"Every few hours, someone else chimes in to say David Roche can’t be bullied—because he’s white, or a man, or well-off, or too visible. As if visibility itself is a form of armour. As if material stability inoculates someone against humiliation, grief, or social exclusion.
But the most honest storytelling—literary or otherwise—knows better. Stephen Poliakoff’s dramas are set among the well-appointed and well-connected, but they specialise in the quiet violence of social life: the feeling of being emotionally dispossessed in the very places that claim to welcome you. What makes his work so haunting is not overt suffering but the atmosphere of constant surveillance, where missteps in expression—too much feeling, the wrong kind of honesty—threaten one’s place in the room.
Online discourse magnifies that surveillance tenfold. The digital public square turns emotional openness into a high-stakes gamble: visible enough to be scrutinised, vulnerable enough to be mocked, successful enough to be resented. The more someone shares of themselves, the easier it becomes to recode their transparency as vanity, their softness as attention-seeking, their setbacks as evidence of character flaws. And all of this happens under the illusion that tone-policing and pile-ons are somehow righteous responses to 'oversharing.'
What’s being policed here isn’t performance but affect. Not running results, but tone. The demand is not that Roche run differently, but that he feel differently—or at least stop feeling so publicly. That he tuck it all back in.
This isn’t critique. It’s a cultural reflex—a form of emotional border control, dressed up as accountability. And if we’re honest, it’s the most boring kind of conformity enforcement: a bunch of strangers insisting that one man feel less, post less, say less—until his interior life becomes legible to them, or better yet, invisible."