Whether by design or through circumstance, nationalist protests in the UK have become places where almost anything could go down: huge, thronging events that sit on the edge of adrenaline and disaster. It’s hard not to see the magnetic pull of such happenings and why so many of those who fall foul of the law base their legal defense on simply getting “swept up in the moment.” How many of them are doing psychedelics or listening to Sasha & Digweed sets is something we’ll never be able to reliably datafy, but it almost doesn’t matter. Acid Patriotism meetups are loaded with trip-like imagery: the Boomtown-goes-Knights-Templar outfits; the obscure placard scrawlings; a crew of fancy-dress Maoris doing the Hakka for Charlie Kirk; a man in a leather Union Jacket racing jacket leading wide-eyed pensioners in a gospel version of “Jerusalem.” They seem like acid journeys in and of themselves, but they also call to mind the weirdest corners of MAGA, of what Don DeLillo called “our national hallucination.”