In an age where algorithmic outrage is the quickest route to influence, it is little wonder that two of the most divisive figures in modern media, Abbie Chatfield and Andrew Tate, have risen not by offering serious ideas, but by presenting a convenient villain on which to pin cultural frustration.
They sit on opposite sides of the ideological spectrum – or at least, that’s the marketing. But in method, tone, and commercial instinct, they are remarkably similar.
Chatfield appeals to a frustrated group of progressive women. Tate to a disillusioned generation of young men. Both long ago learned that if you shout loudly enough, reduce social complexity to gender grievance, and feed your followers a steady stream of outrage and victimhood, the internet will reward you.
We are watching the same strategy play out in different costumes. One speaks the language of empowerment, the other of masculine assertiveness. Yet in practice, both are performers in the same theatre, turning grievance into personal brand.
To his credit, Andrew Tate sometimes says what young men need to hear: that life demands responsibility, that excuses are worthless, that discipline and accountability are prerequisites for any meaningful success. There is a reason so many young men, drifting and unseen, latch onto that message.
In a culture that increasingly treats masculinity as a problem, that message can be a wake-up call. Properly framed, it could be a powerful antidote to the passivity and aimlessness so many young men feel.
But Tate’s lifestyle undermines his own message.
The man who speaks of honour and restraint built much of his wealth through a webcam business based on emotional manipulation and sexual commodification. The man who praises masculine virtue boasts of multiple wives and a lifestyle that bears no resemblance to the values he claims to defend.
He points to duty, but celebrates domination. He praises discipline, but markets indulgence. He diagnoses the cultural illness with striking accuracy, then prescribes poison with equal confidence.
The result is a counterfeit masculinity – strength replaced with spectacle, purpose replaced with performance.
Abbie Chatfield’s message runs in the opposite direction, but with the same effect.
Rather than calling women to responsibility, she calls them to rejection – particularly of men, and especially conservative men.
She routinely refuses to engage with opposing views, treating male disagreement not as a perspective but a threat. Dissent is not answered; it is blocked, shamed or converted into content.
She does not argue. She provokes. Say something dismissive about masculinity, and the internet lights up.
Her persona is built not on feminine strength, but on constant offence and curated victimhood.
Critics accuse her of commercialising feminism, and they are right.
What should be a serious conversation about respect and equality has been reduced to viral slogans, product deals and branded sex-positivity. This is not leadership. It is monetised activism dressed as moral authority.
Both Tate and Chatfield attract attention not because their ideas are profound, but because their audiences are in pain.
Tate speaks to young men who feel ignored. Chatfield to young women who feel mistreated.
Both offer simple certainty in a confused world. Both rely on slogans instead of substance. And both use their followers to punish dissent. Critics are enemies. Debate becomes theatre. The algorithm, not argument, sets the terms.
What makes them dangerous is not the size of their platforms, but the absence of seriousness behind them. They sound authoritative, but their philosophies are shallow – attitude masquerading as argument.
Strip away the theatrics, and very little remains.
They have also both come under fire from within their own camps.
Tate is criticised by principled conservatives who see vice, ego and a hollow parody of masculine virtue. Chatfield is challenged by feminists like Clementine Ford, who accuse her of turning empowerment into a brand and reducing complex issues to clickbait.
In both cases, conviction is a costume. The real driver is commercial opportunity.
Neither is offering a path worth following.
They are not building culture; they are selling it.
Tate sells a lifestyle of wealth, rebellion and conquest. Chatfield sells liberation, defiance and curated self-love.
Both promote a kind of freedom that is entirely reactive: freedom from restraint, from tradition, from accountability, and from the hard work of understanding others as fellow citizens rather than enemies.
And yet both occasionally stumble across real truths. Men are struggling. Women are frustrated. Relationships are fraying. Loneliness is rising.
But instead of helping people confront these truths, they offer caricatures, villains and easy enemies.
Tate gestures at purpose, then buries it in bravado. Chatfield gestures at respect, then drowns it in resentment.
If we are to rebuild a culture of responsibility and respect, we must stop confusing loudness with leadership. Young Australians do not need more influencers pushing them toward tribalism. They need adults – people willing to speak with seriousness rather than theatrics.
The danger is not that Chatfield and Tate are popular. The danger is that too many mistake their popularity for wisdom.
And unless we rediscover the difference, we may find that the people who claimed to liberate us were only ever selling tickets to the latest tribal circus.
Jules Pedersen is the Executive Chairman of Newport Capital Group, Australia’s longest-established licensed M&A investment banking firm focused on Technology, Media, Entertainment and Telecommunications, with a footprint in Australia, Europe and the United States.
