Sir Jim Ratcliffe doesn't buy things. He absorbs them. He’s spent the last few months treating Manchester United like a distressed tech startup in need of a pivot, but the product isn't software. It’s sentiment. It’s the kind of high-octane, heritage-branded nostalgia that you can’t code, but you can certainly exploit if you’ve got enough PR budget and a mastery of the "marginal gains" lexicon.

Barney Ronay’s recent take on Ratcliffe’s "electioneering" hits the bruise. It’s a cynical play. Ratcliffe isn't just a minority owner; he’s acting like a man running for a seat he’s already purchased. He’s been touring the media circuit, shaking hands, and dropping hints about a "Wembley of the North" as if he’s doing the public a massive favor by suggesting we pay for his new office.

It’s the classic billionaire’s gambit. You take a crumbling asset with a massive, emotional user base—let’s call them "fans" instead of "subscribers" for the sake of tradition—and you promise a shiny, high-tech future. But there’s a catch. There is always a catch. In this case, the catch is a £2 billion stadium bill that Ratcliffe seems remarkably keen on splitting with the taxpayer.

The audacity is almost impressive. We’re talking about a man who moved to Monaco to save a few billion in tax, now suggesting the UK government should chip in for a private sports arena because it’s "good for the soul of the North." It’s a pitch that smells like Silicon Valley venture capital logic applied to a 146-year-old institution. Privatize the profits, socialize the infrastructure costs, and call it "levelling up."

Ratcliffe’s INEOS empire is built on efficiency, chemicals, and a ruthless adherence to the bottom line. You don’t get that rich by being a romantic. Yet, the narrative being spun is one of a local boy coming home to fix the mess left by the Glazers. It’s a tidy story. Too tidy. It ignores the fact that football, at its core, is being hollowed out by this kind of boardroom theater.

The "marginal gains" philosophy—the one Ratcliffe obsessed over with his cycling team—is just tech-speak for squeezing every last drop of utility out of an asset. In a lab or on a carbon-fiber bike, that’s fine. In a football club, it looks like tiered membership schemes, £100 shirts, and the slow displacement of the people who actually live in the postcodes surrounding the stadium.

He’s playing a political game. By cozying up to Keir Starmer and talking about "national significance," he’s trying to move Manchester United out of the sports pages and into the Treasury’s ledger. It’s electioneering in the truest sense. He’s campaigning for a subsidy, using the emotional leverage of millions of fans to pressure a cash-strapped government into funding his vanity project.

Let’s be real about the "Wembley of the North" talk. It’s a distraction. It’s a shiny render of a glass-and-steel bowl designed to stop people from asking why a club that generates hundreds of millions in revenue needs a handout. It’s about creating a narrative of inevitability. If he says it enough times, if he meets enough ministers, if he does enough "fireside chats" with the club’s media channel, it becomes the only viable path forward.

This isn't just about football. It’s about the way we let billionaires dictate the shape of our public spaces and our cultural priorities. Ratcliffe is using the club as a battering ram to get what he wants from the state. He’s treating the supporters as a voting bloc to be mobilized rather than a community to be served.

Ronay is right to call it cynical. It’s the kind of calculated, cold-blooded maneuver that defines modern corporate ownership. You buy the brand, you weaponize the loyalty, and you try to get someone else to foot the bill for the upgrades. It’s a slick operation, backed by a sophisticated media strategy and the quiet confidence of a man who’s used to getting his own way.

The real friction isn't on the pitch. It’s in the gap between the "local hero" persona Ratcliffe is wearing and the cold reality of a global conglomerate looking for a sweetheart deal. He wants the prestige of owning the world’s biggest club without the pesky burden of paying for its roof.

We’ve seen this script before in every major city that’s handed over public land to a sports franchise. The jobs are usually low-wage, the "regeneration" is mostly gentrification, and the billionaire ends up with a shiny new asset that’s worth double what they paid.

Ratcliffe is just the latest to try it, only he’s doing it with a British accent and a better tailor. He’s betting that the fans are so desperate for a winner that they’ll ignore the smell of the grift. He’s probably right.

But does a "Wembley of the North" really benefit the North, or does it just give Sir Jim a bigger VIP lounge to host the people he’s currently lobbying?