No One Likes Us, and That’s the Point: Football’s Long March to the Populist Right.
For my sins, and my father’s, I’m a Swindon Town fan. Once a proud railway town, Swindon is now better known as the place where hope dies when you’re forced to change trains on the way from Temple Meads to London. A few years ago, I went to watch my team. I walked into the Town End with a group of Premier League‑inclined university friends. Twenty minutes into kick-off, a chant began: “Oh Tommy Tommy Robinson”. I was mortified. It wasn’t just ugly; it was a glimpse into something bigger. I left the ground with one question lodged in my head: why is football such a hotbed for fascists?
There’s a simple answer to that question that satisfies a lot of people. That men’s football is right-wing because the sport itself demands it; competition, tribalism, aggression. But that’s too easy. Those qualities exist in other sports without producing the same political culture. What’s happened in football is not inevitable. It’s the result of decades of political and cultural abandonment, and a deliberate capture of the terraces by the populist right.
This story starts in the 1980s, when English football was gripped by the rise of hooliganism. In Swindon, that meant the Agro Boys, creatively shortened to STAB, a local firm whose presence at games made an already dark period in Swindon’s history darker. On the surface, it was about tribal loyalty and scraps with rival supporters. Underneath, it was a symptom of something deeper: the social dislocation of Thatcher’s Britain.
Swindon, like hundreds of other small towns and cities, had its identity tied to the local industry the town had grown around. As industries closed and unemployment rose, the terraces became one of the few spaces where working‑class men could still practice solidarity, even if that solidarity was reframed as rivalry. The marches to the ground, the clashes, the flags, all offered a sense of agency that was disappearing elsewhere. Philosopher Mark Fisher would later describe neoliberal capitalism as offering a “false choice”: endless consumer options masking the erosion of real political and economic power. In football, that meant you could choose your club, your kit, your chant…but not the fate of your job, your town, or your future.
By the 1990s and 2000s, the Agro Boys had faded, but the socio‑economic wave that produced them hadn’t. Thatcher’s destruction of industry dismantled the social spaces where politics lived. The neoliberal decades that followed didn’t rebuild them. Instead, politics moved into the arena of GDP growth and fiscal responsibility, leaving the real estate it previously occupied to be “regenerated” into matcha latte cafés and trendy warehouse flats.
When Brexit came, many in towns like Swindon saw it as a chance to take back control. Voting Leave and later watching the industries that fuelled Britain’s job market close was part of the same socio‑economic wave that culminated in the fall of the Red Wall. In the stands of towns where football had once been a bastion of Labour’s identity, union banners disappeared, replaced by St George’s flags. Part of this was the legacy of the 1980s, when hooligan firms helped to “nazify” elements of football culture. For many clubs, West Ham the most prominent example among them, violent inner‑city gangs with far‑right sympathies made the terraces an unsafe space for moderates, let alone for openly left‑wing or anti‑racist voices. Chants no longer carried the language of solidarity but of grievance. The Right captured both the rituals and the emotional stage of the “beautiful game,” filling the vacuum left by grassroots politics, while the modern Left, shaped now by university activism and NGO campaigning, has failed to translate its causes into the idioms of the communities it once represented. Climate justice, gender equality, and anti-racism are all essential struggles, but they are too often articulated in the vocabulary of the seminar room, leaving the pub and the terrace alienated. Ultimately this alienation breeds resentment.
Along came the populist right waving flags and chanting god save the queen. This “banal nationalism”, as described by Micheal Billing, offered not solutions but recognition. The sense that someone was listening if only to repeat their grievances back to them.
On the national stage, the right has seamlessly embedded itself in football’s most visible spaces. In September this year, England fans in Belgrade chanted “Stop the Boats” pledging their voices and potentially their votes to Farage and his jumped-up bullies at Reform UK. Similar refrains have targeted PM Keir Starmer in Andorra and Barcelona. These were not isolated moments; it was the language of the terrace repurposed for political campaigning.
England matches have always been a part of nationalist theatre. This “banal nationalism” in action, using the repetition of icons and tropes, is used to build familiarity. That’s all that ritual is at the end of the day, repetition of an action until it becomes familiar. But the nationalism they normalise is almost always the conservative, grievance-driven kind. Its nationalism tied to monarchy, military sacrifice, and a vision of England as an embattled nation standing alone.
Compare this to the nationalism of the other home nations. In Cardiff “Yma O Hyd” is an act of cultural affirmation; a celebration of language, survival and identity. In Dublin, “Amhrán na bhFiann” carries the memory of independence and self-determination. In Glasgow, “Flower of Scotland”, one of the greatest national anthems on the planet, is sung with defiant pride rooted in history, but it is also a communal moment, uniting fans in a shared story of resistance. Yes, these anthems are political, but their politics are rooted in cultural survival, not in the projection of imperial power.
Watching England games, I dream of feeling pride in the act of singing. Part of the joy of football is the communal singing, but I cannot ignore the words of God Save the King. They speak of a hierarchy I personally reject, to a vision of a nation that excludes as much as it includes. Were the anthem replaced with something like Billy Bragg’s “Between the Wars”, a song of dignity, solidarity and peace, that would be a nationalism I could stand behind: one that remembers the struggles of ordinary people, not just the reigns of monarchs.
This difference is not just about songs and symbols; it is about the histories they carry. Scotland, Wales, and Ireland can assert themselves as Celtic underdogs, drawing narratives of resistance and cultural survival. Even though many Celts participated in Britain’s colonial history, their modern nationalism is framed as an opposition to English dominance. England, by contrast, struggles to separate its identity from the legacy of empire. “Englishness” is bound to the image of empire, monarchy and naval power and for the left that history is an anchor. To embrace English nationalism risks endorsing the structures and myths of colonialism; to reject it risks leaving the terrain entirely to the right. This is why progressive English identity in these spaces is so rare. It must be built against the grain of centuries of imperial storytelling.
The challenge is not just to invent new symbols, but to dislodge decades of association between English pride and exclusionary politics. When progressive campaigns do try, whether it’s reimagining the St George’s Cross as a symbol of diversity or when anti‑racist groups marched under the St George’s Cross in Lewisham, far‑right commentators dismiss it as ‘woke‑washing’ proof. They claim the Left is trying to sanitise traditions it doesn’t understand. This framing is powerful to the Right because it casts inclusivity as inauthentic, elite meddling, and reinforces the idea that “real” Englishness belongs to the Right. It’s not enough to create alternative symbols; the political narrative around them must change too.
On the terraces, that baggage is ever present. The St George’s Cross is not just a flag; it is a reminder of crusades, conquests, and an England that sees itself as the ruling power. For the Right these symbols are ready made, the history already mythologised. For the Left, the challenge is harder: to find a common language of English pride that honours the struggles of ordinary people whilst also living with the ghosts of empire.
This all comes as part of the Left’s disengagement with football. It’s not just a strategic oversight; it is often rooted in discomfort. Many progressive politicians and activists view the sport for its worst traits - terrace racism, hooliganism, and hyper masculinity - and conclude that it is a cultural arena best avoided. In doing so, they abandon one of the largest shared spaces in working class life, leaving it open for the right and other bad actors to redefine its symbols, rituals and narratives.
This absence is often compounded by the way politicians, both Left and Right, use football as a prop to humanise themselves. Cameron forgetting which Claret and Blue team he supported is the most famous example. The gestures are designed to say, “I too eat a bacon sandwich” (sorry Ed Miliband), without requiring any real knowledge or engagement with football culture.
The Right, and particularly Farage, have understood this dynamic. It does not need to control football’s institutions to control its meaning, but it does help when Giani Infantino is the chair of FIFA, awarding World Cups to Dictatorial regimes with horrendous human rights records. By speaking the language of the terraces, the Right can present itself as the authentic voice of the people, while the Left stands outside the stadium, uncomfortable with the noise.
Take a walk across the gender divide and you find an almost alien picture. Attend a WSL game and you are more likely to see rainbow flags, families and young children all enjoying chants and celebrating the inclusive safe atmosphere.
I don’t want to solely pose this as a matter of masculinity versus femininity. It’s about the political ecology of the space. It has not yet been colonised by the same bad actors who have embedded themselves as part of the men’s game. It’s relative newness, smaller more passionate crowds and diverse fan demographics have so far insulated it from the culture wars that play out in the terraces of men’s football.
Part of that difference comes from how the women’s game has been built. Many clubs have grown out of grassroots community teams, and their marketing has emphasised inclusivity and family-friendly atmospheres rather than tribal rivalry. LGBTQ+ visibility is higher, with Pride flags and openly queer players celebrated rather than targeted. The absence of entrenched hooligan firms, combined with more proactive policing and club-led community engagement, has created a culture where matchday feels safer and more welcoming. It’s not that women’s football is immune to politics it’s that its foundations were laid with different priorities, and those priorities have shaped the behaviour of its crowds.
But that insulation is already being tested. The FA’s recent call to ban trans players from gendered football is a reminder that reactionary politics can enter the women’s game from above, even if they have not yet arrived from below. The decision mirrors the anti-trans moral panic that has become a core plank of right-wing politics in Britain, and risks turning women’s football into another front in the “war on woke”. It shows that the political spotlight can arrive via governing bodies and policy decisions, not just through terrace culture.
As the Women’s game grows, with record attendances and increased media coverage means a rise in commercial value. The far right is part of this, they are opportunistic. They will go where the audience is and as Women’s football continues to expand, the same tactics that captured the men’s game could be deployed here.
For now, the women’s game offers a glimpse of what football can be. Or what it should be. Where pride still stands within the sport itself and not with a conceptual myth making of an England that never really existed. The question is whether that inclusive culture that has grown around women’s football can be defended as the political spotlight turns its way.
There are rare counter points in the men’s game. Clubs like Clapton CFC and St Pauli have found recent success, showing that progressive football is possible, but it is unfortunately fragile. Success brings increased visibility, and visibility brings pressure. St Pauli, long held up as the gold standard of left-wing football culture, has felt this tension acutely since joining the Bundesliga. The club’s captain, Jackson Irvine, took a public and vocal pro Palestine stance following the declaration of a famine in Gaza. This was almost too late in the eyes of the club’s anti-imperialist fan base. However, the Bundesliga’s governing body, much like a lot of Germany’s institutional structures, are firmly pro-Isreal, a position shaped by Germany’s post-war consensus. The result of this has been a dramatic falling out between the St Pauli’s technical staff, who are partly beholden to the Bundesliga and Irvine, as well as dividing the fan base.
For a club whose identity has been built on political solidarity, this episode has been a stress test. It has exposed the fault lines between grassroots values and the political realities of operating in the top tier of a heavily commercialised league. St Pauli’s rise to the Bundesliga brought greater resources and a bigger platform, but it also brought entanglement with governing bodies, sponsors and the media ecosystem uncomfortable with the club’s supposed punk traditions.
This is the unfortunate paradox of all progressive movements: success forces compromise to the centre, and the centre can constantly be shifted further and further right by the Right. If you keep stepping to the right to appease the world, eventually you’ll find yourself at the same table as those you once opposed. A position the current Labour leadership find themselves in.
Meanwhile, in East London, Clapton CFC have built a proudly “woke” ultras core. The Clapton Ultras fly banners promoting anti- racism and pro-trans and have been active in local housing protests. However, this has drawn the far right’s ire. The “Pie and Mash Squad”, a group of EDL veterans, began arriving at matches with anti-immigrant stickers and flags, later clashing violently with the Ultras. Their supposed grievance, that “political flags have no place in football”, is a pretext for intimidation. It’s a microcosm of the wider battle for football’s meaning: visible progressive culture on the terraces is targeted so the Right can reclaim the space for its own symbols and narratives.
The far‑right’s love affair with sport is not new. In recent years, groups like Active Club (AC) have emerged in the UK, presenting themselves as informal sports teams organising hikes, martial arts sessions, and outdoor fitness meets. On the surface, it’s camaraderie and exercise; beneath that facade, AC is a structured recruitment network for extreme‑right activists, designed to build discipline, cohesion, and ideological commitment under the guise of sport.
AC’s model was imported from the US‑based Rise Above Movement, and within two years it had established branches in multiple UK regions, attracting thousands of followers on encrypted channels. Publicly, it emphasises legality and non‑violence, but its internal messaging points towards readiness for organised conflict. Activities are deliberately framed as apolitical fitness, allowing members to meet, train, and bond without attracting the attention that overt political gatherings would draw.
Fascists and imperialists have long used sport as a tool for identity theft and militarisation. Hitler’s regime celebrated militarised youth sport events to fuse physical training with ideological indoctrination. In Japan, the writer Yukio Mishima, still cited by some as an inspiration for modern gym culture, wrapped his imperialist and fascist views in a cult of physical discipline and aestheticised strength. In many ways, AC’s approach is an evolution of these tactics as well as those used by 1980s hooligan firms, such as West Ham’s Inter City Firm, which blended sport, violence, and far‑right sympathies to create tight‑knit, ideologically aligned groups. Where those firms used matchdays and terrace culture as their stage, AC uses controlled training environments, making them harder to disrupt. Both rely on sport as cover: a cultural space that builds loyalty, physical capability, and shared identity while avoiding the scrutiny that comes with explicit political organising.
This summer the ‘Unite the Kingdom’ rally in London, the largest far-right demonstration in modern British history, saw tens of thousands chanting for the National Front and Tommy Robinson as if they were their club and star striker. Flares were lit, police lines were charged, and the crowd moved as one. It’s the same emotional choreography as an away day, only here, the chants are aimed at political enemies.
Many attendees were driven by economic frustration rather than ideology. The same frustrations that, left unanswered, had already redrawn Britain’s political map and shifted the mood on the terraces. But the performance of the protest was unmistakably drawn from football culture.
The stadium and the street are not separate arenas, but parts of the same political theatre. The same codes work in both settings. In the stands, it’s about the badge on the shirt; in the street, it’s about the flag on the pole. In both, the right has learned how to turn collective identity into political allegiance.
Men’s football is not right‑wing because competition and tribalism demand it. It is right‑wing because those instincts were cultivated, politicised, and left uncontested for decades. Economic dispossession and cultural abandonment left working-class communities without a political voice. The Right stepped in using football’s rituals to make grievance feel like belonging.
The tragedy is not just that the game was sold to billionaires, or that its symbols were repurposed for grievance politics. It’s that so many in the stands cheered as it happened, loyalty to the badge becoming loyalty to those who priced them out, sold their clubs, and gutted their communities. Until the Left learns to speak in the language of the terraces, the scoreboard will remain the same.
Written by George Trueman
George is raising money for Ataxia UK, a charity that means so much to him and his family. His wonderful sister Ruby has Friedreich's Ataxia (FA), a rare and progressive neurological condition that affects movement, coordination, and muscle strength. It’s a life-limiting condition with no cure. You can donate here.
