In a development that has sent tremors through the already wobbly edifice of celebrity-adjacent lunacy, the brother of a Hollywood A-lister has apparently traded the quiet dignity of sibling obscurity for the garish, spray-tanned throne of the manosphere’s new messiah. British cultural analysts, those intrepid explorers of the collective psyche who spend their days peering into the abyss of Twitter threads, have sounded the klaxon: we are witnessing the birth of a ‘hyper-masculine prophet’ who preaches the gospel of cold showers, red pills, and the inherent superiority of not ever, under any circumstances, saying sorry.
Let us be clear. This is not the first time a minor relative of a famous person has decided they have the answers to life, the universe, and the declining sperm count of Western civilisation. But this particular specimen, let us call him ‘Chadly von Testosteron’ because his real name is too dull to print, has taken the misogyny manual and given it a jolly good rebranding. He has swapped the dank basements of online forums for the bright lights of a podcast microphone, where he intones that men are being ‘feminised’ by ‘the matrix’ and that the path to enlightenment lies in owning a set of kettlebells and a profound disrespect for emotional vulnerability.
British cultural analysts, who are most definitely not still smarting from being called ‘soy boys’ on TikTok, warn that this phenomenon is nothing new, merely the latest iteration of a very old tune. ‘It’s the same old toxic karaoke,’ harrumphed Dr. Penelope Fitzsimmons-Hughes of the Institute for the Study of Things That Make You Want to Pour Gin in Your Eyes. ‘They just swapped the leather jackets for linen shirts and the motorcycles for a six-figure YouTube sponsorship. The message remains: women are inexplicable puzzles, the world has been stolen by effete liberals, and true happiness is found in a protein shake and a firm handshake.’
The man himself, in a recent three-hour monologue (interrupted only by advertisements for beard oil and a questionable cryptocurrency), declared that he had ‘transcended mere brotherhood’ and was now a ‘servant of a higher calling’ namely, telling other men that their feelings are a sign of weakness and that they should ‘dominate their environment’ by buying his merchandise. He has, in a stroke of marketing genius, branded his ideology as ‘Stoicism with a six-pack’ which, as any British satirist will tell you, is simply the old bosh wrapped in a new sausage.
The real tragedy, however, is not the man himself but the legions of lonely, confused men who flock to him like penguins to a cliff edge. They are drawn not by his logic, which is about as robust as a paper umbrella in a hurricane, but by the simple, seductive promise of certainty. ‘It’s easier to swallow a red pill than to wrestle with the messy, complicated reality of being a decent human being,’ observed a visibly weary pub philosopher in Soho, clutching a pint of something very strong. ‘And it’s certainly easier than going to therapy.’
So there we have it. Another sibling of a celebrity has found a niche. He will continue to amass followers, sell his snake oil, and occasionally appear on the arm of his more famous brother at premieres, where he will be photographed looking smug. And the rest of us? We will watch, wince, and perhaps refill our glasses. There is no cure for the manosphere. There is only gin, and the grim satisfaction of a well-aimed satire.
