In a twist that even the most gin-soaked crystal ball failed to predict, the brother of a Tinseltown A-lister has officially traded the glitz of the Chateau Marmont for the grim glimmer of a manosphere livestream. Sources confirm that Barnaby ‘Biff’ Thistlethwaite’s nostrils were flaring before he’d even finished his first batch of late morning martinis. The news arrived like a bad prawn: Hollywood’s favourite scion, brother of the star of that one forgettable rom-com about a dog, has been anointed ‘messiah’ by a shadowy collective of internet men who struggle with moisturiser.
He offers them the gospel of self-improvement, which appears to consist entirely of blaming women and avoiding sunlight. This is not satire. This is America in 2025.
The manosphere, that fetid swamp of alpha-worship and bad personal hygiene, has crowned a new king. A reluctant one, perhaps, but a king nonetheless. He preaches the virtues of stoicism, financial independence, and the vital importance of never, ever apologising.
His first sermon? ‘You are not the problem. The system is the problem.
Also, women. And gluten.’ His followers, a legion of lonely souls who believe they’ve discovered the secret matrix of mating and success, now hang on his every word.
The problem is that his words are transcribed from a series of increasingly frantic voicemails left for his agent. The real tragedy here is not the lost Hollywood career, but the lost opportunity for this man to have been a genuinely decent human being. Instead, he has chosen the path of the incel evangelist, a role that requires no talent, only a DSLR camera and a profound sense of grievance.
The Hollywood brother has gone from premieres and private jets to podcasting from a converted garage in Arizona. He wears a black roll-neck even though it is 40 degrees outside. He speaks in aphorisms he bought off a self-help guru on Instagram.
And thousands of men listen. They listen because he tells them their loneliness is not their fault, that it is the world that is broken. He does not mention that the world has always been broken, and the only way to survive it is with a sense of humour and a well-stocked drinks cabinet.
This is the messiah of the disenfranchised male. He promises validation. He delivers only narcissism.
As for my own prognosis, I’d say the manosphere has finally jumped the shark. Or more accurately, it has fallen down a manhole and is shouting about the virtues of darkness. I will now return to my gin.
The world can wait.
