History does not repeat itself, but it often rhymes. On the cobbled streets of 1930s London, the air was thick with the scent of coal smoke and economic desperation. A charismatic figure, Sir Oswald Mosley, stood on makeshift stages, his voice, honed in the halls of Parliament, promising national rebirth. His followers, the British Union of Fascists (BUF), clad in black shirts, marched in disciplined columns, their presence a promise of order to some and a threat of violence to others.
Nearly a century later, the backdrop has changed. The cobblestones are now tarmac, the coal smoke replaced by exhaust fumes, and the stage is no longer a wooden platform but the glowing, infinite screen of a smartphone. The figure is not an aristocrat but a self-styled working-class hero, Tommy Robinson. There are no uniforms, yet an identity is clear in the flags, the branded hoodies, and the shared chants. The two men and their movements are products of vastly different Britains, yet the echo between them is unmistakable. To understand the modern populist right, one must listen to the rhymes of its past.
The most profound similarity lies in the masterful identification and demonisation of a scapegoat. For Mosley and the BUF, the target was the Jewish population. In the throes of the Great Depression, he painted British Jews not as neighbours and fellow citizens, but as an alien force of international finance, responsible for the nation’s economic woes and a threat to its racial purity. He claimed to be fighting an ideology—Judaism and its perceived influence—but his Blackshirts’ violent marches through Jewish communities like the East End’s Cable Street revealed the true target: people.
Tommy Robinson’s movement updates this playbook for the 21st century. The scapegoat has changed, but the function is identical. The target is now the Muslim population. Robinson frames his crusade not as one against people, but against an ideology he calls “radical Islam.” Yet, his rhetoric conflates the actions of a tiny minority of extremists with the faith of millions. In both cases, a complex web of social and economic problems—unemployment and poverty for Mosley, deindustrialisation, cultural anxiety, and the failures of integration for Robinson—is simplified into a single, identifiable enemy within. It is a powerful and dangerous political alchemy, turning widespread anxiety into focussed hatred.
Secondly, both movements are built around the cult of a charismatic, martyred leader. Mosley was the “Leader,” a man who had broken with the corrupt “old gang” of mainstream politics to speak a supposed truth. Every heckle, every ban, and his eventual internment during the war only served to reinforce his narrative as a patriot persecuted by a decadent establishment. Similarly, Tommy Robinson has meticulously crafted his persona as a truthteller silenced by the “establishment”—the media, the judiciary, and the police. Each arrest, each prison sentence, each social media ban becomes a badge of honour, broadcast to his followers as proof of his courage and the conspiracy against him. For the faithful, the leader is not a flawed man but a symbol of their own perceived victimisation; his fight is their fight.
Finally, there is the shared theatre of the street. The BUF understood that politics is performance. Their black shirts, Roman salutes, and disciplined marches were not just for party members; they were a spectacle designed to project strength, intimidate opponents, and dominate the newsreels. The infamous Battle of Cable Street was a testament to this: a deliberate provocation aimed at asserting dominance over a community they had designated as the enemy.
Robinson’s movement, though less formalised, uses the street in the same way. The EDL marches he once led and the protests he now inspires are a form of confrontational theatre. They are not designed to persuade the unpersuaded, but to energise the base, create conflict that can be filmed and monetised, and project an image of a powerful, growing movement. The clashes with counter-protestors and police are not a bug, but a feature. They generate the very footage of chaos that proves their narrative: that Britain is broken and only they are brave enough to stand up.
Of course, the differences are significant. Mosley operated in an age of ascendant fascism, seeking to replace democracy with a totalitarian corporate state. Robinson operates in a post-war liberal democracy, leveraging its freedoms of speech while decrying its institutions. Mosley had party structures and a coherent (if hateful) ideology; Robinson’s movement is a more amorphous, media-driven entity, coalescing around a personality rather than a formal programme.
Yet, despite these differences, the core mechanics remain eerily familiar. Both figures emerged during times of profound national anxiety, offering simple answers and a clear enemy. Both built a movement based on the personal magnetism of a leader who claims to be the victim. And both understood that the most effective way to rally a base is not with policy, but with passion, provocation, and the primal theatre of the street. The uniforms have vanished, and the enemy has been updated, but the rhyme of history continues, a cautionary echo in the noise of the modern world.
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