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How did 110,000 people end up filling central London under the banner of ‘Unite the Kingdom’ – when it was dreamed up by ‘Tommy Robinson’, a man best-known for whipping up division and fear?

This was not just another protest rally.

It was not just another outburst from the fringes.

But it was a moment that should make the political establishment sit up – because the far right has gone mass-market.

For years, Robinson (real name: Stephen Yaxley-Lennon) has been treated as a marginal agitator — a sideshow figure on the edge of British politics.

Now he has drawn a crowd the size of a small city, and given a platform to international figures like Donald Trump’s former strategist Steve Bannon.

The obvious question is unavoidable: how did we get here?

The Message Behind the March

Strip away the pageantry of Union Jacks and St George’s crosses, and the ‘Unite the Kingdom’ rally had a simple, brutal message: “send them back”.

The event was billed as a show of “national pride,” but the speeches and slogans gave the game away.

‘Robinson’ himself accused politicians of “parroting” his ideas while still “betraying” the so-called local community.

Katie Hopkins and Laurence Fox played to the crowd with familiar lines about immigration “overrunning” Britain.

And Bannon, beamed in as the foreign import of the day, wrapped it all in Trumpist language of “taking back the country”.

Critics described it bluntly: a rally for racism.

The imagery was carefully chosen to resonate with raw emotion: flags everywhere, chants that pitted “us” against “them,” and placards designed to frame compassion as weakness.

On one side of Whitehall, counter-protesters carried signs declaring “refugees welcome.”

On the other, ‘Robinson’s crowd painted asylum seekers as an existential threat.

That binary is deliberate: the far right thrives on reducing complex realities — wars, displacement, global economic shifts — into a simple emotional equation: you are losing because of them.

It is a story with villains, not analysis; scapegoats, not solutions.

Terrifyingly, it is a story that 110,000 people were ready to hear.

The architects of far-right mobilisation

Behind the flags and fury, there is strategy.

The march was no spontaneous eruption of public anger; it was a carefully engineered spectacle, orchestrated by figures who understand how to turn fear into political energy.

At the centre was ‘Robinson’ – a man who has spent decades cultivating a persona as Britain’s anti-immigration truth-teller (ha ha) – in reality a veteran agitator.

His history includes convictions for fraud, contempt of court, and public disorder, yet his criminal record has done little to erode his credibility among his followers.

‘Robinson’ knows the art of provocation: the carefully timed social media posts, the incendiary speeches, the symbolic gestures — all designed to amplify grievance and anger.

He was joined by a cadre of media-friendly allies:

• Katie Hopkins, whose incendiary columns and social media posts have repeatedly stoked racial division (it says here; long-term readers of Vox Political will know I delight in claiming never to recognise who this person is);
• Laurence Fox, actor and culture-warrior, specialising in framing everyday British concerns as attacks on national identity; and
• Ant Middleton, former soldier and reality TV figure, lending an aura of toughness to the march.

Each played a particular role, collectively turning grievance into spectacle.

And then there was Steve Bannon, the international strategist who has taken the ideals of Trumpism global.

Bannon’s presence — albeit digitally in some cases — signalled that this was not an isolated domestic phenomenon.

The tactics employed in London mirrored those he helped cultivate in the United States: tapping into economic and cultural anxiety, polarising communities, and portraying migrants, elites, and the media as a single, malevolent force.

The combination of domestic agitators and global far-right operatives created an ecosystem in which fear was amplified, resentment legitimised, and numbers became a metric of power.

‘Robinson’ may wave Union and St George’s flags, but what he was really wagging around was a political blueprint: mass mobilisation, emotional manipulation, and media spectacle, all aimed at rewriting the narrative about who “owns” Britain.

The architects of this nightmare were not just behind the stage; they were in every chant, every sign, every viral clip circulating online.

Their fingerprints were everywhere — because they understand the most crucial rule of far-right politics: it’s not about policy, it’s about emotion, and the numbers on the street were their evidence that their narrative is winning.

Emotional Manipulation

The march was not merely a display of numbers; it was a masterclass in emotional engineering.

The organisers didn’t rely on policy arguments, facts, or reasoned debate.

They relied on the oldest currency in politics: fear.

From the banners fluttering with Union and St George’s crosses to the chants that framed migrants as invaders, every detail was calculated to trigger a visceral reaction.

Robinson and his allies told their audience, repeatedly and with deliberate simplicity, that the “local community” was under siege — not by economic forces, housing shortages, or decades of austerity, but by outsiders.

In that narrative, migrants and asylum seekers were villains and the British state, ineffectual and duplicitous, was a bystander at best and a collaborator at worst.

Hopkins, Fox, and Middleton reinforced the emotional framing.

Their appearances weren’t about policy; they were about spectacle — dramatic gestures, pointed language, and repetition of grievances designed to make participants feel the threat, in their bones.

Bannon’s guidance — strategic, distant, global — amplified the sense that this wasn’t an isolated issue but part of a worldwide struggle, lending legitimacy to the atmosphere of fear.

This emotional scaffolding worked.

People who may have felt powerless in their daily lives — squeezed by stagnant wages, rising rents, and the relentless churn of the modern-day UK — were offered a simple, blame-laden story: the chaos in their communities was caused not by structural inequality or government mismanagement, but by identifiable outsiders.

The rally offered catharsis: march, chant, wave a flag, and suddenly the sense of powerlessness evaporated.

Psychologists and political theorists would recognise the tactics instantly: scapegoating, repetition, moral panic, and group identity reinforcement.

Every sign, every slogan, every viral video from the march was an emotional nudge. Complexity was stripped away; nuance was punished.

The message was never “what policy should we adopt?” but always “who is to blame?”

The sheer size of the march — 110,000 people — served as proof of legitimacy in itself.

When thousands of others feel the same fear, it validates the narrative.

The emotional message isn’t just delivered; it’s reinforced socially, creating a feedback loop in which anger and anxiety become political currency.

By the time the speeches ended, the event was less a protest and more a ritual of mobilisation, leaving participants and online followers alike primed for the next stage: activism, online harassment campaigns, or local-level intimidation — the real, ongoing work of far-right political organising.

The counter-protest and the divide

While 110,000 marched under the ‘Unite the Kingdom’ banner, only around 5,000 took part in the Stand Up To Racism-led counter-demonstration, ‘March Against Fascism’. The contrast could not have been starker.

At the centre of the counter-protest, independent MP Diane Abbott reminded participants: “We know racism and violence and fascism is not new. But you know what? We have always defeated that racism and violence.”

Her words echoed a long tradition of anti-fascist activism in the UK, and were a reminder that resistance is possible – but the disparity in turnout exposes a deeper reality: the far right has perfected mobilisation while anti-racist groups still struggle to reach beyond committed activists.

Social media, strategic messaging, and spectacle helped Robinson’s network draw not just the ideologically aligned, but people motivated by fear, resentment, or a sense of exclusion — groups often harder to mobilise for counter-protests.

Geography and policing also shaped the event. The Metropolitan Police deployed around 1,000 officers, borrowed 500 more from other forces, and created “sterile areas” to separate the two groups. Barriers and cordons, while necessary for safety, symbolised the widening social divide: two Londons, side by side but unable to speak to each other.

That divide is not merely physical – it is generational, economic, and cultural.

Many counter-protesters carried placards proclaiming, “Refugees are welcome” or “Women against the far right.” These messages frame inclusion as a moral duty, but the smaller turnout highlights the gap in emotional resonance: anti-racist messaging has yet to match the intensity, simplicity, and personal appeal that the far right delivers so effectively.

There’s also strategic significance here: the far right is not just performing – it is setting the agenda.

By drawing massive crowds, it asserts legitimacy, shifts media coverage, and pressures politicians to respond.

Meanwhile, counter-movements, no matter how morally grounded, risk being perceived as marginal — unless they can scale up mobilisation and emotional appeal to match the spectacle they oppose.

In short, the ‘Unite the Kingdom’ march was not merely a demonstration of prejudice – it was a show of organisational power, leaving the counter-protest as a warning signal: resistance exists, but it lacks the reach to challenge the narrative on equal terms.

The lesson of history

The ‘Unite the Kingdom’ march was not an isolated event but part of a long line of far-right agitation in the UK — movements that have all been defeated before.

In the 1970s and 1980s, the National Front capitalised on economic stagnation, racial tension, and political uncertainty, holding rallies that brought fear to communities across Britain.

But despite their visibility, the National Front never broke into mainstream politics. Grassroots opposition — from anti-racist organisations, trade unions, and local communities — systematically challenged them in the streets and at the ballot box, eventually fracturing their support base.

The early 2000s saw the rise of the British National Party (BNP), which, like ‘Robinson’ today, used nationalist imagery and anti-immigration rhetoric to mobilise disaffected voters.

While the BNP won some local council seats, it failed to sustain momentum because civil society, mainstream parties, and the media refused to normalise its extremist messaging. Political defeats and internal divisions led to its collapse as a credible force.

More recently, the English Defence League (EDL) staged street marches across the country, targeting Muslim communities.

This was where ‘Tommy Robinson’ rose to prominence. He served as the EDL’s public face and leader for years, using its platform to build his reputation as a street-level anti-Muslim agitator, orchestrating marches and media campaigns that focused on Islamophobia under the guise of “protecting British values.”

The EDL connection is important because it shows that ‘Robinson’ has long experience in far-right mobilisation, and that ‘Unite the Kingdom’ was essentially a continuation and evolution of tactics he honed with the EDL: fear-based messaging, spectacle, social media amplification, and leveraging perceived community grievances.

At its height, the EDL appeared to energise thousands. But coordinated counter-protests, police enforcement, and public awareness campaigns undermined their narrative, exposing the organisation as a small, violent minority rather than a national movement.

History shows a clear pattern: far-right movements can mobilise large numbers in moments of economic or social anxiety, but sustained organisational strength is fragile when confronted with persistent, principled opposition. The tools of defeat have always been a combination of:

• Community mobilisation — building cross-class, cross-cultural alliances to challenge the narrative of fear;

• Political accountability — ensuring mainstream parties confront, rather than echo, extremist messaging;

• Media scrutiny — exposing lies and propaganda, preventing normalisation of hate;

• Legal and policing measures — targeted enforcement against violence and intimidation;

The ‘Unite the Kingdom’ march is frightening in its scale, but history reminds us that sheer numbers do not guarantee lasting power.

What matters is whether civil society, political institutions, and communities can translate moral opposition into sustained, strategic action — the same formula that defeated the National Front, the BNP, and the EDL.

The soil that feeds this

The ‘Unite the Kingdom’ march did not emerge in a vacuum.

It is rooted in long-standing political and economic conditions that leave communities anxious, disempowered, and receptive to fear-based narratives, such as:

Austerity and public service cuts: years of austerity policies have left councils struggling to provide basic services. Cuts to local authority budgets, social housing, and youth programmes have created visible scarcity — fewer jobs, fewer resources, and longer waits for health and social care. In this environment, migrants are presented — falsely — as competitors for scarce resources. ‘Robinson’ and his allies exploit that perception to convert frustration into support for them.

Housing crisis and inequality: the UK faces chronic housing shortages and spiralling rents. Young families and working-class communities feel squeezed. Far-right rhetoric turns legitimate economic grievance into an emotional weapon: blame outsiders rather than the structural factors driving inequality. The message is simple, digestible, and emotionally potent.

Labour market pressure and stagnant wages: decades of wage stagnation, combined with precarious employment, have made the promise of security feel distant. Far-right organisers frame migrants as a cause of downward pressure on wages, ignoring the broader policy choices — de-industrialisation, de-regulation, and weak labour protections — that underpin economic insecurity.

Political disenchantment: trust in mainstream parties has declined. Many voters feel ignored by elites who “parrot” the concerns of urban centres while failing to address local hardship. This vacuum allows figures like ‘Robinson’ to present themselves as truth-tellers — outsiders to the system, willing to “say what politicians won’t”.

Except, of course, they are insiders, and political activists themselves.

Media and social media amplification: online platforms magnify fear. Algorithms reward outrage, and far-right networks have become adept at creating viral content. The march was as much a digital spectacle as a street demonstration, drawing in supporters who might never physically attend.

The cumulative effect creates fertile political soil: communities under pressure, craving answers, are presented with simple narratives of blame.

While economic hardship alone doesn’t generate extremism, it creates conditions where emotional manipulation can thrive.

The far right has learned to read this landscape — turning anxiety into action, frustration into fury, and everyday insecurity into political mobilisation.

Risks and stakes

‘Unite the Kingdom’ was more than a single event; it was a strategic demonstration of power.

Its size, organisation, and media impact have significant political and social implications.

Normalisation of extremism: when tens of thousands march, waving flags and chanting slogans that scapegoat migrants, it shifts what is seen as acceptable discourse. Ideas that once would have been marginal — mass deportations, vilification of entire communities — gain a veneer of legitimacy simply through visibility. The far right seeks not just followers, but a redefinition of political norms.

Pressure on political institutions: politicians now face a choice – respond to public concern, or risk being portrayed as weak on immigration and national identity. This can push mainstream parties to adopt harsher rhetoric or policies, even if they conflict with evidence or human rights obligations, effectively mainstreaming far-right influence.

Community tensions and violence: large far-right mobilisations are not abstract spectacles; they have real consequences. Even with police cordons in place, the potential for clashes, intimidation, and hate crimes increases. Communities already under pressure — particularly Muslim and migrant populations — face anxiety and insecurity, while anti-racist counter-protesters risk being overwhelmed by sheer numbers.

Strategic advantage: far-right organisers have shown a clear understanding of political theatre: mass turnout, media coverage, and international backing all create momentum. This wasn’t just a protest; it is a demonstration of organisational capacity and a testing ground for future campaigns. By contrast, anti-racist movements remain smaller, less resourced, and slower to scale.

International parallels: this is not uniquely British. Europe and the US have seen similar surges — Trumpism in the US, Orbán’s Hungary, Le Pen in France — where fear of outsiders and nationalist rhetoric are used to consolidate political influence. The UK is not immune, and the march demonstrates the far right’s ability to learn from these examples and adapt them locally.

The Stakes: the risk is binary: either the UK confronts and contains these movements, reinforcing social cohesion and democratic norms, or it allows fear and division to define the public conversation. ‘Unite the Kingdom’ was a warning — a signal that the far right can still mobilise mass numbers when conditions are ripe, and that failure to act could have consequences for years to come.

How to turn this around

‘Unite the Kingdom’ made one thing painfully clear: fear and grievance can be mobilised at scale if left unchecked.

Reversing this momentum is not simple, but history shows it is possible — and requires a combination of political courage, community mobilisation, and structural reform.

Far-right movements thrive where people feel abandoned by government. Politicians must demonstrate responsiveness to genuine local concerns — housing, jobs, public services — without scapegoating outsiders. Transparent, accountable leadership can undermine the narrative that “elites” are indifferent to ordinary citizens.

Economic insecurity fuels susceptibility to fear-based narratives. Targeted investment in local services, youth programmes, and job creation can reduce the sense of crisis the far right exploits. Structural remedies — from housing reform to fair wages — undercut the false stories about migrants “taking our resources.”

Anti-racist groups, trade unions, faith organisations, and grassroots movements must coordinate, scale up, and match the organisational sophistication of the far right. Social media campaigns, local outreach, and visible community solidarity can counterbalance the spectacle-driven mobilisation tactics ‘Robinson’ and Bannon use.

While respecting rights to protest, authorities must enforce laws against violence, intimidation, and hate speech. Legal accountability disrupts the feedback loop where extremist mobilisation is rewarded with impunity.

The emotional manipulation driving far-right recruitment relies on simple, false narratives: “outsiders are to blame.” Public campaigns must present accurate, compelling counter-narratives that show migrants as contributors, not threats, and highlight shared interests across communities.

Other countries offer lessons. Germany’s combination of strong legal frameworks, civil society engagement, and media responsibility has successfully kept far-right groups marginal despite economic and social anxiety. The UK can adapt similar models to its context.

So turning this around is not about suppressing protest; it is about filling the void the far right exploits.

Emotional appeals must be met with truth; fear with solidarity; and spectacle with substance.

The march was a warning, but it is also an opportunity: the UK has the tools to prevent fear and fury from becoming a permanent political force — if the political will exists to use them.

The choice

‘Unite the Kingdom’ was not just a protest; it was a declaration of intent. The far right has proven it can organise, mobilise, and capture attention on a scale that should alarm every politician, policymaker, and citizen who values social cohesion.

History shows these movements can be defeated — the National Front, the BNP, and the EDL were all pushed back through political accountability, community mobilisation, and principled opposition.

But defeat requires sustained effort, strategy, and courage.

The UK now faces a clear choice: allow fear and grievance to fuel mass mobilisation, or confront lies, manipulation, and spectacle with facts, investment, solidarity, and leadership.

What happens next depends on us.

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