For the last two weeks of summer, England has witnessed a strange transformation. Tens of thousands of Saint George flags have been hoisted on lampposts, draped over roundabouts, and sprayed across road signs.

This is not a council initiative or a football tournament. Instead, the flags are the work of two self-styled grassroots groups: Flag Force UK, founded by Joseph Moulton, and Operation Raise the Colours, founded by Andrew Currien, also known as Andy Saxon.

The organisers claim they are restoring patriotism. But the support has come mainly from far-right corners of the internet, while many Black and ethnic minority communities have responded with fear and disgust.

The mass flag-raising has already emboldened racist abuse: a South Asian family near me was told to “go home,” and as a hijab-wearing Muslim woman, I find myself once again feeling a sense of unease walking my own streets.

It feels like deja vu from last summer’s anti-immigrant riots, when far-right agitators spread fear and violence in towns across England. For many of us, the sudden eruption of flags does not read as patriotism but as a warning sign that such hostility could return.

Astroturfing in disguise

Part of what makes this campaign troubling is how closely it resembles astroturfing — when organisations manufacture the appearance of grassroots support to push political goals.

In Britain, astroturfing has been linked to Brexit-era campaigns and culture-war flashpoints, where small groups with significant funding were able to project themselves as mass movements.

The flag campaign shows the same patterns. Flag Force UK’s X account amassed almost 18,000 followers in under a month, many with ties to the far right or Reform Party. The group has raised tens of thousands of pounds for flags and equipment through crowdfunding.

Operation Raise the Colours, meanwhile, has accepted funds from Britain First. Both groups project themselves as patriotic volunteers — yet their networks, funding, and messaging bear the hallmarks of orchestrated influence campaigns.

And the men leading them are hardly ordinary citizens. Moulton, for example, runs Geocapita, a think tank claiming to advise world leaders on intelligence, and Oberion Group, a defence and data-intelligence firm based in Cyprus. These are not typical credentials for a local activist.

Currien, by contrast, comes directly from Britain’s far-right underworld: a long-time associate of Tommy Robinson, he has provided security for Britain First and was convicted for his role in a racist attack that killed a Black man.

Their records make it difficult to accept that this is simply a movement of innocent flag enthusiasts.

The flags we choose to fly

Equally revealing is the choice of symbol. The campaigners are not flying the Union Jack but the Saint George’s Cross. While the red-and-white flag is England’s emblem, it has been heavily racialised in recent decades.

Once tied mainly to football, it was co-opted by the English Defence League, the National Front and other extremist groups, becoming a shorthand for white nationalism.

By contrast, the Union Jack represents the UK as a whole. It is widely used in official national celebrations and is often embraced by Britons of minority backgrounds as a shared symbol. 

Choosing the Saint George’s Cross is therefore not a neutral act, but deliberate. It suggests that England is for the English alone — a message echoed in social media comments like “Bring back Britain” and “Leave and don’t come back.”

This symbolism is not abstract. In towns where the flags have gone up, minority families are experiencing fresh abuse. The flags have become a backdrop for exclusionary rhetoric, a visual reminder that certain people are seen as outsiders in their own country.

The spread of the flags also reflects the political climate in which they appear. They are concentrated in areas where the Reform Party polls strongly — the Midlands, Basildon, Southend.

Reform, founded by Nigel Farage, is now the third most popular party in England. Its anti-immigration platform dovetails neatly with the exclusionary message signalled by the flag campaign.

The timing is equally telling. Anti-immigration protests and attempted attacks on asylum hotels have dominated headlines this summer.

The flag-raising, framed as patriotism, provides cover for the same far-right anxieties that fuel these incidents. And if the movement were entirely innocent, why do so many participants wear masks and balaclavas to disguise themselves?

Institutional silence

Yet despite these warning signs, official responses have been muted. Councils in York, Kent and Lincolnshire have all said they will not remove the flags unless they pose a health or safety risk. 

Such caution may be intended to avoid accusations of being “anti-English,” but in practice it sends a dangerous signal: that mass displays with far-right ties are acceptable, even normal, parts of civic space.

When institutions refuse to act, they allow intimidation to masquerade as patriotism.

Racial tensions in the UK are at a historic high. In this climate, mass flag-raising campaigns that present themselves as grassroots pride but are rooted in far-right organising are not harmless.

They intimidate minorities, divide communities, and risk pulling extremist rhetoric into the political mainstream.

If we mistake manipulation for patriotism, we risk allowing the far right to define what it means to be English. Councils, politicians, and communities must be clear: these flags do not speak for England, and they should not be allowed to claim that they do.