Andrew Tate, Prison Bitch
Karma, Abuse, and Fake Masculinity.
Andrew and Tristan Tate were in Miami this weekend, but instead spending it partying, they ended it in handcuffs.
Good.
The fact that these two spray-tanned mannequins convinced a generation of boys that this is what a man looks and acts like is a travesty, a second-order effect of twisted social media incentives and the algorithmic enshittification of our culture and society.
The photos are everything. I can’t do justice to how beautifully the Internet did its thing, turning the photo of Tate in his capri pants and clingy purple top into a thousand cuts.
I wanted to write this piece just as a rolling mockery of these vicious fops, but there’s a bigger fish to fry in this story.
U.S. Marshals frog-marching the Tate brothers in South Florida on Saturday, sealed warrant in hand, an extradition order from the Crown Prosecution Service in London, which announced it had piled on thirty-eight fresh charges, was a karmic beauty.
Fifty-nine total charges now. Forty-two for Andrew, seventeen for Tristan. Rape, human trafficking, assault, indecent images of a child, extreme pornography. (No, not the Stephen Miller kind involving roadkill. Apparently, that’s a term of art under UK law.) Those are some Trump-level numbers.
Four new alleged victims, seven in all, offenses the CPS says stretch from 2010 to 2017, covering the Tate brothers’ abuses, rapes, and trafficking of women in commuter towns north of London.
And there they were on the pavement, blinking in the Florida sun, two men who spent a decade telling boys that the measure of a male is a Bugatti and a compound full of frightened, beaten women, discovering that the measure of a man isn’t whether they’re based but rather whether they’re good.
These are not masculine men. They are the opposite of masculine men. They are pathetic, vicious men who will not thrive in the prison yards that await them. I can’t
