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The recent “Unite the Kingdom” rally in London shows how easy it is for the radical right to mobilise a mass protest by repackaging a perennial issue as a moral panic. It did so by fusing together fears of migration and crime with a rising distrust in government.

There were calls for “remigration”, mass deportation and even the dissolution of parliament as well as violent clashes with police. There was also a level of confusion among some of the thousands of people who attended as to whether they were protesting for freedom of speech or lending their voices to a racist cause.

Although the scale of the demonstration was surprising to many, far-right activism has a long history in the UK.

In the contemporary era, it dates back to the British Union of Fascists in the 1930s. But it was the increase in immigration in the 1950s – the Windrush era – that saw a new generation of far-right activists emerge.

In the years that followed, Britain’s far right switched its focus from antisemitism to opposing migration from the country’s colonies and former colonies. This was captured best, perhaps, in the infamous “rivers of blood” speech delivered by Conservative MP Enoch Powell in 1968.

By the 1980s, the British National Party (BNP) emerged, growing to make considerable electoral headway in the 1990s and 2000s before its base ultimately crumbled due to its toxic image.

In its wake, the far-right morphed into street protest movements like the English Defence League (EDL) and the Football Lads Alliance. Extremist “direct action” groups like Combat-18, a neo-Nazi group that grew out of the BNP in the 1990s, would also be replaced by National Action and the Patriotic Alternative.

These violent fringe groups were banned but others have replaced them and grown in influence. They include the cultural nationalist movement coalescing around former EDL leader Stephen Yaxley-Lennon, known popularly as “Tommy Robinson” – the man behind the Unite the Kingdom rally in London.

Extremism expert Chris Allen has noted how the re-emergence of radical right protest activism had its medium-term origins in the 2016 Brexit referendum. This relates to how some pro-Leave politicians promoted issues that had “a clear resonance with the traditional and contemporary radical-right” – such as border security and sovereignty.

Rightwing extremist activity ranged from the murder of Jo Cox MP a week prior to the Brexit referendum to street agitation whipped up by other fringe far-right groups, like Britain First. According to the Tony Blair Institute for Global Change, these groups attempted to “dominate the narrative on key political and social issues, including immigration, Brexit and Islam”.

The anxiety around immigration had already found its way into mainstream political discourse on the doorsteps during the 2015 general election. Narrative tropes about “taking back control of our borders” became part of everyday political rhetoric. In the aftermath of the election of that year, prime minister David Cameron made cracking down on immigration a priority.

As antagonism towards the EU began to recede in the years after the Brexit referendum, the fear of irregular immigration came much more to the fore. So too did a rise in racism and race-related hate crimes.

Many of these hate crimes happened in the wake of Islamist terror attacks in 2017, though the arrival of the COVID pandemic superseded fears surrounding terrorism. And as the UK re-emerged from COVID lockdowns, little consideration was given by the British state to the growing security challenge posed by irregular immigration.

It was in this context that a tipping point was reached. In July 2024, after the murder of three children in Southport, radical-right social media influencers and other bad actors stirred up riots across 27 towns and cities in England and Northern Ireland. Thousands of people were radicalised by the language of a moral panic, played out in the new domain of social media.

Illegal immigration as a form of moral panic

Sociologist Stanley Cohen coined the term “moral panic” in his important 1972 book Folk Devils and Moral Panics. He described how a “condition, episode, person or group…emerges to become defined as a threat to societal values and interests” and is then presented in a stereotyped fashion by the media.

Perhaps the most famous of these moral panics came in the immediate aftermath of a huge 1964 brawl in the seaside town of Clacton between mods and rockers, two rival youth counter-cultures. Cohen’s argument was that the reaction ended up being wildly disproportionate to the severity of the original incident. Local authorities in towns and cities as far away as Belfast were forced to issue statements reassuring the public they did not have a “hooligan problem”.

In 2002, Cohen demonstrated how the same phenomenon was being playing out in relation to immigration. He remarked that the once morally untouchable category of political refugee was becoming “deconstructed”. In Cohen’s opinion, British governments were starting from a broad consensus that “we must keep out as many refugee-type foreigners as possible” and that “these people always lie to get themselves accepted”. To be accepted, they must be “eligible” and “credible”.

It was in the ensuing decades, one could argue, that moral panics centring on the triumvirate of migration, crime and security began to emerge in Germany, Italy and the UK.

The British tabloid media led this new moral panic, greatly aided by two intersecting and overlapping empirical realities: the rising tide of concern over increasing immigration in the UK – and Europe more broadly – and the repackaging of ethnically competitive politics as a new form of everyday reality. In the far-right worldview, politics is about the zero-sum nature of power relations between different ethnic groups.

Old tropes, new moral panics

What we are now seeing is a new politicisation of a long-running issue. Humanitarian responses to asylum seekers have been replaced with the trappings of a moral panic about irregular immigration.

Moral panics do not, as Cohen reminds us, necessarily reflect the reality of the situation, only the anxiety of those who spread it. That does not mean there are no serious concerns underpinning these issues, only that they have been magnified and, importantly, amplified by the far-right’s sophisticated embrace of new technology. This situation is, at its core, a crisis in confidence between a section of the population and the government.

As we move towards towards the next UK election, further disillusionment is more likely to manifest itself in increased electoral support for parties like Reform UK and Advance UK, particularly if they continue to play to hardline supporters. In a recent YouGov survey, 44% of those surveyed said Reform’s immigration policy, which includes mass deportation was about right or not tough enough.

While radical-right demonstrations promoting the totemic policy of “remigration” remain largely peaceful, there is a danger that the mainstreaming of such extremist rhetoric will only serve as a driver towards radicalisation for a new generation of far-right extremists.

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As women’s sport surges on the global stage, hosts England have lit up the Women’s Rugby World Cup. But the tackles, speed and power fans see on the field are only part of the story. What we don’t see is what it takes – both physically and psychologically – to wear England’s emblem, the Red Rose.

The psychology of rugby shapes every performance. Behind the scenes lie early mornings, lonely and punishing rehab sessions, playing through pain, brutal setbacks, private doubts and personal sacrifices.

Before the whistle blows and the crowd roars, players stretch aching muscles, re-tape old injuries and mentally lock in. The changing room becomes a crucible – a place of intense pressure and transformation – where focus sharpens, rituals are repeated and the “game face” goes on.

That game face is more than a stare. It’s the product of years of physical and psychological battles. It’s the mindset that lets an athlete walk into the arena with purpose and conviction, no matter what pain or setbacks they’ve endured.

Consider Emily Scarratt, one of England’s most celebrated players. In 2023 a surgeon advised her to retire after a complex neck injury threatened her career. Opting for an artificial disc replacement near her windpipe was risky – any operation that close to the airway and spinal cord carries the danger of nerve damage or breathing complications – and career-defining because the operation’s success or failure would determine whether she could ever play again.

Her February 2024 return wasn’t just about regaining fitness. It was also about showing the mental steel that “game face” represents, blocking out fear and doubt to perform at the sport’s highest level. At 35, she became the first England player to feature in five Rugby World Cups.

Abi Burton’s comeback is equally astonishing. Just three years ago she was diagnosed with autoimmune encephalitis – a rare condition in which the immune system attacks the brain, causing inflammation and severe neurological symptoms – and placed in a medically induced coma. She woke four weeks later unable to walk, talk, read or write and more than 19 kg lighter. After years of rehabilitation, she made her World Cup debut against Samoa in 2025.

Rosie Galligan’s road back was just as brutal. She nearly lost her legs to meningitis in 2019, then fractured an ankle in early 2020, which sidelined her for over a year. Told by medical specialists and coaches more than once that she might never play again, she fought back to the delayed 2022 World Cup and is now a standout player for 2025.

These headline comebacks highlight something the public rarely sees: the daily grind of resilience. Managing concussions and torn ligaments, coping with the psychological toll of repeated setbacks; just staying in the game takes an immense toll and can lead to player burnout without strong support. Ellie Kildunne, ruled out of the quarter-final with head-injury symptoms, has spoken openly about the mental strength needed to survive the toughest moments, calling the internal battles “the hardest to win”.

So, while England may look clinical and composed on the pitch, every performance requires extraordinary emotional and mental strength. And the players are not doing it alone. Behind every recovery and every small gain is a network of coaches, physiotherapists, psychologists, doctors and support staff working to keep the foundations solid.

None of this happens by accident. It’s the result of years of sustained investment in the women’s game: not just in players, but in the infrastructure around them. Since 2009, nearly £50 million in National Lottery funding has gone into girls’ and women’s rugby.

The Impact 25 legacy programme – World Rugby’s initiative to grow the women’s game before, during and long after the 2025 tournament – is injecting a further £12 million to expand grassroots pathways: community-level coaching, clubs and player-development routes that help girls progress from school or local teams into elite rugby across England and the home nations.

Elsewhere the contrast is stark. Teams such as Samoa have had to fundraise just to get players on the pitch: a sharp reminder of the global inequalities that persist in women’s sport. While England can rotate two professional squads, other national teams are simply trying to cover basic costs.

England’s story shows what’s possible when talent is matched with belief and when belief is backed with resources and support. England’s success hasn’t come easy: it’s the product of years of grit, resilience and bold investment. If women’s rugby is to grow globally, England’s blueprint may be a powerful place to start.

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The Netflix documentary Fit for TV: The Reality of the Biggest Loser raises questions around the ethics of one the most popular US reallity TV series of the 2000s. From claims about the cruel treatment of its contestants and its callous endorsement of “fatphobic” narratives, the series sits at odds with feelings around body image and weight in a post body-positivity age.

Recently in the UK reality television shows such as Love Island have been under the spotlight for alleged bullying and misogynistic behaviour. This perhaps shows that a more sustained reckoning is on the horizon for programmes dealing with our bodies, and their long-term effects on the collective psyche.

The idea for The Biggest Loser came to its executive producer David Broome when he spotted a sign posted by an “obese person seeking a trainer” to help them get into shape. The show would eventually see contestants and trainers battling to see who could lose the most body weight through the show’s extreme methods, ultimately winning a prize of US$250,000 (£185,000).

This was a significant amount of money, especially for the time, but the real prize was supposedly the discipline and freedom gained through the process of radical body transformation. As such, the show is rooted in narratives of hard work, determination and ultimately the American dream – you can be anything you want, as long as you work hard enough.

Baiting and exploitation

Despite these seemingly wholesome aims, the documentary points out that the tone of the show was initially unclear. Indeed, its title seems to invite the ridicule of its participants. The first few seasons were presented by a comedian and stacked with challenges seemingly designed to humiliate contestants.

In one episode, the “losers” were asked to build a tower of food with their teeth. In another, they were asked to survive temptation challenges – they could eat as much as they wanted for the chance to see a loved one or go home, but they would still be weighed in at the end of the week.

While these challenges are justified in the documentary by producers as realistic scenarios replicating real-life temptations, commentators such as fat-acceptance activist Aubrey Gordon noted that these tests were based around the presumption that “fat people cannot be trusted around food”. Revelling in the spectacle of failure, such challenges encouraged moralising judgments.

In the temptation challenges, the visual pleasure of excess was clear. Key to such challenges was transforming weight loss into drama – a spectacle people would watch.

Extravagant display was necessary as the show revolved around the potentially slow process of losing weight. Indeed, while diet has been shown to be key for those hoping to reduce their body mass, a programme of extreme exercise was devised. Contestants, often on as little as 800 calories per day, were shown sweating, vomiting and collapsing, cameras shaking to convey the heft of their bodies.

As the seasons progressed, the weight of participants starting The Biggest Loser “journey” went up and, arguably, their ability to work out safely went down, much to the dismay of the show’s medical adviser, Dr Robert Huizenga.

On both the original show and the documentary, Huizenga is presented constantly at odds with trainers Bob Harper and Jillian Michaels, whose methods he challenged. In his obvious concern for the contestants, he became a voice of reason in a show that seemed focused on the entertainment value of those taking part.

The magic of TV transformation

The 2000s ushered in a new era of exposure – an abundant culture of images and television shows celebrating the glamorous lives of celebrities. But this was not limited to the the rich and the famous.

Shows like Pop Idol plucked everyday Joes from obscurity and placed them in the spotlight. These shows glamourised the self-help mentality of the American dream. Hard work, self-control and more than a dash of “natural” talent and beauty were all one needed to be propelled into relative superstardom.

Like rough stones turned into shiny gems, members of the public became top models, popstars and even Dallas Cowgirls as if at the click of a finger. This was a process of transformation, often centred on the visual. It was only logical that this be extended to the most extreme kind of bodily transformation that could be recorded. The message in all of these shows was clear: with extreme hard work and determination you too could achieve the body, the celebrity, the popularity or whatever you deserved.

The Biggest Loser was far from the only series promoting negative stereotypes around people’s bodies on TV at the time. As the virality of body-shaming clips from shows like America’s Next Top Model and 10 Years Younger shows, this was an all-encompassing entertainment culture that villainised gaining even a few pounds.

Today, weight loss is omnipresent once more thanks to the prominence of drugs like Ozempic. In the last two years, we have gone from a broad culture of bodily acceptance to one that seeks to achieve perfection. Celebrities are thinner and look younger than ever, and the abundance of these transformational narratives on social media suggests that we should all aspire to follow suit.

The changing reception of The Biggest Loser – once a very popular programme – revealed in Netflix’s documentary not only shows how influential the media can be in how we see our own bodies, but also reinforces how fickle bodily trends can be.

We can’t know how long it will be until we are told once more to embrace our curves and wrinkles – but you can be sure that it will be visual media that will drive the change.

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