by Reggie Yates
Staying online, I decided to take a look at Josh’s video blogs and wasn’t entirely surprised by the speed he was able to crash through sentences. The bombshell in his video feed was that he started so young. In some of the earlier vlogs he was noticeably younger and with his mouth fenced in braces while moving at light speed, the light catching his choppers was a sight to behold. The more recent clips were stunningly extreme in nature and in comparison with the measured, fact-based Josh I met on his stepladder wearing a terrible tie, this was someone else.
‘The best way to discuss rape and the chances of it happening is to take the emotional element out of the question, ’cos that’s why feminists are shitty at discussing rape.’ Online, Josh pulled no punches, but what was the reasoning behind such deep-seated views?
He still lived with his mum and dad in a suburban cul-de-sac that was a perfect snapshot of middle-class Britain. Josh greeted me at the door in a crisp blue shirt looking more like a politician than the spotty teenager I was at his age. Walking me up to his room, the loft space held all the tells of a teenager in residence. A busy bookshelf and band posters were supported by the expected half-made bed. Publicly he was a middle-aged man in a teenage shell, behind closed doors he appeared to be every bit the average kid.
Perfect hair and teeth to match, Josh (minus his braces) was camera ready and talked me through his set-up of a camcorder, tripod and script. Prepped to record part one of his ‘Drunk Sex Series’, Josh walked me to the spare room which doubled as his studio. It was one of those moments where I tried not to take the piss and failed miserably, as the family who’d owned the property previously had made the room up for their baby girl. The pink butterfly wallpaper and a flower-covered lampshade felt like a total mismatch for the type of content he created.
Josh had set up to record a video on how men could be unfairly accused of rape. The whole thing was made even more surreal by the fact I was sat watching on a shiny pink cushion. The drunk sex vlog was driven by a think piece he’d read online. An instant red flag, I called into question his motivations.
Unafraid to speak out, Josh had all the issues clearly explained in his script but in conversation failed to have any real reasoning as to why he needed to share his views globally. Having spent the best part of a decade speaking to activists all over the world, meeting one so young and active was refreshing. What I wrestled with was his inability to articulate a genuine motivation.
Describing the majority of faces in the men’s movement as those who’d suffered a trauma such as painful divorce or sexual violence, Josh was aware he was unlike most other men making their voices heard online. His ambition was to become a men’s issues speaker or join a think tank, but I wasn’t sure if he was being entirely honest with me or himself. Talking over a cup of tea, Josh explained he had an upper hand over most of his older peers as his lack of personal experience meant he wasn’t coming at an issue from an emotional standpoint.
His arguments were grounded in logic, but he was battling for reasons he couldn’t articulate making no sense to me. He had everything to say on an issue, but couldn’t tell me why. Considering he could be a medallist in the Can’t Shut Up Championships, it felt as if he was playing with important themes because they fascinated him. But should his interest fold, it sounded like he’d move on to something else entirely.
I liked Josh and saw the eighteen-year-old come to the fore the minute we stopped rolling. Meeting a few of his mates at a local pub, he sipped beer and made bad jokes. He knew how to unplug and, in so doing, I grew to believe the Josh I’d seen online was a performance.
His beliefs as to how women behave were based almost entirely on the experiences of other men he’d read about online. To form such strong opinions without living even some of his adult life felt like a waste, regardless of how much he professed to know what he was doing.
Back online, my video calling for someone from MGTOW to come forward was receiving an incredible response, only one I wasn’t hoping for. It was an active comments section with people attempting to one up each other on how creative they could be while insulting yours truly. My favourite from the highlight reel was ‘Fuck off you BBC poodle’ which did make me laugh, but unfortunately the comments weren’t just ridiculous, they were also racial.
‘Now I get why Queen Victoria got rid of slavery before America did’ stood out as pretty uncalled for, but the real message was loud and clear. I wasn’t going to get to anyone from the MGTOW community and they’d made sure I knew about it. I’d said nothing negative about the group publicly and had just made one video calling for interaction. If this was the response I was getting, what would happen to someone calling out the Manosphere experience, especially if that someone was female?
Journalists like Laurie Penny have endured attacks online that bordered on the criminal. Given what I’d learned and that she has published two books on feminism, it’s not surprising she’d been targeted. Bomb threats and pornography with her face pasted into hard-core scenes were just two examples of what Laurie had been sent since writing about the Manosphere. Penny believed she was targeted online along with any other woman who writes negatively about the community to silence and shut her down.
Putting it down to frustration and emotion powering some of the more offensive behaviour, Laurie saw their feelings as valid but not their actions. The darker end of the spectrum was responsible for some of the harassment Laurie had dealt with. That dark corner of the Manosphere was apparently patrolled by trolls.
In 2013, a campaign to commemorate Jane Austen by adding her likeness to the ten-pound note resulted in a Twitter onslaught directed at the female campaign leaders. Becoming front-page news, the story went national and some of the culprits ended up behind bars.
The amount of hate online had to be coming from somewhere, and the where-and what-fors were perfect questions for Milo. Meeting for a coffee by the Thames, looking back on what was (I’m sure even he’d agree) a badly dressed opinion machine that couldn’t stop smiling, I can’t believe what he’d go on to become. New Statesman would go on to call Yiannopoulos ‘flashy, provocative and steeped in misogyny’. The man I met held some challenging views but came across as at least having the ability to appear objective.
Milo found it ridiculous that people could be jailed merely for tweeting. It made him laugh. Fobbing off the threats Laurie had received online as typical journalistic bait and switch, he saw her reaction as uncalled for. ‘The extent to which free speech has evaporated in this country is amazing.’ But I’d never seen violent threats as free speech; to me a threat is a threat.
Believing men now couldn’t engage in an argument in the public sphere without fearing the loss of their jobs, Milo saw men as becoming increasingly terrified to speak out.
No means no, until it means yes
With Milo’s words still fresh in my mind and so much more experienced within the Manosphere, I tracked down Roosh V who had moved to Poland as he’d had enough with American women. ‘They cut their hair short. They’re so lazy to maintain long hair they make themselves ugly on purpose.’ Roosh now called a small Polish university town home. It was quiet, cheap and full of female students.
Flicking through some of his writing, Roosh’s books weren’t just a ‘how to’ on picking up women, they read like a guide to getting arrested for sexual assault. ‘No means no, until it means yes’ jumped off the page as I stared in horror. These paperback books were available globally and thousands were buying them. Thinking about the young men who might read his stories and be inspired, I found myself getting angry.
On his website, Roosh had written a piece titled ‘How to Stop Rape’, which caused outrage around the world. His million visitors a month had shared his blog but when mainstream media discovered his writing, the universal reaction was disgust.
Writing that those in charge should ‘Make rape legal if done on private property’. Roosh doubled down, ‘I propose the violent taking of a woman not punishable by law when don
e off of public grounds.’ I was repulsed. This was no longer bravado or a pick-up artist throwing around crude clues to get women into bed, this was a man with a huge platform and an audience apparently justifying rape.
The more I read of his work, the more books like 30 Bangs and others in the collection felt as though they were fulfilling some other darker need. His work wasn’t about making young men feel more confident or encouraging a sense of value, his work was essentially saying that women had none.
During the turbulent Canadian leg of his tour, the mayors of Montreal and Toronto had attempted to ban Roosh as his article on legalising rape went viral. Tour complete, he’d returned home and agreed to have me over for one final conversation.
I was greeted warmly at the door to his apartment. The first stop on my tour of his flat was the bedroom where he excitedly pointed out the ‘Your face will be blurred in any video production’ laminated sign he’d taken from the entrance to his talk from our first shoot day. The sign was now stuck above his bed’s headboard. Classy.
The apartment was large, containing only essentials, screaming single life. The fridge was half empty but a mini bottle of supermarket Champagne was on stand-by should a lady make an appearance.
How dare you come to Canada
Describing himself as still recovering from the drama that was the Canadian leg, Roosh knew his article was the main cause of the resistance he faced, but described the piece as satirical. Explaining away his proposed new rape legalisation as an absurd notion, he claimed the piece was intended to encourage women to take care of themselves more. I didn’t for one second believe that was his intent, and I think even Roosh was surprised at just how offended people were and how many people ended up reading the piece.
He saw himself as a victim of a smear campaign, saying the media painted him as a rape advocate. Resentful of his situation, Roosh didn’t take any ownership in the way the piece was taken; he was more excited to show me a video of an attack he’d experienced in Canada.
‘This is what happens when you give females choice, they choose to do this.’ A busy bar filled the screen and a woman threw her drink over the head of Roosh V who was wearing a longhaired wig for some reason. Other girls followed suit as he disappeared out the bar and into the street. Screams of ‘How dare you come to Canada’ were backed with various insults hurled in his direction. Following him all the way to his hotel, the pack in the video had grown and Roosh was facing the real-world reaction to his writing.
Making the disappointingly predictable censorship and freedom of speech argument, he saw the Canadian reaction as hypocritical. ‘My goal as a writer is to make sure that my ideas spread far and wide.’ Despite the global uniformity of outrage, Roosh saw himself as persecuted, showing no ownership in the dangers of sharing with his huge following frightening ideas regarding rape. Totally disconnected from just how offensive his writing was, I worried his lack of responsibility would only lead to more of the same.
Given the short space of time I’d spent with the man, I doubted his message could progress, as unlike Josh this wasn’t an act. This was who Roosh V was and that wasn’t going to change.
As a teenager I was hungry for someone to follow even if I didn’t realise at times I’d look in the worst of places. That desire for leadership wasn’t unique to me, it’s something innate in us as young men. The Manosphere in all of its permutations was providing role models, albeit an entirely different kind to the ones I might agree with.
Leaving Poland, my worry was that a growing army of young men were desperately searching for something and finding it in a mess of websites and dangerous leaders. I felt that, in reality, they needed someone to show them that being defensive and angry could do nothing beyond hindering their lives, particularly when it came to their relationships with women.
I survived the challenges of navigating that change from youth to adult life because I was surrounded by healthy examples of adulthood. Everything from women to work made more sense because of the men I chose to look up to. To go through those testing years of change and growth with a guide whose worldview was massively skewed due to his own inadequacies or issues, chances are I might have wound up with a few of my own.
That isn’t to say I don’t have my fair share of ‘stuff’, we all do, but I can say with total confidence I own mine and, more importantly, I know who’s responsible for it. Me.
CHAPTER 9
CLOSE TO HOME
Pretty much every day people who want to talk to me stop me in the street. Unfortunately, more than I’d care to admit, their first question can be, ‘Which one are you again?’ Once answered, they’re often keen to talk about my work. I’m usually asked about the on-screen moments that proved challenging, quickly followed by ‘How do you choose the films you make?’
When an idea isn’t originated by me or created in a brainstorm, incoming ideas trigger the same two questions every time. Firstly, is it good? And secondly, why me? If the idea passes this two-tier system, we’re in business. When it came to making the Extreme UK series, I pushed to make a film about being a British ethnic minority and gay, as so many people in my life had endured the same struggles without a voice that could travel like mine.
By the time I was a teenager, the only example of gay London I’d experienced was the couple I’d worked with – Ant and Claude. My circle of friends was small and we’d always spend our time and what little money we had on the same thing. Girls. I was in and out of what was a buzzing London club scene, wing-manning my oldest mate Dan who I’d known since the age of four. Our time was spent going to the same places and doing the same thing: trying to out-funny each other in the presence of women.
Occasionally, we’d head out with a school friend of his, who for the purposes of this book we’ll call Benny. Now Benny was the kind of teenager who looked like an adult in school uniform. He was massive. Put it this way, there was no question who got pubes first as Benny was shaving way before we were sixteen. Raised in an affluent north London suburb, Benny was from a wealthy family and was the first one out of our little gang to get a car.
Occasionally, we’d play a game (I’m actually ashamed to admit in hindsight) we called ‘Pizza Drive By’ where rich Benny would order way too many pizzas and the leftover untouched boxes would become ammunition. We’d hop in his jeep, drive the streets of north London and lean out of the convertible roof throwing entire pizzas at passers-by for no reason other than we found it funny. We were dicks.
Obviously, rich Benny had a pool, so regardless of the weather we’d have pool parties. The reason they stand out so much more than playing Pizza Drive By, is down to a game big Benny always wanted to play, specifically with me for some reason. In a time before they changed their name and long before the Rock became a star, my friends and I would watch WWF, the shiny American wrestling, on satellite TV. For some reason, Benny would always scream ‘WWF’ and grab at me for a wrestle in the pool. At first it was funny as I was never going to win that fight, but the more he’d grab at only me, the weirder it got.
By the time we were in our early twenties and Benny still hadn’t introduced us to a single girl, Dan and I were thinking the same thing and, as it turns out, had been for years. The day finally came when Benny showed up with a girl out of the blue, introducing her as his girlfriend. As soon as they’d left, Dan and I had the ‘Isn’t he gay?’ conversation, going over all of the moments we’d thought the same thing but said nothing. Unsurprisingly, Dan took the opportunity to piss himself laughing at all the times Benny had roped me into rough and tumble, or as he called it, the WWF game. Cheers Dan.
I’d spent my entire teens around a young gay man, but I’d never asked about what he was clearly internalising even though I saw myself as a friend. I wasn’t avoiding the obvious; I was simply doing as I’d been taught. The environment I’d been raised in ensured that anything relating to homosexuality wasn’t even a conversation. My stepfather had always told me that if I would ever ‘decide’ to be a
gay, I’d be disowned.
For the record, my family isn’t made up of mindless homophobes, but as West Africans born and raised in an extremely conservative Ghana, there was no conversation to be had when it came to sexuality. The culture I refer to was built on values established in the religious element of our lives. I’d never spoken to my parents about sex and my awkward teenage self definitely wasn’t capable of managing a chat with a mate about his sexual preference.
I was given a second chance to be a better friend in my mid-twenties, when I saw Benny’s struggle repeating itself but this time with a family member. As his story isn’t mine to tell, I’ll jump to the end and most important part of our journey as family. The ‘he’ let’s call Charlie and the ‘when’ was 2012 in Ibiza. It was a boys’ holiday and a huge group of us were staying in a villa, with every night dominated by long, impassioned debates over dinner. During a discussion about truth and transparency, Charlie decided to come out. The table of ten burst into tears and applause, embracing him in an incredible moment of support and love.
What made the moment so special was that everyone at the table bar one of us was entirely non-white, and Charlie being embraced so ardently went against everything the entire group had been taught.
Charlie and I didn’t have a relationship until my early twenties and, as we’d grown closer, I’d been pretty confident he wasn’t straight, but I never imposed my assumptions. That dinner table in Ibiza offered a moment where Charlie felt safe enough to share who he’d always been with a group he knew wouldn’t reject him. Charlie wasn’t coming out, he was coming out to us.
