In an age when health advice floods our screens, feeds, and group chats, it can be hard to know what to trust. A passing comment from a friend, a viral social media post, or an answer from an artificial intelligence chatbot can all feel equally convincing, even when they are dangerously wrong. The consequences of acting on such misinformation are not abstract or rare; they can be deeply personal and devastating. Yet, as a new analysis from the London School of Hygiene & Tropical Medicine (LSHTM) reveals, the experience of navigating this confusing landscape depends heavily on where in England you happen to live. Drawing on regional data from a survey of 2,110 UK adults, conducted by Survation in September 2026, the analysis paints a picture of striking inequality—not just in how much false or misleading health information people encounter, but in how confidently they can spot it, how they check it, and whether they have seen someone seriously harmed by it. This is not a story of a single national problem with a single national solution. It is a patchwork of local vulnerabilities, strengths, and habits that demand a more personalised, community-aware approach to protecting public health.
The human toll of misinformation is perhaps most starkly visible in the North East of England. There, a third of people—31 percent—said they personally knew someone who had come to serious harm because of a health decision based on misinformation. That harm might mean contracting a preventable disease, delaying necessary medical treatment, or enduring symptoms far longer than they should have. In stark contrast, only 18 percent of people in the South East and the West Midlands reported knowing someone who had suffered such consequences. This is not just a statistic; it is a reflection of how differently communities are being affected by the same information ecosystem. In some areas, the warning signs are everywhere—a relative hospitalised with an illness that could have been prevented, a neighbour whose condition worsened because they followed bad advice online. In other regions, these tragedies remain more distant, less visible in everyday life. The same analysis highlights a parallel confidence gap. People in Yorkshire & Humber were the least confident in England when it came to judging whether a health claim was accurate, with only 28 percent saying they felt very or somewhat confident. In the South West, by contrast, more than half—52 percent—felt that level of assurance. Similarly, when asked about finding reliable information on a health issue, only 44 percent of people in Yorkshire & Humber felt confident, while in the North West nearly seven in ten—69 percent—did. These differences suggest that confidence is not simply a matter of individual personality or education; it is shaped by local resources, social norms, and perhaps by the kinds of information and support people have access to.
How people go about factchecking health claims also varies dramatically from region to region, and this reveals a great deal about local cultures of trust and communication. In the East of England, nearly two-thirds of people—64 percent—said they checked health claims against NHS or government websites when deciding if something was accurate. Only 41 percent of Londoners did the same. Londoners, in turn, were far more likely to rely on social media discussions, with a quarter saying they followed how a health claim was being talked about online to judge its credibility, compared to just 10 percent in the South West. A striking 27 percent of Londoners said they would ask AI chatbots about health claims, while only 11 percent in the East of England would do so. Meanwhile, in the North East, a third of people—30 percent—said they asked family or friends when trying to decide whether a health claim was accurate, compared to just 18 percent in the South East and South West. Each of these strategies has its own strengths and weaknesses. Checking official websites is generally seen as reliable, but not everyone has the time or trust to do so. Watching a discussion unfold on social media can offer a sense of community and nuance, but it can also amplify misinformation. Asking family and friends can provide comfort, but it may also entrench existing misconceptions. The real issue is not that one approach is universally right or wrong, but that people are navigating uncertain terrain with very different maps. Some regions clearly have better access to official sources, or greater trust in them, while others are more dependent on informal networks or emerging technologies that are not always well-equipped to separate truth from falsehood.
The types of misinformation people encounter also differ sharply by region, which suggests that local concerns, demographics, and media environments play a significant role in shaping the spread of false claims. In the South West, 35 percent of people said they had come across vaccine misinformation in the last six months, compared to only 18 percent of Londoners. In the East Midlands, misinformation about dietary supplements and weight-loss injections had reached a quarter of residents—25 percent—while only 14 percent in the North East had encountered it. Mental health misinformation followed a similar pattern: 22 percent of those in the East Midlands reported seeing it recently, compared to just 12 percent in the South East. These differences matter because they are not random. They reflect the particular health conversations happening in each community, the advertisements and influencers that dominate local social media feeds, and the issues that resonate most with local populations. A region where weight-loss injections are heavily promoted may need very different public health messaging than one where vaccine hesitancy is more prevalent. Yet too often, national campaigns treat all audiences as if they were the same, ignoring the fact that a person in Leeds and a person in Plymouth are living in different information environments. Understanding these regional variations is not just an academic exercise. It is essential for designing interventions that actually speak to people’s experiences, rather than offering generic advice that feels distant or irrelevant.
These findings build on an earlier national report that identified a widespread appetite for help. More than half of UK adults—54 percent—listed educating the public on how to identify false or misleading health information as one of their top three priorities. That desire for guidance is not limited to any single age group, but the survey found that the youngest and oldest adults were least confident in factchecking health claims. One in five people aged 18 to 24, and one in five aged over 65, described themselves as not very confident or not at all confident. This is a reminder that confidence and vulnerability do not map neatly onto stereotypes. Young people are often assumed to be digital natives who can effortlessly navigate online information, yet many feel adrift. Older adults, meanwhile, may have a lifetime of experience but can still be left behind by rapidly evolving platforms and algorithms. The authors of the report argue that national and local campaigns are needed to equip people with the practical skills and resources to factcheck potentially false or misleading health claims. Professor Liam Smeeth, Director of LSHTM, emphasised the importance of understanding the drivers behind these regional differences, describing them as vital to giving people the right tools and support no matter where they live. He noted that while health misinformation is a global problem, effective responses must often be local as well as national. To that end, LSHTM is inviting local health authorities to collaborate with university experts and communications professionals through the Health Information Integrity Network, an initiative that aims to translate research into action on the ground.
Ultimately, this analysis is a call for humility and curiosity. It shows that the fight against health misinformation is not a simple matter of debunking false claims or issuing national warnings. It is a deeply human challenge, shaped by trust, habit, access, and community. A person in the North East who has watched a loved one suffer from the consequences of bad health advice does not need a lecture; they need support that acknowledges their reality. A person in Yorkshire who feels unsure about how to judge a health claim does not need more information alone; they need confidence, and perhaps a trusted local voice to guide them. A Londoner who turns to AI chatbots or social media for answers is not foolish; they are using the tools at hand, and they need those tools to point them toward reliable information rather than deeper confusion. The authors are careful to note that further research is needed into why these regional differences exist, and into fundamental questions such as how people come to realise they have been misinformed, and which interventions would best help people of different ages and backgrounds. These are not small questions, and there are no quick answers. But the survey itself is an important step, because it reminds us that behind every statistic is a person trying to make sense of a complex world—often without the support they need. It urges us to look beyond our own screens and see the broader landscape, to recognise that the same health claim might be seen as a harmless rumour in one place and a life-altering danger in another. And it challenges everyone—policymakers, health leaders, communicators, and ordinary citizens—to think more carefully about how we can all help each other find honest, accurate, and trustworthy health information, one community at a time.