There was nothing quite like the thrill of the cancel.
Not that Oliver White believed in the term ‘cancel’. Cancel was just the word bigots cried when they were called out, the whine of the right-wing predator as it succumbed to his moral lances. For Oliver, the internet was the great leveller – no longer could gloating celebs, tax-avoiding millionaires or populist ministers sail through life untouchable, corroding society with their toxic behaviour. Real people – the people – could now cut anyone down to size.
Oliver White. Journalist, author, socialist, feminist, anti-fascist. He/him. Rainbow flag. Green heart. Red rose. Black fist.
So read his Twitter bio. He had over 850,000 followers, though he knew many of them were tribal trolls, lurking there only to snap at his every post with crude slander or a homophobic jibe. Every day he would block another thirty or so users. They’d regularly mock him as the #WhiteKnight for fighting for his causes, unable to wrap their narrow minds around the idea that Oliver could genuinely care about members of society less fortunate than himself, decrying him and his supporters as the ‘virtue signalling wokie army’.
‘What’s eating you tonight?’ Max said, handing him a bowl with a wry smile.
Oliver looked up from his phone, frowning, as Max curled up in an armchair with his pasta and switched on the TV. ‘Professor at the University of Lincoln,’ he said. ‘David Salter. He’s reposted an article that claims certain tribes in Sub-Saharan Africa have lower intelligence than other populations. Doesn’t look like his first foray into “ethnic” science.’
‘Racist old white guy?’
Oliver swallowed a chunk of (organic, local cooperative) fusilli. ‘A racist old white guy in a position of power at a public institution, regularly invited onto the BBC, indoctrinating the next generation of young adults with his bigoted views.’
‘He’s actually teaching them the racist studies?’ Max raised an eyebrow.
‘That’s not the point.’ Oliver sighed. ‘The point is people have a right to know the vile ideologies of those in the establishment. I can draw attention to that. I call it out to the university, and ask if that’s really who they want representing them. It’s not a crime to use the influence I have to call for progress. It’s a moral obligation.’
Oliver turned back to his phone, adding to his Salter thread while he ate and Max watched The One Show.
Firing off a perfectly barbed tweet was like pronging an arrow into the bullseye. But the real thrill came when the campaigns he was part of burst into the offline world. Getting blackface-normalising sketch shows dumped from iPlayer or an accused sex pest’s memoir scrapped – that was satisfying. Oliver didn’t enjoy when an academic got sacked or a disc jockey lost their slot on LBC – at least not on a personal level – but it was necessary for the greater good of society. That was the goal he always had to focus on. And these people were like knotweed; they always found somewhere else to spring up. No one was ever truly ‘cancelled’. It had taken him five years to get Sadie Day banned from Twitter, and soon after she made a comeback on TikTok.
The right had become a hydra. The more you cut away at its insidious rhetoric, the more it erupted all around you. Oliver’s inbox was bursting with messages from supporters directing him to the latest crime against morality. Nobody’s reputation was immune to an unpleasant discovery, even cherished institutions and long dead artists. In the past few months he’d had to call out The National Sewing Society (ableism), Daniel Wilks (domestic abuse apologist) and even Dora the Explorer (racist). You could smell the fear in the air. Who would mark themselves for the cyber-guillotine next?
Oliver scoffed. ‘Have you seen this open letter, In Defence of Free Speech?’
‘No,’ Max said, disinterested, taking Oliver’s bowl. ‘Are you gonna help wash up?’
‘They act like they’re the ones being attacked. As if a few comments on Twitter stop them pumping out their bile, which is actually killing people. Nothing says, “I’m being silenced” like being paid to write about how you’re being silenced in a national newspaper.’
‘Have I been silenced?’
‘What?’
‘I asked you to help wash up.’
•
Oliver’s allergies always started with a tingle under his tongue, spreading to a furriness around his throat, itching under his arms and inner thighs, before full blown hives, retching and throttled breathing. Being cancelled felt much the same.
First there was a Twitter mention, which he scanned in the microsecond it took to swipe away the notification on his phone: Always knew Oliver White was an anti-Semite.
He didn’t think anything of it. Baseless smears went with his territory.
But then came the others. A trickle became a stream became a flood.
Absolutely heartbroken and FUMING #OliverWhite.
Liberal elite hypocrite shows his true Jew-hating colours #OliverWhitesOnly.
Guess that explains his Hitler youth haircut #WhitePower.
Oliver clicked. He scrolled. The same image cascaded before his eyes, over and over, one he hadn’t seen in over a decade. Aged nineteen, first year of university, fresh-faced, arm round another boy – Anton – who was wearing a Julie Andrews wig and frock. Oliver was dressed as a German soldier.
‘What the fuck?’ he muttered. Just about to go down into a tube station, he pushed his way back through the grumbling flow of commuters. He put his (independent, indigenous women-empowering) coffee down on a wall and rushed out a tweet.
I am NOT and have NEVER BEEN an anti-Semite. I have nothing but respect for the Jewish people.
Even before he could put his phone away, the barbed replies hooked in.
“The Jewish people.” Cringing so hard right now.
Bullshit. Bet you enjoyed being a Jew-fucking Nazi.
Oliver felt the air sucked out of his stomach like a punctured balloon. He had to get out of here. He had to get home. The thrum of people gushing down into the tube station filled him with a nauseous dread, so he stumbled away down the street, fingers shaking so much he almost ordered an Uber Pool by mistake.
In the taxi, he got more of the picture. Anton was now a dancer in Berlin; he’d mentioned the story of his partner wearing an SS uniform in passing, as part of a larger conversation about his time in England and his Jewish roots. He hadn’t mentioned Oliver’s name. But he had said how his partner had wanted to keep the outfit on when they had intercourse that evening. The interview had come out in a German newspaper a few days earlier. Some web sleuths must have made the connection to Oliver and discovered the photograph.
He fired off another tweet.
The personal – and private – image that has been circulating was taken after my boyfriend at the time and I attended a Sound of Music singalong.
His phone dinged immediately.
Did you make him singalong to the German national anthem too?
Heat seared beneath his temples.
Not much of an apology, musical or otherwise.
Hills are alive with the sound of Oliver White’s bigotry #cancelled.
Always knew this guy wasn’t kosher.
Jew hater.
Leftist scum.
He clasped the phone so tightly in his fist he was surprised it didn’t crack. As they pulled up outside his flat, Oliver slammed the taxi door and stormed inside, forgetting to even give the driver a five-star rating.
Screeching along to an old movie doesn’t give you the right to abuse minorities, you insensitive ghoul.
Proof the most woke are the most full of shit.
The latch shuddered in his grip as he closed the front door.
For the many not the Jew.
Pop! Oliver jumped. A cork bounced off the ceiling.
‘Anniversary tipple?’ Max grinned, proudly brandishing a bottle of champagne. He spotted the iPhone clenched in Oliver’s hand. ‘I saw your name was trending too – double the reason to celebrate!’
Oliver let out a frustrated sigh as he barged past Max. ‘And you didn’t even bother to check why I was trending?’
‘I assumed it was your latest article, no?’
Flinging his bag into the corner of the kitchen, Oliver was just about to offer a scathing reply when he found himself face-to-face with a man in chef’s whites. He pivoted, scooting Max into a corner of the corridor with a questioning look.
‘I booked caterers,’ Max whispered. ‘I told you. For our anniversary dinner.’
‘Shit.’
‘Why shit?’
‘I have a Twitter mob to deal with tonight.’
‘Are you fucking real?’
‘Yes, I’m fucking real.’
Oliver gave him a kiss. It wasn’t returned.
Calls for The Guardian to drop him. Petitions for universities to bar him. Old tweets resurrected – criticisms of Israel, support for Corbyn – more ‘proof’ of his anti-Semitism. Threads unravelled – This is the *real* problem with Oliver White – posturing how his rallies to abolish billionaires were thinly veiled conspiracies against a perceived Jewish elite. Just look how often he attacks Lord Sugar.
The mob had risen up, hurling fistfuls of horseshit at Oliver, forming a giant pile of steaming excrement under which to suffocate him. He fought his way through the onslaught, posting rebuttals, scathingly critiquing the vilest replies. The ones that stung the most were those from the left, deserting him at the first whiff of imperfection. They’d repost his words as screenshots, thinking he wouldn’t be notified and see, or discuss him as Ol*ver Wh*te to prevent him searching them out, as if his name were now a slur.
This is why we don’t need privileged cis white men speaking up for us.
But occasionally he’d find a vote of support. Dressing up for a musical is not a crime. Times change. Anti-fascists persecute Oliver White for dressing as a Nazi like... Nazis.
He’d like each one, his thumb pounding on the heart icon like he was performing CPR.
The chef served them four courses at their kitchen table. Oliver barely ate a bite. Max didn’t say a word, glaring at Oliver as he scrolled and scrolled through his phone. Things hadn’t been this icy between them since Oliver berated Max for ordering something from Amazon. ‘For God’s sake,’ Oliver muttered, ‘everyone goes as a Nazi for The Sound of Music. Anton never said anything about being uncomfortable at the time. We were teenagers for fuck’s sake.’
‘But you did keep the uniform on when you had sex with him,’ Max replied, stony faced.
‘I don’t remember. We’d been partying.’ Oliver held his hands up. ‘There wasn’t anything... it wasn’t deliberate.’
Max glared, turned to the chef. ‘Thank you, Pierre. That was wonderful. The food, at least.’
As he closed the front door, Max said he was going to bed. ‘You can sleep in the spare room,’ he added, when Oliver started to follow.
•
He hoped the rage would have subsided by morning. If anything, it had got worse.
One of the favourable tweets he’d liked had come from a notorious Holocaust-denying vlogger, which the mob had picked up on with delight. Pieces had been written up on the story on most news sites, with the Mail taking greatest pleasure in mauling Oliver as a racist hypocrite.
He swiftly reposted the article. I have been called many things – communist, Marxist – but I will never be accused of being a racist. Those close to me, including my partner (who is Black), will tell you I have never uttered a racist word in my life.
Still the bile continued to spew.
The trouble with Oliver White (A THREAD)…
Here’s why Oliver White’s ‘apology’ is problematic | Story by me.
He was prejudiced. Xenophobic. A bully. An abuser. Every attempt to fight back added fuel to the flames.
‘Get your face out of that fucking phone.’
Oliver snapped back to reality. It was evening. He hadn’t noticed Max coming in through the door. And he’d never seen him this incensed.
‘What’s up?’
‘What’s up?! I’ve asked you – I've told you – explicitly – not to talk about me online –’
‘I haven’t, I didn’t say anything about you.’
Max held up his hands, flabbergasted. ‘You don’t even realise, do you? Christ Almighty. Let me spell it out for you.’ He read from his own phone. ‘“My partner, who is Black”. Do you have any idea what it’s like to be so casually dismissed like that? Do you have any fucking clue how hard I’ve worked to not be described as “the black guy”? Of course you don’t, you privileged white twat. You think a hard life is people saying some mean things about you on the internet. Well guess what, Olly, some people have mean things to deal with in the real fucking world.’
‘Uh...’ Oliver was stunned. ‘I’m sorry, Max.’
‘Whatever. Just don’t tweet a fucking apology.’
‘Wow.’ Oliver put down his phone, followed Max into the kitchen. ‘You think all I do is tweet?’
‘I think everything you say is a fucking tweet. Every sentence you construct is a one-hundred-and-forty-character jibe, targeted to put someone down or assert your own moral authority. You’re not interested in nuance or understanding anymore, you just like to snipe at the world from your virtual soapbox.’
‘Two hundred and eighty.’
‘What?’
‘You can have two hundred and eighty characters on Twitter now,’ Oliver said.
‘Jesus!’ Max grabbed himself a beer out of the fridge. ‘You want one?’
‘Am I going to need one?’
Max shrugged and wandered into the lounge. Oliver poured himself a glass of (biodynamic, refugee-grown) wine.
‘I didn’t mean to demean you,’ Oliver said, taking a seat on the sofa opposite Max. ‘I just had to prove that I’m not the person they’re trying to smear me as.’
‘And did you do that?’
‘Uh… I… maybe. Some people are never going to accept it. We’re in a war now, Max, like it or not. The right has mobilised and they’re determined to obliterate anyone who tries to stand up to them.’
Max rolled his eyes. ‘There you go again. You always have to blame someone else. It’s the right, it’s the billionaires, it’s the Murdoch press, it’s structural racism, it’s society – it’s never even slightly more complicated than that.’
‘That’s because it’s true! They want to keep people in the dark, but we’re waking up. I want to save people.’
‘Is that what you’re doing for me? Am I here to fulfil your white saviour fetish, Olly?’
‘Fuck off.’
Max sighed, fingers gripping the arms of his chair. ‘I admired you, Olly, you know I did. I was taken in by your passion, your boundless sympathy, your need to challenge the status quo no matter the personal cost. But you’ve changed. That platform has warped your perspective. You think you’ll genuinely change the world if your comments get enough likes and retweets, that you’ll enlighten a tipping point of the public if you just post enough sharp quips, that you’ll build a better society if you can bring down just enough public figures. But that’s not the way it works. You’re burrowing into an echo chamber, closing your mind with every witty quote tweet… so much you’ve become the mirror image of the people you used to hate. And you’re fuelling an even more extreme opposition.’
Oliver felt his throat swelling. He took a glug of wine, unable to swallow the lump. This was worse than every criticism he got online. Every email calling him a smug prick or threat to paint a baseball bat red with your commie blood. ‘What are you saying?’ he asked, not daring to look Max in the eye.
‘It’s over, Olly.’ Max’s fingers released their grip on the armchair. ‘We’re over. I don’t want to be around whatever this is anymore.’
Oliver begged. He pleaded. He called and messaged, till he found himself blocked. Cancelled. Alone in the flat, he opened up Twitter and posted.
Congrats to my so-called allies. You cost me my reputation, relationship, numerous speaking gigs and 5k followers. Way to set back our cause, never mind my personal pain. Maybe have some compassion and think before you tweet.
Oliver White settled back on the sofa, cricking his neck, rotating his wrist, ready to eviscerate the replies as they came in.
If you enjoyed this story, grab yourself a copy of Everyone Is Awful, which contains nine more darkly comic tales as well as this one. Order now on Amazon, and annoy Oliver White!