Sarah
MI’m not going to lie: reading this made me deeply uncomfortable. But that’s exactly why it matters. If we’re serious about understanding the things we’re scared of — and the forces pulling people towards them — we have to look directly at them rather than pretend they’re happening somewhere else.
Harry Shukman’s Year of the Rat is a clear, steady and remarkably coherent account of more than a year spent undercover inside the British far right. He moves between groups, meetings and online spaces with a reporter’s eye for detail but without ever sensationalising what he finds. What struck me most was how ordinary so many of the early warning signs look. It’s small comments, casual grievances, half-jokes and coded phrases that slowly shift people’s sense of what’s acceptable. Shukman captures that creep in a way that feels honest and genuinely useful.
The access he gets is astonishing, and the fact he managed this level of immersion while also producing a documentary from the same investigation makes the clarity of the book even more impressive. It never feels bitty or chaotic — the narrative is tight, controlled and easy to follow, even when the subject matter isn’t.
It’s not a book to pick up when you’re already feeling fragile. It’s bleak in places and often hard to sit with. But it’s an important read if you want to understand how extremist ideas bed in long before they show up in headlines.
A solid four stars — four and a half for the courage, discipline and precision behind it.
MI’m not going to lie: reading this made me deeply uncomfortable. But that’s exactly why it matters. If we’re serious about understanding the things we’re scared of — and the forces pulling people towards them — we have to look directly at them rather than pretend they’re happening somewhere else.
Harry Shukman’s Year of the Rat is a clear, steady and remarkably coherent account of more than a year spent undercover inside the British far right. He moves between groups, meetings and online spaces with a reporter’s eye for detail but without ever sensationalising what he finds. What struck me most was how ordinary so many of the early warning signs look. It’s small comments, casual grievances, half-jokes and coded phrases that slowly shift people’s sense of what’s acceptable. Shukman captures that creep in a way that feels honest and genuinely useful.
The access he gets is astonishing, and the fact he managed this level of immersion while also producing a documentary from the same investigation makes the clarity of the book even more impressive. It never feels bitty or chaotic — the narrative is tight, controlled and easy to follow, even when the subject matter isn’t.
It’s not a book to pick up when you’re already feeling fragile. It’s bleak in places and often hard to sit with. But it’s an important read if you want to understand how extremist ideas bed in long before they show up in headlines.
A solid four stars — four and a half for the courage, discipline and precision behind it.
Married to the Black Widow is a humbling and unsettling account, all the more powerful because of its real-world resonance. Readers who remember the unforgettable double episode of 24 Hours in Police Custody will recognise the echoes here, though Parks (rightly, I believe) has chosen to step back from foregrounding that connection — perhaps to protect his daughter, whom he clearly places above all else.
What struck me most is his humility: even in the face of profound tragedy and betrayal, Parks resists bitterness and turns instead towards forgiveness and reflection. It’s a book that forces you to reckon with your own instincts and judgments, and leaves you sitting with the question of what true resilience and compassion look like in practice.
Married to the Black Widow is a humbling and unsettling account, all the more powerful because of its real-world resonance. Readers who remember the unforgettable double episode of 24 Hours in Police Custody will recognise the echoes here, though Parks (rightly, I believe) has chosen to step back from foregrounding that connection — perhaps to protect his daughter, whom he clearly places above all else.
What struck me most is his humility: even in the face of profound tragedy and betrayal, Parks resists bitterness and turns instead towards forgiveness and reflection. It’s a book that forces you to reckon with your own instincts and judgments, and leaves you sitting with the question of what true resilience and compassion look like in practice.