Obnoxicated #1: The Problem with Influencers

Bask in the overwrought and booze-infused meanderings of an incorrigible malcontent

I’ll make no bones of the fact that booze has a tried-and-tested tendency to turn me into a loose-lipped, piss-and-vinegar pedant. In fact, I’ll be the first to admit that I have a chip on my shoulder at the best of times, drink just sees me dispense my two cents upon any poor soul polite or stupid enough to lend an ear. In this case, that’s you, my friend. So sit down and stay awhile. I’ve got a thing or two I want to get off my chest.

Now, you’re late and I’m already three drinks in, so let me catch you up on the bourbon-fuelled bugbear currently doing laps in my head. It’s the term ‘influencer’. I hate it. I hate all that it stands for. I hate the soulless, self-important, palace-of-me cynicism that fuels it, and I hate the reckless, wanton violence and exploitation it lays the ground for. And now that I’m diving face-first into drink number four, I’ll tell you why.

Before I do, let me preface the oncoming vitriol with a wee caveat: I love people who love things. I love the almost inexplicable, entirely unrelatable, and downright unapologetic geekery of those who are truly passionate about, well, just about anything. I love the deep divers and the connoisseurs, the snobs, and eccentrics in any and all of their myriad forms. From watch collectors to trainspotters, from tailoring nuts to fitness freaks. I love them all.

I love people with soul in the mix and skin in the game for the simple fact that they have - for want of a better cliché - put their money where their mouth is on more occasions than society might deem mentally sound. They’ve spent time, money, and considerable effort sharpening their tools, mastering their trades, and generally just jumping headlong into the far-flung reaches of some bizarre esotericism. That’s worth a thing or two in my book. That takes heart and soul. 

I see neither heart nor soul in the influencer, though. No putting of money where the proverbial mouth is, and certainly no skin in the game. All I see is the pointless pursuit of the trivial; a cocksure and cynical celebration of the meaningless, the fleeting, and the downright boring. I see walking, talking billboards who simply shoehorn themselves into whatever movement proves most lucrative at any given moment. Each of them is content with - and accomplice to - a machine that turns people into brands, swaps income for exposure, and treats concepts like authenticity and morality like they were Play-Doe.

It’s nothing new, I guess. Narratives of the self have always had a habit of derailing into the long grass of fantasy. Instagram just turned it into a paying gig. The influencer deals in false lives half-lived and little fictions badly told. Those filtered pictures and empty captions are the lies they tell themselves before they run along to sell them to others. Reality forever sacrificed to a filtered and fraudulent facsimile. Dreams for sale. Just follow the hashtag. Link in bio.

The whole process isn’t just contrived; it’s downright Kafkaesque. The influencer is awash in a kaleidoscopic, cacophonic, who’s-leading-who clusterfuck of collective, white noise narcissism. It’s a twisted, sycophantic little feedback loop, make no mistake. Followers like and comment away as the influencer narrates each sponsored, paid-for post with the deftness and subtlety of a fart in a bathtub. Audacity unfettered. Nonsense perpetual. 

Over the years, I’ve worked with - and kept the company of - content creators who do spectacular things by sheer dint of being true to themselves, their passions, and their areas of expertise. I truly respect that hustle. I respect those who double down, dig deep and carve out their own niche in a society that still finds itself woefully enamoured with the nine to five. So whatever war I wage with the influencer, don’t confuse it for scorn toward any creative audacious enough to carve a living out of what is, for the most part, a rigged game. The difference between the two is massive, and my respect for the latter is absolute. What I don’t respect is some two-bit chancer looking for a free meal and a pair of trainers. Because that’s not making a living, that’s fuelling a fire. That’s pushing a lifestyle that doesn’t exist for a company you can’t vouch for to an audience you don’t give a shit about. 

There are those who’ll say I’m no better. After all, I’m a hashtag-toting, trend-hunting Editor in Chief who lives in a glass house so bullshit brittle that I’ve absolutely no business ruffling the feathers of any Insta-savvy entrepreneurs simply trying to earn a living. They’d be dead right, too. I’m neck-deep in the shit and I know it. But here’s the kicker: most of us are. We are the leisure generation, we’re defined by the memetic and the algorithmic. Our spending is conspicuous, our excess unapologetic, and our dance unending. We’re dirty, rotten little mythmakers the lot of us. So here’s to us, I suppose.

Kurt Vonnegut once said that we are who we pretend to be. And if that’s the case, then I have just one last question for the influencer - and for the rest of us while we’re at it - before I finish this drink, settle my bill, and hit the road. It’s a question I pose not with scorn or self-righteous indignation, but instead with a worried, almost motherly, you-okay-hun-inbox-me level of genuine, honest-to-god concern: Who the hell do we think we are?

This piece was originally published in Rattle Magazine.