Northern Mayors Defy London, Demand Olympics Shift and Fairness

Paul Riverbank, 2/8/2026Mayors from Northern England are rallying for an Olympic bid, advocating for regional equity and legacy. They argue that hosting the Games could uplift areas often seen as "left behind," leveraging existing infrastructure while fostering community pride and ambition.

You hear it from Andy Burnham, Greater Manchester's mayor, who never misses a chance to mention the aftershocks left by the 2002 Commonwealth Games. Back then, Manchester wasn't just a stop on a sporting calendar. It was a city in need of a revival—an identity shift, some would say—and the Games, Burnham insists, did just that. "It was a watershed," he tells any journalist with a notepad. New tram lines, a stadium that still attracts concerts and football matches—remnants of ambition you can actually point to on a map.

And the list doesn’t end there. Merseyside hosted Eurovision just last year, while Hull—remembered fondly for its offbeat charm—turned its stint as City of Culture in 2017 into a thriving arts scene that's still going. Bradford waits in the wings for its own cultural moment in 2025, while elsewhere, Ashes cricket and Rugby League World Cups continue to draw fans who rarely make the journey south.

But to reduce this Olympic movement to a tally of past events oversimplifies things. For Burnham and his fellow mayors—Tracy Brabin in West Yorkshire, Steve Rotheram in Liverpool, a chorus of others—the bid is laced with a sense of regional justice. They share stories of young people from Bootle or Barnsley who grew up believing big dreams belonged to other postcodes; fixing that, they argue, should be at the heart of any Olympic plan.

No shortage of northern names have lent their profiles to the cause. Sir Brendan Foster, whose fingerprints are all over the Great North Run, frames the project as a moral corrective: If London's got Wimbledon and the Marathon, why shouldn’t Doncaster or Durham get a crack at history when public funds are on the line? “We’ve all paid for the lottery,” he reminds people—often with a sly grin—“it’s time to change the odds.”

Momentum, it bears saying, isn’t just a feeling. Mayors from Hull, York, South Yorkshire, Tees Valley, Lancashire—all have signed on, branding themselves as The Great North group. Kim McGuinness, fronting the North East, makes no bones about their intent: “We’re willing. We’re organised. The ball is really in the government’s court now.” Some would add that the infrastructure for a Games is hardly a pipe dream—stadiums, robust transport, thousands of hotel beds—boxes more or less already ticked, at least compared to Athens or Rio in the years before their own attempts.

Spend enough time around these council leaders, and a single word pops up again and again: legacy. They look to London’s 2012 Olympic Park, now home to new families and fledgling businesses, and wonder aloud what equivalent regeneration could do for places still characterized in headlines as “left behind.”

Of course, there’s pride running through all this. But peel back the speeches, and you’ll find a steady drumbeat of pragmatism. Tracy Brabin, who governs West Yorkshire, spells it out: “Venues? Sorted. Volunteers? We’ve no shortage of those. The dream is alive—so why not let us prove we can deliver?”

It’s a rare chapter where cool political calculation rubs shoulders with community spirit. Whether the Olympic Rings make their way to the North in years ahead remains an open question. For now, though, it’s the debates in town halls, job centers, and local sports clubs that are shaping the bid’s future—and perhaps, depending on who you ask, changing the country’s own self-portrait in the process.

If you've ever wandered through Manchester's city center on a drizzly Saturday, the energy can feel as kinetic as any Olympic venue; football fans spill from pubs, families fill Market Street, and a battered mosaic of old and new England hums in the air. It's here, and in cities like Bradford, Hull, and Liverpool, that talk of the Olympics is once again making the rounds—though this time, it's about far more than world-class athletics.You hear it from Andy Burnham, Greater Manchester's mayor, who never misses a chance to mention the aftershocks left by the 2002 Commonwealth Games. Back then, Manchester wasn't just a stop on a sporting calendar. It was a city in need of a revival—an identity shift, some would say—and the Games, Burnham insists, did just that. "It was a watershed," he tells any journalist with a notepad. New tram lines, a stadium that still attracts concerts and football matches—remnants of ambition you can actually point to on a map.And the list doesn’t end there. Merseyside hosted Eurovision just last year, while Hull—remembered fondly for its offbeat charm—turned its stint as City of Culture in 2017 into a thriving arts scene that's still going. Bradford waits in the wings for its own cultural moment in 2025, while elsewhere, Ashes cricket and Rugby League World Cups continue to draw fans who rarely make the journey south.But to reduce this Olympic movement to a tally of past events oversimplifies things. For Burnham and his fellow mayors—Tracy Brabin in West Yorkshire, Steve Rotheram in Liverpool, a chorus of others—the bid is laced with a sense of regional justice. They share stories of young people from Bootle or Barnsley who grew up believing big dreams belonged to other postcodes; fixing that, they argue, should be at the heart of any Olympic plan.No shortage of northern names have lent their profiles to the cause. Sir Brendan Foster, whose fingerprints are all over the Great North Run, frames the project as a moral corrective: If London's got Wimbledon and the Marathon, why shouldn’t Doncaster or Durham get a crack at history when public funds are on the line? “We’ve all paid for the lottery,” he reminds people—often with a sly grin—“it’s time to change the odds.”Momentum, it bears saying, isn’t just a feeling. Mayors from Hull, York, South Yorkshire, Tees Valley, Lancashire—all have signed on, branding themselves as The Great North group. Kim McGuinness, fronting the North East, makes no bones about their intent: “We’re willing. We’re organised. The ball is really in the government’s court now.” Some would add that the infrastructure for a Games is hardly a pipe dream—stadiums, robust transport, thousands of hotel beds—boxes more or less already ticked, at least compared to Athens or Rio in the years before their own attempts.Spend enough time around these council leaders, and a single word pops up again and again: legacy. They look to London’s 2012 Olympic Park, now home to new families and fledgling businesses, and wonder aloud what equivalent regeneration could do for places still characterized in headlines as “left behind.”Of course, there’s pride running through all this. But peel back the speeches, and you’ll find a steady drumbeat of pragmatism. Tracy Brabin, who governs West Yorkshire, spells it out: “Venues? Sorted. Volunteers? We’ve no shortage of those. The dream is alive—so why not let us prove we can deliver?”It’s a rare chapter where cool political calculation rubs shoulders with community spirit. Whether the Olympic Rings make their way to the North in years ahead remains an open question. For now, though, it’s the debates in town halls, job centers, and local sports clubs that are shaping the bid’s future—and perhaps, depending on who you ask, changing the country’s own self-portrait in the process.