It Can't Happen Here

At the start of Trump's 1st term as President if the USA I wrote about Sinclair Lewis' 1935 book, It Can't Happen Here. The story is playing out dramatically in the USA now during Trump's 2nd term, and could play out here in the UK

Sinclair Lewis never meant It Can’t Happen Here as entertainment. It was a slap in the face – a stark warning that fascism doesn’t march in waving swastikas and barking German. It strolls in wrapped in the flag, smiling for the cameras, promising to “restore greatness” while chiselling away at democracy. Buzz Windrip, the novel’s tinpot dictator, didn’t seize power by force – he was voted in by people too blinded by fear and grievance to see what they were unleashing. Sound familiar?

Windrip is Trump in a cheaper suit, peddling the same poison. Promise the earth, blame the "other," crush dissent, and call it patriotism. Trump’s 2025 return to power reads like Lewis’s blueprint – a washed-up showman propped up by sycophants, grifters, and useful idiots. He’s not leading the free world; he’s burning the manual and letting Putin edit the sequel.

And who’s helping him light the match? Enter the It Can’t Happen Here supporting cast, perfectly recast for the modern farce.

Mike Johnson, current Speaker of the House, plays Lee Sarason – the real power behind the throne. Like Sarason, Johnson cloaks authoritarianism in the language of tradition, turning Trump’s tantrums into policy. He’s not shouting about walls and stolen elections; he’s quietly gutting institutions while Trump flails for the cameras.

Stephen Miller steps neatly into Effingham Swan’s shoes – the enforcer who enjoys cruelty for its own sake. Swan didn’t just implement Windrip’s policies; he relished watching the boot come down. Miller, with his brutal immigration policies and culture war obsessions, mirrors that sadism perfectly.

Then there’s Shad Ledue, the jumped-up nobody who thrives when power trickles down to the petty. In the US, J.D. Vance and Marjorie Taylor Greene share the title. Vance, once a thoughtful critic of Trumpism, now dances like a trained poodle, while Greene skips the intellect altogether, bellowing MAGA talking points like a Ledue with a social media following.

And what dystopia would be complete without the money men? Francis Tasbrough, the industrialist who backs Windrip not out of ideology, but self-interest, finds his modern avatar in Elon Musk. Musk doesn’t care if democracy burns as long as he’s selling Teslas and Starlink contracts. His transformation of X into a propaganda sewer fits Tasbrough’s playbook perfectly – profit first, ethics never.

But this isn’t just an American tragedy. Here across the pond, British politics has its own Windrip understudies and Ledue lackeys. Nigel Farage, now an MP and Reform Party puppet master, plays Buzz Windrip with a pint in hand – a man whose entire career hinges on telling angry people that immigrants, Europe, and “wokeness” are to blame for their problems. Farage, like Windrip, doesn’t offer solutions – just scapegoats.

Farage’s Lee Sarason is Richard Tice, the brains behind Reform’s bile. Tice, like Sarason, doesn’t need the spotlight – he’s happiest drafting the policies that turn Farage’s pub bluster into government action. Meanwhile, Suella Braverman slides effortlessly into the Effingham Swan role – gleefully pushing authoritarian crackdowns, from immigration raids to protest bans, all while wrapping herself in the Union Jack.

And let’s not forget Britain’s own Shad Ledue – Lee Anderson. A man whose entire political persona boils down to sneering at the vulnerable while claiming to speak for the "common man." Like Ledue, Anderson was a nobody until the populists took power, and now he’s drunk on the scraps of authority they’ve handed him.

Even the propaganda machine has its modern-day Adelaide Tarr Gimmitch. In the US, it’s Fox News; in Britain, it’s GB News. Julia Hartley-Brewer and her ilk fit the bill perfectly – media personalities selling hard-right ideology as “common sense,” all while sneering at anyone sounding the alarm.

And the resistance? Well, it’s as fragmented and beleaguered as Lewis’s Doremus Jessup, the journalist watching his country slide into fascism while the public shrugs. In America, Jessup’s role falls to Adam Kinzinger and Liz Cheney – Republicans exiled for daring to defend democracy. In Britain, it’s Rory Stewart and Caroline Lucas – principled voices crying into the void while the Farage circus rolls on.

Even the fallen believers have their parallels. R.C. Crowley, Windrip’s loyal supporter cast aside when he outlived his usefulness, finds his British counterpart in Boris Johnson. Once the poster boy for Brexit populism, now a political ghost, grumbling from the sidelines as the harder-right wolves he unleashed devour what’s left of his legacy.

Lewis wasn’t writing fantasy – he was documenting how democracies die, not with a bang but with a shrug and a “Well, they’ve got a point, haven’t they?” Every Windrip needs his Sarason, his Ledue, his Tasbrough – the enablers who think they can ride the tiger without getting eaten. But, as Lewis warned and history proves, the tiger always turns.

Trump, Farage, Johnson – they’re not masterminds. They’re just opportunists surfing a wave of resentment. The real danger lies with the Millers, the Tices, the Bravermans – the ones who know exactly what they’re doing and do it anyway, convinced they’ll be safe when the purge begins.

But here’s the thing about populist strongmen: they don’t share power. When they no longer need their enablers, they discard them like empty slogans. Just ask Pence, Baker, or Boris – yesterday’s loyalists, today’s cautionary tales.

So, as Farage struts around Westminster and Trump blusters from the White House, Lewis’s warning echoes louder than ever: Yes, it bloody well can happen here. And if you think it can't, you're already part of the problem.