cases. Even benign examples such as France in 1998 or Germany in 2006 were successes largely because they aligned with national agendas: in France’s case, promoting multiculturalism; in Germany’s, unification and a new, cuddlier patriotism. FIFA itself has long advanced its own political agenda, whether by strong-arming Japan and South Korea to co-host in 2002 or engineering the first African World Cup in 2010. But over the past decade the world has entered a new, more troubling phase. We are now heading into a third successive World Cup engulfed by calls for a boycott owing to a host nation’s human-rights or foreign-policy record. Despite the bad press in the lead-up to their tournaments, Russia and Qatar ultimately hosted successful events in 2018 and 2022, respectively. Will the forthcoming edition, jointly hosted by America, Canada and Mexico from June 11th to July 19th, pass off so smoothly? Or will it be the one that sends the tournament into a tailspin from which it cannot recover? Here are just some of the unprecedented aspects of “Trump’s World Cup”: it is the first time that a host nation is engaged in an illegal war with a participating nation; the first time that citizens of four participating countries are subject to a travel ban issued by a host nation; and the first time a host nation’s leader has openly threatened to annex one co-host and torn up trade agreements with the other. And although the World Cup stands out as a festival of international travel, American policies on entry to the country, as well as the targeting of immigrants within—not to mention nauseatingly high ticket prices—have given many supporters pause. Frequently, a critical press presages disaster, whereas the actual event proceeds to plan. But Mr Trump has a pattern all of his own, and this time catastrophes foretold may well materialise. Take the anomalies above and add the president’s unpredictability and unchecked power, and there is a good chance that something could go badly wrong. If it did, then the underlying strains within the FIFA family could turn into something irremediable. It’s a family that is already dysfunctional. The relationship between Europe, where most of the money is, and the rest of FIFA, where the political power resides, is tense. FIFA wants to undermine UEFA, the European governing
body, and capture its revenue streams—last year’s Club World Cup was all about FIFA trying to upstage UEFA’s Champions League. FIFA is increasingly turning away from Europe, with its president, Gianni Infantino, spending ever more time in Miami. In addition, these divides have led to the creation of a new players’ union, which will compete with FIFPRO, the predominantly European union that is close to UEFA. As FIFA expands the size and number of tournaments it organises, this also creates strain with UEFA in the debate over player workload and burnout. Moreover, as FIFA looks beyond Europe, some of the supposedly up-and- coming branches of the family are in crisis. The African football federation, CAF, is reeling after its farcical decision to strip Senegal of the African Cup of Nations and hand the trophy to host nation Morocco—two months after the event. Is a split, or the sudden crumbling of FIFA’s credibility, unimaginable? There is, in fact, a near-precedent: the Olympic Games enjoyed remarkable growth, but then nearly collapsed after the second world war. Successive boycotts in 1976, 1980 and 1984 came close to destroying it. Other sports have fragmented in the face of competing interests, boxing being a prominent example, with multiple sanctioning bodies and rival competition formats. Keep in mind, too, that FIFA is little more than the sum of its member associations, and America’s highly controversial immigration policies, enforcement practices and newly rediscovered bellicosity could put unbearable strain on the organisation’s alliances and voting blocs. The origins of crisis are seldom predictable in detail, but here’s one scenario. A Spanish fan is detained on entering a stadium to watch her national team, transported to an ICE facility, beaten and dies of an untreated infection. Spain demands sanctions against the US Soccer Federation as host governing body. FIFA, with close ties to the Trump administration, refuses to intervene. Spain, along with 2030 co-hosts Portugal and Morocco, decides to ban American fans from entry during the World Cup. FIFA threatens Spain with sanctions, UEFA lends support to Spain and several African countries—still upset that Morocco was awarded the African Cup of Nations
—decide to boycott the World Cup altogether. Fanciful? Maybe, but we live in an era when reality seems to be stranger than fiction. The World Cup has expanded continuously since its inauguration in 1930. Nothing grows for ever, and when growth stops, decline usually follows— and can be rapid. One thing is certain: the current edition will provide a focus for everything people dislike about the tournament’s excesses. The most likely outcome, of course, is a World Cup in 2030. But it is not guaranteed. And if there is a tournament, what will it look like? How many countries will care or bother to show up? And if a critical mass withdraw, will it mean anything? Quite possibly not. Because FIFA has become a farce, and the curtain must fall eventually. ■ Stefan Szymanski is a professor of sport management at the University of Michigan and co-author of “Soccernomics”. Ashish Malhotra is a journalist and series creator of “The Dark Side of The World Cup” for Zeteo. They co- host The Soccernomics Podcast (with Simon Kuper). This article was downloaded by zlibrary from https://www.economist.com//by-invitation/2026/06/08/this-may-just-be-the-last- world-cup
Entertainment is being deglobalised Why monoculture events like the World Cup are becoming the exception June 11th 2026 Tents are being packed, wellies wiped down and joints rolled up in preparation for the Roskilde festival, a hedonistic week of music and culture which begins on June 27th in eastern Denmark. The line-up is as international as ever, featuring the Cure (Britain), Addison Rae (America), Jennie of Blackpink (South Korea) and scores of other acts from Australia’s Folk Bitch Trio to the Pili Pili Girls of Tanzania. Yet eavesdrop on the private playlists of Danish festivalgoers and you may hear a more local soundtrack. Nine of the ten most-streamed tracks in Denmark in 2025 were by Danes, belting out lyrics in Danish. The top hit was “Hele Vejen” (“All the Way”), by Danes Omar and Mumle.
It might seem surprising, in a world of global stars, that the 6m Danes, many of whom are fluent in English, listen mainly to homegrown music. And until fairly recently they did not. In 2019 only five songs in Denmark’s top 20 were in Danish. By last year the figure was 18. A similar trend is under way in other countries—and in other forms of entertainment. From Asia to the Americas, music charts are increasingly dominated by local sounds. Hollywood television-streaming companies are commissioning more local productions in foreign markets, causing consumption of American shows to fall. Social networks are connecting the whole world, but so far people are mainly using them to consume local content. And as video gaming expands, it too is becoming increasingly tailored to local cultures. For those who thought that globalisation would lead to a stale, worldwide monoculture, in which everyone heard, watched and played the same things, the local revival is something of a surprise. Global audiences can still be commanded by a handful of stars and events, such as the men’s football World Cup with an audience of billions. Yet they are becoming the exception. As global streaming platforms permeate new markets, local culture is proving remarkably resistant. America’s grip on worldwide popular culture is loosening. And in some cases, new technology is pushing the globalisation of entertainment unexpectedly into reverse. Spotify, which turned 20 this year, offers virtually all music to anyone with an internet connection. As users can listen to anything at no marginal cost, the biggest stars have got only bigger. Global digital distribution has turbocharged the fame of singers like Taylor Swift, who have seen their royalty earnings rise faster than those lower down the entertainment food- chain. Yet streaming seems to be having another, less obvious effect. As digital distribution spreads to more households in more countries, the biggest stars are a more varied bunch than in the past. Spotify’s global top 50 last year included songs in 16 languages, more than double the number in 2020. The Danes are not the only ones marching to their own beat. In 2023 Will Page and Chris Dalla Riva noted in a London School of Economics paper
that a number of European countries including France, Germany, Italy and Poland had seen rising domestic shares of their top tens in the preceding decade. Since then the phenomenon seems to have spread. Mr Page, formerly chief economist at Spotify, finds that 55% of streams of songs in Sweden’s top 20 last year were in Swedish, up from 29% in 2019. Norway’s figure rose from 13% to 38% in the same period. Latin America has gone the same way (see chart 1), Brazil astonishingly so: in the first week of June 96 of the top 100 artists on YouTube Music in the country were Brazilian (foreigners included Justin Bieber and Michael Jackson). Last year Thailand had a solidly local top ten, while Indonesia and the Philippines each had eight local tracks in their respective charts; Nigeria’s top ten were all local, as were nine of South Africa’s, according to the IFPI, which represents the recorded-music industry. Hindi’s share of music streaming is falling in India—because listeners are tuning in to even more local tracks, in languages like Malayalam and Odia, according to EY, a professional-services firm. Exceptions to the local trend include tiny countries and those that share their language with a bigger one. Ireland and Australia’s charts are dominated by other English-speaking countries; Portugal’s, by Brazilians.