I’m generally in a permanent state of bewilderment. On one hand, I’m a member of the human race; on the other, I often don’t quite understand what that membership means, or even whether I’m happy to be a card-carrying participant. If this preamble sounds like nonsense, bear with me – it’s the primary theme of this reflection.
One of the great mysteries of modern life, in my humble opinion, is not that people talk absolute nonsense. It’s deeper than that.
Indeed, humans have been doing that since someone first looked at a cloud and declared it was a definite sign from God that his neighbour’s goat was cursed (spoiler: this is nonsense too).
The real mystery is why some people feel so empowered to spout nonsense about subjects they know absolutely nothing about.
Now, before anybody starts polishing their halo, let me confess: I’ve bullshitted many times in my life. At certain times, I’ve been a ballistic bullshitter.
My apprenticeship in this dubious and not-so-dark art began in the early 1980s when I joined the police. I was surrounded by some truly elite practitioners. People who could take an incident involving wrongdoing so obvious it could be seen from space and somehow navigate it towards a conclusion of “no further police action”. It was magnificent. Even when I knew they were talking complete shite, I found myself captivated.
The very best bullshitters possess a strange charisma. They tell a story so confidently that, for a fleeting moment, reality itself appears negotiable. But here’s the crucial difference: every competent bullshitter knows they’re bullshitting. The skill lies in knowing you’re constructing a narrative. You’re aware you’re embellishing, persuading, and shaping perception. There is at least a sliver of self-awareness lurking beneath the performance.
What baffles me are the unfortunate specimens who attempt the same feat, all while genuinely believing every dribble of nonsense tumbling from a gob that generally contains at least two teeth, and probably no more.
These are not master storytellers; they are zealots of ignorance. The sort who can explain geopolitics after reading half a Facebook meme. Who become constitutional law experts after watching three YouTube videos. Who suddenly possess detailed legal knowledge about immigration, human rights, climate science, or the criminal justice system while struggling with the intellectual challenge of operating a microwave oven.
I recently encountered one such individual confidently lecturing others on the intricacies of Sharia law. His knowledge appeared to consist primarily of things he had heard from people who knew even less than he did.
If you’d like a broader demonstration of the phenomenon, spend thirty seconds watching interviews with devoted political cultists (for example, MAGA supporters and some closer to home who clearly need reforming) being asked basic questions about the politicians they worship. But be careful. Exposure beyond half a minute can produce symptoms ranging from despair to a spontaneous loss of faith in the human species.
So why does this happen? Why does ignorance so often arrive wrapped in absolute certainty?
Psychologists have a name for part of it: the Dunning-Kruger Effect.
In simple terms, people who know very little about a subject often lack the expertise required to recognise how little they know. Their incompetence robs them of the ability to accurately assess their own incompetence. The less they know, the more certain they become.
Meanwhile, genuine experts are usually plagued by doubt because they understand the complexities, exceptions, and uncertainties involved.
The result is a cruel irony: the loudest voices in the room are frequently the least qualified to be speaking. But psychology alone doesn’t explain our current predicament. Modern social media has weaponised human weakness.
For most of human history, if you wanted to express a ridiculous opinion, you had to locate another idiot first, and more often than not, that meant leaving the village. This created a natural limitation. Today, algorithms perform that task instantly.
Every click, every outrage and every inflammatory comment is rewarded. The most simplistic explanation is elevated above the nuanced one. The loudest certainty defeats the quiet evidence. A lie can circle the globe before truth has found its reading glasses.
And perhaps most dangerously, belonging has become more important than being right. Many people don’t adopt beliefs because they are true. They adopt them because they are tribal. The belief becomes a membership card. Challenge the belief and you are perceived as attacking the tribe itself. Facts stop mattering. Identity takes over. At that point, nonsense ceases to be a mistake. It becomes a badge of honour.
Which brings us to an uncomfortable truth. It would be reassuring to imagine that this affliction only infects “them”. The extremists. The zealots. The conspiracy theorists. The bloke in the pub explaining global economics while wearing a tracksuit coated in last week’s kebab.
But that’s not true. Every one of us carries the same vulnerability. Every one of us has opinions we hold more confidently than the evidence justifies. Every one of us inhabits echo chambers of one form or another. Every one of us can become so attached to a belief that we stop questioning whether it’s actually true.
The curse is not ignorance; the curse is certainty. Because the moment we stop asking, “What if I’m wrong?”, is the moment we begin the long and embarrassing journey from informed citizen to confident fool. And unlike the old-school bullshitter, the most dangerous fool never realises they’ve become one.
© Ian Kirke 2026
@ iankirke.bsky.social
Title photograph by Smithsonian on Unsplash