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YouTube’s algorithm has decided I need to hear about the supposed victimisation of middle-class Britain. Despite never seeking out such content, my recommendations increasingly feature commentators telling me I should feel aggrieved about modern British society. It’s a curious assumption on the platform’s part, and one that reveals something about how online spaces amplify certain political narratives.

There’s something very peculiar about this strain of political thought. Its proponents—figures like Douglas Murray—paint a picture of middle-class Britain under siege, suggesting we’re being made to feel ashamed of our culture and civilisation.

Yet this narrative sits uneasily with reality. British culture remains everywhere celebrated, from our global cultural exports to our continuing diplomatic influence. Indeed, one need look no further than the rhetoric around the War on Terror to see how confidently British political figures assert their cultural values on the world stage.

This victim mentality among middle-class nationalists seems particularly melodramatic when you consider their actual position in society. These are often well-connected individuals with regular newspaper columns, television appearances, and substantial social media followings. Far from being silenced, they command significant platforms from which to broadcast their message of supposed marginalisation.

What’s particularly frustrating is how YouTube’s recommendation system amplifies these voices, creating an illusion of widespread support. Even without actively seeking such content, users find their feeds increasingly dominated by these perspectives. The platform’s preference for content that provokes strong reactions means that measured discussions often lose out to melodramatic predictions of cultural collapse.

Whether or not these commentators truly believe in the crisis they describe, they’ve certainly found a lucrative market. The formula is well-established:

First, present cultural change as catastrophic decline. Then, identify convenient scapegoats—usually some combination of immigrants, academics, or “woke” elites. Position yourself as the brave truth-teller whom the mainstream fears. Finally, keep your audience engaged with a steady stream of outrage and dire predictions.

Perhaps most concerning is how this algorithmic amplification shapes public perception. When certain viewpoints are repeatedly pushed to the fore, they can start to feel like the dominant perspective, regardless of their actual support in the wider population. The line between genuine popularity and artificial amplification becomes increasingly blurred.

It’s worth noting that this online prominence often fails to translate into real-world political success. Electoral results and opinion polls consistently show that these nationalist positions, while vocal, don’t command majority support. Most Britons maintain nuanced views on immigration and cultural change, even if these perspectives rarely trend on social media.

What does it say about our digital spaces when platforms automatically assume certain demographic characteristics or interests must correlate with nationalist grievance politics? The fact that these recommendations appear unbidden, even on work devices where we maintain strictly professional browsing habits, suggests something about the default assumptions built into these systems.

It raises questions about how these algorithms shape political discourse and whether they’re actively pushing users toward more extreme positions. While we can’t know for certain how much of the engagement with this content is organic versus manufactured, the persistent promotion of grievance politics to uninterested viewers hints at deeper biases within these recommendation systems.