Nationalism Unmasked: Understanding the Threat We Can’t Afford to Ignore
As Trump returns to power and nationalism surges in the UK, it’s time to face the ideology that’s reshaping our world - one distorted flag at a time.
Morning All,
In light of the upcoming Trump presidency and with nationalism gaining momentum on both sides of the Atlantic, I’ll be releasing a full chapter on Substack today covering nationalism - what it is, how it manifests, and why we need to understand it now more than ever.
It’s been a day we’ve all dreaded, and for good reason. Trump and his movement may not be traditional nationalists in the historical sense, but their playbook draws on a familiar set of nationalist tactics: stoking division, isolating “us” from “them,” and selling a narrative that nations must turn inward to remain “great.” And, as we’re seeing in the UK, similar rhetoric is on the rise, from the nostalgia of empire in political speeches to the populist sloganeering about taking back control.
So, why release this chapter today?
Because understanding nationalism isn’t just academic anymore - it’s essential, and should be easily accessible for everyone.
Knowing what political ideologies like nationalism actually mean gives us the tools to identify and challenge them in real time. It’s all too easy to fall into the trap of conflating nationalism with patriotism, but the two couldn’t be more different. Patriotism is loving one’s country enough to criticise it, wanting it to be better, fairer; nationalism, however, thrives on finding an “enemy” to fear and loathe.
We’re about to face a period where these distinctions matter deeply, where understanding what drives nationalist rhetoric helps us resist it and hold our own leaders accountable. As Charles de Gaulle aptly put it, “Patriotism is when love of your own people comes first; nationalism, when hate for people other than your own comes first.”
The truth is, whether it’s in the form of Trump’s bluster or the veiled rhetoric here in the UK, nationalism poses real dangers. And when its symbols are misused, its heroes glorified, and its history scrubbed of nuance, it becomes all the more dangerous. This chapter digs into that fine line between patriotism and nationalism, exploring its evolution, its champions, and the way it’s been used to mask deep societal fears.
Now more than ever, we need to understand these ideologies. The threat of Trump isn’t just across the pond; it’s reflected in political movements and media narratives right here. I hope this chapter offers you some clarity - and maybe even some reassurance - as we navigate these next few years together.
And, as always, I’d love to hear your thoughts on it.
Nationalism
The Loudmouth Who Ruins the Game
It's a crisp autumn evening outside Twickenham Stadium, where the English rugby team has just suffered a nail-biting defeat to South Africa. The floodlights dim, the crowd slowly disperses, and the air is thick with the scent of spilled beer and sweat. Walking alongside you are two historical giants—George Orwell, ever the observer, hands in pockets, and Oswald Mosley, cape-like Union Jack draped over his shoulders, exuding the fervour of a man who believes England should always come first.
Mosley kicks a discarded can down the pavement with a disgusted snort. “Unbelievable. Losing to South Africa—South Africa! What a disgrace. England should be crushing them. It’s like this country’s forgotten who it is.”
Orwell glances at him, eyebrow raised, lighting a cigarette as if preparing for the inevitable. “Oh, for God’s sake, Oswald. It’s a rugby match, not the Second Boer War. Both teams played well, and South Africa’s strong. It’s hardly the end of the Empire.”
Mosley whirls around, his face flushed with indignation. “That’s the problem right there, Orwell. That attitude! This defeatist, apologetic nonsense. England is supposed to be the best. We are the best. We should never lose to them—or anyone, for that matter.”
You, caught between these two, try to offer a gentle nudge back toward sanity. “Come on, Mosley, it's just a game. They put in the effort. Besides, South Africa has a good team—rugby’s a level playing field.”
“Level playing field?” Mosley scoffs, his voice lowering to a venomous growl. “That’s the kind of talk that’s turned this country soft. We’re not like the others. England is superior, always has been. That’s why we’re losing—because we’ve forgotten that.”
Orwell, ever the sharp-tongued realist, blows a cloud of smoke and leans in. “Forgotten, have we? Or perhaps we’re waking up from the fever dream of thinking we can bully the rest of the world into submission. Patriotism, Mosley, isn’t about thinking you’re better than everyone else. It’s about loving your country enough to criticise it, to want it to be better—for everyone. What you’re preaching isn’t love for England. It’s just hatred for everyone else.”
Mosley’s eyes narrow, his nationalist fervour palpable. “You never did understand, did you? This is about pride. English blood, English strength. It’s about showing the world what we are. If you can’t see that, Orwell, then you’re part of the problem.”
Orwell stops walking, his usual calm now tinged with frustration. “I understand perfectly well, Mosley. What you call ‘pride’ is just fear dressed up in a flag. You’re terrified that England might have to share the world with others, that it can’t just stomp around as it pleases. You’re clinging to an outdated, dangerous fantasy.”
The tension is palpable. You can feel the weight of history pressing down on this conversation, knowing full well that this isn’t just about rugby anymore. Orwell’s words, sharpened by years of witnessing the devastation of nationalism, cut through the chill in the air.
“Loving your country,” Orwell continues, his voice steady, “isn’t about thinking it can do no wrong. It’s about wanting it to do right, to be just. Patriotism doesn’t need an enemy. Nationalism, on the other hand—well, it always needs a scapegoat, doesn’t it, Mosley? First, it’s the other teams, then the immigrants, and soon it’s anyone who dares disagree with you.”
Mosley sneers, pulling the Union Jack tighter around himself. “Spoken like a man who has no real pride in his country. England’s meant for greatness. You just don’t have the spine to admit it.”
Orwell stares him down, calm but unflinching. “England’s meant for greatness, yes—but not the kind you dream of. Our greatness should come from fairness, from justice, not from pretending we're lords of the world. Nationalism has always been a thin veil for tyranny, Oswald. I’ve seen it with my own eyes, and I’ll be damned if I let it take root here.”
You glance between them, feeling the weight of history in the conversation. The street around you is bustling—people laughing, cars honking—but it feels distant, a mere backdrop to the ideological duel in front of you. Mosley, ever rigid in his beliefs, shakes his head in disgust and storms off into the crowd, his flag still fluttering behind him.
Orwell watches him go, flicking his cigarette to the ground. He turns to you, offering a rueful smile. “Do you think he’ll come around?” you ask.
Orwell shrugs. “Probably not. Men like him don’t come around. They double down, they dig in. But as long as we’ve still got voices, we can call them out. Make sure they don’t get too comfortable.”
You both descend into the underground station, the hum of London growing louder as you move away from the flickering streetlights. As the train approaches, you can’t help but reflect on the conversation. The world might change, but the fight between patriotism and nationalism is as old as history itself—and it seems Orwell, for all his pessimism, still believes in the possibility of a better England.
--Interlude--
A Personal Journey Through Nationalism’s Shadows
Growing up in South Africa under the latter years of the National Party's rule was like living in a world meticulously curated by a propagandist who had mastered the art of stark contrast—black and white, literally and figuratively. No room for grey, no space for doubt. Apartheid wasn’t just about keeping people apart; it was nationalism at its most grotesque—stitched together with fear and a bloated sense of superiority, paraded as "patriotism." It wasn’t enough to simply love your country; you had to believe that one group was inherently superior to all others, that one race had the inalienable right to rule. Nationalism didn’t just thrive under apartheid—it was the blood coursing through the regime's veins.
As a child, you don’t question the world you’re born into. You accept the absurdities, the inequalities, as the natural order. The "Whites Only" signs on park benches, the separate schools, the clearly divided spaces—they’re as ordinary as the sun rising. I remember our housemaid having her own cutlery, kept separate from ours, and how she wasn’t allowed to use the toilet in the house. She had to use an outside one, as if proximity to her could somehow taint the purity of our space. And then there was the day she brought her children to our house. I played with them—innocently, without thought—until my uncle saw us and pulled me aside, his face stern. “Go wash yourself,” he told me. “They’re dirty.”
I couldn’t understand it then. Why was I dirty from playing with them? Why were they different? I stared at my skin and then at theirs, and I began to see how the world was being divided in ways that made no sense. I knew they were treated differently, but why?
I attended a Model-C school, and I still remember the near panic when the first black children started joining. For years, we had lived in a bubble of assumed superiority, and now that bubble was being pricked, bit by bit. Even by the time I matriculated, a good ten years after the ANC came to power, the divide was still there, unspoken but palpable. There was always us—the white kids—and them. We may have been in the same classrooms, but the invisible wall between us had yet to crumble.
The propaganda of apartheid wasn’t confined to the newspapers or the radio. It seeped into the water, the air, the fabric of everyday life. Afrikaner history was glorified, its "heroes" lionised for their conquests, while the suffering of the non-white population was conveniently scrubbed from the narrative, as if entire lives could be swept under the carpet like dust. It was like reading a history book written by the victors, where the pages detailing the human cost had been torn out and used to stoke the flames of a braai.
The National Party didn’t just ask for allegiance; it demanded your complicity. Its ideology was drilled into every aspect of life, from the classroom to the pulpit. Even Sunday sermons became exercises in quiet indoctrination, cloaking nationalism in biblical virtue. National holidays turned into spectacles of white-washed pride, celebrations of victories that, upon reflection, were moral catastrophes dressed up as moments of national glory.
Yet, even in that carefully curated reality, the cracks began to show. There were moments—small, private moments—where the weight of the system faltered. I remember the uneasy whispers at family gatherings, where the adults would speak just softly enough to escape official ears, but loud enough to make me wonder. The brash, uncompromising nationalism that ruled public life didn’t match the quiet, creeping doubts expressed at home. The contradictions were everywhere, but as a child, it felt like standing on the shore, watching cracks spread across the ice—slow, imperceptible at first, but growing.
Then came the '90s, and with it, the moment the spotlight was thrown on the whole grotesque farce. When Nelson Mandela walked free, the entire country saw the apartheid set for what it was: an elaborate illusion built on violence, exclusion, and fear. Nationalism, once presented as the glue holding the nation together, was revealed as the very thing tearing it apart. The regime that had prided itself on its strength crumbled under the weight of its own contradictions, leaving behind a fractured, wounded society.
Witnessing the dismantling of apartheid was exhilarating and terrifying in equal measure. It was a testament to the resilience of the human spirit, yes, but also a sobering reminder of how deeply nationalism can poison a society. As we moved into the future, we carried the scars of a nation built on exclusion and division. Healing those wounds would take decades—perhaps even longer.
That personal history is why the line between patriotism and nationalism is so stark for me. Patriotism, for all its complexities, is a love for your country—a love that includes doubt, self-reflection, and a desire to see your country improve, not just for some, but for everyone. Nationalism, however, is patriotism’s deluded cousin. It doesn’t ask for love; it demands loyalty. It doesn’t seek to improve; it seeks to dominate. It turns well-meaning people into agents of exclusion and fear, often without them realising.
When I hear politicians like Lee Anderson or Nigel Farage natter on about "national pride" in a way that diminishes others, those memories of South Africa come rushing back, vivid and unsettling. I recognise the early warning signs of an ideology that, if left unchecked, doesn’t just distort reality—it destroys it. The kind of nationalism that whispers, “We’re better than them,” always ends in “They don’t deserve what we have.” And from there, the road to exclusion, to oppression, is all too familiar.
The Anatomy of Nationalism: Us vs. Them
Nationalism is seductive. It wraps itself in the flag, sings in rousing choruses, and offers up a version of history where the nation is always the hero, never the villain. It tells you that you are part of something special, something uniquely superior. But nationalism doesn’t unite—it divides. It builds a false sense of solidarity by creating an “other” to fear, to hate, or, at best, to pity. In the nationalist mindset, your identity isn’t defined by shared values, but by who you’re standing against. And that, my friends, is where things start to get ugly.
In the UK, nationalism has been dressed up in different outfits over the years—sometimes in the polished uniforms of far-right groups, other times in the casual slogans of the Brexit campaign. The message is always the same: "We’ve lost control," "Others are diluting our culture," "We need to take back what’s ours." It’s a refrain as old as empire, as hollow as the promises made by those who sing it. It's nostalgia for a past that never really existed, dressed up as a manifesto for the future.
But let’s be clear: nationalism doesn’t thrive on its own. It feeds on fear, insecurity, and economic inequality. When people feel left behind—when jobs disappear and communities fall apart—it’s easy for demagogues to point fingers and say, "They are the reason." Immigrants, international organisations, foreign cultures—they’re all convenient scapegoats for a nation unwilling to confront its own failings.
Take the Brexit1 campaign, for example. Wrapped in the Union Jack and promising a return to sovereignty, it sold itself as a patriotic movement. But scratch even lightly under the surface and you find a darker undercurrent of nationalism, the kind that says Britain can and should stand alone, that foreign influence is inherently corrupting, that our problems are their fault. It’s an illusion, of course. In a world as interconnected as ours, no nation thrives in isolation. But nationalism doesn’t deal in reality—it deals in fear.
What makes nationalism so dangerous is its simplicity. It reduces the world to "us" and "them," to black and white. It’s the political equivalent of a child’s colouring book—except the lines it draws aren’t just crude; they’re cruel. It’s why nationalists struggle with nuance, with empathy. To them, acknowledging complexity is weakness, and weakness is betrayal.
Patriotism, by contrast, is rooted in a love for one’s country that embraces complexity. It acknowledges that no nation is perfect but holds a deep, abiding desire to improve it. A patriot looks at their country’s flaws and says, “We can do better.” They don’t shy away from criticism; they embrace it as a necessary part of progress. A patriot’s love for their country is not blind; it is clear-eyed and compassionate. Patriots seek to build a society that is inclusive, just, and fair for everyone.
Nationalists, on the other hand, demand loyalty at all costs. To criticise the nation is to betray it. This is why nationalism is so insidious: it silences dissent and stifles growth. In a nationalist’s view, the country is already great—any suggestion to the contrary is not just unpatriotic; it’s an attack.
That’s the difference. Patriotism strives for betterment. Nationalism demands submission.
The History of English Nationalism: A Fine Tradition of Fear and Loathing
English nationalism is a peculiar beast. Unlike its more flamboyant continental cousins, which tend to throw parades and wave flags as if they're auditioning for a Wagner opera, English nationalism operates with the subtlety of a hangover—quietly pervasive, often unpleasant, and always lurking just beneath the surface. It cloaks itself in nostalgia, pines for an empire long dead, and occasionally bursts into that full-blown fever dream of "taking back control2." It’s as if the nation has been perpetually waking up from a dream where the map was still pink and the sun never set. And yet, here we are, in a country whose national identity seems tied more to what it was than what it is or could be.
The architects of English nationalism read like a who’s-who of historical wrong-turns, each contributing their own unique brand of xenophobia, superiority complex, and romanticised imperialism. Let’s start with one of the real hallmarks of this tradition: Oswald Mosley—the man we met earlier in this chapter who tried to sell fascism to England like it was the latest trendy gin.
Oswald Mosley: Blackshirts and Black Hearts
If there’s a pantheon of English nationalism, Mosley’s there, right at the top, polishing his jackboots to a brandishing shine. In the 1930s, Mosley saw an opportunity to feed off a nation reeling from economic depression, and he seized it with both grubby hands. He didn’t go for subtlety; oh no, Mosley went full throttle, establishing the British Union of Fascists3 in 1932. His solution to the nation's woes? Blame the Jews, immigrants, and those pesky left-wingers. Because nothing says “let’s save the country” like borrowing Hitler’s playbook and dressing up in black shirts.
Mosley’s rallies, full of salutes and bile, were an attempt to inject some continental-style fascism into British politics. But here’s the thing—England never quite took to the goose-stepping. Sure, there were followers, and enough thuggery to make him dangerous, but there was something about Mosley’s act that never quite stuck. It could be the whole dictatorship thing didn’t play well in a country that just adored its monarchy too much to swap it out for a wannabe Führer.
His most famous moment, the Battle of Cable Street in 1936, saw thousands of East End Londoners—Jews, socialists, trade unionists—stand shoulder to shoulder to block the Blackshirts’ march. In true English fashion, they gave Mosley and his lot a proper battering, as the streets became a battleground not just for territory but for the soul of the nation.
Still, Mosley’s black heart continued to beat long after the Second World War, and his ideas of English superiority lingered like a bad odour in the corridors of nationalism. His influence was clear in the post-war years, even as his personal career dwindled into irrelevance. Like any good nationalist, he managed to plant the seeds of division that others would nurture in the decades to come.
Enoch Powell: The Rivers of Blood and a Flood of Fear
If Mosley was England’s fascist in a tailor-made suit, Enoch Powell was the more respectable face of English nationalism, dressed in tweed and brimming with barely-concealed paranoia. Powell’s infamous "Rivers of Blood" speech in 1968 was less a political address and more a masterclass in how to whip up fear of immigration and social change with the kind of apocalyptic rhetoric usually reserved for Old Testament prophets.
Powell’s speech painted a picture of Britain overrun by immigrants—specifically, people of colour from the Commonwealth—warning that the country was on the brink of racial disaster. “Like the Roman,” he pontificated, “I seem to see ‘the River Tiber foaming with much blood.’” This wasn’t a man calmly discussing policy; this was a man trying to turn fear into fact. And tragically, for many, it worked.
The speech ignited a firestorm, and Powell was immediately sacked from the Conservative shadow cabinet. But let’s not mistake that for a condemnation of his views—oh no. Powell’s ideas found fertile ground among those who felt Britain’s identity slipping away, buried beneath waves of immigration and social progress. He became a martyr to the nationalist cause, a beacon for those who believed in the myth of an England that was white, Protestant, and sovereign in all things.
Powell’s legacy is still felt today, with his apocalyptic vision of multiculturalism used as a rallying cry for modern nationalists. Every time the far right starts harping on about "culture wars" and "taking back control," you can hear echoes of Powell’s speech reverberating through the years. The rivers may not have foamed with blood, but they certainly filled with fear.
Margaret Thatcher: The Iron Lady with a Nationalist Spine
Now, some might raise an eyebrow at including Margaret Thatcher here, but the fact is that Thatcher’s nationalism was wrapped in the Union Jack, proudly proclaiming that Britain would never be dictated to, either by foreigners or by inconveniently needy miners. While she wasn’t as openly nationalist in the blood-and-soil way Mosley or Powell were, her version of nationalism came through in other ways.
Thatcher’s defiant stance during the Falklands War—fighting to maintain British sovereignty over a cluster of rocks, a couple of seagulls, a few dozen confused sheep farmers and three stray penguins 8,000 miles away—was an old-school display of imperial hubris. To Thatcher, the Falklands wasn’t just about the sheep farmers though; it was about Britain’s place in the world, refusing to accept that its imperial power had faded. It was an assertion of British superiority, dressed up as sovereignty, and it played beautifully into a national myth of the island nation standing alone against all odds.
Let's also not forget her often-sarcastic distaste for Europe. Thatcher’s nationalism veered into Euro-scepticism long before it was fashionable, and she would no doubt be raising a glass from the afterlife at the sight of Brexit. Her “No, no, no” speech in 1990, rejecting the idea of a united Europe, was as much about protecting British identity as it was about economics. Europe was the “other,” and for Thatcher, England was always a step above.
Brexit: A Nationalist Dream Come True?
Speaking of Brexit, can we really talk about the history of English nationalism without bringing up that colossal act of national self-sabotage? When the Brexit campaign emerged, it was draped in patriotic language, of course—"Take back control," "Make Britain Great Again4." But make no mistake: the entire Brexit project was a nationalist fever dream.
Figures like Farage—a man who often appears like a cross between a used car salesman and a Victorian villain—championed the idea that Britain was better off without all those meddling foreigners. Farage tapped into a deep well of nationalist sentiment, invoking Powell’s rhetoric, though with fewer classical references and more pints down the pub. The EU was portrayed as the faceless bureaucrat that had stolen Britain's sovereignty, but Brexit wasn't just about policy—it was about a vision of a Britain that no longer existed: a nostalgic dream of empire, of global dominance, of an England that led the world, rather than worked alongside it.
And that’s the trick of English nationalism, isn’t it? Whether it’s Mosley’s fascism, Powell’s rivers of fear, or Brexit’s “control,” nationalism always promises a return to a glorious past that, when you look closely, was never that glorious in the first place5.
So, what do we learn from all this? English nationalism, despite its various guises, always comes back to the same idea: the notion that England is exceptional, not by virtue of its inclusivity or progress, but because of some mythical superiority tied to blood, soil, or nostalgia. Nationalists—from Mosley’s thugs to Powell’s prophets of doom—have always tried to sell the country a vision that’s narrow, exclusionary, and ultimately self-destructive.
Today, nationalism still clings to that vision. The rhetoric may have evolved slightly (though not by much), but the underlying message remains the same: England should be alone, special, pure. It’s a message that thrives on fear—fear of immigrants, fear of change, fear of losing control. And while the flag might be waved with pride, what lies beneath is often insecurity, isolation, and a stubborn refusal to face the complexities of the modern world.
But here’s the irony: English nationalism is obsessed with the idea of greatness. And yet, history shows us that greatness isn’t built on exclusion or fear. It’s built on understanding, on cooperation, and yes, sometimes on a good dose of humility. Perhaps, if the nationalists of today took a leaf from history, they’d realise that waving the flag isn’t enough—you’ve got to live up to it, too.
Patriotism vs. Nationalism in Modern Britain: Lessons from the Past, Warnings for the Future
If English nationalism were a pub, you’d still find plenty of folks nursing pints and ranting about how things were better before “all those foreigners showed up.” But here we are in 21st-century Britain, where the ghosts of Powell and Mosley seem to have found a new batch of living hosts, dressed in ill-fitting suits and fat salaries from GB News, union flags fluttering behind them, and the same tired refrain on their lips: “We just want our country back.”
Yes, that’s the soundbite du jour of Lee Anderson, the Conservative MP who has become a poster child for the type of nationalism that wraps itself in the flag but ignores the deeper, complex challenges facing the country. Anderson’s plea for Britain to return to some imagined golden age is just the latest incarnation of the "us versus them" mentality—except now it’s disguised as a plea for sovereignty, culture, or security6.
When Anderson says, “We just want our country back,” what he's really doing is, again, peddling nostalgia for a Britain that never existed in the first place. He and his ilk act as though England in the 1950s was some utopia of community spirit and wholesome values—conveniently forgetting the rampant poverty, class divides, and casual racism. But that’s the trick with nationalism: it sells a dream, not a reality.
Nationalists like Anderson thrive on the idea that Britain has lost something—that immigrants, globalisation, and progressive values have eroded the country’s “true” identity. What they fail to admit, of course, is that the only thing Britain’s lost is the right to trample over other nations without consequence. This “we want our country back” rhetoric is less about pride and more about fear—the fear that a more diverse, modern, and interconnected Britain might look different from the sepia-tinted postcards in their minds.
The Modern Faces of English Nationalism
Lee Anderson isn’t alone, of course. He’s part of a growing movement of politicians and public figures who stoke nationalist fires for political gain, tapping into the same insecurities and frustrations that Powell and Mosley once exploited.
Take Nigel Farage7, for instance—Britain’s most professional nationalist. Farage has built an entire career out of selling the idea that Britain can and should stand alone, that it was somehow shackled by the EU, and that immigrants were to blame for everything from housing shortages and waiting times at the GP to your nan's 22 year old cat mysteriously disappearing with a wink and a nod to how he's heard that immigrants eat pets. His particular brand of nationalism is one that thrives on discontent and division, wrapped up in patriotic bunting with a pint in hand.
We can’t forget Suella Braverman, another architect of Britain’s increasingly draconian immigration stance and dreamer of Rwanda flights. Her obsession with protecting the “British way of life” feels plucked straight from Powell’s playbook, except with less classical reference and more fearmongering. Whether it’s labelling immigrants as invaders or throwing around phrases like “cultural dilution,” Braverman seems intent on presenting Britain as some sort of endangered species, constantly under threat from the outside world.
The worrying thing about this modern crop of nationalists is that they’ve learned how to play the game. Unlike Mosley, they don’t march in black shirts. They smile for the cameras, say the right things about “sovereignty” and “British values,” and present themselves as patriots. But the underlying message is the same: Britain is in danger, and the only way to save it is by closing the doors, shutting the borders, and turning inwards.
The great irony of all this is that true patriotism—the love for one’s country—is far removed from the nationalism peddled by Anderson, Farage, and Braverman. Patriotism doesn’t mean longing for some mythical past or blaming others for the nation’s struggles. It means caring about your country enough to want to fix its flaws, not paper over them with nationalist fantasies.
Take figures like Marcus Rashford, for example. Rashford represents a modern, inclusive patriotism—a vision of Britain that strives to care for its people, to create a fairer society for everyone, regardless of their background. When Rashford campaigned for free school meals for underprivileged children, he wasn’t selling nostalgia; he was fighting for a better future. His patriotism is about lifting people up, not dragging them down. And it’s precisely this kind of inclusive, compassionate patriotism that stands in direct opposition to the nationalism of Anderson and his ilk.
The younger generation, too, seems to be redefining what it means to be British. For many young people, multiculturalism is a given, and the idea of closing the country off to the world feels not just outdated but absurd. They see Britain’s identity as something that evolves—something that includes new ideas, cultures, and people. Their vision of patriotism is about inclusion, not exclusion. It’s about embracing the complexities of modern Britain, not retreating into the past.
The Warnings from History
But here’s the thing: history has already shown us what happens when nationalism goes unchecked. Mosley’s rise in the 1930s, Powell’s speeches in the 1960s—both were moments when nationalism could have pushed Britain down a much darker path. And though Britain resisted, these ideologies never truly disappeared. They lingered, mutating into the “respectable” nationalism we see today.
If we don’t learn from history, we risk repeating it. Nationalism thrives on division, on scapegoating, and on fear. And right now, in the wake of Brexit, with economic instability and social unrest brewing, nationalism is finding fertile ground once again. We see it in the rise of far-right groups, in the hate crimes that spike every time a politician rants about “illegal immigrants,” and in the rhetoric that makes patriotism sound like a zero-sum game where someone else always has to lose for Britain to win.
If history teaches us anything, it’s that nationalism doesn’t end well. It leads to isolation, to exclusion, to policies that hurt the very people nationalists claim to protect. And if we’re not careful, if we allow the likes of Anderson, Farage, and Braverman to set the agenda, Britain could find itself on a dangerous road—one where the lessons of Powell’s rivers are forgotten and the mistakes of Mosley’s blackshirts are repeated.
Britain stands at a crossroads, much as it has many times before. One path leads to the kind of nationalism we’ve seen throughout history—narrow, defensive, and rooted in fear. The other path leads towards a more inclusive patriotism—one that recognises the value of diversity, of cooperation, and of facing the challenges of the modern world with openness rather than retreat.
The choice, as it always has been, is ours. We can choose to follow the Andersons and Farages of this world, down a road where “getting our country back” means shutting it off from progress. Or we can follow the Rashfords, the young, and the compassionate, who see Britain’s greatness not in its past, but in its potential to be a fairer, more just society.
If we don’t make the right choice, the warnings of history will come back to haunt us. And this time, the rivers may not foam with blood, but the nation could very well drown in its own fear.
The Media's Role in Nationalism's Growth
If there’s one thing the British media does well, it’s taking complex issues, stripping them of nuance, and turning them into weapons of mass hysteria. When it comes to nationalism, the tabloids and their cronies don’t just fan the flames—they dump an entire petrol tanker on the fire and stand back to admire the blaze. From the Daily Mail to The Sun and the new kid on the nationalist block, GB News, British media has become a well-oiled machine of fearmongering and xenophobia, turning immigration into a national sport and "us vs. them" into the main event. And let’s not forget our transatlantic friends at Fox News, who’ve generously exported their brand of polarisation to these shores, because apparently we didn’t have enough problems of our own.
Tabloids: The Nationalists' Best Friends
No conversation about British nationalism would be complete without a nod to the tabloids—the original architects of the “Immigrant Panic” genre. Take the Daily Mail, for example, a paper that’s built an entire empire on the premise that Britain is being overrun by anyone who didn’t pop out of the womb singing “God Save the King.” Headlines like “Migrants Swarm the Channel” make it sound as though the country’s under siege by an army of desperate refugees, armed with nothing but sheer determination and the audacity to seek safety.
Not to be outdone, The Sun takes a slightly different tack—less apocalyptic, more "pub patriot." Here, nationalism is dished out with a side of football banter and celebrity gossip, wrapped in headlines like “Britain Facing Migrant Invasion” and “Stop the Madness!” As if complex immigration policy can be reduced to a single page, sandwiched between gossip about the latest Love Island contestant and whatever scandal the royal family is embroiled in this week. It’s lazy, it’s simplistic, and it works. The more these tabloids hammer away at the narrative that foreigners are ruining everything, the more they stoke the fires of nationalist sentiment, all while raking in profits from the outrage machine.
GB News: The "Alternative" to Facts
Then, there’s GB News—the channel for people who find The Sun a bit too restrained. Marketed as an “alternative” to the supposedly liberal mainstream media7, GB News offers the perfect safe space for nationalist rhetoric to thrive. It’s the TV equivalent of that one uncle who thinks the country’s gone to the dogs because you can’t say anything anymore “without offending someone.” Cue endless discussions about the erosion of British values, the threat of immigration, and the mythical golden age when the sun never set on the British Empire.
Led by none other than, surprise, surprise Nigel Farage, GB News delivers its content with all the subtlety of a man carving a Sunday roast with a chainsaw. Farage’s contribution is about as predictable as it is inflammatory—Brexit was Britain’s saviour, immigrants are the reason for everything from housing shortages to climate change, and anyone who disagrees is part of the “liberal elite8.” It's a carnival of fear, with Britain cast as the victim, eternally besieged by foreigners, bureaucrats, and the spectre of multiculturalism. The truth doesn’t really matter here—what matters is making the viewers feel like they’re the only ones who see what’s really happening. Spoiler alert: they aren’t.
The Echo Chamber of Social Media
If the tabloids are the kindling and GB News is the match, social media is the windstorm that turns a minor blaze into a full-blown inferno. On platforms like Facebook and Twitter, nationalist rhetoric doesn’t just thrive—it multiplies. The algorithms, ever eager to serve users exactly what they want (or at least what makes them angry enough to stay engaged), push nationalist content right to the top. Click on one inflammatory article about immigrants “taking over,” and suddenly your feed is flooded with more of the same. It’s like a digital echo chamber where the only voice you hear is the one that tells you what you already believe—immigrants are bad, globalisation is worse, and Britain is the victim in all of this.
What’s particularly charming about social media is its ability to strip away every single shred of nuance. Complex discussions about immigration, the economy, and identity are reduced to memes, sound bites, and angry rants. And why bother engaging with facts when you can simply retweet the latest outrage from someone who also thinks Britain is being sold off to the highest bidder? Twitter, in particular, is a breeding ground for oversimplifications, where nationalist slogans can spread faster than you can say “sovirinity,” and debates quickly descend into nationalist chest-thumping. Meanwhile, more reasonable voices are drowned out, because nothing kills an echo chamber faster than nuance.
The long and short of this is that the British media isn’t just complicit in the rise of nationalism—it’s actively fuelling it. Tabloids like The Sun and Daily Mail crank out nationalist propaganda disguised as news, while GB News gives it a shiny veneer of credibility. Meanwhile, social media ensures that the message spreads far and wide, reaching every corner of the country in the form of rage-inducing sound bites and recycled fear. Add in a little Fox News-style hysteria, and you've got the perfect recipe for a nationalist surge.
As long as the media keeps serving up this toxic brew of fear and division, nationalism will continue to flourish. And the best part? The same media that fans the flames will, with a straight face, claim to be baffled by why the country is so divided. Because, after all, why take responsibility when you can keep selling the myth that Britain’s problems are all caused by someone else?
National Identity in Flux
British identity is a curious thing—constantly changing, yet somehow the source of endless panic for people who believe it was chiselled into stone tablets by God Himself, presumably alongside the Magna Carta. For all the talk of tradition and continuity, Britain has spent most of its history in a state of glorious flux. But you wouldn’t know it from the way modern nationalists bang on about some mythical, unchanging “Britishness” that they’re desperate to preserve—despite the fact that Britain’s identity has been shaped, reshaped, and re-reshaped by everything from foreign invasions to immigrant chefs.
To hear nationalists tell it, you’d think Britain was a pristine little island floating in a sea of barbarians until the unfortunate moment it discovered immigration—sometime around the mid-20th century, apparently. But history tells a different story, one where British identity has been a bit like an overcrowded coat rack, with each wave of immigrants tossing on a new layer. The result? A cultural mishmash that nationalists loathe to acknowledge even exists.
Take the Norman invasion in 1066. Nothing screams "pure British identity" quite like being conquered by French-speaking aristocrats. It’s almost endearing that modern-day nationalists, the self-appointed guardians of Englishness, would conveniently forget that some of their cherished traditions and words come courtesy of a bunch of Normans who probably couldn’t even point out a Yorkshire pudding. But then again, it’s easier to pretend “Britishness” hasn’t been shaped by outsiders when your entire argument depends on it.
Then there were the Huguenot refugees in the 16th and 17th centuries. Fleeing persecution in France, these Protestant refugees brought their odd languages, foreign habits, and new trades to Britain. Today’s nationalists would likely have stood at the ports with picket signs reading “Britain for Britons,” blissfully unaware that the Huguenots were contributing to the very British identity they claim to defend. The idea that Britain could absorb outsiders and somehow not collapse into an existential crisis was as true then as it is now. But why let facts get in the way of a good, frothy panic?
Fast-forward to post-WWII immigration, when Commonwealth citizens were invited to rebuild the country that had merrily exploited them for centuries. Immigrants from the Caribbean, South Asia, and Africa flocked to Britain, bringing with them not just their labour but their culture. They helped build the NHS, ran the buses, and kept the country functioning—all while being told they didn’t quite belong. It’s a level of hypocrisy nationalists should admire: invite people to save your nation, then pretend they’re the problem. And yet, these same communities, now generations deep, are accused by nationalists of “changing” Britain’s identity—as if that identity wasn’t always changing anyway.
The truth is, Britain has always been a patchwork of cultures, languages, and identities. From Roman legions to Irish labourers, the country’s DNA is a historical buffet. Nationalists clinging to the fantasy of a monocultural Britain would do well to remember that their “pure” Britain was stitched together by centuries of immigration and exchange. What they see as contamination, the rest of us call reality.
The Role of Empire: Nostalgia with a Convenient Blind Spot
And now, we come to the real heart of the nationalist nostalgia: the British Empire. Ah, the empire—those glorious days when Britain ruled the world, civilising it with trains, tea, and a healthy dose of violence and scorching the earth. For many nationalists, the empire is their happy place, a time when Britain wasn’t just a country but a global overlord. The fact that this so-called “golden age” was built on exploitation, conquest, and the suffering of millions? Details, my dear. Minor details.
Modern nationalists, bless their selective memories, like to think of the empire as a time when Britain was at its peak—noble, strong, and respected. They conveniently forget that much of the world viewed the Union Jack as a symbol of oppression rather than liberation. Take India, for example, where British policies didn’t just exploit the land, they starved its people. But sure, let’s focus on the railways. Nationalists seem to think the empire was some benevolent force, handing out cricket and democracy to the savages—ignoring the fact that those savages would have preferred Britain keep its cricket and sod off.
The Mau Mau rebellion in Kenya, another chapter nationalists avoid in their rose-tinted view of empire, saw Britain responding to anti-colonial resistance with torture, concentration camps, and brutal repression. If the empire’s defenders are right, and Britain was “taking civilisation” to the world, it did a spectacularly violent job of it. But the nationalist nostalgia doesn’t like to deal in brutality. It prefers to romanticise empire as the time when Britain was “in control,” even though that control was usually imposed by force and backed by cruelty.
And what about, the crown jewel of the British Empire’s brutal policies of conquest? While modern nationalists may cheerfully recall the Union Jack fluttering over Cape Town as some beacon of progress, they conveniently ignore that Britain’s “civilising mission” in South Africa involved scorched-earth policies, concentration camps during the Boer War, and a legacy of racial division that planted the seeds for apartheid. The British didn’t bring enlightenment to South Africa—they brought exploitation, imposing control over both the indigenous population and Dutch settlers with a methodical, violent efficiency. The aftermath of their rule didn’t exactly leave a nation flourishing in freedom; instead, it left a deeply fractured society, where racial divisions were institutionalised, and the exploitation of resources continued long after the empire had faded. But sure, let’s not talk about that. Let’s focus on the British contribution to infrastructure, and perhaps the generous introduction of afternoon tea. The reality, of course, is that South Africa is just one more chapter of Britain’s imperial hypocrisy—a place where the British system of “civilisation” looked a lot like subjugation, and the Union Jack was less a flag of liberation and more a banner of economic and racial dominance.
Then there’s the hilarious contradiction at the heart of the nationalist longing for empire: they want Britain to “take back control,” while wistfully remembering a time when Britain’s entire business model was about denying control to everyone else. It’s the height of irony—longing for the days when Britain got to boss everyone around, while being horrified at the idea of Brussels telling Britain what shape its bananas should be. The very people shouting loudest for sovereignty are the ones who’d have been perfectly happy imposing their will on half the globe. The mental gymnastics required to make that make sense could win an Olympic medal.
The Contradictions of Nationalism
And this, dear reader, is the crux of the nationalist mindset: it’s an ideological house of cards built on contradiction, selective memory, and outright denial. Nationalists pine for an empire that was morally bankrupt while simultaneously demanding Britain reclaim its lost “purity”—as if Britain has ever been culturally or racially pure. They lament the changing face of the nation, ignoring that British identity has always been a revolving door of influences, ideas, and people.
What they truly fear isn’t the loss of British identity—it’s that they never really understood it in the first place. Britain’s strength has always been its ability to adapt, absorb, and evolve. The same people nationalists fear today—immigrants, refugees, outsiders—are the very people who’ve contributed to Britain’s success for centuries. The idea that Britain was once this insular, unchanging bastion of white, Christian values is a fairy tale they tell themselves to feel better about the fact that history is leaving them behind.
Nationalists may long for a Britain frozen in time, but the reality is that the country is—and always has been—a work in progress. And rather than wringing our hands about that fact, we should embrace it. Change isn’t the enemy. Stagnation is. A nation that refuses to evolve, that clings to some imaginary past, is a nation that’s destined to be left behind. And that, I suspect, is what terrifies the nationalists most of all—not that Britain is changing, but that it’s always been changing. And perhaps their fear lies in that they might be the ones who don’t belong in this future after all.
--Interlude Ends--
The rain starts to patter down as you and Orwell walk along Westminster Bridge, just close enough to the Houses of Parliament to hear the dull rumble of politics in the background. The streets are quieter now, but you’re not alone. There, on the other side of the bridge, is Oswald Mosley, standing with his back to the river, staring at the Parliament building as though he’s planning a takeover. His coat is draped around him like an old battle flag, and even in the drizzle, his posture exudes a misplaced sense of grandeur.
Orwell lights a cigarette, more out of habit than need, and gives you a sidelong glance. “There’s always one, isn’t there?” he mutters, as the two of you approach. Mosley doesn’t turn around immediately, but he senses your presence. You brace yourself for another ideological joust, but something feels different this time.
“So, the country’s fallen further into ruin since last we spoke,” Mosley says, his voice like gravel against a polished floor. “Look at this place—still trying to pretend it’s a power when it can’t even keep its streets clean.”
Orwell takes a drag of his cigarette and blows the smoke slowly, purposefully. “Ah, yes. The streets are dirty, so we must be in decline. It’s always something, isn’t it, Mosley? First it was the foreigners, then the socialists, and now, what? Litter?” He turns to you. “It’s funny how people who claim to love their country are always the ones who seem to hate it most.”
Mosley finally looks at the two of you, his eyes flickering with the same cold fire as before. “You mock, Orwell, but you know as well as I do what this country used to be. Before we let everyone else dilute our strength, before we became a shadow of ourselves.”
You look at Orwell, but his face remains calm, steady. “What we used to be?” he says softly. “And when, exactly, was this golden age of yours? When we ruled over people who had no say in their own lives? When we exploited half the globe for our own gain? You see, Oswald, I remember that ‘great’ Britain too, and I remember the cost. Patriotism isn’t about pretending your country was always right. It’s about making it right, for everyone.”
Mosley’s lip curls in contempt. “And that’s why you’ll always fail, Orwell. This softness—this obsession with fairness. Britain doesn’t need coddling; it needs strength. Superiority. You’ve forgotten that.”
“Superiority,” Orwell echoes, shaking his head. “No, Mosley, that’s where you’re wrong. Patriotism isn’t about feeling superior to others; it’s about wanting your country to be the best version of itself. Not just for some, but for all. I don’t want to ‘take Britain back’—I want to take it forward.”
You glance at Mosley, waiting for the inevitable sneer, the usual diatribe about lost greatness. But for the first time, he’s silent. Perhaps it’s the rain, or perhaps it’s the way Orwell is speaking now, not with the sharp edge of intellectual debate, but with the quiet, unshakeable certainty of someone who’s seen the worst of nationalism and come through the other side.
“Take it forward?” Mosley scoffs, though the venom is gone from his voice. “Forward to what? More of this?” He waves a hand at the skyline, dismissing the city before him, as if London itself had let him down.
Orwell smiles faintly. “Yes, forward to this. To a Britain where people like Marcus Rashford fight for kids to have food on their tables. To a Britain where the NHS still stands, a testament to what we can build when we care about each other. Not a Britain that looks backwards, clinging to its fading memories of empire, but one that embraces the future.”
Mosley looks away, staring back at the Parliament building as though it might offer him some kind of answer. “Your future sounds like weakness,” he mutters.
“And yours sounds like fear,” Orwell replies gently, stubbing out his cigarette on the bridge’s stone. “You talk about strength, Mosley, but I’ve only ever seen you afraid. Afraid of change, afraid of difference, afraid of a world where Britain doesn’t stand over everyone else. True patriotism isn’t about fear. It’s about hope. It’s about pushing your country to be better than it was, not just for a few, but for everyone who calls it home.”
The rain falls a little harder now, and Mosley turns to leave, his coat flapping behind him like a ragged flag that’s long lost its meaning. For a moment, you almost pity him—trapped in a vision of a Britain that never really existed, and powerless to stop the march of time that leaves him behind.
As he disappears into the mist, Orwell exhales softly and nods toward the river. “You know,” he says, “people like him will always exist, but they don’t win. Not in the long run. The future isn’t his. It’s the people who fight for what Britain can be—not what it used to be.”
You both stand there in the rain for a moment, watching the city move around you—alive, complicated, and constantly changing. It’s a mess, yes, but it’s a beautiful one. A Britain that’s growing, evolving, built by people who don’t look or sound the same, but who all belong to it nonetheless.
Orwell lights another cigarette and looks over at you. “We don’t need to ‘take our country back,’” he says with a quiet smile. “We just need to move it forward.”
Footnotes
1. It's always Brexit, isn't it?
2. And yet, when they have that control, it inevitably doesn't work, and we look for the next thing to leave or take back control of –hence the current conversations about leaving the ECHR.
3. When the name truly does say it all.
4. Yes, they practically borrowed the slogan from across the Atlantic.
5. Just don't mention that too loudly lest you are branded not patriotic enough.
6. It's basically Powell’s "Rivers of Blood" speech without the Latin and more grunting.
7. It's funny how he keeps popping up, isn't it?
8. Which of course causes every single irono-meter within a five mile radius to violently explode when we consider that he spent four months on an epic fannywobble about losing his Coutts account.
Thank you so much for sharing this ❤️🌹
Lovely piece - just read it today. On a lighter note, I may try to incorporate the term “fannywobble” into my daily vocabulary for a while.
Nationalism has always come easily to the crowd an is, in my opinion, the thin end of the wedge on a journey to one kind or another of fascism.