Not so long ago, when conversations between strangers turned uncertain or awkward, the default response was to fall back on safe and neutral topics. Weather reports, complaints about train delays, comments on the sweetness of a stranger’s baby – these familiar snippets of small talk were the everyday rituals that preserved civility in public life. Today, however, something fundamental in public discourse seems to be changing. The comfortable social scripts once relied upon are being disrupted, displaced by a more volatile and unfiltered tone.
Consider an encounter in a supermarket. At the checkout aisle of an Aldi store, what began as harmless chit-chat between a cashier and a customer quickly turned into something unsettling. The cashier mentioned feeling exhausted after working extra shifts in preparation for Christmas. Before the friendly exchange could continue, a man in the queue interjected, warning that her efforts would be in vain “once she takes all our money,” referring to the Chancellor, Rachel Reeves. That alone might have been brushed off as typical political grumbling, but what followed was shocking. With complete calmness, the man suggested that Reeves and the government should be violently “taken out,” proposing that ex-military personnel would know how to handle it. The queue fell silent, people shifted nervously, unsure how to respond.
What was striking about the incident was not just the extremity of the man’s language, but the casual manner in which it was delivered – as though discussing the weather or football. Only later does the nature of the exchange become clear: this was a digital style of communication crossing over into the physical world. The tone was indistinguishable from the kind of inflammatory comments routinely seen on Facebook threads, where violence and conspiracy theories are vented without hesitation. What was once shocking in person now seems almost routine online. The line between the two appears to be eroding.
This creeping shift in how people speak in public was echoed in recent remarks by the health secretary, Wes Streeting. He warned that racism is becoming “socially acceptable” once again, pointing out the demoralising abuse faced by ethnic minority NHS staff. Yet the phenomenon goes beyond racist outbursts. There is a wider loosening of social restraint, evident in bus queues where laments over route changes spiral into claims about government spying, and at school gates where ordinary-looking parents voice strange ideas about vaccines or deep-state plots.
Some observers call this trend “sauna politics,” inspired by the overheard conspiracies shared in the relaxed confines of leisure centre saunas. What it really signals is a cultural moment when people begin to externalise their most unfiltered thoughts – thoughts that, until recently, might not have been shared even among friends, let alone with strangers. The internet’s role here is unmistakable. After years of exchanging wild theories and inflammatory comments online, many now treat public spaces as extensions of digital forums, assuming similar norms apply.
This breakdown in conversational boundaries bears resemblance to other social frictions caused by the internet’s influence. It is akin to young men imitating extreme acts from online pornography in real relationships, oblivious to the gulf between fantasy and consent. But this time, the departure from norms is not confined to youthful naiveté. Instead, it is often adults – particularly those in middle age – who are blurring the boundaries and carrying online extremism into offline life.
This reflects a growing and often overlooked trend: the radicalisation of Generation X. Typically portrayed as the calm buffer generation sandwiched between conservative Baby Boomers and politically charged Millennials and Zoomers, Gen X was long assumed to be the voice of moderation. Known for its scepticism and cultural detachment, this cohort once prided itself on being impervious to ideological swings or digital hysteria. Yet as the members of this generation enter their 50s and 60s, something appears to be changing.
Midlife, with its pressures and disruptions, creates fertile ground for resentment and alienation. As careers plateau or dissolve, marriages strain under new conditions, and cultural landscapes shift ever faster, a growing number of middle-aged individuals report feeling left behind. The sense that “the world has moved on without them” can manifest in paranoia, grievance, and the search for simple explanations – or enemies. When already feeling destabilised, encountering a steady torrent of polarising and conspiratorial content online can turn disillusionment into anger, and anger into radical politics.
Evidence is emerging to support this shift. In the UK, polling suggests a marked increase in support for fringe or populist political movements among those aged 50 to 64. While only 19% of Britons in their 50s voted for Reform UK in the last general election, a recent survey shows that support within this age bracket has risen to approximately one-third. This transformation is especially significant given that this same demographic played a pivotal role in electing Tony Blair’s New Labour in 1997.
Across the Atlantic, a similar trend has been documented. In the United States, Generation X has earned the label “the Trumpiest generation,” demonstrating stronger alignment with Republican and populist ideologies than any other age group. Yet despite this noticeable political shift, cultural analysis and academic attention have disproportionately focused on the extremes of younger generations or the staunch conservatism of the elderly, largely ignoring the middle-aged shockwave reshaping the political landscape.
There are exceptions. The Smidge Project, a three-year international study into conspiracy theory uptake among 45- to 65-year-olds, is one of the few initiatives examining how misinformation and political extremism take hold among older adults. Still, such studies are rare. The assumption seems to be that digital radicalisation is the preserve of the young, or that middle-aged adults possess enough life experience and scepticism to resist extremist pull. Increasingly, this assumption is proving incorrect.
What lies behind the blind spot? Perhaps it stems from the belief that those who created the internet are now its masters. Many in Generation X consider themselves too tech-savvy to be misled and too world-weary to be swayed by digital outrage. Yet the intertwining of real life and digital experience is proving harder to manage than anticipated. Online, social norms are rapidly decomposing in the absence of consequences. Users can escalate in rhetoric and extremity with little pushback. Over time, some lose the ability to distinguish between acceptable and unacceptable speech – between posting and speaking, between trolling and talking.
The collapse of these boundaries poses significant challenges for public life. The supermarket queue, the waiting room, the playground – these spaces once governed by basic norms of politeness – are now fair game for vitriol and conspiracy. The oddness lies not only in what is said, but in how ready people are to say it. The shock once provoked by an incendiary opinion in public is dulling. The “fourth wall” that once separated online personas from real-world interactions is crumbling, and faster than expected.
The spread of unfiltered thought into daily life is reshaping public culture in ways that are only beginning to be acknowledged. It raises urgent questions: how can social trust be restored when truth feels negotiable and boundaries are actively broken? How does a society maintain civility when speech, once governed by tacit shared norms, becomes volatile and unpredictable?
The answers are not yet clear. But one truth stands firm: the old certainties about who is vulnerable to misinformation, who is shaped by online radicalisation, and who fuels populist politics no longer hold. As the digital world merges into the physical, the myths of middle-aged immunity are dissolving – leaving a fragile public sphere to pick up the pieces.
