Imagine a Britain where access to Wikipedia is restricted not by a hostile foreign power, nor by a rogue ISP, but by our own government. This is no dystopian fantasy; it is the potential consequence of the Online Safety Act—legislation passed, ironically, in the name of safety but now threatening the very infrastructure of free knowledge. Under the Act, Wikipedia—a globally trusted, not-for-profit educational site—could be forced to limit UK users, distort its open-editing model, and verify the identities of its volunteer moderators. Why? Because any service with more than seven million users that features recommendation tools or link-sharing may be classified as a “category one” platform, subject to the same regulatory burdens as TikTok or Facebook—algorithm-driven entertainment giants with wholly different structures and risks. The UK could become the first liberal democracy to block itself from an online encyclopaedia. Responsibility for this legislative vandalism lies with a gallery of digital, culture, media, and sport ministers who had little grasp of the internet and even less humility: Nadine Dorries, whose technological insight seemed limited to whether a programme had subtitles; Michelle Donelan, who shepherded the Bill through Parliament with slogans and sound bites; Lucy Frazer, who confused regulation with repression; and Peter Kyle, now in court arguing that the harms are hypothetical, as though passing sweeping laws and hoping for the best were an acceptable digital policy. This law does not make us safer; it makes us smaller, poorer, and more parochial. It is censorship under another name. Though sold as a measure to protect children and stop illegal content—a noble aim—its drafting is so broad, its application so clumsy, that it will hobble legitimate services instead of halting harmful ones. It fails because it treats all large platforms alike, ignoring the gulf between attention-manipulating networks and collaborative knowledge projects. Wikipedia is an encyclopaedia, not a dopamine slot machine. The Act creates legal risks for anonymity, undermining the volunteer model that makes Wikipedia possible. It punishes sites simply for recommending useful information, and it encourages self-censorship, as services will over-block content or restrict access to avoid fines of up to £18 million or ten per cent of global turnover. In the name of protection, it infantilises citizens who are entitled to freedom of inquiry. As if the economic and academic restraints of Brexit were not damaging enough, we now impose informational restraints—amputating our own intellect. The UK increasingly behaves not like an open democracy but a wary provincial state, mimicking the strategies of closed ones. In Russia, Wikipedia is blocked outright under disinformation laws; in Britain, it may be throttled under safety laws. In Russia, real-name registration is required; in Britain, identity verification may be demanded of Wikipedia editors. The difference is one of degree, not kind. Wikipedia does not harvest data, sell ads, or serve political agendas. It has no billionaire CEO tweeting policy on a whim. Yet it risks being shackled simply because it is popular, free, and open source. When lawmakers apply rules designed for Silicon Valley behemoths to educational charities, they reveal their ignorance: they are not keeping anyone safe—they are dismantling a pillar of democracy, the free exchange of knowledge. Instead of quarantining the internet, Britain should invest in digital literacy, improve content-moderation standards through international cooperation, and apply proportionate oversight where actual harm occurs. Censorship does not work; education does. If we continue down this path, we will find ourselves regulated like autocracies, governed by mediocrity, and informed by algorithms designed in fear. And the bitter irony? We will be unable to look up the history of our mistake—because Wikipedia will not load.