit are blurring. To understand the full significance of this shift, we need to consider the historical role of intelligence agencies, the structural crisis facing American capitalism, and the global spread of imperialism. Cohen’s article highlights a deeper process: turning the United States into a war economy and undermining democratic rights both domestically and internationally. In this context, the purpose and risks of Cohen’s proposal become apparent.

The Myth of “Self‑Prohibition”: The Historical Record of US Economic Espionage

Cohen’s central claim — that the United States has nobly refrained from economic espionage — is not merely misleading but demonstrably false. The historical record leaves no room for ambiguity. For decades, the US intelligence apparatus has been systematically deployed to gather proprietary information abroad for the direct benefit of American corporations. This is not an aberration or a matter of isolated incidents; it is a structural feature of US imperialism.

The ECHELON surveillance network, exposed by the European Parliament in the late 1990s, revealed that the US and its Five Eyes partners intercepted communications of European firms competing with American companies for major contracts. US corporations received intelligence gleaned from ECHELON, giving them decisive advantages in international bidding processes. In 2000, former CIA Director James Woolsey openly admitted in the Wall Street Journal that the US spied on European companies, justifying the practice as “levelling the playing field.” His admission was remarkable not for its content — which had long been suspected — but for its brazenness.

The 2013 Snowden revelations provided further irrefutable evidence. The NSA targeted Petrobras, Brazil’s state‑owned oil giant, infiltrated Huawei’s servers, and monitored trade negotiations. These operations were not conducted for abstract “national security” reasons but to secure strategic advantages for American firms and shape global markets in line with US interests. The WSWS documented that the NSA was doing to Huawei precisely what Washington accused Huawei of doing to the United States.

Against this backdrop, Cohen’s claim of a “self‑prohibition” collapses entirely. The distinction between intelligence gathered to “shape policy” and intelligence handed directly to Boeing, Lockheed Martin, or Nvidia was always a fiction — a fig leaf designed to obscure the reality of state‑corporate collusion. Cohen’s proposal removes the fig leaf. It is not a new departure but an open avowal of longstanding practice, now elevated to official doctrine.

ECHELON and the European Parliament’s Investigation

In the late 1990s, the European Parliament launched a formal investigation into the ECHELON network, a global surveillance system operated by the United States and its closest intelligence partners—the United Kingdom, Canada, Australia, and New Zealand—collectively known as the Five Eyes. ECHELON had long been rumoured to exist, but the investigation was the first systematic attempt by a major political body to uncover its scope, purpose, and implications. The inquiry revealed a surveillance apparatus far more expansive than anything Washington or London had publicly acknowledged, with operations extending well beyond traditional national‑security concerns.

The European Parliament’s report concluded that ECHELON was not merely a tool for intercepting diplomatic or military communications. It had been used to monitor the commercial activities of European firms competing with American corporations for major international contracts. The program intercepted, analysed, and—crucially—passed telecommunications data, satellite transmissions, and private corporate communications to US companies. This intelligence gave American firms privileged insight into competitors’ bids, pricing strategies, and technological capabilities, giving them a decisive advantage in securing lucrative deals.

The investigation highlighted several concrete cases. European aerospace companies, for example, repeatedly lost contracts to US rivals under circumstances that raised suspicions long before ECHELON was formally scrutinised. The Parliament’s findings confirmed what many suspected: US intelligence agencies were deployed not simply to protect national security but to advance American corporations’ commercial interests. The line between state power and private profit had blurred to the point of being indistinguishable.

The ECHELON revelations were politically explosive. European governments protested, and the Parliament issued warnings about the implications for sovereignty, privacy, and fair competition. Yet Washington responded with denial and deflection. US officials insisted that any intelligence gathering was aimed at combating corruption—specifically bribery by European firms—rather than securing commercial advantage. This justification was as self‑serving as it was implausible. The notion that the CIA and NSA acted as global anti-corruption watchdogs strained credulity, especially given the documented pattern of intelligence flowing directly to American corporations.

The ECHELON affair exposed a fundamental truth about US intelligence operations: economic espionage was not an aberration but a structural component of American imperial strategy. The United States possessed unparalleled surveillance capabilities, and it used them not only to shape geopolitical outcomes but to tilt the playing field of global capitalism in favour of its own corporations. The intelligence agencies functioned as instruments of state‑corporate power, gathering information that could be weaponised in commercial competition.

This historical record directly contradicts David S. Cohen’s claim that the United States has nobly refrained from economic espionage. The ECHELON investigation demonstrated that such restraint never existed. What Cohen calls a “self‑prohibition” was always a fiction—a rhetorical device designed to obscure the reality of state‑sanctioned corporate espionage. The distinction between intelligence gathered to “shape policy” and intelligence handed directly to American firms was a fig leaf, and ECHELON tore it away.

ECHELON’s significance lies not only in what it revealed about past practices but in what it foreshadowed. By the end of the 20th century, the fusion of state surveillance and corporate interests was already well advanced. Cohen’s proposal in Foreign Affairs does not mark a new departure but formalises a long‑standing reality. The intelligence agencies have been serving corporate America for decades; Cohen merely demands that this relationship be openly acknowledged and institutionalised.

James Woolsey’s Admission

In 2000, former CIA Director James Woolsey published an extraordinary article in the Wall Street Journal in which he openly admitted that the United States routinely spied on European corporations. The admission was not surprising in substance—by that point, allegations of US economic espionage had circulated for years—but its brazenness was striking. Woolsey did not deny the practice, minimise it, or cloak it in diplomatic euphemism. Instead, he justified it outright, presenting US surveillance of foreign firms as both necessary and morally defensible.

Woolsey’s argument rested on a simple claim: European corporations engaged in “bribery,” and therefore the United States was merely “levelling the playing field.” According to Woolsey, American firms were at a disadvantage because they supposedly adhered to higher ethical standards, while their European competitors secured contracts through illicit payments. He insisted the CIA was not stealing commercial secrets to benefit US corporations but exposing corruption abroad. This framing allowed Woolsey to recast economic espionage as a form of global public service—an anti‑corruption crusade rather than a tool of imperialist advantage.

The justification was as self‑serving as it was implausible. The notion that the CIA and NSA were acting as international guardians of business ethics strained credulity, particularly given the long history of US intelligence agencies supporting dictatorships, coups, and covert operations that had nothing to do with moral rectitude. Woolsey’s argument was a classic example of imperialist ideology: the United States presents its own predatory actions as defensive, reluctant, or altruistic, while depicting the behaviour of its rivals as inherently corrupt or illegitimate.

More importantly, Woolsey’s admission confirmed what many already suspected: the US intelligence apparatus was deeply involved in gathering proprietary information for the benefit of American corporations. His article appeared after the European Parliament’s investigation into the ECHELON network revealed that the US and its Five Eyes partners intercepted communications of European firms competing with American companies for major contracts. Woolsey’s intervention was clearly intended to defuse the political fallout by reframing economic espionage as a moral necessity rather than a violation of sovereignty and fair competition.

The brazenness of Woolsey’s argument reflected a deeper truth about US imperialism. By 2000, the fusion of state power and corporate interests was already well advanced. Intelligence agencies did not operate independently of American capitalism; they served it. Woolsey’s article made explicit what had long been implicit: the CIA’s activities were not confined to traditional national‑security concerns but extended directly into the realm of commercial competition.

His admission also exposed the hollowness of the claim—repeated endlessly by US officials—that the United States refrains from economic espionage. Woolsey did not deny the practice; he defended it. The “self‑prohibition” invoked by figures like David S. Cohen two decades later was already a fiction in 2000, and Woolsey’s article demonstrated that the US ruling class had no qualms about discarding it when politically expedient.

Woolsey’s intervention matters not only for its content but also for its timing. It appeared as globalisation accelerated, competition between American and European firms intensified, and the US began to confront the rise of China as a major industrial power. Woolsey’s argument foreshadowed the more aggressive posture the US would adopt in the decades to come, culminating in the open calls—such as Cohen’s—for the intelligence agencies to serve as direct instruments of corporate strategy.

In retrospect, Woolsey’s article marks an early shift: the intelligence apparatus transformed into a tool of economic warfare, deployed not merely to defend US interests but to secure the commercial dominance of American capitalism. It candidly admitted a practice that would soon become central to US geopolitical strategy.

The Snowden Revelations

The Snowden disclosures of 2013 provided some of the most damning and irrefutable evidence of US economic espionage to date. When former NSA contractor Edward Snowden released internal documents detailing the scope and operations of the American surveillance apparatus, the revelations shattered the carefully maintained fiction that US intelligence agencies confined themselves to “national security” concerns. Instead, the documents exposed a sprawling global surveillance system that targeted not only foreign governments and military organisations but also major corporations, trade negotiators, and industrial sectors central to other countries’ economic development.

One of the most striking examples was the NSA’s targeting of Petrobras, Brazil’s state‑owned oil company. Petrobras was not a terrorist organisation, a military threat, or a conduit for espionage. It was a commercial entity whose strategic importance lay in its control over Brazil’s vast offshore oil reserves. The NSA’s surveillance of Petrobras had no conceivable “security” justification. It was economic espionage in its purest form: stealing proprietary information from a foreign corporation to benefit US strategic and commercial interests. The operation demonstrated that the intelligence agencies were prepared to deploy their most sophisticated tools against any entity whose activities intersected with American geopolitical or economic objectives.

Even more politically explosive was the revelation that the NSA had infiltrated Huawei’s servers, the Chinese telecommunications giant. At the time, Washington was waging a propaganda campaign accusing Huawei of acting as an arm of the Chinese state, stealing intellectual property, and embedding “backdoors” in its equipment to facilitate espionage. Yet Snowden’s documents showed that the NSA was doing precisely what the US government claimed Huawei was doing: penetrating the company’s internal networks, accessing its communications, and gathering intelligence on its technological development. The hypocrisy was staggering. The WSWS documented extensively that the NSA’s operations against Huawei mirrored, almost exactly, the accusations levelled against the Chinese firm.

The Snowden files also revealed that the NSA monitored international trade negotiations, including communications between diplomats and economic ministries. These operations were not aimed at preventing terrorism or safeguarding national security. They were designed to give the United States an advantage in shaping global trade rules, securing favourable terms, and undermining other countries’ negotiating positions. In other words, the intelligence agencies were directly intervening in the global economic order on behalf of American capitalism.

Taken together, these revelations demolished the claim—repeated endlessly by US officials—that the United States refrains from economic espionage. The NSA’s targeting of Petrobras, Huawei, and trade negotiators showed that economic intelligence gathering was not an aberration but a core function of the surveillance apparatus. The distinction between “policy‑shaping intelligence” and intelligence used to benefit American corporations proved to be a fiction.

The Snowden disclosures therefore provide essential context for understanding David S. Cohen’s proposal. What Cohen advocates openly today—the formal integration of the intelligence agencies into the profit‑making operations of US corporations—was already being practised covertly a decade earlier. Snowden revealed the reality; Cohen now demands its official codification.

The Fig Leaf of “Policy‑Shaping Intelligence”

The supposed “self‑prohibition” was never more than a paper distinction—a bureaucratic fiction designed to obscure how the American intelligence apparatus has long operated. For decades, US officials have insisted that while the CIA and NSA gather information relevant to “policy formation,” they refrain from passing proprietary intelligence directly to American corporations. This claim has always been untenable. The boundary between “policy‑shaping intelligence” and intelligence used to benefit Boeing, Lockheed Martin, or Nvidia was so porous it was practically nonexistent. The distinction served a political purpose: it allowed Washington to maintain the pretence that its surveillance apparatus was guided by national‑security imperatives rather than the commercial interests of American capitalism.

Cohen now proposes to remove the fig leaf entirely. In Foreign Affairs, he argues not that the United States should begin engaging in economic espionage, but that it should openly acknowledge and formalise what it has long practised. He insists that intelligence agencies must be integrated directly into the profit‑making operations of US corporations, supplying them with proprietary information gathered abroad. In effect, Cohen demands that the CIA and NSA become institutionalised components of corporate strategy — research‑and‑development arms of firms deemed essential to the geopolitical struggle against China.

This is not a departure from past practice but the open avowal of it. The ECHELON revelations, Woolsey’s admissions, and the Snowden disclosures all showed that the US intelligence apparatus has long been used to secure commercial advantages for American firms. What is new is a senior figure in the intelligence establishment’s willingness to declare this openly, in the pages of the ruling class’s most authoritative journal. Cohen’s proposal signals that the American elite no longer feels compelled to disguise the fusion of state surveillance and corporate profit. The ideological cover is being discarded.

The significance lies in the public declaration. When a former deputy CIA director calls for the intelligence agencies to serve openly as instruments of corporate America, it indicates a shift in the political climate. The American ruling class is preparing the population for the normalisation of intelligence‑agency operations on behalf of private corporations — a hallmark of imperialist decay. In periods of capitalist crisis, the separation between state and capital collapses. The state’s coercive apparatus is mobilised directly to secure monopoly capital’s interests, and the ideological justifications that once masked this relationship fall away.

Cohen’s proposal must therefore be understood as part of a broader transformation: the militarisation of economic policy, the integration of corporate America into the machinery of war, and the erosion of democratic norms. The intelligence agencies, once nominally confined to foreign threats, are being repurposed as instruments of economic warfare. Their operations will increasingly target not only foreign competitors but domestic dissent, labour struggles, and any activity deemed inimical to the interests of “strategic” corporations.

The removal of the fig leaf marks a new stage in the crisis of American capitalism — one in which the ruling class prepares for war abroad and repression at home, and seeks to legitimise both through the language of national security.

The Fusion of Finance Capital and the State: Lenin’s Framework

Cohen’s proposal must be understood within the framework Lenin developed in Imperialism, the Highest Stage of Capitalism. Lenin’s analysis remains indispensable because it identifies capitalism’s structural tendencies at its highest stage—tendencies that do not depend on political leaders’ subjective intentions but arise organically from the concentration of capital, the domination of finance, and the global struggle for markets. In the epoch of imperialism, Lenin wrote, the fusion of finance capital with the state apparatus becomes the defining feature of economic and political life. The state ceases to function as an arbiter between competing social interests and instead becomes the direct instrument of monopoly capital. Conversely, monopoly capital becomes inseparable from the state, relying on its coercive powers—military, diplomatic, and intelligence—to secure markets, suppress rivals, and maintain profitability.

This process has reached a new stage in the United States. The integration of intelligence agencies into American corporate operations is not an aberration but the logical expression of the fusion Lenin described. The CIA and NSA, once nominally confined to foreign policy and national security, are now being openly repurposed as instruments of corporate strategy. Cohen’s proposal does not introduce a new relationship between state and capital; it merely codifies and legitimises one that has been developing for decades.

The transformation of the US state into the executive committee of finance capital is visible across every domain of policy. The Pentagon’s partnerships with Silicon Valley, the CHIPS Act’s subsidies for semiconductor firms, and the Treasury Department’s weaponisation of financial sanctions all show how the machinery of the state has been mobilised to secure American corporations’ interests. The intelligence agencies are the final component of this apparatus to be openly integrated into the corporate sphere. Their vast surveillance capabilities, once justified in the name of national security, are now being redirected toward the commercial battlefield.

Lenin emphasised that imperialism is characterised by monopoly dominance and the export of capital. In the contemporary United States, these monopolies are concentrated in sectors such as semiconductors, artificial intelligence, aerospace, and weapons manufacturing—the very industries Cohen identifies as “strategic.” These firms do not compete on market forces alone; they depend on state intervention, subsidies, and coercive power. Cohen’s proposal reflects the reality that American capitalism can no longer maintain global dominance through economic means alone. Its industrial base has eroded, its share of global manufacturing has declined, and China increasingly challenges its technological supremacy.

In this context, the fusion of state and capital intensifies. The intelligence agencies become instruments of economic warfare, gathering proprietary information abroad and delivering it directly to American firms. The state mobilises its coercive apparatus to compensate for the decline of US industrial competitiveness. Cohen’s proposal therefore marks a new stage in imperialist decay: intelligence operations become tools of corporate profit, and the boundary between state power and private capital erodes.

State Capitalism and the Strategic Industries

The Trump administration’s equity stakes in Intel and other “strategic” firms, the Biden administration’s CHIPS Act subsidies, and the Pentagon’s increasingly direct contracting with Silicon Valley have already created a form of state capitalism in the United States. These developments show that the fusion of state power and monopoly capital—which Lenin identified as the hallmark of imperialism—is not an abstract theoretical tendency but an active, accelerating process. The American state is no longer merely regulating or supporting private industry; it is becoming structurally intertwined with it. Cohen’s proposal would complete this fusion by integrating the intelligence agencies themselves into the corporate profit‑making process.

The CIA and NSA would no longer function, even nominally, as institutions concerned with foreign policy or national security. They would become instruments of corporate strategy, deployed to secure the commercial dominance of American firms in sectors deemed essential for geopolitical supremacy. Cohen’s vision is explicit: the intelligence agencies should identify vulnerabilities in foreign competitors, map supply chains for sanctions and sabotage, steal proprietary research, and provide privileged intelligence directly to US corporations. These are not hypothetical tasks; they are the operational functions of an intelligence apparatus repurposed for economic warfare.

This is not “industrial policy.” Industrial policy implies state planning, investment, and coordination to strengthen national productive capacity. Cohen’s proposal is something qualitatively different: the militarisation of the entire economy. It represents the state’s transformation into the executive committee of finance capital in its most literal form. The intelligence agencies—historically instruments of covert intervention, coups, and geopolitical manipulation—would now be openly tasked with securing the profitability of American corporations.

The implications are profound. First, the distinction between civilian and military sectors collapses. Semiconductor firms, AI companies, aerospace manufacturers, and weapons contractors become extensions of the national‑security state. Their commercial success becomes a matter of national survival, and their interests become indistinguishable from those of the Pentagon and intelligence agencies. This fusion ensures that any challenge to these corporations—whether from foreign competitors or domestic labour struggles—will be treated as a threat to national security.

Second, the intelligence agencies gain a new mandate: not merely to gather information but to shape global economic outcomes. Mapping supply chains for sabotage, identifying choke points for sanctions, and stealing proprietary research are acts of economic warfare. They undermine rival nations’ industrial development, particularly China’s. Cohen’s proposal therefore signals an escalation in the global struggle for technological supremacy, one that will intensify geopolitical tensions and accelerate the drive toward conflict.

Third, integrating intelligence agencies into corporate strategy will deepen domestic repression. Once the CIA and NSA are formally tasked with protecting the profitability of “strategic” firms, any domestic activity that threatens those profits—strikes, protests, whistleblowing—can be construed as a national‑security issue. The militarisation of the economy inevitably militarises labour relations.

Cohen’s proposal thus marks a new stage in imperialist decay: the open transformation of the intelligence apparatus into a tool of corporate profit, and the corresponding erosion of democratic norms. It is a declaration that the American ruling class intends to wage economic war abroad and suppress opposition at home, using the full coercive power of the state.

The Role of the Intelligence Apparatus

The intelligence agencies have always served the interests of the American ruling class. From their inception, their primary function has not been to defend “national security” in any abstract or neutral sense, but to protect the global interests of American capitalism. The historical record is unequivocal. The CIA’s overthrow of the Mossadegh government in Iran in 1953 was carried out at the behest of Anglo‑American oil interests. The 1954 coup in Guatemala was orchestrated to protect the United Fruit Company’s holdings. US corporations and banks drove the 1973 overthrow of Salvador Allende in Chile to prevent the nationalisation of key industries. Across Latin America, Africa, and Asia, the CIA supported dictatorships, death squads, and military juntas whose primary function was to guarantee favourable conditions for American investment and suppress movements that threatened capitalist property relations.

These operations were not aberrations or excesses. They were the normal functioning of an intelligence apparatus designed to enforce American capital’s global hegemony. The CIA acted as the covert arm of US corporate power, eliminating governments that interfered with profit extraction and installing regimes that opened their economies to American firms. The agency’s activities were inseparable from the interests of Wall Street, the major banks, and the multinational corporations that dominated the post‑war world economy.

Cohen’s proposal does not introduce a new relationship between the intelligence agencies and corporate America. It simply formalises and modernises a relationship that has existed for decades. What was once carried out covertly—coups, sabotage, surveillance, and political manipulation—would now be openly integrated into the commercial strategies of American corporations. The intelligence apparatus becomes the direct servant of corporate America, gathering proprietary information abroad and delivering it to US firms in sectors deemed essential for geopolitical supremacy.

This marks the fusion of state and capital in its most advanced form. The CIA and NSA, historically instruments of covert intervention, would now be openly tasked with securing the profitability of American corporations. Their operations would no longer be justified through the language of national security but through the imperatives of global competition. Intelligence agencies would become tools of economic warfare, deployed to undermine foreign competitors, secure technological dominance, and shape global markets in favour of American firms.

The implications are profound. The militarisation of economic policy collapses the boundaries between foreign policy, corporate strategy, and intelligence operations. The state’s coercive apparatus is mobilised directly to secure monopoly capital’s interests. The intelligence agencies become instruments not merely of geopolitical intervention but of commercial domination. Cohen’s proposal therefore marks a new stage in imperialist decay: the intelligence apparatus’s open transformation into a tool of corporate profit, and the corresponding erosion of any remaining boundary between state power and private capital.

The Logic of Decline: American Capitalism in Crisis

Cohen’s proposal stems from the protracted decline of American capitalism. The United States can no longer compete with China on industrial production. Its share of global manufacturing has fallen precipitously, accelerating since the 1990s. Entire sectors of American industry—electronics, machine tools, shipbuilding, rare‑earth processing—have been hollowed out. Infrastructure that once symbolised US industrial might is now visibly decaying: bridges collapsing, water systems failing, rail networks antiquated. The political system, paralysed by factional conflict and dominated by oligarchic interests, cannot address any of these crises. The ruling class faces a world where its economic foundations are eroding, and its global dominance is increasingly challenged.

Unable to maintain its position through economic means, the United States increasingly relies on its remaining advantages: military power, intelligence capabilities, and financial coercion. These instruments—war, surveillance, sanctions—are the tools of an imperialist power in decline. They compensate for lost industrial supremacy by pressuring rivals geopolitically and enforcing compliance through force rather than economic strength. Cohen’s proposal must be understood as part of this broader shift: the mobilisation of the intelligence apparatus as a direct instrument of economic warfare.

Cohen’s “all tools” doctrine is the language of war preparation. It is not the rhetoric of industrial policy or economic planning, but of a ruling class preparing to confront a major rival. The sectors he identifies—semiconductors, artificial intelligence, aerospace, weapons systems—are precisely those central to the Pentagon’s planning for a conflict over Taiwan. These industries are not merely commercially significant; they are militarily decisive. Control over advanced chips, AI‑driven targeting systems, hypersonic technologies, and aerospace manufacturing will determine the outcome of any future conflict between the United States and China.

Under Cohen’s proposal, intelligence agencies would not merely gather information. They would shape the battlefield. Their operations would include mapping Chinese supply chains for sabotage, identifying technological bottlenecks for sanctions, infiltrating research institutions, and stealing proprietary data from foreign competitors. These are not defensive measures; they are offensive preparations for war. The intelligence apparatus becomes an extension of the Pentagon’s strategic planning, integrated directly into the economic and technological dimensions of military conflict.

The “all tools” doctrine reflects a fundamental transformation in US strategy. Economic competition is no longer seen as separate from military confrontation; it is treated as a component of it. The sectors Cohen highlights are already deeply intertwined with the national‑security state. Semiconductor firms receive billions in subsidies under the CHIPS Act. AI companies work directly with the Pentagon on battlefield applications. Aerospace and weapons manufacturers are embedded in the military‑industrial complex. Cohen’s proposal extends this integration to the intelligence agencies, making them active participants in the commercial struggle against China.

This militarisation of economic policy marks a new stage in imperialist decay. It signals that the American ruling class no longer believes it can out‑innovate or out‑produce its rivals. Instead, it seeks to cripple them through coercion, sabotage, and surveillance. The intelligence agencies become instruments of economic warfare, deployed to maintain US dominance in sectors essential for military supremacy.

Cohen’s proposal therefore represents not a technocratic adjustment but a strategic escalation. It declares that the United States is preparing for conflict—and that the intelligence apparatus will be mobilised to shape the economic terrain on which that conflict will be fought.

Integrating the spy apparatus with corporate America is not an isolated policy initiative but part of a broader mobilisation for confrontation with China. The United States is reorganising its entire economic structure around the requirements of geopolitical conflict. This is not simply a matter of subsidies or industrial planning; it is the transformation of the civilian economy into an adjunct of the military‑intelligence complex. The implications are global and catastrophic. A conflict between the United States and China—two nuclear‑armed powers with intertwined economies—would engulf the world and threaten humanity with annihilation.

The militarisation of the economy is already well advanced. The CHIPS Act’s subsidies for semiconductor firms are justified less on economic grounds than on national‑security imperatives. Semiconductor production is treated as a strategic military asset, essential for weapons systems, surveillance technologies, and battlefield communications. The Pentagon’s partnerships with Silicon Valley—once limited to niche projects—have expanded dramatically. Major tech firms now work directly with the Department of Defence on AI‑driven targeting systems, autonomous weapons platforms, and battlefield analytics. Artificial intelligence, once heralded as a transformative civilian technology, is being integrated into weapons systems at every level, from drone swarms to missile guidance.

Military production is expanding across the board. Aerospace firms are receiving unprecedented contracts for hypersonic weapons, next‑generation fighter jets, and missile‑defence systems. The US defence budget continues to grow, absorbing ever larger portions of national resources. In this context, Cohen’s proposal is not a departure but the next logical step: the intelligence agencies become the research‑and‑development arm of American corporations, supplying them with proprietary information gathered abroad and shaping their technological trajectories in line with military requirements.

This militarisation of the economy marks a new stage in imperialist decay. It signals that the American ruling class no longer believes it can maintain global dominance through economic strength or technological innovation alone. Instead, it seeks to weaponise every aspect of national life—industry, finance, technology, and intelligence—in preparation for conflict. The fusion of state and capital becomes total.

For years, Washington’s propaganda against Beijing has centred on allegations of Chinese “intellectual property theft.” These accusations have been used to justify the prosecution of Chinese‑American scientists, the blocklisting of Chinese firms, and an atmosphere of anti‑Chinese McCarthyism. The narrative has been relentless: China steals technology, China infiltrates research institutions, China uses its intelligence services to support commercial enterprises.

Now, in a remarkable display of imperialist cynicism, a senior figure of the US intelligence establishment demands that the United States adopt precisely the methods it denounces—only with formal legal authorisation. Cohen’s proposal is not merely hypocritical; it is revelatory. It exposes the ideological bankruptcy of American imperialism. The United States accuses others of what it does itself—and now seeks to do openly.

The hypocrisy is not incidental. It is the essence of the so‑called “rules‑based order,” a euphemism for the rule of American capital. The “rules” apply only to others. The United States exempts itself from every norm it proclaims. It violates international law with impunity, engages in economic espionage while denouncing it, and weaponises global institutions to enforce its interests.

Cohen’s proposal tears away the remaining pretence. It reveals that the “rules‑based order” is not a system of universal principles but a mechanism for maintaining US hegemony. When the United States can no longer enforce its dominance through economic strength, it resorts to coercion, surveillance, and sabotage. Intelligence agencies become instruments of commercial warfare, deployed to cripple rivals and secure American corporations’ interests.

The Working Class and the Spy State: Repression at Home

The most important implication of Cohen’s proposal concerns the working class. The surveillance apparatus he wants to unleash on foreign corporations is the same one Snowden exposed monitoring the communications of the entire American population. Once intelligence agencies are formally tasked with protecting specific corporations’ profits, the line between “foreign threat” and “domestic threat” disappears. An engineer in Shenzhen and an autoworker in Michigan become equivalent objects of surveillance if both threaten the interests of a “national security” firm.

The militarisation of industry requires militarising labour relations. Strikes, protests, and workplace organising will be treated as threats to national security. The spy apparatus will be turned inward against workers. This is not speculation; it is the logic of authoritarianism under capitalism: War abroad requires repression at home. Economic espionage abroad requires labour discipline at home. The fusion of state and capital requires suppressing democratic rights.

The working class becomes the internal enemy. Any challenge to the profitability of “strategic” corporations—whether through industrial action, whistleblowing, or political dissent—will be met with surveillance, intimidation, and state repression.

Cohen’s proposal therefore marks a new stage in the assault on democratic rights. It signals that the intelligence agencies will be mobilised not only against foreign competitors but against the working class itself. The spy state becomes the guardian of corporate profit, and the struggle for workers’ rights becomes inseparable from the struggle against imperialist war.

The Political Logic of Imperialist Decay and the Task Before the Working Class

No faction of the American political establishment opposes Cohen’s proposal. On the contrary, the ruling class’s unanimity in integrating intelligence agencies into corporate strategy is itself a symptom of the depth of the crisis confronting American capitalism. Democrats and Republicans differ only in tactics, rhetoric, and the constituencies they appeal to. On the fundamental question—the mobilisation of the coercive apparatus of the state in defence of American corporate interests—they are united. The intelligence agencies, the Pentagon, Silicon Valley, and Wall Street form a single, interlocking complex whose interests are inseparable. Cohen’s proposal is not controversial within this milieu; it is the logical extension of policies already underway.

The drive toward war is not the product of individual leaders or misguided policies. It stems from the contradictions of the capitalist system itself. Imperialism is not a choice but a necessity for a ruling class confronting economic decline. When profitability cannot be maintained through productive investment, technological innovation, or market expansion, it turns to coercion, sanctions, sabotage, and war. The militarisation of the economy, the fusion of state and capital, and the mobilisation of the intelligence apparatus for corporate profit are not aberrations but structural tendencies of capitalism in decay.

The United States confronts a world in which its economic foundations are eroding. China’s rise as an industrial power threatens the global dominance American capitalism has exercised since the end of the Second World War. The ruling class responds not by addressing the social and economic contradictions that have hollowed out the US economy, but by preparing for conflict. Cohen’s proposal is another step in this trajectory: transforming intelligence agencies into instruments of economic warfare, deployed to secure technological supremacy and cripple rivals.

Against this backdrop, the international working class becomes decisive. Only a working class organised across national boundaries and united on a socialist program can halt this trajectory. Not the “progressive” wing of the Democratic Party, which is fully integrated into the national‑security state. Not European social democracy, which long ago abandoned any pretence of opposition to imperialism. Not Chinese nationalism, which represents the interests of a rising capitalist elite. The working class alone has no stake in imperialist rivalry and every interest in preventing a catastrophic conflict between nuclear‑armed powers.

The fight against war is inseparable from the fight against capitalism. The struggle against the militarisation of society, the fusion of state and capital, and the assault on democratic rights requires building revolutionary leadership in the working class. The intelligence agencies Cohen wants to unleash on foreign corporations will inevitably turn inward against workers. The state will treat strikes, protests, and workplace organising as threats to national security. The working class becomes the internal enemy of a state fused with corporate power.

This is not speculation; it is the logic of authoritarianism under capitalism. War abroad requires repression at home. Economic espionage abroad requires labour discipline at home. The fusion of state and capital requires suppressing democratic rights. The working class must respond with its own form of international unity, grounded not in nationalism but in socialist internationalism.

Articles and Bibliography

I. Foundational Marxist and Theoretical Works

  • V.I. Lenin, Imperialism: The Highest Stage of Capitalism. Lenin’s analysis of monopoly capital, finance capital, and the fusion of the capitalist state with corporate interests provides the essential theoretical framework for understanding Cohen’s proposal. His identification of imperialism as a structural necessity of capitalism in decline is directly relevant to the militarisation of the US economy and intelligence apparatus.
  • Leon Trotsky, The War and the International. Trotsky’s early writings on the relationship between capitalist crisis, militarism, and imperialist war illuminate the contemporary drive toward conflict with China.
  • David North, The Crisis of American Democracy: North’s analysis of the breakdown of democratic institutions in the United States and the rise of authoritarian tendencies provides context for the domestic implications of intelligence‑corporate fusion.
  • Nick Beams, “Globalisation and the World Economy” (WSWS): Beams’ work on the contradictions of global capitalism and the decline of US economic hegemony helps situate Cohen’s proposal within the broader crisis of American capitalism.

II. US Intelligence Operations and Economic Espionage

ECHELON and Five Eyes Surveillance

  • European Parliament, “Report on the Existence of a Global System for the Interception of Private and Commercial Communications (ECHELON)” (1999–2001). The official investigation concluded that ECHELON intercepted commercial communications from European firms and passed intelligence to US corporations, confirming long‑suspected economic espionage.
  • Duncan Campbell, “Inside ECHELON” (2000) Campbell’s investigative reporting provides detailed technical and political analysis of ECHELON’s capabilities and its use in commercial competition.

James Woolsey’s Admission

  • James Woolsey, Wall Street Journal Op‑Ed (2000): Woolsey openly admitted that the US spies on European corporations, justifying the practice as anti‑corruption. His article is significant for its brazenness and for confirming longstanding US economic espionage.

Snowden Revelations

  • Glenn Greenwald, The Guardian (2013): Reporting based on Snowden’s documents revealed NSA surveillance of Petrobras, Huawei, and international trade negotiations.
  • Laura Poitras, “NSA Targets Petrobras” (2013): Poitras’ reporting showed that the NSA targeted Brazil’s state‑owned oil company, demonstrating economic motives behind surveillance.
  • WSWS Coverage (2013–2014): The WSWS documented that the NSA was doing to Huawei precisely what Washington accused Huawei of doing, exposing the hypocrisy of US claims.

III. US Industrial Policy, Militarisation, and State Capitalism

  • CHIPS and Science Act (2022): The legislation provides massive subsidies to semiconductor firms, justified on national‑security grounds. It marks a shift toward state‑directed industrial policy in strategic sectors.
  • Department of Defence, “AI and Autonomy Integration Reports” (2020–2024): Pentagon documents outline the integration of AI into weapons systems and partnerships with Silicon Valley firms.
  • Congressional Research Service, “Defence Industrial Base: Overview and Issues” (2023): Analysis of the expanding role of military production in the US economy.
  • WSWS: “The Militarisation of American Industry” (multiple articles) Coverage of the Pentagon’s growing influence over technology firms and the transformation of civilian industries into military contractors.

IV. US–China Conflict and Technological Rivalry

  • Foreign Affairs, David S. Cohen, “The Case for Economic Intelligence” (2024): Cohen’s article argues for integrating the CIA and NSA into corporate strategy, openly advocating economic espionage as a tool of geopolitical competition.
  • Council on Foreign Relations Reports on US–China Technological Competition (2020–2024): CFR analyses emphasise semiconductors, AI, and aerospace as decisive sectors in the conflict with China.
  • RAND Corporation, “War with China: Military and Industrial Scenarios” (2015–2023): RAND studies outline the centrality of technological supremacy in potential conflict scenarios over Taiwan.

V. Surveillance, Authoritarianism, and Domestic Repression

  • Edward Snowden, Permanent Record (2019): Snowden’s memoir contextualises the NSA’s mass surveillance programs and their implications for democratic rights.
  • ACLU Reports on NSA Surveillance (2013–2024): Documentation of domestic surveillance programs targeting workers, activists, and political dissent.
  • WSWS: “The Spy State and the Working Class” (multiple articles): Analysis of how surveillance tools developed for foreign intelligence are repurposed for domestic repression.

VI. Additional Scholarly and Investigative Sources

  • Tim Shorrock, Spies for Hire: The Secret World of Intelligence Outsourcing (2008). A detailed study of the outsourcing of intelligence functions to private corporations and the emergence of a corporate‑intelligence complex.
  • Alfred McCoy, In the Shadows of the American Century (2017): McCoy examines the decline of US global power and the increasing reliance on surveillance and coercion.
  • Chalmers Johnson, The Sorrows of Empire (2004): Johnson’s analysis of militarism and imperial overstretch provides historical context for the militarisation of the US economy.

[1] https://www.foreignaffairs.com/united-states/case-

Burnham, Manchester City and the Political Economy of Football

The leaked verdict declaring Manchester City guilty on nearly all of the 115 Premier League financial charges has shaken Britain’s political establishment. This isn’t because the ruling elite opposes financial misconduct since Britain’s state is rooted in it, but because the case starkly highlights the close ties between sovereign wealth, football, and the Labour government led by Andy Burnham. Soon after the reports surfaced, Burnham personally stepped in to warn against “jumping to conclusions,” a move never before seen in English football history. A sitting prime minister chose to defend one of the world’s wealthiest ruling families, rather than support fans unable to afford their own team or uphold the fairness of the sport.

This episode is not a one-off incident but a natural outcome of the Labour Party’s political path under Keir Starmer and Burnham. It now openly and without shame prioritises financial capital, the arms industry, and the Gulf monarchies, whose sovereign wealth funds are vital to Britain’s economy. The Manchester City controversy highlights a broader reality: football has evolved into an asset class, a tool for geopolitical strategy, and a means of extracting value from working-class communities. The Labour government is not an impartial observer in this process; it actively participates.

The leaked Manchester City ruling, based on emails uncovered via the Football Leaks archive, exposes a consistent pattern of disguising owner funding as sponsorship income over nearly ten years. These weren’t just isolated incidents but part of the club’s operational approach, acting almost as an extension of Abu Dhabi’s state machinery. A wealthy individual doesn’t just own Manchester City; a sovereign wealth fund led by a senior UAE government official does. This financial tactic aligns with the geopolitical aims of a Gulf monarchy, which seeks soft power, legitimacy, and influence in Britain.

Burnham’s action must be viewed in this context. His political journey has been rooted in the pro-capitalist Labour tradition. As a minister under Tony Blair and Gordon Brown, he implemented policies that increased Britain’s reliance on foreign capital and solidified the City of London as a global financial hub. His accession to the premiership in July 2026 did not mark a departure from Starmerism but continued it. Following significant losses in local elections and resulting widespread hostility, Burnham’s rise was aimed at personnel change to manage unrest rather than policy change.

The link between Labour and Gulf capital is fundamentally structural, not incidental. Sovereign wealth funds from Abu Dhabi, Qatar, and Saudi Arabia hold large stakes in British infrastructure, real estate, energy, and cultural sectors. Manchester City is just one part of this broader network. When Emirati officials reportedly voiced concern about the Premier League charges, they were not advocating for a football team but protecting a key strategic asset. Burnham’s response was therefore not about “fairness” or “due process.” It was about protecting a geopolitical partnership that Labour considers essential to Britain’s economic model.

Football’s evolution under neoliberalism reflects broader changes in British society. Originally rooted in working-class communities, the sport has been transformed into a luxury asset aimed at global investors. Stadiums now serve as consumption spaces; ticket prices have risen sharply; speculative development has reshaped local areas; and fans are increasingly seen as customers. The Manchester City case highlights these dynamics, illustrating how sovereign wealth, political influence, and regulatory capture have driven this change.

The Leaked Verdict and the Prime Minister’s Intervention

The leaked ruling by the independent commission reportedly found Manchester City guilty of disguising owner funding as sponsorship income over nine seasons. Initially revealed through internal emails published by Der Spiegel in 2018, these allegations exposed a deliberate effort to bypass the Premier League’s Profit and Sustainability Rules. This was not mere clerical error or technical mistake but a calculated scheme to launder sovereign wealth into football’s financial framework. Without whistleblowing, the mechanisms behind these capital flows would have remained hidden. The case exists solely because someone exposed what the Premier League, the club, and the British government preferred to keep secret.

Burnham responded quickly and with a strong political tone. While at the United Nations General Assembly in New York, he advised the public not to “rush to draw conclusions” about City losing titles or facing sanctions. His comment was unusual because prime ministers rarely discuss ongoing disciplinary issues, especially those involving a club owned by a foreign government. Burnham’s statement aligned with Manchester City’s PR message: that the process is disputed, people should wait, and the owners have benefited Manchester. This message was aimed not at supporters or the sport’s integrity but at Abu Dhabi.

Downing Street later tried to ease the criticism, claiming that “no one is above the rules.” However, the political message had already been conveyed. The prime minister positioned himself between the Premier League and the sovereign wealth fund backing Manchester City. This move exposed a broader reality of Britain’s political economy: the British state does not control Gulf capital; it embraces it.

Burnham’s intervention must be viewed as part of the broader trajectory of the Labour Party under Keir Starmer and now Burnham himself. Labour consistently advocates for the interests of finance capital, the arms industry, and the Gulf monarchies, whose sovereign wealth funds have become fundamental to Britain’s economy. Although the party’s rhetoric may evolve, shifting from Starmer’s managerial technocracy to Burnham’s softer left tone, the core class alignment remains unchanged. Labour’s role is to maintain stability within a system where foreign capital, especially from the Gulf, is deeply integrated into infrastructure, real estate, energy, and cultural sectors. Football is one of the most visible arenas where this relationship manifests.

Manchester City functions as more than just a football club; it serves as a tool for Abu Dhabi’s geopolitical ambitions. Its ownership is closely tied to the political goals of a Gulf monarchy aiming for soft power, legitimacy, and influence in Britain; when Premier League allegations threatened these interests, the British government responded not officially, but symbolically, through the prime minister’s public warnings. Such symbolic actions matter; they signal to regulators, investors, and foreign entities where political authority lies.

Burnham’s comments highlight a broader ideological change in football. Originally a working-class sport deeply tied to local communities, it has now become a financial asset for oligarchs, private equity, and sovereign wealth funds. Clubs have shifted from social institutions to tools for capital growth and geopolitical influence. Agencies like the Premier League act more as managers of a global entertainment industry than as protectors of integrity. Given this landscape, Burnham’s stance is expected, fitting within a political system where football is subordinate to capital interests.

The leaked verdict unveils the underlying processes of that order. It demonstrates how sovereign wealth influences British football, highlights the alignment of political authority with foreign capital, and shows how the Labour government acts to protect these interests. Burnham’s intervention was not an error but a clear sign of allegiance. It indicates that when supporters’ and communities’ interests conflict with those of capital, Labour consistently prioritises capital.

Burnham’s Political Lineage: The “Soft Left” Illusion

Burnham’s supporters in the media and Labour bureaucracy have long depicted him as the “soft left” alternative to Starmer. This label is meaningless, serving as a branding tool that disguises Labour’s right-wing, pro-capitalist policies by emphasising his more approachable, civic-minded, and regionally connected image. However, Burnham’s political trajectory has been entirely shaped within the Labour tradition that embraced neoliberalism, aligned with the City of London, and subordinated foreign policy to Washington’s strategic interests. As a minister under Tony Blair and Gordon Brown, he helped implement policies that reinforced Britain’s position as the City’s political ally and Washington’s junior partner in the Middle East. His political development was not in opposition to Blairism, but within it.

The idea of Burnham as a “soft left” figure is based on selective memory. During his time in government, he oversaw the growth of private finance initiatives, the expansion of market roles in public services, and Britain’s increased involvement in US-led military actions. He did not oppose these policies; he carried them out. His later shift to a mayoral candidate promoting Manchester’s interests did not signal a departure from his earlier politics, but a change in focus. Burnham’s regional rhetoric emphasising fairness, civic pride, and local identity masked the reality that his governing approach remained rooted in the same pro-market, pro-security framework that characterised New Labour.

His ascension to the premiership in July 2026 was a seamless transition, not a break. Starmer’s government faced intense opposition after disastrous local elections in May, during which Labour lost over 1,000 council seats. This defeat highlighted widespread public anger towards a government that enforced austerity, increased military involvement abroad, and favoured corporate interests domestically. Burnham’s appointment was a personnel change meant to manage unrest, not change policy. It was a strategic move by the Labour leadership to maintain its political agenda while shifting public frustration to a new figurehead.

Under Burnham, the Labour Party continues to follow the same fundamental priorities as under Starmer: maintaining fiscal discipline, aligning geopolitically with the US, and fostering strategic ties with Gulf monarchies, whose sovereign wealth funds are integral to Britain’s economy. Burnham’s comments on Manchester City align with this ongoing approach. His cautious comments about “jumping to conclusions” were not about procedural fairness but served as political signals. They reassured Abu Dhabi that the British government would protect its relationship, which it sees as economically and strategically crucial, from the disruptions of a Premier League disciplinary process.

Supporters of Burnham argue his intervention was meant only to prevent speculation. However, prime ministers usually avoid commenting on ongoing disciplinary matters, especially when they involve a club owned by a foreign state. Burnham’s comments mirrored Manchester City’s official stance: they claim the process is disputed, ask for patience, and praise the owners for their positive impact on Manchester. This similarity was intentional, reflecting the close ties between Labour and Gulf investment, a relationship Burnham has developed over his political career.

The Manchester City incident exposes the superficial nature of the “soft left” label. Burnham’s politics are not a gentler form of Starmerism; they are essentially Starmerism with a different tone. His leadership signifies continuity rather than change. The Labour government continues to serve the interests of the ruling class, endorsing austerity domestically, militarism internationally, and safeguarding the sovereign wealth interests ingrained in British society. Burnham’s comments on Manchester City did not show a lapse in judgment; they revealed his true political role: a manager of the capitalist state, safeguarding its alliances and priorities against opposition from supporters, communities, or the working class.

Sovereign Wealth and the British State

To understand Burnham’s defence of Manchester City, it’s essential to grasp the political economy of Britain’s sovereign wealth. Abu Dhabi United Group, the entity through which Sheikh Mansour owns Manchester City, is not a typical private investor; it’s a state instrument. Mansour serves as the UAE’s deputy prime minister and federation vice-president. Since 2007, he has led the country’s sovereign wealth fund, a massive financial network investing in British real estate, infrastructure, logistics, energy, and cultural assets. Manchester City is the most prominent and politically sensitive part of this investment network.

The leaked Premier League decision poses implications beyond just a football club. It endangers a strategic alliance between Britain and one of the world’s key oil monarchies. Bloomberg and other sources report that Emirati officials voiced their concerns to British counterparts regarding the upcoming charges. The message was clear: take action against the club, and you threaten the interests of the state backing it. In a Britain where Gulf capital has significant investments in London’s skyline, vital infrastructure, and cultural and educational institutions, this is a sensitive issue that the political leaders do not take lightly. Over the past twenty years, the UK has worked to embed Gulf sovereign wealth into its economic fabric, and it is unlikely to risk that relationship over a football disciplinary matter.

Burnham’s record clearly illustrates this connection. As Greater Manchester’s mayor, he promised to advocate for Manchester City to get “fair and consistent treatment” from the Premier League, echoing the club’s grievances about regulatory oversight. His language was not that of an impartial civic figure, but of a politician siding with a foreign-owned football entity closely linked to the local political economy.

When Burnham met UAE President Mohamed bin Zayed in July, Downing Street released a statement thanking his country for its investment in Manchester. The tone was respectful, nearly pleading. It portrayed Gulf capital not as a political force with strategic goals but as a kind benefactor whose generosity had revitalised the city. This illustrates the ideological role of sovereign wealth in Britain: to appear as philanthropy while serving as a form of geopolitical influence.

Burnham’s remarks on human rights follow a consistent logic. When asked about the Emirates’ record, he said he could judge only what he observes in Manchester and how the owners manage the club. He suggested human rights were a matter for governments to address “at a different level.” Now that he oversees that government, this “different level” has seemingly vanished. His approach to the Manchester City case avoided mentioning human rights, democratic accountability, or the political aspects of sovereign wealth. Instead, he advised caution against “jumping to conclusions,” echoing the same sentiments. club’s own PR line and signalling to Abu Dhabi that the British government would not allow a Premier League process to destabilise a strategic partnership.

This is the political economy of sovereign wealth in Britain: Gulf monarchies invest significantly in real estate, infrastructure, and cultural institutions. British governments foster these relationships as avenues for capital, geopolitical strategy, and urban redevelopment after industrial decline. Football clubs, like Manchester City, serve as tools of soft power, branding, and influence. Manchester City exemplifies how sovereign wealth functions within British society, not as an exception but as a leading example.

Burnham’s defence of the club should be seen not as a personal peculiarity or a fleeting mistake, but as a reflection of Labour’s core priorities. The party consistently supports austerity policies domestically, promotes militarism internationally, and aims to safeguard foreign capital integrated into Britain’s economic system. When supporters’ and local communities’ needs conflict with those of sovereign wealth, Labour consistently favours sovereign wealth. Burnham’s stance on Manchester City merely highlighted this underlying preference.

Regeneration as Class Policy

The defenders of Manchester City’s ownership frequently cite the “regeneration” of east Manchester as proof of their benevolence. The reality is more prosaic. The Manchester Life partnership between Manchester City Council and Abu Dhabi United Group built luxury flats in Ancoats and New Islington, delivering no affordable housing. Working‑class families watched rents rise around them while Gulf capital collected the returns.

This is not regeneration. It is class restructuring. It is the transformation of working‑class neighbourhoods into investment zones for foreign wealth. Burnham’s praise for this model reveals his political priorities: capital first, community second.

Culture Secretary Lisa Nandy offered a more critical note, insisting that “investors do not set the rules of the game.” But she took care to say her remarks were not aimed at City’s owners specifically. Her criticism was deliberately empty. The prime minister’s position mattered.

 Football as an Instrument of Capital

Football originated in working-class communities, rooted in local factories, mines, and shipyards, and served as a form of collective leisure organised by workers and rooted in local pride. Over the last thirty years, this connection has faded. The sport is now often viewed as an asset for oligarchs, private equity, and sovereign wealth funds. Clubs have shifted from civic institutions to financial assets, geopolitical tools, and global brands. Manchester City exemplifies this shift perfectly. Today, it’s more than a club; it serves as a tool of Abu Dhabi’s foreign policy, helping improve the Gulf monarchy’s image and build influence and strategic ties in the West.

The Premier League inherently cannot regulate itself effectively. It functions more as a cartel of billionaires than as a guardian of sporting integrity. Its rules aim to safeguard the league’s commercial value rather than diminish the influence of wealth. League owners, comprising American private equity, Gulf sovereign wealth, Russian petro-capital, and multinational conglomerates, lack genuine interest in oversight that challenges their interests. They seek stability, predictability, and the facade of fairness, rather than fairness itself. Although the Independent Football Regulator was launched amid much publicity, it has already recognised « serious issues »notably concerning Manchester City’s ownership by Abu Dhabi United Group. Still, Burnham’s focus was not on defending the regulator or upholding sport’s integrity. His main concern was to reassure the league’s owners.

This is the political economy of football in 2026. Sovereign wealth funds influence club decisions; governments step in to support geopolitical allies; supporters face higher prices; working-class areas are pushed out; and the sport turns into a venue for capital accumulation. Stadiums are redesigned as luxury zones. Ticket costs exceed what ordinary fans can afford. Broadcast rights are divided among various subscription services, each profiting from fans. Local neighborhoods change through speculative development tied to club ownership. Football becomes a tool for urban gentrification instead of fostering community growth.

Manchester City’s ownership exemplifies this shift. Abu Dhabi United Group’s investment in east Manchester, widely hailed as “regeneration”, has led to luxury apartments, higher rents, and the displacement of working-class residents. The Manchester Life partnership between the council and the sovereign wealth fund failed to provide affordable housing, instead prioritising financial returns. The club’s success on the field is closely linked to this larger effort: transforming Manchester into a display of Gulf capital, a city whose leadership promotes foreign investment while overlooking its social impact.

Burnham’s response to the leaked verdict should be viewed in this context. His cautious comments were clearly political, indicating to Abu Dhabi that the British government wouldn’t permit a disciplinary process against the Premier League to threaten strategic ties. They also conveyed to the Premier League that restraint was expected, and to supporters that their concerns took a backseat to economic interests. Burnham’s support for Manchester City wasn’t a standalone act but a broader statement of allegiance to the political economy now shaping football.

The way the game has changed reflects broader shifts in British society. Public services have become financialized, housing has turned into a commodity, infrastructure has been privatized, and political power now aligns with both domestic and international capital. Football exemplifies this process as one of the most visible arenas. The Manchester City case reveals the underlying mechanisms: sovereign wealth serving as geopolitical leverage, regulatory agencies prioritizing commercial interests, and governments acting to protect elite benefits.

Labour’s Programme: A Government for Capital

Under Starmer and now Burnham, Labour governs for the banks, the arms manufacturers, and the oil monarchies. The party’s factions- left, right, or “soft left” offer no alternative. They differ only in tone, not in substance. The Labour left has abandoned any pretence of socialist politics, retreating into moral appeals and parliamentary manoeuvres. The right governs openly for capital. Burnham sits comfortably between them, a figure whose political identity is defined by managerialism, technocracy, and loyalty to the state.

The Manchester City affair reveals the truth: Labour will not challenge sovereign wealth ownership of football clubs. It will not confront the City of London. It will not oppose the geopolitical interests of the Gulf monarchies. It will not defend working‑class communities against displacement. It will not return football to supporters.

A Programme for the Working Class

The game can only be returned to those who play and watch it by taking the major clubs out of private and sovereign ownership and placing them under democratic control by supporters and workers. This is not a utopian demand. It is a practical necessity. Football cannot be regulated while it remains an asset class. It cannot be reformed while oligarchs and monarchies own it. It cannot be saved while it is subordinated to capital.

Such a programme is inseparable from the fight for an independent socialist movement of the working class against Labour and the capitalist order it defends. The struggle over football is part of the broader struggle against austerity, militarism, and finance capital’s domination of society. Burnham’s intervention over Manchester City warns that the Labour government will defend the ruling class’s interests against the working class, whether in politics, economics, or sport.

Manchester City, Rui Pinto and the Rot at the Heart of Capitalist Football

The leaked Manchester City verdict, convicting on 114 of 115 Premier League charges, is more than a scandal; it uncovers deeper structural issues. It highlights how football operates as a mature segment of global capitalism, where sovereign wealth funds, private equity firms, and billionaire investors compete for geopolitical and commercial dominance. Meanwhile, regulators often act more like brand managers than protectors of integrity. This case shows that such practices are not anomalies but the norm, and that in this system financial capital, rather than sporting merit, influences outcomes.

The way the verdict was revealed is revealing in itself. The Premier League didn’t officially announce it; it was leaked. The Athletic first reported it, with Reuters’ confirmation. The league chose not to comment. A process labelled ‘strictly confidential’ concluded exactly as it began, through leaks, strategic manoeuvres, and media control. This lack of transparency is intentional, reflecting the industry’s operating style, where investors, not supporters, hold the real influence. Confidentiality, selective information sharing, and media management are the tools elite clubs and governing bodies use to control the story and obscure the real power dynamics.

The charges against City target the crucial period during which the club became a dominant force. They encompass falsified financial reports, hidden payments to players and coaches, violations of spending regulations, and obstruction of investigations. These are not mere administrative errors; they are the methods through which Abu Dhabi’s sovereign wealth-state capital was laundered through football’s regulatory system. The initial allegations, revealed through Rui Pinto’s Football Leaks archive, claimed City overstated sponsorship deals to conceal direct state funding. This exemplifies sportswashing: leveraging football as a reputation shield for authoritarian regimes, supported by Western political leaders who benefit from Gulf investments in infrastructure, real estate, and cultural sectors.

The Premier League’s regulations have struggled to address this situation effectively. The investigation has dragged on for years, largely due to City’s access to top-tier legal teams and procedural delays. “Due process” seems to depend on wealth, as smaller clubs like Everton and Nottingham Forest faced quick penalties for minor violations. Meanwhile, City’s case moved at a snail’s pace. This reflects broader patterns in capitalist justice: rapid and harsh for the less powerful, slow and flexible for the influential.

The leaked verdict exposes a deeper reality: the Premier League functions more as a cartel manager than a true regulator. Its main role is to safeguard the value of its product- the global entertainment asset known as the Premier League- and to resolve disputes between different factions of capital. The clubs advocating for strict sanctions are owned by American private equity firms, Russian oligarchs, Gulf monarchies, and international investment groups. Their motives are driven by revenue preservation rather than moral integrity. To them, the City’s misconduct isn’t about football corruption but about the dominance of One capital group gains dominance over others. The true victims are the millions of working-class supporters who built the sport. They face rising ticket prices and subscription fees, see local clubs fail, and are told football “belongs to them” even though it is traded like any other asset. While the leaked verdict might result in points deductions, fines, or expulsion, these won’t change the fundamental structure. Football will stay a financialised commodity influenced by sovereign wealth, private equity, and media giants.

The City case isn’t merely a scandal to fix; it highlights a systemic issue that can’t be easily reformed. True change involves ending private ownership and redefining football as a public resource, aligning with the larger fight against turning all aspects of social and cultural life into sources of profit.

The Political Economy of Financial Doping

The charges pertain to the period from 2009/10 to 2017/18, a pivotal time when Manchester City evolved from a mid-tier team into a dominant force. The allegations involve falsified financial statements, concealed payments to players and staff, violations of UEFA and Premier League financial regulations, and hindrance of investigations. These are not minor technicalities or administrative errors but represent how state capital  Abu Dhabi’s sovereign wealth was routed through football’s regulatory system to foster sporting supremacy. This case exposes not just individual misconduct but highlights the underlying structure of a sport influenced by geopolitical and financial interests.

The main allegation, initially revealed by Der Spiegel via Rui Pinto’s Football Leaks archive, stated that City overstated sponsorship deals from 2012 to 2016, disguising direct state funding as commercial revenue. Essentially, companies linked to the Abu Dhabi ruling elite appeared as independent sponsors, with their payments treated as legitimate market income rather than state aid. The so-called “commercial partnerships” hid the truth: sovereign wealth was being funnelled directly into the club to bypass UEFA’s Financial Fair Play (FFP) regulations. FFP aims to limit owner expenditures and promote competitive balance, but in reality, it is a flexible barrier easily bypassed by those with sufficient resources and political ties.

This exemplifies sportswashing, where football serves as a reputation boost for authoritarian regimes aiming to showcase modernity, stability, and global influence. The club’s achievements- spending €1.44 billion on players and winning three Premier League titles during this period- are more than just sports successes. They represent a transfer of sovereign wealth into a competitive edge, a strategy that UEFA’s regulations have not effectively addressed. Football’s governing bodies have historically welcomed Gulf capital, paralleling Western governments’ acceptance of such investments in infrastructure, real estate, and cultural sectors. The political support for Gulf investment helped facilitate City’s transformation.

Sportswashing is often seen as a moral failing of authoritarian regimes. However, it actually involves collaboration between those regimes and Western elites. British governments across the political spectrum have actively sought Gulf investment, giving political legitimacy to monarchies known for domestic repression and regional intervention. This investment has extended to football clubs, universities, museums, and property markets through sovereign wealth funds. Manchester City exemplifies this practice, operating discreetly and strategically, with the support of domestic institutions, far from being an anomaly.

The rise of the City should be seen as part of a wider shift in football’s political economy. The sport now serves as a battleground for different factions of global capital, including American private equity, Russian oligarchs, Gulf monarchies, and international investment groups. Clubs have shifted from being civic institutions to assets within diverse investment portfolios. Achievements on the field are closely linked to financial manoeuvres off it. The so-called violations, such as disguised payments, exaggerated sponsorship deals, and blocked investigations, are not outliers but rather typical aspects of this system.

UEFA’s Financial Fair Play (FFP) was never intended to curb this process. Its goal was to stabilize European football’s finances, not to promote equality. FFP solidified existing power structures by restricting smaller clubs’ investments while enabling top clubs to exploit commercial revenues and global branding. Sovereign wealth funds, backed by substantial resources and political influence, could easily bypass or manipulate these rules. The 2020 CAS decision, which lifted City’s European ban due to procedural issues, highlighted the weaknesses in the regulatory system. In the end, legal expertise and financial strength had a greater impact than the regulations themselves.

The Manchester City case exposes a key reality: football’s regulatory system is fundamentally unable to counter the influence of state-controlled capital. The sport has evolved into a space where geopolitical motives, financial markets, and branding efforts all converge. City’s achievements signal a broader system where capital, rather than competitive fairness, drives results. Genuine reform must address the core private ownership model, rather than imposing stricter regulations that are bound to be ineffective.

“Due Process” for the Powerful: Law as a Commodity

The city’s response was predictable: innocence wounded, calls for “due process,” and assertions of “irrefutable evidence.” This isn’t just public relations; it’s a political act based on the belief that great wealth can manipulate legal timelines, procedures, and interpretations to favor it. Over more than eight years, Manchester City has postponed proceedings using top-tier legal teams, procedural hurdles, and jurisdictional moves. The hearing only started in September 2024, with closing arguments wrapping up in December, and the verdict leaked nearly two years after. Time becomes a resource, accessible only to those with sufficient means to buy it.

The difference between Everton and Nottingham Forest, who were quickly penalized for minor breaches, is notable. The Premier League’s regulatory system resembles the criminal justice system: it acts swiftly on the less powerful and more slowly on the wealthy. Everton faced a points deduction within months, and Nottingham Forest’s punishment followed a similar timeline. Both clubs couldn’t afford extensive legal battles, so their cases progressed rapidly. In contrast, City’s case dragged on because they had significant resources to resist the process.

This isn’t accidental but the result of capitalist law’s logic. Regulation turns into a negotiable commodity, a battleground for legal conflicts, serving to protect capital rather than promote fairness. The law isn’t neutral; it reflects the material circumstances of its participants. Wealthy individuals can afford expert lawyers, commission reports, contest procedural details, and exploit legal ambiguities. They turn regulation into a contest where success depends more on resources than on case merits.

The city’s legal approach shows this pattern. The club often presents itself as a victim of bias, claiming to have “irrefutable evidence” of innocence. This strategy aims to shift the burden of proof, undermine the investigation’s credibility, and depict the club as under attack by hostile elements. It’s a common tactic in corporate legal battles: reshape the story, challenge the regulator’s authority, and portray the accused as a guardian of procedural integrity.

UEFA’s 2020 ban on City, later overturned by the Court of Arbitration for Sport, highlights this pattern. CAS did not clear City of wrongdoing; it found that some charges were time-barred and lowered the fine. While many saw the ruling as a victory, it actually revealed how procedural rules can shield powerful entities from real accountability. The system functioned as intended: to protect capital from repercussions. Both CAS and the Premier League’s commission operate within a legal framework that favours those able to manipulate procedures.

The wider political economy of football supports this pattern, with sovereign wealth funds, private equity, and billionaire investors holding sway over the sport. Organizations like UEFA and the Premier League rely heavily on the financial stability and worldwide popularity of their competitions, making it risky for them to antagonize the very sources of their funding. Consequently, enforcement of regulations tends to be guarded, selective, and vulnerable to legal challenges. While regulation appears to be in place, its actual enforcement is largely superficial.

The city’s case exposes a deeper reality: football’s legal system isn’t built to challenge state capitalism’s influence. Instead, it’s structured to contain it. The delay in the Premier League’s inquiry wasn’t due to complex evidence but because the accused had the means to slow it down. Wealth causes the law to bend and lose its rigidity. Consequently, ‘due process” serves as a safeguard for the powerful rather than ensuring fairness.

The City case exemplifies how capitalist law functions, illustrating its inability to restrain capital’s influence. The legal system, similar to the sport, is driven by the interests of its owners and investors. Effective reform would demand challenging the private ownership structure itself, rather than simply imposing regulations that those with resources can continually challenge.

Rui Pinto: The Whistleblower Criminalised for Revealing the Truth

The stark contrast with Rui Pinto is evident. His Football Leaks archive uncovered offshore tax avoidance, hidden payments, third-party ownership, sovereign wealth manipulation, and the financialisation of football. Essentially, he exposed how a global industry operates behind closed doors, with capital moving through secretive jurisdictions, regulatory gaps, and private networks designed to protect wealth from oversight. As a result, he faced imprisonment, two prosecutions, and procedural abuses by the Portuguese authorities. Meanwhile, the investment fund he exposed, Doyen Sports, was shielded by police and prosecutors. This imbalance is typical of capitalist justice: the state vigorously pursues the whistleblower while neglecting the crimes he unveiled.

Pinto’s case highlights how the legal system handles challenges to entrenched financial interests. Football Leaks did more than shame clubs; it jeopardised the core financial infrastructure. Offshore accounts, shell companies, image-rights entities, and sovereign wealth collaborations are integral to modern football; they are its backbone. By exposing these practices, Pinto disrupted a profitable global industry. Instead of targeting the illegal practices, the state reacted by criminalising the act of exposing these issues.

His year in pre-trial detention, the aggressive pursuit of extortion charges, and the procedural irregularities that tainted both trials highlight a judiciary more focused on safeguarding investment interests than upholding democratic accountability. Doyen Sports, which based its business on speculative ownership of footballers’ rights, was regarded as a victim, while Pinto, who exposed the fund’s activities, was seen as a threat. This reversal, criminalising transparency and venerating capital, illustrates how law functions within a capitalist system.

The conduct of the Portuguese authorities highlights this pattern. Allegations of illegal wiretapping, inconsistencies in police testimony, and an investigation into prosecutorial conduct all suggest a state willing to bypass or violate legal procedures when economic interests are involved. Pinto’s acquittal on 241 charges in April 2026 was less a victory for justice and more an embarrassment for the judiciary. The court found that prosecutors violated fundamental legal principles by prosecuting him twice for the same actions. This ruling not only revealed the case’s fragility but also pointed to underlying political motives.

Pinto’s persecution highlights how state power interacts with financialised football. Football functions not just as a cultural activity but as a center for capital growth, international influence, and elite connections. Wealth funds, private equity, and global corporations see clubs as investments in their diversified portfolios. Regulatory agencies, reliant on the sport’s financial health, tend to avoid challenging these powerful entities. Consequently, whistleblowers emerge as the main source of accountability, facing repercussions for their revelations.

Pinto’s case illustrates that capitalist justice is inherently biased. It tends to favour protecting property, investments, and reputation. When misconduct risks damaging capital, the state often intervenes in a cautious or limited manner. Conversely, when revelations could harm capital, the state acts forcefully. This shows that the law is often used as a tool against whistleblowers or truth-tellers, rather than against those who hide or profit from wrongdoing.

Pinto’s reaction to the Manchester City verdict, calling it a “historic decision” and supporting his leaks, highlights the importance of whistleblowers in revealing capital’s hidden crimes. It also warns that the system will keep punishing those who expose its secrets until ownership and power structures fundamentally change. His eventual acquittal on 241 charges in April 2026 wasn’t a victory for whistleblowing but a judicial embarrassment, exposing prosecutors’ breach of basic legal principles. Pinto’s statement after the City verdict, calling it “historic” and affirming the accuracy of his leaks, underscores the truth: without whistleblowers, there is no accountability in capitalist football.

The Premier League as a Battleground of Capital Fractions

It would be naive to see the City case as a victory for regulation. The Premier League didn’t discover misconduct; it responded late to disclosures already circulating worldwide. The evidence wasn’t found through careful oversight or institutional alertness but from a whistleblower outside official channels. Football authorities only acted when the information became too public to dismiss. This isn’t regulation; it’s reactive crisis management.

The clubs demanding strict sanctions are owned by entities such as American private equity, Russian oligarchs, Gulf monarchies, and multinational investment groups. Their concern isn’t morality but financial loss, like missed European qualification spots, reduced commercial earnings, and titles gained by competitors with stronger financial backing. This conflict isn’t between “clean” and “corrupt” clubs but a struggle within the capitalist elite over how profits are shared.

From their point of view, City’s “crime” isn’t about football corruption but about one economic bloc’s overwhelming success compared to others. Abu Dhabi’s sovereign wealth outshone American private equity, Russian oil capital, and diversified multinational investments. As a result, the Premier League’s regulatory system is being used not to protect the sport’s integrity but to restore balance among competing elite groups. Here, regulation functions as a means to control conflict within the ruling class.

This dynamic is key to understanding how modern football’s political economy functions. The sport has shifted from being organized by clubs as community institutions to being driven by capital groups vying for market share, geopolitical influence, and brand dominance. Clubs like Manchester United, Arsenal, Liverpool, Chelsea, Newcastle, and Tottenham each exemplify different forms of global capital. Their owners are not guardians of tradition but investors aiming for financial returns. The Premier League serves as the platform where these capital factions compete.

Within this context, the City case is seen as a contest over regulatory rules. American private equity favors stable, predictable regulations that protect asset values. Gulf monarchies favor adaptable rules that enable their sovereign wealth to function with few restrictions. Russian oligarchs have traditionally depended on political connections and quick capital infusions. Multinational groups aim for growth through global branding efforts. Every group has its ideal regulatory setting and leverages the Premier League’s governance structures to achieve it.

The push for sanctions against City is primarily a strategic move rather than a moral crusade. Penalising City would undermine Abu Dhabi’s standing in the league and shift competitive advantages to rival groups. Additionally, it would reinforce the authority of regulatory bodies, whose legitimacy has suffered from years of inconsistent enforcement. Punishment serves as a show of force to maintain system stability without changing its fundamental principles.

This explains why the Premier League’s investigation took so long. The league doesn’t serve as a regulator in the usual sense; instead, it acts as a cartel manager. Its main role is to safeguard the value of the product, the global entertainment phenomenon called the Premier League, and to resolve disputes among competing investors. It must carefully weigh the interests of various capital groups without alienating any of them. Imposing too harsh a penalty could threaten the league’s geopolitical ties, while being too lenient might damage its credibility. The leak of the verdict highlights this dilemma: the league’s City case shows that capitalist football is more about managing elite competition than protecting fans or fairness. It cannot act swiftly and decisively, yet it cannot stay silent either. The working class, who built the sport, are witnesses to the legal and financial disputes among elites, not just spectators of the matches. They face increasing ticket prices, subscription fees, and merchandise costs as capital factions vie over revenue sources.

In this sense, the City case is not a scandal but a symptom. It demonstrates that football’s governance structures are incapable of restraining capital because they are designed to serve it. To achieve meaningful reform, one must challenge the ownership model itself, not just resolve disputes within it.

The Real Victims: Working‑Class Supporters

The working class- the backbone of football- bears the cost. They face higher ticket prices, turning attending matches into a luxury rather than a communal experience. Subscription fees keep rising, dividing access to the game across multiple platforms, each profiting from fans. Local clubs decline due to debt, asset-stripping, and speculative ownership, leaving communities hollowed out. Stadiums are now luxury spaces for corporate entertainment, replacing traditional terraces, with supporters seen as customers rather than fans. Additionally, football is increasingly marketed as a high-end entertainment product, distancing itself from its social origins and targeting global audiences.

This passage describes how football, under capitalism, reflects a lived experience where the sport’s shift into a financialised commodity has transformed its culture, economics, and governance. The potential sanctions against Manchester City, such as points deductions, fines, or expulsion, will not alter the fundamental structure. The Premier League will continue to operate as a cartel of global capital, a media and financial complex, a geopolitical platform, and a data-gathering operation. While the spectacle of punishment appears to demonstrate regulatory integrity, the system responsible for the scandal will The Premier League functions essentially as a cartel of global capital. Its clubs are owned by sovereign wealth funds, private equity firms, oligarchic fortunes, and multinational conglomerates. These owners approach football primarily as an investment, focusing on revenue growth, brand expansion, and geopolitical influence. The league’s governance is structured to serve these financial and strategic interests rather than prioritize sporting fairness or supporter welfare. Regulation acts more as a tool to manage competition between different financial powerhouses than to curb their influence.

It also functions as a media-financial complex, where broadcasting rights, sponsorship deals, and global marketing campaigns generate billions in revenue. Clubs are valued more for their ability to attract viewers, sell merchandise, and penetrate new markets than for their sporting history alone. Broadcasters, advertisers, and data-analytics companies significantly influence the game. Kick-off times are scheduled for the convenience of a global audience; competitions are modified for commercial gain; players are treated as assets whose worth depends on performance metrics. Ultimately, football is transformed into content- an easily packaged, distributed, and monetised product.

The Premier League acts as a geopolitical arena. Manchester City’s Abu Dhabi ownership is part of a wider trend where Gulf monarchies leverage football to enhance soft power, diversify their economies, and build international legitimacy. Similarly, Newcastle United is owned by Saudi Arabia, Paris Saint-Germain by Qatar, and US private equity plays an increasing role, all highlighting how football serves as a platform for geopolitical contest. Clubs function as tools of state strategy, and fans often unwittingly take part in these global power dynamics.

Football has transformed into a data-driven industry. Every element, from player stats to fan activities, is monitored, analysed, and monetized. Clubs gather extensive supporter data to tailor ads, personalize experiences, and boost revenue. Stadiums utilize surveillance tech; digital platforms track engagement; algorithms influence recruitment and strategies. The sport now serves as a testing ground for behavioural analytics and predictive modelling.

Football Cannot Be Reformed Within Capitalism.

Football Leaks demonstrated that corruption isn’t an anomaly but the norm in an industry driven by finance capital. Tax avoidance, hidden payments, and sovereign wealth manipulation are standard practices, not exceptions. The archive uncovered a world where clubs, agents, investment funds, and governing bodies use offshore networks, shell companies, and opaque financial instruments. It revealed a system with flexible legality, negotiable regulation, and optional accountability. The scandal highlighted a systemic issue rather than isolated bad actors, showing that such behaviour was built into the structure. The Premier League, UEFA, and FIFA cannot reform the system because they are inherently part of it. They are not neutral regulators overseeing the game; instead, they embody the same capitalist forces that have turned football into a global entertainment industry. Their financial stability relies on capital flows they are supposed to regulate. They depend on sovereign wealth, private equity, and multinational sponsorships to fund their competitions. Additionally, they rely on broadcasters, advertisers, and data-analytics firms for revenue generation. Structurally, they are unable to challenge the owners’ power, as they are created to serve those interests.

This is why every regulatory crisis, whether it’s Financial Fair Play or the Manchester City case, tends to produce procedural drama rather than real change. Investigations often last for years, sanctions are diluted, overturned, or postponed. Rules are frequently modified to fit emerging forms of capital. The system’s adaptation to corruption stems from its very core, as corruption forms its fundamental operating logic. Football’s governing bodies struggle to eliminate financial doping because it is essential to their business model.

Real change demands actions that go well beyond simple regulatory adjustments. It involves expropriating private owners, such as billionaire investors, sovereign wealth funds, and private equity firms, to take control of the sport. Football clubs should cease to be mere speculative assets traded within global portfolios and instead be recognized as social institutions grounded in local communities, not driven by capital markets. Expropriation is a practical necessity, not a utopian idea. Without it, efforts at reform will be easily absorbed, neutralized, or bypassed by the underlying profit motives that shape the system.

Rebuilding football requires democratic control by supporters, workers, and players. Governing bodies influenced by capital cannot impose it from the top. Instead, those who sustain the sport through their labour, loyalty, and participation must lead the change. Supporters should manage ticket prices, stadium projects, and club governance. Workers ranging from players and coaches to stadium staff must have collective authority over working conditions, schedules, and commercial strategies. Since players’ labour creates the sport’s value, they need protection from exploitation by agents, investment firms, and club owners. Democratic control is not just ethically necessary but also a vital structural safeguard against capital’s dominance.

Fundamental change in football requires ending its status as a speculative investment. When clubs are viewed solely as tools for financial growth, corruption becomes widespread. To address this, the financialisation process, where clubs are turned into brands, players into assets, and fans into consumers, must be undone. Revenue should be redirected toward community facilities, youth programs, and improving supporter access. Broadcasting rights should be reorganised to prioritise accessibility over profit. Additionally, commercial partnerships need democratic oversight. Ultimately, football should be detached from the global financial system to restore its integrity.

Ultimately, truly transforming football involves reimagining it as a public good. Rather than viewing it solely as entertainment, football should be regarded as a cultural and social cornerstone. It warrants funding, governance, and safeguarding comparable to libraries, parks, and public amenities. This entails public ownership, community trusts, collaborative management, and legal safeguards against asset exploitation. Importantly, it recognizes that football’s true worth is rooted in its ability to foster solidarity, identity, and shared happiness, not just its commercial prospects.

Football cannot be restored through regulation alone; it requires a struggle by the working class who created, sustained, and imbued it with meaning. Only collective action- political, economic, and cultural- can free the sport from capital’s hold. The Manchester City situation is not a warning but a sign: the rot within the system is clear and undeniable. The real question isn’t whether football can be fixed within capitalism, because it cannot. Instead, it’s whether supporters, workers, and players can unite to build the power needed to reclaim the sport.

Suggested Articles for Further Reading

1. On Manchester City, Financial Doping & Premier League Regulation

  • Der Spiegel – “The Abu Dhabi Project” (series based on Football Leaks; foundational for City’s sponsorship inflation scandal).
  • The Athletic – Coverage of the Premier League’s 115 charges and leaked verdict.
  • Reuters – Reports on the independent commission’s findings and procedural timeline.
  • Financial Times – Analysis of sovereign wealth funds in European football.
  • Guardian – “Manchester City and the crisis of football governance.”
  • New York Times – “How Gulf States Rewrote European Football.”

2. On Football Leaks & Rui Pinto

  • European Investigative Collaborations (EIC) – Full Football Leaks reporting archive.
  • International Consortium of Investigative Journalists (ICIJ) – “The Football Leaks Files.”
  • Politico Europe – “The persecution of Rui Pinto.”
  • Le Monde – Coverage of Pinto’s trials and the political implications.
  • Spiegel International – Interviews with Pinto and analysis of whistleblowing under capitalism.

3. On Sovereign Wealth, Sportswashing & Geopolitics

  • Middle East Report – “Sportswashing and Gulf soft power.”
  • Journal of Political Economy of Sport – Articles on state capital and football.
  • Chatham House – “Gulf investment and British political elites.”
  • OpenDemocracy – “Sportswashing and the crisis of democratic oversight.”

4. On Football as a Financialised Industry

  • Soccer & Society – Special issues on neoliberalism and football.
  • Critical Sociology – “Football, finance capital and the commodification of sport.”
  • Verso Blog – Essays on football, capitalism and class politics.
  • Jacobin – “The Premier League as neoliberal spectacle.”

5. On Class, Commodification & the Working‑Class Game

  • Historical Materialism – Articles on sport and capitalist social relations.
  • New Left Review – “The People’s Game and the Market.”
  • The Baffler – “How football became content.”
  • Tribune – “Football belongs to the working class, but capital owns it.”

Full Bibliography (Academic + Investigative + Marxist Sources)

Books

  • Goldblatt, David. The Game of Our Lives: The Meaning and Making of English Football. Penguin, 2015.
  • Goldblatt, David. The Age of Football: The Global Game in the Twenty‑First Century. Penguin, 2019.
  • Wilson, Jonathan. The Football Factory: How Modern Football Was Built. Orion, 2021.
  • Chadwick, Simon & Paul Widdop (eds.). The Geopolitical Economy of Sport. Routledge, 2023.
  • Szymanski, Stefan. Money and Football: A Soccernomics Guide. Bloomsbury, 2015.
  • Foer, Franklin. How Soccer Explains the World. HarperCollins, 2004.
  • Kuper, Simon & Stefan Szymanski. Soccernomics. Nation Books, multiple editions.
  • Klein, Naomi. The Shock Doctrine. Allen Lane, 2007 (for sovereign wealth & neoliberal restructuring).
  • Harvey, David. A Brief History of Neoliberalism. Oxford University Press, 2005.
  • Harvey, David. The New Imperialism. Oxford University Press, 2003.

Academic Articles

  • Widdop, Paul & Anagnostopoulos, Christos. “The Financialisation of Football.” Journal of Global Sport Management (2020).
  • Chadwick, Simon. “Sovereign Wealth Funds and the Global Football Economy.” International Journal of Sport Policy (2021).
  • Millward, Peter. “The Global Football Industry: Power, Inequality and Capital.” Soccer & Society (2016).
  • Giulianotti, Richard & Robertson, Roland. “Globalisation and Football.” International Review for the Sociology of Sport (2004).
  • Magee, Jonathan & Sugden, John. “The World at Their Feet: FIFA and the Governance of Global Football.” Journal of Sport and Social Issues (2002).

Investigative Journalism

  • Der Spiegel – Football Leaks archive (2016–2019).
  • European Investigative Collaborations – Football Leaks consortium reporting.
  • Guardian – Investigations into City, UEFA, and Premier League governance.
  • Reuters – Reports on sovereign wealth funds and football ownership.
  • Financial Times – “How Gulf money reshaped European football.”
  • New York Times – “The rise of state‑owned football clubs.”

Marxist & Critical Theory Sources

  • Marx, Karl. Capital, Vol. I–III (for commodity fetishism, capital accumulation, financialisation).
  • Marx, Karl. Grundrisse (for circulation of capital and fictitious capital).
  • Luxemburg, Rosa. The Accumulation of Capital.
  • Gramsci, Antonio. Selections from the Prison Notebooks (cultural hegemony).
  • Debord, Guy. The Society of the Spectacle (football as spectacle).
  • Bourdieu, Pierre. “How Can One Be a Sportsman?” Sociology of Sport Journal (1988).
  • Brohm, Jean‑Marie. Sport: A Prison of Measured Time.
  • Bale, John. Sport, Space and the City.

Whistleblowing, Surveillance & State Power

  • Greenwald, Glenn. No Place to Hide.
  • Harding, Luke. The Snowden Files.
  • Fassin, Didier. The Will to Punish.
  • Hillyard, Paddy. Suspect Communities.
  • Lyon, David. Surveillance Society.

DM26 and the Class Struggle at Royal Mail: How the CWU Became the Enforcer of Corporate Restructuring

 Royal Mail’s DM26 restructuring signifies a critical shift in the dynamic between postal workers, the Communication Workers Union (CWU), and the corporate powers controlling Britain’s postal service. This is not merely a technical disagreement over workloads or operational procedures; rather, it is a political struggle between the working class and a union machinery that has aligned with management to carry out the most extensive attack on postal workers in many years.

DM26 is not a new initiative; it essentially retains the same framework as the Optimised Delivery Model under a different name. In February, 96 per cent of workers at the 35 pilot offices rejected ODM, yet the CWU leadership claimed this rejection supported DM26. This was intentional, not accidental; it aimed to establish a model that cuts approximately 25% of jobs by stacking three workers to cover four roles across 1,250 offices. The CWU leadership has become the primary political and organisational tool for implementing Royal Mail’s restructuring, exemplifying how the trade union bureaucracy operates within modern capitalism. Postal workers must therefore build independent rank-and-file organisations to challenge these changes effectively.

A Mandate Manufactured from Above

The CWU’s claim that there is a mandate for DM26 is weak on closer examination. The consultative ballot on May 29 saw only a 32 per cent turnout, with 65.4 per cent voting in favour. This indicates that only about one in five members supported it, which does not amount to a genuine democratic mandate. Royal Mail was well aware of this and acted without waiting for the results. The company announced that DM26 would proceed “while the consultative ballot was still under way.” Because the ballot was symbolic rather than decision-making, CWU leadership used it to gain legitimacy as they continued with a restructuring plan already approved by management.

The key term in the agreement is “jointly.” Under it, the company and the union are jointly committed to finishing deployment before Peak 2026. This isn’t a union passively accepting employer pressure; rather, it’s a union actively co-creating and executing a corporate restructuring plan. The DM26 architecture exposes the union apparatus’s true role. Regional Steering Groups bring together Royal Mail operations managers and CWU officials to decide whether deployment moves forward in each office. They rely on “validation exercises, flow charts, and joint reviews,” but importantly, “workers in the offices have no say in that process.”

This describes the union not as a typical workers’ organisation but as a managerial entity within the company. The CWU is ensuring the achievement of Royal Mail’s £300 million cost-cutting goal, reported as structural reductions to be converted into profit by EP Group. The union apparatus is guaranteeing delivery of the company’s cost target… to be reaped as profit by owner EP Group.”

The Trade Union Bureaucracy as a Social Layer

The CWU leadership is not merely mistaken or weak. Instead, it constitutes a specific social class whose material interests hinge on acting as an intermediary between workers and management. The union bureaucracy’s purpose is to manage the class conflict, ensuring it remains within boundaries that favour the profit system. This union structure isn’t composed of misled or frail individuals; rather, it represents a distinct social layer whose economic position is defined by its role as a mediator between the workforce and employers.

This shows why even the strongest opposition within the union stays confined to the agreement’s limits. The Bristol and District Amalgamated Branch stopped DM26 across its region—a notable act of defiance. However, the branch leadership described their move as a “pause” lasting “at least one week,” hoping that “the business can show they are prepared to address the problems.”

The South West divisional representatives emphasised the importance of reaching “reasonable fixes” to avoid “unnecessary delays to the DM26 timetable.” Despite tension and frustration among rank-and-file members, the union leadership remains dedicated to maintaining the timetable, the joint structures, and the overall model. This situation does not exemplify true union democracy; instead, it reveals the structural limitations of the union’s democratic process.

The CWU’s public defence of DM26 rests on three claims, each of which falls apart on closer inspection. The problems are limited to 39 units. The union’s letter to branches states that DM26-related issues occur in only 39 delivery units. However, it also admits that 114 units face operational problems affecting clearance and performance, and 87 offices did not respond. The focus on “39 or 114” is a distraction. Essentially, the union is arguing over numbers while recognising that the model is struggling across a significant part of the network, just a quarter into its deployment.

The 98.2 per cent delivery point coverage suggests the model’s effectiveness based on Royal Mail data. However, the exact coverage figure remains unclear. An office can record high coverage while workers cannot complete their duties.” The union seems to be helping manipulate performance metrics to hide the crisis. “6,000 part-timers will move to full-time.” The CWU has described this as an “opportunity” throughout the programme. Yet, by August 8, only 310 workers had been permanently transitioned—approximately 5 per cent of the target. The union’s larger count of 1,585 includes 1,275 temporary transfers. The “6,000 opportunity” was always a sales pitch to soften the reality: heavier walks, longer days, and the elimination of roughly one job in four.

The Broader Political Context: Tripartism and Class Collaboration

The changes at Royal Mail are part of a broader global campaign targeting postal and logistics workers. Similar actions are happening “in Canada under the Liberal government, in the United States, and in Britain under Labour.” The CWU’s involvement with Kretinsky’s EP Group exemplifies a tripartite alliance among trade unions, corporations, and the Labour government. This coalition is being formed to enforce austerity measures, restructure the industry, and support Britain’s role in the growing global conflict. The union bureaucracy’s role is indispensable to this process. It provides the political legitimacy and organisational machinery needed to implement restructuring without provoking a mass rebellion.

The trade union bureaucracy cannot be transformed into a tool for working-class struggle for the same reasons that the capitalist state cannot be transformed into an instrument of socialism. Ward and Walsh are not exceptions; they are the logical outcomes of a structure that relies on preserving labour discipline and ensuring the enterprise’s profitability.

The Rank‑and‑File Alternative

Postal workers must build independent rank-and-file groups. The Postal Workers Rank-and-File Committee already works to organise actions across depots without interference from union leadership. This isn’t sectarian; it’s the only practical way to stop DM26. The union’s structure inherently supports enforcing the agreement and cannot be swayed to oppose the restructuring it helped establish. Workers cannot rely on the union apparatus for defence and must create their own organisations to coordinate actions across depots independently of union leadership.

DM26 is not merely a restructuring plan. It is a test case for the future of labour relations in Britain. If Royal Mail succeeds in imposing a model that cuts one job in four, intensifies workloads, and transforms the union into a managerial partner, it will set a precedent for every sector where unions are integrated into corporate governance.

The fight against DM26 is therefore a fight for the working class’s political independence. It requires rejecting the false alternatives offered by the CWU and building a movement that links postal workers with rail workers, NHS staff, teachers, logistics workers, and every other section of the working class confronting similar attacks. The stakes are defending jobs, working conditions, and the public service against billionaire investors’ profit drive.