In the days since the largest far-right rally in British history, I keep hearing the same phrase. Friends will talk about those scenes, how London was packed with more than 100,000 day-trippers chanting “send them back”. Then they’ll say: “It’s the 1970s all over again.” I can almost see their minds playing the old reels of Enoch Powell and the National Front.

Being of similar vintage, I too know about abuse in playgrounds and getting chased by skinheads and the house-warming gift of a brick through the window (which the police didn’t deem racist because the motive wasn’t sufficiently explicit – guys, next time wrap it in a memo!). We’re still some way from those days, thankfully, but one important aspect is much worse. Back then, racism was a furtive, guilty pleasure: deep down, even bigots knew their bigotry was ugly. No more.

What was striking about last weekend’s march wasn’t the turnout, easily matched by some of the protests about Gaza. It’s the lack of shame, the brazen insistence on an Englishman’s right to make others feel small. It’s the normalisation of what was until recently considered malicious extremism. And a big driver isn’t the crowds down in the street, but the suits in our supposedly progressive government.

Whenever confronted with violent prejudice, Keir Starmer coughs, splutters and takes the coward’s way out. He either pretends not to see racism or panders to it.

Just over a couple of months ago, in small towns across Northern Ireland, migrants were burned out of their homes and a mosque was petrol bombed. The prime minister’s response? First and foremost, he deplored attacks on the police. Muslims deluged with hate and fearing for their lives........

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