The Face of Fascism

Fascism never kicks the door down with a dramatic drumroll and declares itself open for business. It slinks in quietly, starts tutting about how things aren't like they used to be, and before you know it someone’s got a clipboard and a list of who belongs and who doesn’t. It’s the political equivalent of your uncle in the corner muttering into his sherry about the good old days while blaming the nearest foreigner for the price of eggs.

The people who fall for fascism aren’t necessarily born bad. Some are just bored. Some are angry. Some are thick as mince. Often it’s a mix of all three. The classic type is the perpetually aggrieved – the one who’s convinced someone nicked their birthright, their job, and their chance at a starring role in a country they imagine once belonged entirely to them. They can’t quite tell you when it all went wrong, but they’re dead certain it was someone else’s fault. Immigrants, feminists, Brussels, the lad next door with a man bun – take your pick.

Then you’ve got the ones who love rules, just not the sort that apply to everyone equally. They bang on about law and order, but what they mean is order for you, and a big stick for anyone who doesn’t look like they belong in a wartime propaganda poster. Give them a man in uniform, a shiny badge, and a slogan involving the word "great" and they’ll follow him into the sea, waving a Union Jack and shouting about sovereignty.

Don’t forget the conspiracy crowd. These are the ones who think Covid was invented to sell face masks, the moon landing was filmed in a shed, and the Queen was replaced in 1974 with a clone trained by MI5 and Morrisons. Fascism, for them, is just the final piece in a jigsaw of nonsense. It’s all about secret elites, mysterious cabals, and the idea that if they can just shout loudly enough on Facebook, they’ll be welcomed into the Illuminati with a free carvery and a lifetime subscription to GB News.

There’s also a certain type of bloke – and it’s usually a bloke – who thinks modern life has emasculated him. He’s terrified of women who speak in public, minorities who ask for rights, and supermarkets that sell hummus. Fascism gives him permission to puff his chest out, blame everyone else for his failings, and imagine himself as a warrior rather than a bloke who gets winded tying his shoes.

And then there are the nostalgics. These ones dream of a past that never existed – where everyone knew their place, the bins were always emptied on time, and the telly signed off with the national anthem. The past they pine for was grim, grey, and full of rationing, but they’ve convinced themselves it was a golden age, mostly because no one asked them to think too hard or share anything.

On the other hand, the people who resist this nonsense tend to be the ones with friends. Not just people they drink with, but actual friends from all walks of life. If you’ve ever had a proper laugh with someone from a different background, you’re a lot less likely to fall for the idea that they’re the enemy. It’s difficult to hate what you understand, and fascism relies heavily on ignorance and shouting.

Curious people are another problem for fascists. Ask too many questions and the whole edifice starts to wobble. If you understand that the world is complicated and messy and not easily solved by slogans, then the idea of a strongman with a five-point plan and a grudge starts to look a bit silly.

Humour, too, is fatal to fascism. It thrives on seriousness and fear. Start mocking it and it starts to melt. Fascists hate being laughed at. They crave respect, not ridicule. The moment you start treating them like the tragic little cosplay tyrants they are, the magic wears off.

Those who’ve actually suffered real oppression aren’t often seduced by the idea of doling it out to others. If you’ve been on the receiving end of jackboot politics, you tend to recognise it early and call it what it is – cruelty with a slogan.

So in the end, fascism is a grift for the insecure, a fantasy for the mediocre, and a threat to anyone with a working moral compass. It sells certainty where there is none, offers pride to those who’ve done nothing to earn it, and blames everyone except the bloke in the mirror. The best way to resist it? Laugh at it, live openly, ask questions, and keep reminding people that the good old days weren’t that good – and probably weren’t that old either.