Sociology – untypicable.

What If Inspector Morse Went to Sheffield Polytechnic?

AJ Wright — Tue, 07 Oct 2025 10:00:00 +0000

Forget the dreaming spires, dusty dons, and Latin-quoting lords of Oxford. Let us imagine a world where Inspector Morse didn’t attend the hallowed halls of one of Britain’s most elite institutions, but instead honed his craft at Sheffield Polytechnic, circa 1972. Welcome to an alternate universe where murders are solved not with opera and obscure crossword clues, but with Northern grit, a battered Ford Cortina, and a working knowledge of kettle repair and how to fend off a dodgy landlord with a strongly worded letter.

Setting the Scene: Morse, Reimagined

Gone are the cloisters and the cobbled lanes of Oxford. Enter: Sheffield in the ’70s. Concrete brutalism as far as the eye can see, fog rolling in from the Peak District, and a pervasive smell of chip fat and ambition.

Morse’s flat is a converted bedsit above a Kwik Save, where the ceiling occasionally leaks and the neighbour plays darts at 3am. His local is the King Edward Working Men’s Club, where the quiz night ends in fisticuffs and the jukebox skips if you don’t hit it with a spanner. The landlord, Big Trev, serves pints with a side of political incorrectness and once threatened to bar Morse for asking if they had anything ‘hoppy’ on tap.

The opening credits feature a moody synthesiser version of On Ilkla Moor Baht ‘at, over grainy shots of Sheffield’s skyline, intercut with a steel mill pouring molten metal, a lost ferret on a canal path, and Morse looking broodingly at a cracked mug of Tetley’s.

The Poly Years

Instead of lounging through tutorials in ancient libraries, Morse studied Applied Criminology and Transport Planning in a breeze-block lecture hall next to a Wimpy. The polytechnic’s most advanced technology was a projector that wheezed like a pit pony and once caught fire during a lecture on road signage.

He paid his way through uni with a part-time job at a steel foundry, which left him with a permanent disdain for anyone who called a 9am lecture “early.” He missed his third-year exam after getting stuck behind a slow-moving milk float on the A61 and once submitted coursework late because his flatmate had used the typewriter ribbon to fix his motorbike.

His dissertation? “Socioeconomic Profiling in South Yorkshire Petty Crime”—a masterful 14,000-word rant about dog theft, ferret-related assaults, and illegal pigeon racing. It received a First and a free pint from the Dean, who ran a greyhound on weekends.

Cultural Differences: Oxford vs Sheffield Poly

At Oxford, Morse was imagined as a brooding intellectual with a penchant for Wagner and crossword puzzles, gliding through life in a polished Jaguar Mark 2 and sipping floral ales in mahogany-clad pubs where everyone spoke in riddles and wore tweed without irony. Conversations revolved around metaphysics, literary allusions, and whether the port was a bit corked this evening.

But in the Sheffield Polyverse, Morse’s music taste skews more Status Quo than Schubert. His car of choice? A 1971 Ford Cortina that smells permanently of damp carpets and suspicious takeaways. Where Oxford Morse might quote Nietzsche, Sheffield Morse swears by the sayings of his Uncle Les: “People are scum, lad. Trust no one with clean shoes.”

He doesn’t sip ale with floral notes; he downs bitter from a straight glass, preferably served lukewarm and with minimal head. Dinner isn’t a candlelit affair with dons—it’s a spam bap eaten behind the bins of the student union, ideally with a pickled egg on the side. Black-tie events are swapped for ska nights at the student bar, where he only gets in free if he promises not to dance.

Instead of discussing continental philosophy, he argues passionately about the offside rule with Baz from Catering. His idea of fine culture is a decent meat raffle and a working dartboard. And rather than haunting bookshops for out-of-print poetry, Morse is more likely to be seen in Netto, comparing tinned meat brands.

Morse’s Northern Mysteries

Without the Latin puns and corrupt dons, Morse’s cases take on a different flavour:

The Case of the Stolen Pigeon Lofts: A turf war between rival pigeon fanciers turns deadly after someone’s champion bird goes missing. There’s a feather trail to follow… and it leads to the allotments.
Murder at the Chip Pan Factory: The night shift turns sinister. Was it sabotage, or just Brian from Accounts being an arse again? Spud thinks it was Sandra from HR. Morse suspects a disgruntled line manager and a dodgy vat of beef dripping.
The Curse of the Do-It-Yourself Conservatory: A man is found trapped beneath 400kg of poorly installed double glazing. Accident or revenge from the local council’s planning committee? A taped copy of Ground Force might hold the answer.
Death by Henderson’s Relish: A bottle swapped. A stew sabotaged. A family recipe turned fatal. Only Morse can navigate the etiquette of Yorkshire condiments and unpick this culinary crime.
The Disappearance of Elvis Barry: A local impersonator goes missing just before his big night at Mecca Bingo. Was it jealousy? Sabotage? Or simply a dodgy van with no MOT?

Clues are often scrawled on betting slips, chip shop wrappers, or overheard at the bookies while pretending to read the racing form. Morse solves crimes through a mix of instinct, pint-fuelled deduction, and a dangerously intimate knowledge of South Yorkshire’s bus timetables and the social code of laundrette queueing.

Inspector Lewis? No, Meet Spud

Morse’s sidekick is no longer the gentle, loyal Lewis. Meet Spud—a gobby lad from Barnsley with a thick accent, a fondness for pork scratchings, and a part-time criminology diploma from the Open University. He lives with his nan, drives a rusting Vauxhall Viva, and once broke up a fight in Netto using only a bag of frozen peas and a withering look.

Spud has a nose for nonsense, a sixth sense for stolen mobility scooters, and a deep distrust of any crime scene that smells of Fabreeze. He once tried to arrest a goose for disturbing the peace and has strong opinions about which Greggs in Sheffield makes the best sausage roll (“not the one near the Moor, they burn ’em”).

Together, Morse and Spud represent a new kind of policing: less opera, more shouting at teenagers on mopeds, and the occasional off-the-books interrogation over a game of darts and two pints of John Smith’s.

Would He Still Be Morse?

Absolutely. Still melancholic, still uncomfortable with emotions, and still solving murders with a weary sigh and the occasional existential monologue. Only now, he broods while sat on a broken park bench, drinking lukewarm tea from a Thermos, watching a pigeon walk into a newsagent like it owns the place.

Instead of uncovering dark secrets in elite colleges, he’s investigating housing estate drama, under-the-table chip shop dealings, and the mysterious disappearance of a garden gnome called Terry. His music collection may be 100% less Wagner, but his cassette labelled “MIXTAPE 1980: MOURNFUL BANGERS” still gets regular use.

He doesn’t own a crossword dictionary. He is the crossword dictionary—just with more chip grease.

Final Thoughts

Would Morse still have become a great detective without Oxford’s polish? Probably. But he’d also know how to fix a boiler, spot a forged bus pass at fifty paces, and tell you which local has the best darts team. He’d understand that justice isn’t just found in courtrooms and college chapels, but also in backstreet boozers, launderettes, and snooker halls.

And isn’t that… just a bit more useful?

Next week: Poirot relocates to Wakefield and opens a second-hand suit shop. Maybe.

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AJ Wright

AJ Wright is a quiet yet incisive voice navigating the surreal world of sociology, higher education, and modern life through the unique lens of a neurodivergent mind. A tech-savvy PhD student hailing from South Yorkshire but now stationed in the flatlands of Lincolnshire, AJ writes with an irreverence that strips back the layers of academia, social norms, and the absurdities of daily life to reveal the humour lurking beneath.

As an autistic thinker, AJ’s perspective offers readers a rare blend of precision, curiosity, and wit. From dissecting the unspoken rituals of academia—like the silent war over the office thermostat—to exploring the sociology of “neurotypical small talk” and the bizarre hierarchies of campus coffee queues, AJ turns the ordinary into something both profound and hilarious.

AJ’s unassuming nature belies the sharpness of their commentary, which dives deep into the intersections of neurodiversity, tech culture, and the often-overlooked quirks of human behaviour. Whether questioning why university bureaucracy feels designed by Kafka or crafting surreal parodies of academic peer reviews, AJ writes with a balance of quiet intensity and playful absurdity that keeps readers coming back for more.

For those seeking a blog that is equal parts insightful, irreverent, and refreshingly authentic, AJ Wright provides a unique perspective that celebrates neurodiversity while poking fun at the peculiarities of the world we live in. Also a contributor at Thinking Sociologically.

untypicable.co.uk

The Neurotypical Vanishing Act: Or, How to Become Socially Radioactive in One Diagnosis

AJ Wright — Mon, 04 Aug 2025 10:00:00 +0000

There are many ways to clear a room. Shouting “fire,” for example. Or announcing you’ve brought quiche to a barbecue. But perhaps the most effective—yet tragically underrated—method is this: tell people you’re autistic.

It’s magical, really. You can watch in real time as a person rearranges their entire facial expression into something they hope says “totally fine and supportive” but accidentally screams “how do I escape without looking like a monster?”

They’ll smile too hard, nod like they’ve just remembered how human heads work, and then, without quite making it obvious, begin to back away from your life like Homer into the hedge.

The Art of the Casual Sidestep

To the untrained eye, these people appear to be going about their day. To the autistic person who dared to share their diagnosis, it’s like watching an oddly choreographed escape plan unfold. I’ve catalogued a few classic moves:

The “Let’s Definitely Catch Up Soon!” Vanish
No time frame given. No intention of following up. Just a promise floating in the social ether like a balloon slowly deflating.
The Email-Only Pivot
They used to chat in the corridor. Now everything’s formal, bullet-pointed, and emotionally neutered. You’re a LinkedIn connection now.
The Strategic Ghost
They reply in Teams chats… eventually. Seen-zoning as an Olympic sport.
The Surprise Calendar Clash
“Oh, I meant to invite you, but I wasn’t sure if you’d feel comfortable around noise/people/oxygen.”

What you’re witnessing is benevolent exclusion: the art of pretending to be inclusive while meticulously leaving you out. It’s not about malice. It’s about fear, awkwardness, and the neurotypical urge to handle difference like an unexploded bomb.

Things I Apparently Do That Scare Neurotypicals

Let’s be real: it’s not that I’ve changed. I’ve simply labelled what was already there. And that, it seems, is what people find uncomfortable.

1. I ask questions that go “too deep” for small talk

Small talk: “Busy week?”
Me: “Do you ever worry that productivity culture is just late-capitalist self-harm?”
Them: [sips drink nervously]

2. I pause before answering

Processing isn’t stalling. It’s thinking. But in a world obsessed with rapid-fire chatter, silence apparently triggers alarms. I’m not buffering—I’m just not wasting your time with knee-jerk nonsense.

3. I don’t pretend not to be autistic

The horror! I stim. I correct things that are factually wrong. I communicate directly. I don’t do the neurotypical charade of pretending everything’s “fine” when it’s clearly on fire. This makes some people… uneasy. That’s not on me.

4. I hold eye contact like it’s radioactive

Let’s be honest—eye contact is a bizarre social ritual. Too little and I’m “shifty.” Too much and I’m “intense.” It’s a no-win game. So I’ve opted out. If that makes you nervous, perhaps you should reflect on why you need constant ocular affirmation.

5. I notice things I’m “not meant to”

Apparently pointing out when someone changes tone mid-sentence or suddenly gets passive-aggressive is “reading too much into it.” No, I’m just not ignoring the weird energy shift like everyone else agreed to do at birth.

And no, before you ask — being autistic doesn’t mean I’m rude, abrupt, or incapable of self-awareness. That’s just Gregg Wallace, and he’s got his own PR team for that.

Field Guide to Avoiders: Social Taxonomy of the Well-Meaningly Useless

Since I’ve had time (and now, lots of space), I’ve developed a helpful taxonomy of those who suddenly vanish after you disclose you’re autistic. These are not enemies. Just highly flappable mammals.

The Comfort-Manager:
Panics at the idea of saying the wrong thing. So says nothing. Forever.
The Oversharer:
Immediately confesses to knowing someone else autistic. Usually a cousin. Who liked trains. Somehow this is supposed to count as bonding.
The Amateur Diagnostician:
“Oh yeah, I’m probably a bit autistic too. I’m like so bad with eye contact.” (Congratulations. That’s not how it works.)
The Hyper-Friendly Fader:
Goes out of their way to greet you in passing but never invites you to anything again. Ever. But you will get a birthday LinkedIn notification.
The Disability Mystic:
“I just think neurodivergent people are so special and wise, like they can see things the rest of us can’t…”
Ma’am, I’m not a wizard. I just hate small talk and overanalyse bus timetables.

The Great Projection: It’s Not Me, It’s You

Here’s the kicker: I haven’t become colder, ruder, or more difficult. You’ve just found out I’m autistic, and now you’re projecting your discomfort onto my existence. You’re trying so hard not to offend me that you’ve ended up excluding me entirely.

You think you’re being kind. In reality, you’ve turned me into a social inconvenience to be managed.

Let’s be clear: your unease is not my responsibility. Your lack of understanding is not my burden to fix. I don’t need rescuing, tiptoeing, or covert distancing. I need you to sit in your own discomfort for long enough to realise it’s yours to deal with.

Silver Linings and Selective Extinction

There is, I admit, an upside. The sudden absence of vague acquaintances frees up time for more interesting pursuits—like reading about train signalling systems, or mentally ranking the fonts used in supermarket signage.

I now have fewer surprise interruptions, fewer guilt-laden group invites, and far fewer awkward chats about someone’s dog’s Instagram account.

The people who stick around tend to be the ones who already saw me—really saw me—before I put a label on it. Those people? Gold. Keepers. The rest? Enjoy your unnecessarily loud pub socials and insincere WhatsApp chats.

I’m Not the Awkward One…

If you act weird around me after I tell you I’m autistic, you’re not protecting my feelings—you’re dodging your own. I didn’t become less of a person. You just became less able to handle me being a whole one.

I don’t need tiptoeing. I need space. Not exclusion, but inclusion without conditions.

So next time someone tells you they’re autistic, don’t back away like they sneezed on your soul. Maybe ask a question. Maybe don’t. But at the very least, stay where you were—because I promise, I didn’t move.

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untypicable.co.uk

Console Wars: A Sociological Saga of Plastic, Pixels, and Petty Tribalism

AJ Wright — Tue, 03 Jun 2025 10:58:51 +0000

Some people go to war over oil. Others over land. But console warriors? They go to war over frame rates, backwards compatibility, and whether the X button should live on the bottom or the side.

Welcome to the Console Wars—the longest, strangest, and least necessary cultural conflict since the Great Jaffa Cake vs Biscuit Debate. What follows is a sociological (and only mildly ridiculous) deep dive into the rituals, identities, and completely pointless rage of gaming’s weirdest turf wars.

Prologue: When the Pixels Were Crusty and the Fandoms Raw

Long before Sonic and Mario locked eyes across the battlefield, there was a quieter but equally vicious skirmish brewing in bedrooms and school halls across 1980s Britain. A war with fewer graphics and more load errors. The unsung prequel to the modern Console Wars: Spectrum vs. Commodore 64, followed swiftly by Atari ST vs. Amiga.

The ZX Spectrum, with its rubber keys and screaming cassette loader, was a marvel of affordability and optimism. Meanwhile, the C64 was beefier, American, and had a sound chip so advanced it could practically compose synthpop albums. The arguments? Oh, they were loud:

“The Speccy has way more games!”
“Yeah, but the C64 has actual music, not just dying robot beeps.”
“At least my games don’t take ten minutes to load and then crash!”

These debates were less about tech specs and more about socioeconomic identity. The Spectrum, often cheaper, was beloved by working-class families, while the C64 signalled a whiff of tech-snobbery and pocket money privilege. It was Thatcher-era capitalism in 8-bit form.

Then came the 16-bit battle royale: Atari ST vs. Amiga. The Atari ST was beloved by musicians and people who wanted to pretend they were musicians. The Amiga 500, however, was a multimedia demigod. Gorgeous graphics. Superior sound. A name that meant “female friend”, even though 98% of its users were 13-year-old boys called Gary.

The sociological takeaway? These weren’t just gadgets. They were tribal affiliations wrapped in CRT radiation. Before the internet, you didn’t need a forum to start a flame war—just a lunch break and a strongly worded opinion on whether Shadow of the Beast ran better on Amiga.

Level 1: Tribes, Totems, and 16-Bit Identity

Fast forward to the 1990s. SEGA vs Nintendo becomes the main event. Sonic the Hedgehog, a caffeine-fuelled blur of ’90s attitude, races against Mario, a moustachioed Italian plumber who inexplicably speaks like he’s always just stubbed his toe.

From a sociological standpoint, this was classic tribalism. Durkheim would’ve been fascinated. The console wasn’t just hardware; it was a totem. A sacred object embodying the tribe’s spirit. SEGA kids wore their allegiance like a badge of honour. Nintendo kids smugly pointed to their ever-reliable game catalogue and moral superiority.

You weren’t just choosing a console. You were choosing a side. It was a digital blood oath. And if your mate owned the other one? You bonded over sneering at each other’s loading screens.

Level 2: The Rise of Brand-Based Social Capital

Enter the 2000s, where Bourdieu’s theory of cultural capital gets pixelated. It’s no longer about being the best; it’s about being seen to have the right taste. The PlayStation 2? Suave. Massive library. The Xbox? Chunky, loud, American. Powerful.

The GameCube? Small, purple, and perfect for people who thought quirky was a personality.

Consoles became more than entertainment; they became cultural signifiers. Your choice in platform announced your personality. PS2 owners were film buffs and aspiring aesthetes. Xbox users were into shooters and performance specs. Nintendo players? Childlike, nostalgic, or hipsters before hipsterdom was a thing.

Sociologically speaking, owning the “right” console became a way of performing identity. It was no longer just about the game. It was about what the game said about you.

Level 3: The Digital Battlefield

With the internet came a new theatre of war: forums, Reddit, YouTube comments. This is where Goffman’s dramaturgical theory takes centre stage. Online, console warriors perform their identities on the “front stage”, armed with meme swords and a kill/death ratio.

The anonymity of digital life supercharged these performances. Console war threads became gladiatorial arenas. PlayStation vs Xbox. Halo vs Uncharted. Nintendo vs Having Any Friends.

And for what? Internet points. Tribal validation. The smug joy of watching a Digital Foundry video that proves your console runs at a slightly higher resolution.

Level 4: Commodifying Nostalgia and Platform Polyamory

Now we enter the era of platform polyamory. Cross-play is common. Subscription models reign. No one under 25 even knows what a memory card is.

And yet the console wars persist—not as fierce battles, but as aesthetic rivalries. The fight is no longer over tech specs, but over vibes. Xbox: practical, value-packed, like a reliable Ford Focus. PlayStation: cinematic, stylish, like a Peugeot that wants to direct indie films. Nintendo: the IKEA of consoles—compact, colourful, occasionally baffling, and not afraid to re-release Skyrim forever.

We’re in late capitalism now. Nostalgia is monetised. Every game is a remake. Every console comes with collector’s editions of your childhood. You no longer just buy a game. You buy memory theatre.

Baudrillard would weep. Or shrug. Hard to say.

Neurodivergence, Fandoms, and Belonging in Weird Places

For many neurodivergent folk (hi, yes, hello), console fandoms weren’t just hobbies. They were scripts. They were systems. Consoles offered predictability. Games offered structure. Forums offered rules.

Whether it was memorising obscure game trivia or becoming emotionally invested in the fate of the Dreamcast, these obsessions weren’t just pastimes. They were lifelines.

And that matters. Because when everything else feels overwhelming, arguing about whether the N64 controller was innovative or an ergonomic abomination is a strangely comforting hill to die on.

Game Over (Or Is It?)

The console wars may have mellowed, but the sociological resonance still hums beneath the surface. Whether you’re a nostalgic Nintendo nerd, a PlayStation purist, or an Xbox evangelist, the choices you make aren’t just about what you play.

They’re about who you are.

Because, in the end, these battles aren’t about plastic boxes. They’re about identity, community, expression—and the gloriously absurd ways we find meaning in machines.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to update my Switch. There’s a new Mario Kart skin and I will absolutely perish on this Rainbow Road.

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untypicable.co.uk

The Sociology of Small Talk – Or, Why We All Hate Asking About the Weather

AJ Wright — Tue, 13 May 2025 10:00:00 +0000

Ah, small talk. That peculiar social ritual where we pretend to care about things we definitely don’t care about. Whether it’s weather updates from someone standing right next to you or the obligatory “How was your weekend?” in the office kitchen, small talk feels like society’s default mode – a kind of conversational screensaver that kicks in when real topics crash.

Why Do We Do It?

Sociologists have puzzled over small talk for decades. Some say it’s about social cohesion – a way to signal that we’re non-threatening, approachable, and unlikely to throw a stapler in a meeting. Others argue it’s an instinctive form of social grooming, like chimps picking nits off each other but with fewer bugs and more forced smiles. Robin Dunbar, for instance, proposed that small talk is the modern equivalent of the friendly grooming our primate ancestors used to bond and maintain social alliances – a verbal stand-in for scratching each other’s backs.

But fundamentally, small talk serves as a social buffer. It’s a way to ease into more meaningful interactions without the social equivalent of walking in and shouting, “Let’s discuss our deepest existential fears!” It’s a conversational handshake, a low-stakes ritual that reassures everyone that we’re vaguely pleasant and not likely to shout about politics.

Why the Weather?

Of all the things we could chat about, why does the weather always come up first? One theory is that it’s neutral territory – something that affects everyone but doesn’t stir controversy. Talking about your chaotic love life with Brenda from HR might feel a bit too intimate, but grumbling about drizzle? Perfectly safe.

The weather is also reliably dull, which means it’s unlikely to derail into a heated debate. There’s no risk of someone launching into a passionate defence of drizzle or forming a pro-fog advocacy group. It’s just there – as innocuous as background music in a lift. Emile Durkheim might argue that this shared, predictable topic serves as a form of collective ritual – a small, everyday way of affirming our place in the social group without risking anything too personal.

The Neurodivergent Perspective

Of course, not everyone finds small talk quite so harmless. For some neurodivergent folks, it can feel more like a poorly scripted play where the lines don’t make sense and the plot is painfully predictable. Social cues that come naturally to others can feel forced or even pointless. “Why are we talking about the rain again? We can see the rain. It’s right there.”

But even for the neurotypical, small talk can feel like a chore – a bland, conversational starter pack you’re forced to carry around like emotional pocket lint. We do it because it’s expected, not because it’s especially rewarding.

That said, small talk can also be a blessing for those who are openly neurodivergent. Once people know you’re not wired for polite, empty chat, they often cut straight to the point – skipping the verbal fluff and getting right to the meat of the conversation. It’s a rare upside in a world built on weather updates and the dreaded “How’s it going?”

How to Survive It – For Everyone

Since avoiding small talk entirely is about as feasible as training pigeons to respect personal space, here are a few tricks to make it more tolerable:

Pre-prepared Lines: Have a mental stash of generic replies. “Yeah, typical British weather!” works every time, even if the weather is currently doing something truly weird.
Deflect with Questions: If someone says, “Nice day, isn’t it?” just ask, “Do you think it’ll last?” You’ve successfully shifted the burden of meaningless commentary back onto them.
Embrace Absurdity: Next time someone brings up the rain, try responding with, “Yes, but have you considered how ducks must feel about it?” If they laugh, great. If not, they’ll probably think twice about bringing up precipitation next time.
Acknowledge the Weirdness: Sometimes honesty works. “I never know what to say about the weather. Do you think we’re all just pretending to care?” You might just spark a genuinely interesting chat.

When Small Talk Goes Rogue

Sometimes, though, small talk gets weirdly intense. You might mention it’s windy, and suddenly Dave from accounts is giving you a passionate lecture on climate change. Or you casually note the sun’s out, and before you know it, Pam from reception is explaining her vitamin D deficiency in alarming detail.

The truth is, small talk often functions like a social Rorschach test – revealing far more about the person you’re speaking to than you ever wanted to know. Erving Goffman might describe these moments as “interaction breaches” – those awkward breaks in the social script that reveal the odd quirks lurking beneath our polished social masks.

So, Why Keep Doing It?

Because for all its awkwardness, small talk is like a public service. It keeps us engaged without demanding vulnerability. It’s a reminder that we’re all trying to navigate this bizarre social maze without knocking over too many metaphorical mannequins.

And who knows? Maybe one day, when you’re caught in a drizzle-related chat you can’t escape, someone might just turn around and say, “You know what? I hate small talk too.” And in that fleeting moment of honesty, you’ll realise that even the most pointless conversations can sometimes lead to something genuinely human.

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untypicable.co.uk

Can You Be a Woke Nazi? Unpacking the Internet’s Dumbest Oxymoron

AJ Wright — Tue, 06 May 2025 10:00:00 +0000

The phrase drifted across the pub like stale lager mist:

“He’s a proper woke Nazi, mate.”

Said with the conviction of someone who believes shouting louder makes things truer.

It was one of those moments where time stands still and your brain briefly forgets how to process language. A “woke Nazi”? That’s not a political label—it’s a cognitive collision. Like calling someone a vegan butcher, or a celibate flirt, or fun at parties.

So let’s wade through the nonsense together and explore why this increasingly common oxymoron says more about how we argue than about anything resembling coherent politics.

Woke: A Word That Died Screaming

Once, “woke” was a useful term. It meant being aware of social injustices—especially racial ones. It came from a place of activism, from communities demanding recognition and rights. It had weight.

Now? Now it means “person who makes me feel slightly uncomfortable about things I’ve never thought deeply about.”

The trajectory has been textbook cultural dilution. A word that started in protest movements ended up on talk show panels and Daily Mail headlines, often paired with words like “mob,” “madness,” or “agenda.” In some corners of the internet, it now refers to everything from climate change action to oat milk.

Increasingly, woke is used as a blunt instrument in arguments—swung like a rhetorical mallet by people who, ironically, don’t actually know what it means. It functions less as a critique and more as a conversation ender. A kind of verbal Ctrl+Alt+Delete: designed to reset the debate by shouting a buzzword loud enough to drown out nuance.

What’s especially amusing (and slightly tragic) is that for many, being called “woke” would be a compliment—a badge of honour. A sign that you’ve opted for empathy over apathy. But for those using it as an insult, it’s not about meaning. It’s just a placeholder for “I’m annoyed and low on vocabulary.”

In short: “woke” has stopped meaning something and started meaning everything I don’t like.

Nazi: Not Just a Mild Inconvenience

Here’s the thing about Nazis: they’re not just bureaucratic buzzkills who ask you to wear a mask on public transport. They’re, you know, Nazis. As in: genocide, fascism, authoritarianism, those lads who really ruined the 1940s for everyone.

And yet, in the grand tradition of overreaction, “Nazi” is now regularly thrown at teachers who give homework, vegetarians who ask for a separate pan, and anyone who suggests maybe we shouldn’t say racist things on Facebook. Apparently, disagreeing with someone on TikTok is now equivalent to marching on Poland.

This kind of language creep isn’t just lazy—it’s absurd. When “woke” and “Nazi” are both used as insults for the same person, we’ve officially gone full semantic lasagne: layered, messy, and likely to cause indigestion.

How Did We Get Here?

There’s something very modern about the rise of contradictory insults. It’s a sign that public discourse has evolved from debate into emotional venting. People don’t want to understand each other—they want to label, dismiss, and move on.

In a culture addicted to outrage, throwing paradoxical insults becomes a kind of ritual. It doesn’t have to make sense. It just has to feel like a zinger.

The internet hasn’t helped. On social media, complexity gets you ignored. Nuance gets you three likes and a “Who asked?” reply. But a spicy contradiction like “woke Nazi”? That gets attention. It’s shocking, confusing, and impossible to respond to without first untangling your soul.

The Rise of Political Aestheticism

We now live in an age where ideology is less about values and more about vibes. People pick political identities the way they pick playlists—something that sounds good in the background while they scroll.

This is how we get paradoxes like:

Libertarians who want the government to ban things.
Environmentalists who fly to “climate summits” in private jets.
Anarchists who really love forms.
And, apparently, “woke Nazis.”

It’s less about having a coherent worldview and more about throwing enough keywords together to ward off disagreement. It’s like shouting “Free Speech Marxist Cancel Culture!” and hoping everyone just backs away slowly.

A Short Dictionary of Political Nonsense

We can’t just pick on “woke Nazi.” Here are a few more ideological hybrids that belong in a padded cell without WiFi:

Term	Definition
Crypto-Communist	Wants to abolish capitalism but owns six NFTs.
Militant Pacifist	Fights aggressively for peace. May carry a yoga mat and a shiv.
Left-Wing Royalist	Thinks the monarchy should be for everyone, equally.
Anti-Establishment Landlord	Campaigns against The Man while collecting rent from four student flats.
Introverted Influencer	Wants to change minds, just not in person. Or on camera. Or at all.

So, Can You Be a Woke Nazi?

No. No you cannot.

You can be confused. You can be angry. You can even be very online. But you cannot support progressive ideals of racial and gender equality and fascist authoritarianism at the same time. That’s not an ideology—it’s a random word generator having a stroke.

When people say “woke Nazi,” they’re not describing reality. They’re venting. They’re expressing discomfort with complexity, frustration with change, and a longing for a time when their opinions weren’t challenged—preferably the 1950s, but with WiFi.

So next time you hear it—whether at the pub, on the train, or shouted from a passing Ford Focus ST—don’t get angry. Get curious. What does this person actually mean? What are they reacting to? And how quickly can you turn it into content?

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Sociology Gone Wild: Theories So Bizarre They Might Actually Explain Everything

AJ Wright — Tue, 29 Apr 2025 11:00:00 +0000

1. Phrenology: Measuring Morals One Bump at a Time

Phrenology, once the life coach of 19th-century pseudoscience, was the belief that the shape of your skull could reveal everything about you—from your aptitude for needlework to your likelihood of becoming a highwayman.

Franz Joseph Gall believed the brain was composed of “organs” controlling specific traits like benevolence, destructiveness, and… love of children (weirdly specific). If one of these was particularly well-developed, it would create a bump in your skull. Hence: your skull = a topographic map of your soul.

How it spiralled: By the mid-1800s, phrenology had become the BuzzFeed quiz of the Victorian age. People got “readings” done to determine the best career paths and potential romantic matches. Think Tinder meets skull fondling.

Sociological absurdity rating: 10/10. It made eugenics seem like a wellness trend.

2. Symbolic Interactionism: Schrödinger’s Zebra

Coined by George Herbert Mead and brought to the mainstream by Herbert Blumer, symbolic interactionism argues that people act based on the meanings things have for them—and those meanings come from social interaction.

So far, so sensible. But at its extreme, it means nothing exists until we all agree it does. Like zebras. Or gender. Or the fact that trousers are supposed to go on your legs and not your head.

Take the zebra example: Philosopher Ian Hacking once used symbolic interactionism to point out that, by this logic, a zebra isn’t a zebra unless it’s socially recognised as one. So if society collectively forgot what a zebra is, zebras would become… stripy donkeys? Mythical beasts? Expensive designer dogs?

Implications: A tiger can identify as a zebra if it really commits to the stripes and joins the right WhatsApp group.

Sociological absurdity rating: 9/10. Useful at dinner parties, questionable when crossing a savannah.

3. Social Darwinism: The Theory That Launched a Thousand Colonial Guilt Trips

You know a theory is bonkers when it starts with Darwin and ends with: “Therefore, rich white men are the pinnacle of human evolution.”

Social Darwinism, most closely associated with Herbert Spencer, took natural selection and applied it to social structures—except poorly. It argued that those at the top of the social hierarchy were there because they were the “fittest,” and the poor were just losing the evolutionary game.

Used to justify: Colonialism, capitalism, racism, imperial tea sets, and your great-great-uncle Gerald’s belief that wealth equals moral superiority.

Unintended comedy: The rich were said to be “naturally superior,” even if they were inbred aristocrats who thought spoons were for stabbing cheese.

Sociological absurdity rating: 11/10. Basically weaponised Darwin to explain why Jeffrey owns a yacht and Susan works three jobs.

4. The Sociology of Smell: Olfactory Class Warfare

Enter olfactory sociology, where smell is no longer a sensory experience but a social minefield. Scholars like Constance Classen argue that odour is culturally constructed and historically loaded.

In medieval Europe, good Christians were thought to smell like flowers, while non-believers were accused of stinking like sulphur (helpful if you needed a theological excuse to avoid bathing).

Modern extensions: Your office microwave fish is no longer just antisocial—it’s a statement of cultural defiance.

Cultural twist: In Japan, body odour is taboo and deodorant is a social duty. In France, natural scent is part of joie de vivre. In British secondary schools, it’s a mix of Lynx Africa and despair.

Sociological absurdity rating: 8/10. Makes every bus ride a sociological case study.

5. Merton’s Strain Theory: The Anarchy in Your Shopping Trolley

Robert Merton’s Strain Theory says that deviance happens when there’s a disconnect between society’s goals (money, success, shiny things) and the means available to achieve them (education, legal employment, not starting an Etsy shop for crystal healing spoons).

In other words: when the rules don’t work for you, you make your own.

Modes of adaptation:

Conformist: Works hard, follows the rules. Eats lentils out of Tupperware.
Innovator: Wants the dream but skips the rules. Probably selling crypto.
Ritualist: Follows the rules but forgot why. Likely works in HR.
Retreatist: Gives up entirely. Living in a yurt.
Rebel: Starts a commune and a zine.

Modern spin: Shoplifting from Tesco = symbolic rejection of capitalist oppression. TikTok dances = rebellion against wage labour (…maybe).

Sociological absurdity rating: 7/10. Sounds deep until you realise it explains everything and nothing simultaneously.

6. Postmodernism: Academic Nihilism with Better Typography

Postmodernism isn’t really a theory—it’s a refusal to have one. It tells us that reality is fragmented, truth is relative, and nothing means anything except what we pretend it does. Basically, it’s the sociology version of that one mate who questions everything until you can’t remember how breathing works.

Key features:

Disdain for grand narratives
Everything is a social construct
Irony as a survival tactic

Used to explain: Why 90s adverts were weird. Why memes are postmodern poetry. Why your dissertation got a 2:1 even though it had 87 footnotes and made your supervisor cry.

Sociological absurdity rating: 10/10. Like arguing with a mirror that keeps changing shape.

7. The Looking-Glass Selfie

Charles Horton Cooley came up with the Looking-Glass Self, which says our self-concept develops from how we think others perceive us. We imagine how we appear to others, imagine their judgement, and then modify ourselves accordingly.

Translation in the age of Instagram: You’re not really you until someone validates it with a heart emoji and a fire reaction.

Modern crisis: Did I enjoy brunch, or did I only enjoy the idea of looking like I enjoyed brunch? Is that me, or just my face in Valencia filter?

Sociological absurdity rating: 8/10. Existential dread wrapped in a selfie.

Sociology, You Strange and Beautiful Beast

Bizarre sociological theories remind us that humans will intellectualise anything—skulls, smells, zebras, and TikTok. And that’s exactly why we love this field. It’s ridiculous. It’s clever. And sometimes, it’s accidentally brilliant.

So next time you smell someone weird on the tube, or question if your reflection is really you, remember: somewhere, a sociologist is writing a paper about it.

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Erving Goffman’s Guide to Faking Your Way Through Life

AJ Wright — Tue, 04 Feb 2025 10:00:00 +0000

(Or, How to Survive Society’s Never-Ending Performance Without Actually Knowing Your Lines)

Erving Goffman’s dramaturgical theory suggests that all of social life is just one giant performance. At some point, most of us have had that creeping suspicion that everyone else got the manual on how to be a functional adult, while we were left clutching an incomplete set of IKEA instructions. That feeling, dear reader, is not paranoia—it is sociology.

Whether it’s a job interview, a first date, or awkward small talk in the office kitchen about someone’s latest doomed diet, we are constantly playing roles, switching between different versions of ourselves, and hoping no one notices the occasional awkward stage direction. For most people, this performance is so deeply ingrained that they barely register they’re doing it. But for those of us who need to consciously decode social scripts—do we shake hands? Do we hug? Why is this person laughing, and should I join in? Goffman’s work is both a revelation and a tragic confirmation that, yes, it really is all a bit of a farce. As someone who is neurodivergent I find Goffman’s particular brand of thinking particularly useful.

The Front Stage and Back Stage of Everyday Life

Goffman’s dramaturgical model is based on the idea that, in social situations, we all present ourselves in ways that best suit the role we want to play. Think of it as being like a BBC drama: polished on the surface but filled with subtext, awkward pauses, and at least one character on the brink of an existential crisis. He breaks this down into two key concepts: front stage and back stage.

The front stage is the you that you show the world—professional, composed, probably making acceptable eye contact and nodding at the right moments. The back stage is the real you—slumped on the sofa at 11pm, binge-watching a detective show you don’t even like, whilst Googling “is there such a thing as too much toast?”

The problem is that in many aspects of life, especially for those of us who struggle with social performance, the backstage barely exists. The constant need to perform can be exhausting, particularly in environments that demand a polished version of yourself at all times. Anyone who has worked in customer service knows this well—smiling through gritted teeth while Karen from accounts asks to speak to the manager again.

For Marx, this constant performance would be yet another symptom of capitalist alienation. Much like how workers become estranged from the fruits of their labour, social actors become detached from their authentic selves, playing roles dictated by economic and cultural expectations rather than genuine identity. Meanwhile, Max Weber might step in to point out that modern society’s obsession with efficiency and rationalisation means we’ve built social structures that actively discourage people from ever stepping out of character. The bureaucratic machine does not reward those who deviate from the script.

The High-Stakes Game of Impression Management

One of Goffman’s greatest insights is the concept of impression management: the ways we control (or attempt to control) how others perceive us. It starts early.

Children learn quickly that throwing a tantrum in a supermarket is bad optics (unless you’re two years old, in which case, go off, king). Later in life, we refine the art of managing impressions. Social media is a carefully curated highlight reel because nothing says “well-balanced adult” like a strategically lit avocado toast post. Emails to your boss become a torturous tightrope walk between being professional, not sounding robotic, and not accidentally signing off with “Love you.”

Workplace small talk becomes a moment of existential dread when someone asks, “How was your weekend?” and you realise you did nothing remotely interesting. Pierre Bourdieu would argue that much of this is tied to social capital—those who instinctively know the unspoken rules of impression management tend to rise through social and professional ranks. The rest of us are left frantically Googling “what to say in an email when you don’t want to sound passive-aggressive.”

At university, I once sat through a tutorial where I had done precisely none of the reading, but through the sheer force of vague statements like “it’s really interesting how the author challenges the dominant paradigm,” I managed to sound intelligent enough that my tutor nodded approvingly. That, my friends, is impression management in action.

Facework: The Art of Avoiding Public Humiliation

Goffman also introduces the concept of facework, which describes the efforts we make to maintain a socially acceptable “face” (or persona). Life, it turns out, is a series of social blunders that must be swiftly covered up. Some classics include waving at someone who wasn’t waving at you, then pretending you were just fixing your hair, which is great if you are like me and have longer hair, but not so great an idea if you are bald.

Loudly agreeing to something you didn’t hear, only to realise you’ve just committed to a five-mile charity run, or accidentally calling a teacher “Mum” and then considering leaving the country. For neurodivergent individuals, facework can be particularly challenging. Social interactions often feel like they come with an extra layer of unspoken rules, and the effort to keep up can be extremely exhausting. But here’s the secret: everyone is faking it to some degree.

In my undergraduate days I once attempted to make a joke in a seminar that landed so poorly that there was a silence so profound I could hear the fluorescent lights humming. In that moment, I understood the concept of facework on a deeply personal level. I laughed a little too loudly, nodded as if I’d made a profound point, and carried on. The tutor, mercifully, let it slide.

Durkheim, ever the functionalist, would likely argue that our collective obsession with maintaining face is what holds society together. It is the unspoken rules and rituals of daily life that prevent total social chaos. Without them, we would be little more than slightly evolved apes screaming at one another in Tesco.

The Perils of Breaking Character

Goffman argues that when our social performance falters, it leads to embarrassment, awkwardness, and, occasionally, the desire to relocate to a remote island and live as a hermit. Some examples of when the performance collapses include being so focused on appearing interested in a conversation that you forget to actually listen. Laughing at a joke you didn’t understand, then being asked to explain why it was funny. Calling someone by the wrong name multiple times and realising there is no way out of it. It’s at these moments that you realise the entire system is held together by collective pretending. We are all part of an unspoken social agreement to overlook each other’s blunders in exchange for the same courtesy.

Public transport, particularly in Britain, is a great example of collective pretending. A bus driver once misheard my destination, and instead of correcting him, I just accepted my fate and took an unplanned detour. Correcting him would have broken the unspoken rule that we must avoid unnecessary social confrontation. Goffman would be proud.

The Great Social Hoax: No One Actually Knows What They’re Doing

The greatest takeaway from Goffman is that everyone is improvising. Even the most seemingly confident, well-adjusted people are just better at sticking to the script. If they deviate, they recover quickly. That’s it. That’s the trick.

So, what do we do with this information? Accept that social awkwardness is universal. The next time you overanalyse a conversation from five years ago, remember: the other person probably forgot about it five minutes later. Learn to lean into the absurdity. Once you realise social norms are just made-up performance guidelines, they become far less intimidating. Find spaces where you don’t have to act. True backstage spaces—where you can just exist, without performance expectations—are essential for maintaining sanity.

Goffman was right: life is a performance, but that doesn’t mean you have to be on all the time. Understanding the theatrical nature of social life is freeing—it reminds us that we’re all just actors in a sometimes-ridiculous, often-exhausting play. But knowing when to step off stage, when to drop the mask, and when to stop worrying about whether you nailed your lines? That’s the real trick.

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A Sociological Roast: Christmas Dinner Debates

AJ Wright — Tue, 17 Dec 2024 10:00:00 +0000

Christmas Day had arrived, and it was a particularly frosty December afternoon. The Parker family’s annual Christmas dinner was in full swing. The table, laden with turkey, trimmings, and an excessive amount of Brussels sprouts, was as festive as ever. However, this year, something was very different. In a surreal twist of holiday magic, a group of renowned sociologists had “joined” the Parkers at the table for dinner. Equipped with their theories and a distinct lack of seasonal cheer, the sociologists were ready to turn the Christmas dinner into an intellectual battlefield.

Act I: Setting the Christmas Dinner Table

As crackers were pulled and paper hats donned (grudgingly, by the sociologists), Mr. Parker attempted to lighten the mood. “Well,” he said, passing the gravy, “let’s all be merry and bright!”

Karl Marx scowled from his end of the table. “Merry and bright, indeed. Christmas,” he began, with the dramatic air of someone about to ruin a perfectly good roast potato, “is nothing but the opium of the masses. A capitalist spectacle designed to keep the proletariat docile.”

Mrs. Parker, slicing the turkey, raised an eyebrow. “Does that mean you’re not having pudding?”

“It’s not about the pudding,” Marx retorted. “It’s about the commodification of everything sacred. Even Santa Claus is a tool of the bourgeoisie.”

“So no pudding, then,” she concluded, unfazed.

Max Weber, seated primly to Marx’s left, adjusted his napkin and chimed in. “While Marx has a point about capitalism, I must interject. The true spirit of Christmas lies in the Protestant work ethic. Consider Santa’s naughty-and-nice list. What is that if not a reflection of hard work and moral rectitude?”

“Rubbish!” Marx snapped. “Santa rewards those who uphold capitalist ideals!”

“Gentlemen, please!” said young Ellie Parker, eager to save her stocking from being labelled a tool of oppression. “Surely, we can all agree that Christmas is about family and tradition?”

“Indeed,” Émile Durkheim interjected, finally looking up from the cheese board. “Christmas is a sacred ritual that reinforces social solidarity. The Christmas tree, for example, is a totemic object that unites us. Even the act of sharing a meal strengthens our collective consciousness.”

“A totemic object?” Mrs. Parker said, glancing at their slightly wonky artificial tree. “It came from Tesco.”

“Exactly!” Durkheim said, mistaking her tone for agreement. “Tesco provides a shared cultural experience!”

Act II: The Main Course (of Arguments)

The turkey was carved, and the conversation turned increasingly heated. Erving Goffman, who had been silent thus far, surveyed the table with an amused smile. “It’s all performance, you know,” he said, gesturing at the crackers and festive napkins. “Christmas is nothing but dramaturgy. Take gift-giving, for example. It’s a carefully choreographed performance to convey status and affection.”

Mrs. Parker laughed. “You mean we’re all pretending to enjoy this?”

“Precisely,” Goffman said, nodding. “The forced cheer, the awkward small talk, the competitive decorating… it’s all an elaborate play.”

“Speaking of forced cheer,” Michel Foucault interjected, “let’s talk about power.”

Foucault leaned forward conspiratorially. “Take the Elf on the Shelf,” he said. “It’s a tool of surveillance. A panopticon designed to create docile children.”

“What about the family dynamics at this very table?” he continued. “Notice how power shifts depending on who controls the gravy boat.”

“This is why we don’t invite academics,” muttered Mr. Parker under his breath.

“Let’s not forget,” Pierre Bourdieu interjected, sipping his wine with a knowing smile, “that Christmas is a battleground of taste and distinction. Consider the pudding. Is it homemade? Store-bought? Organic? Such choices signal our cultural capital.”

“It’s from Marks & Spencer,” Mrs. Parker said proudly. “Does that count as cultural capital?”

“It depends,” Bourdieu replied. “Was it the luxury range?”

Act III: Dessert and Reconciliation

As pudding was served and brandy set aflame, Harold Garfinkel leaned back in his chair. “You know,” he said, “Christmas is a fascinating example of ethnomethodology. It’s all about shared understandings. Take gift exchanges. The unspoken rules, the subtle breaches…”

“Like when Uncle Dave gives socks every year,” Ellie added.

“Exactly!” Garfinkel said, delighted. “A breach! Yet we accept it, because it reinforces social order.”

By now, the family was laughing, the arguments giving way to camaraderie. Even Marx accepted a second helping of pudding, muttering something about “redistributing dessert.”

Conclusion: Deck the Halls with Sociological Satire

And so, the Parker family’s Christmas dinner came to a close. The sociologists, having thoroughly deconstructed every aspect of the holiday, raised their glasses in a final toast. Despite their disagreements, one thing was clear: Christmas, for all its absurdities, had a way of bringing people together — even if only to argue over the last mince pie.

A footnote on collective nouns…

I have never come across an official collective noun for a group of sociologists, probably because no-one ever seriously considered this idea before. Some of my suggestions would be:

A discourse of sociologists
A paradigm of sociologists
A critique of sociologists
An inquiry of sociologists
A theory of sociologists
A framework of sociologists

Take your pick! Have a Happy Christmas and an Outstanding New Year!

You may also be interested in these Sociology articles:

The Tyranny of Eye Contact: A Neurodivergent Field Guide
A neurodivergent take on the social minefield of eye contact, masking, and the unfortunate realities of looking anywhere but someone’s face—including, yes, accidental boob stares.
How Many Sociologists Does It Take to Change a Light Bulb?
Ever wondered how many sociologists it takes to change a light bulb? Turns out, it’s not that simple. Dive into the philosophical chaos as academics debate the true nature of darkness, privilege, and the social construction of light.
Yolks and Hierarchies: The Great Eggonomic Divide
What does your choice of Easter chocolate say about class, culture, and control? A sociological deep-dive into post-Easter parenting, chocolate hierarchies, and the curious case of carob eggs.
The Sociology of Theme Parks: Manufactured Joy and Queue-Based Hierarchies
Easter at a theme park: overpriced balloons, endless queues, and manufactured joy zones. Dive into the sociology of theme parks — where capitalism meets candyfloss-fuelled chaos.
Grounded Theory: Making It Up As You Go Along (But With Integrity)
Grounded Theory: the beloved chaos engine of qualitative research. This witty deep dive explores the strange brilliance of making up your theory as you go—complete with NVivo-induced despair, reflexive diary entries, and the comforting lie of theoretical saturation.

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