In what can only be described as a cataclysmic collision of celebrity nepotism and online misogyny, the brother of a mid-tier Hollywood actor has declared himself the new messiah of the manosphere. Yes, dear reader, brace yourselves for the arrival of one Bartholomew ‘Barty’ McSnuff, sibling to the man who played a talking badger in that forgettable Netflix rom-com. Barty, who until last Tuesday divided his time between podcasting from his mother’s basement and writing unsolicited odes to ‘traditional masculinity’ on Reddit, has now ascended to the throne of a movement that worships at the altar of resentment and poor hygiene.
Let us pause to savour the sheer absurdity. Here is a man whose most significant life achievement is being born into the right family, now lionised by a legion of lonely keyboard warriors for his ‘enlightened’ views on women, society, and the correct temperature for consuming protein shakes. He has, apparently, a new manifesto. I use the word ‘manifesto’ loosely: it’s a 200-page scream into the void, punctuated with references to Jordan Peterson and a heartfelt plea for the return of the codpiece.
Now, one might chuckle and move on. But this import of Americanised gender rage threatens to infect our sceptred isle. We Britons have long prided ourselves on our civilised approach to gender relations. We queue politely, we drink tea, we occasionally apologise to inanimate objects. We do not, as a rule, worship failed podcasters who blame their lack of romantic success on ‘the feminisation of society’. Yet here we are: Barty’s UK tour, titled ‘The Reclamation of the Alpha Scone’, has sold out venues from Aberdeen to Brighton. Soon, our sons will be quoting his pearls of wisdom, such as: “If she doesn’t respect the grind, she doesn’t deserve the diamond.” (I refuse to explain that metaphor. It’s beneath us.)
The manosphere, that putrid swamp of grievance, now has a figurehead with a famous sibling. The logic is impeccable: if your brother can pretend to be a badger for money, you can pretend to have a coherent ideology. Barty’s rhetoric, a stew of misread philosophy and personal vendettas, is being lapped up by young men who feel lost in a world that dares to challenge their entitlement. They gather in dark rooms lit only by screens, binders full of Barty’s tweets, and dream of a utopia where women are grateful for their attention.
But let us not despair entirely. For every bright young lad who succumbs to this nonsense, there are still millions who know that being decent does not require a celebrity brother or a YouTube channel. British values decency, respect, and the quiet dignity of not making a public fuss about one’s own genitalia remain resilient. The Barty McSnuffs of this world are a temporary fever, a cultural rash that will fade, leaving only a faint memory of embarrassment.
In the meantime, I shall raise a glass of aviation-standard gin to the hope that this story will soon be replaced by something equally absurd, perhaps involving a royal corgi and a misplaced tiara. Because that, dear reader, is the British way: we laugh at the madness until it passes, then we have another cup of tea. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a date with a bottle of Gordon’s and a reminder that I am not, in fact, a messiah. I am merely a journalist with a low tolerance for nonsense.
