The Lost
You've got to feel for them, really
I’m not a fan of Substack Notes. It’s a necessary evil; a way to flash a cheeky milky thigh, tempting you to peek behind the curtain at my body of scorching hot takes, but I find it to be a distraction. It’s the most social media-ish aspect of writing on this platform, which means at best it’s another task for my eternally bustling brain, at worst it’s the void of the endless scroll. The ADHD brain does not do well with the endless scroll.
It’s great to interact with other Stackers1 though, something I really enjoy. Although I often find myself dipping my toe into politics, both at home and on the global stage. I’d love to devote some of my time and energy to writing about serious matters, but the world’s on fire, I’m job hunting and it’s so much easier to write about sandwiches. I admire heavy hitting forces for good like The Bear and Marina Purkiss who consistently punt out opinion that I agree with, and I find myself using Notes to say as much. The side effect is catching strays from The Lost.
You know them. On Facebook, their avatar was a grainy picture of a dog. On Twitter, they wear flags like on their bio like scars. Here on Substack, they invariably sport the orange blob. They are life’s default setting.
I honestly thought I’d given up arguing on the internet. I was arguing on the internet back when Donald Trump was just a dim prick with a skyscraper. I cut my teeth in the dialup frontier days of MSN and AOL, wielding words in a way that would make today’s keyboard warriors curl up in a ball, sobbing helplessly.
This was back when trolling was an art, deft touches and savage punches in equal measure, digital rap battles. Everyone knew the game. These days it’s just brute nastiness. Not so much jousting, more like glassing a stranger in the pub. No flair, no elan. I remember the mastery of the craft. Nothing phased me then, and nothing phases me now. Drop me onto Elon’s scorched earth edgelord hellscape, and I will destroy minds and devour souls.
But life’s too fucking short. I’d rather devote my energies to spreading light, not shattering psyches upon my syllables. About a decade ago, I stopped arguing on the internet2. My Substack is my internet retirement: a cosy little space where I can sit in my rocker, spinning sentences, whittling pithy zingers, content among the words. Like Thanos after he obliterated half of all life in the universe at the end of Avengers.
But the faceless are here. The veil has been pierced. And I cannot sit idly by, rising above, abiding their wilful ignorance, for much longer. The urge to have a good old ding dong grows by the day. They’re the zombie hordes and my words are Negan’s spiked baseball bat.
I’m not talking about the super spreaders. Those primary cases who’ve monetised wilful ignorance so completely it has become their entire being. We all know about the professional agitators, the one’s who coin it in by sowing division and misery. The billionaires, the greasy pole climbers, the influencers, the commentators3. All of them peddling outrage and conflict for no other reason than feathering their own nests. Arguing with them represents screaming into the abyss.
They know what they’re doing. Turn up, smash a load of things to bits, shout about it and then leave; like the big alpha in 28 Years Later, except bereft of a monster dong. That mob are never going to change. What I can’t wrap my head around, is how, after all this time, The Lost still fail to see that they’re being taken for a ride.
Because The Lost are normal folk like you and me, swept up and tumbling in the grifting slipstream. They spend far too much time online, and they do not enjoy leaving their corner of the internet. The Lost often whine about free speech, yet they will not tolerate you exercising this right if it pulls apart their world view. So why do they devote so much time and energy to seeking out conflicting worldviews? The Lost are, bless them, desperately confused. It must be exhausting.
In essence, I write about things that wind me up. If I don’t get these thoughts out of my head and onto a page, I am unpleasant to be around. It’s a clunky form of anger management but it works for me. The fact 450-odd like minded souls find it fun is a lovely little bonus.
Being a Ledgehead is totally optional though, I do not march around the internet shoving these thoughts into unsuspecting faces. Not to metaphorically kiss my own arse too much, but I’ve evolved over the years. The Lost have not.
Last year, I wrote a piece about people painting flags on roundabouts. I really had fun; it was a proper workout that left me feeling energised and positive4. My tongue was so firmly in my cheek that I could taste my own beard but even then, The Lost tried to pull apart my obvious wit and whimsy. The Lost are unable to laugh at themselves.
The world’s fucked right now. We can all agree on that. The most powerful man on earth is a volatile narcissist, bereft of cognitive function, gleefully torching the Middle East, and he’s got his national media either compliant or cowed. It is clear to anyone with eyes. I commented this on a Note the other day, and A Lost popped up to call me a democrat and ask whether I thought Joe Biden was perfect. The Lost cling to whataboutery like Kate Winslet clung to that door.
What I wanted to say was no, of course Joe Biden wasn’t perfect. No politician is perfect, because they’re human beings and every single one of us on this rock is carrying at least bumbag5 of their own fallibility. But Joe Biden didn’t start an illegal war, did he? He didn’t deliberately make us all poorer to distract from the fact that he’s linked, explicitly and repeatedly, to a global ring of wealthy elitist nonces. And why are you cheerleading for a man who’d do those things?
It’s wasted on The Lost. What’s the line about playing chess with a pigeon? No matter how good you are, it’ll just shit all over the board then strut around like it’s won anyway. So, rather than an apocalyptic uppercut of a reply, I gave this Lost a dry slap response and went on my way.
I’ve been calling The Lost faceless because I run into them online but there is an obvious figurehead, at least in the UK. It’s Kemi Badenoch6. Although she’s a politician we can’t call Badenoch a greasy pole climber, because since becoming Leader of the opposition she’s torpedoed the Conservative Party so completely that I’m convinced she’s a double agent.
Kemi Badenoch is Queen of The Lost. Terminally online, wedded to ideas even after being proved wrong, slow to change, muddled thinking, weak attack and even weaker defence. Bottom of the league and getting relegated no matter what.
James O’Brien on LBC calls the phenomenon of The Lost footballification: your colours run so deep, your scarf is tied so tight, that you cannot see fair in the opposition nor foul in your own team. Blind tribalism is part of football’s enduring appeal; a safe little outlet to indulge our oldest primal instincts. Better than cracking their skull open with a rock and feasting on the goo inside.
It’s really no way to run a country, though.
Try telling this to The Lost. They would love to crack skulls and feast on the goo inside. Their anger is boundless. Sadly, it’s also misplaced. You’d think after all the shocks of the last two decades, more people would realise that screaming at each other ain’t getting us anywhere; it’s just bread and circuses.
The Lost realise nothing.
It’s plain to see that the very systems our society is built on are the root cause of everything that’s gone wrong in recent history. Forty years ago you could kid yourself that capitalism was working for you because you owned the roof over your head and went to Marbella twice a year. Smashcut to 2026 and capitalism now only serves the super rich. Most of us are just grinding every day, the same handful of pricks holding all of us down.
I wonder what it’ll take to make The Lost realise this. Because it sure as shit isn’t a loudmouth on Substack.
There’s probably a Lost out there reading this thinking Why the fuck do you even care, big man?
I care, my pedigree chum, because people I know and love are amongst your number.
I’ve had conversations with The Lost. Face to face, no screen between us. What came out was confused, ill-informed, often conspiracy theory-based bullshit. The sloppiest thinking the internet has kicked up. Let’s be clear here: The Lost are not stupid. They simply have broken filters; quality control is hard, critical thinking takes time. They are instinctive - the walking talking embodiment of “I saw it on the internet, so it must be true.”
Thirty years with all of the information on earth at their fingertips, and The Lost have used that legit superpower to completely pickle themselves.
I don’t want to fight this fight. I want to help The Lost, not destroy them. But they don’t want to be helped. They want to stay in their corner, smearing shit on the walls and blaming everyone else.
If it were up to me, I’d turn the internet off twice a week. Arbitrary days, 24 hours notice. Get away from your screen and get out into the world. Throw a stick for the dog, feed some ducks. Have a proper conversation, not a barney. It’s Spring; go outside and smell a fucking daffodil.
That’ll never happen, so how about two internets? One for people who are sick of being marionetted by the systems of the mega rich, one for The Lost. On The Lost’s internet, they can fume and seethe and call people horrible names all the time. Nothing will get done, but they’ll be able to pay their poison forward.
On the other internet, we’ll aim for community, positivity, maybe even a little progress after twenty years of the same old static bullshit. The Lost and the people who feed them can wither in their safe space, leaving the rest of us to try and salvage something for future generations.
Thanks for reading. My ego is vast yet fragile, so please show some love before you leave. Restack the piece to help people find it, or leave a comment if anything landed well with you. Or just bang the like button before you go, even that will help the algos find me. If you’re feeling really flush, toss some coin in my Ko-Fi and I’ll love you forever. Cheers, hope to see you again soon.
Is this a thing? This should be a thing. Make it happen.
Notable exception: I still argue about Brentford FC. I cannot abide people getting Brentford wrong, especially when they claim to be Brentford supporters themselves. Call it mental cardio.
I’m not talking about the supine journalists who cheerlead so effectively for that top tier, either. We all know that they’re complicit, we’ve seen their work for decades now. We had a great chance after Leveson to disentangle the fourth estate from the powerbrokers, and we bottled it.
Clearly I wasn’t the only one thinking along those lines, because it’s my most successful piece ever.
Fanny pack, my dear American friends.
Standard Lost response: “A middle aged white man attacking a black woman!” Dig up, mate. You want an example that’ll shoot your fox here? Fine, Jeremy Corbyn. Him and Kemi are both Lost. I picked Badenoch because at least she’s still vaguely relevant.
Your words are dripping honey this morning, "my pedigree chum".
A fine start to a Friday my friend! Some positivity in the world can do us all the power of good