Why do people queue for political ghost rides that feed them fear instead of truth? This piece digs into the psychology of resentment dressed as “concern”, the friendships strained by it, and the moment you decide to step off the ride and back into daylight.
A mate told me the other day they were spending time with “Reformy friends”. This was not said with excitement. It was said the way one might announce an incoming storm. A sort of brace yourself tone.
I recognised it instantly. That creeping dread when people you once trusted start parroting ideas that feel brittle, angry, and performed – like they’re auditioning for a low budget political panto. The instinct is to argue, to fact check, to pull out charts like you’re doing a surprise Ofsted inspection. But dread doesn’t respond to data, because dread, I suspect, is the whole point.
People don’t get swept up in propaganda because they’re fearless pioneers. They get swept up because something inside them is rattling. Fear is a hell of a drug. It tidies the world. It turns nuance into villains. And the darker the figure offering the answers, the more polished the performance. Fear gets packaged, lit, and sold back as certainty. Which is why people queue for the ghost ride instead of the speak your weight machine.
The ghost ride gives you screams, shadows, and the warm reassurance of being told exactly what to fear. The weight machine just gives you the truth – quietly, clinically, and without flattery. One indulges emotion. The other demands responsibility. But here’s where my patience thins. Are these people actually scared?
If you’re afraid of small spaces, we call it claustrophobia. Fine. If you’re afraid of spiders, fair enough. But being “afraid” of other people living their lives? Of sharing space? Of losing unearned advantage? That’s not fear. That’s resentment wearing a novelty mask. And at the far end of that spectrum, racism and homophobia are reading from the same script.
A lot of what gets dressed up as fear is really anxiety about power slipping – about no longer being the default setting, about having to share a country that once felt like it came with complimentary privileges. “Phobia” is sometimes too generous. Some people aren’t frightened at all. They’re hostile – and comfortable enough to show it. That’s where propaganda earns its keep. The playbook is ancient: promise simple solutions to complex problems. Deliver nothing that improves anyone’s life. Then point at someone else and insist that’s why it failed.
When reality refuses to play along, the volume rises. The targets multiply. Accountability evaporates. Failure becomes sabotage. Followers are reassured that their anger was justified all along. It’s emotionally efficient. No introspection required.
Selective outrage keeps the whole thing humming. Some rule breakers become proof of societal collapse; others are quietly excused. Some newcomers are framed as threats; others are waved through without a murmur. The logic is inconsistent, but the comfort is dependable. If the story flatters you, contradictions are just background noise.
This piece isn’t here to educate. Anyone who wants facts can find them – policies are public, outcomes visible. What matters is what we do with the friendships caught in this gravitational pull. And here’s my line in the sand.
Friendship does not require silence. It does not require me to nod politely while people recycle talking points that punch down, excuse failure, or demand gratitude from those they merely “tolerate”. Tolerance isn’t a moral achievement when you’ve never had to fight for your place. I’m not sitting quietly while grievances are applied selectively. I’m not entertaining lectures on fairness from people who only notice rule breaking when it flatters their prejudices. And I’m done pretending that resentment – dressed up as concern – deserves a respectful debate.
If you want to talk about corruption, broken systems, or unfairness, fine – but you don’t get to look away when the same behaviour appears closer to home. If you keep backing grand promises that dissolve on contact with reality, you don’t get to act shocked when nothing improves. And if the explanation is always that someone else ruined it – migrants, minorities, activists, faceless enemies – then eventually the problem isn’t external. It’s intellectual laziness.
So, here’s the boundary – without apology: I won’t argue with slogans. I won’t debate caricatures. And I won’t perform outrage to keep the peace. You’re entitled to your views. You’re not entitled to my agreement, my silence, or my time. If we’re going to stay friends, the conversation has to leave the ghost ride. It has to survive daylight. That means accepting evidence, owning failure, and abandoning the fantasy that everything would work perfectly if only certain people weren’t here. Because that story never delivers. It never has.
The weight machine is still there. The number hasn’t changed. And no amount of screaming will make it lighter. At some point the refusal to look stops being fear and becomes choice – the choice to cling to certainty rather than face consequence. Epictetus – the ancient Greek Stoic philosopher – had it right, two thousand years ago: “It is impossible for a person to learn what they think they already know.”
And that, more than anything else, is what keeps the ghost ride full. I’m not afraid of the truth – and I’m no longer interested in friendships that are.
© Ian Kirke 2026 & photograph
@ iankirke.bsky.social