Andrew Tate is often described as one of the most influential figures in the world today. Unlike global icons such as Taylor Swift, Khloé Kardashian or Greta Thunberg, whose influence is rooted in creativity, celebrity or activism, Tate’s notoriety centers on his perceived role in propagating toxic masculinity. He is regularly held responsible, often singularly, for advancing a regressive model of manhood. But how accurate is this portrayal? Does Tate’s influence merit the level of scrutiny it receives?

Measuring impact

To explore these questions, we surveyed 1,100 men across a broad age spectrum, primarily in the United Kingdom, the United States and Australia. The results challenge common assumptions.

Only 7% of respondents reported being influenced by Tate in any meaningful way. Among this small group, many described their response as critical rather than imitative. Over three-quarters (76%) found his views on women offensive or harmful, and while 84% agreed that “toxic masculinity” exists, few recognized it in themselves or associated it with Tate. Just 4% described his ideas on masculinity as insightful.

Tate presents a composite identity: misogynist, alpha male, free speech martyr, self-styled philosopher and walking embodiment of the supposed masculinity crisis. He has been described as a figurehead for a backlash among men unsettled by shifting gender norms and the erosion of traditional roles. His message is argued to appeal to those who feel disoriented by feminism, gender fluidity and the growing visibility of women in public life.

In that sense, Tate is not just out of step with the zeitgeist—he’s proudly backward-looking. His retrograde vision is part of his marketing strategy: a fantasy of regression, in which men rule by birthright and women willingly cleave to subservience.

A manufactured Messiah

Tate, a former professional kickboxer born in Chicago and raised in the UK, entered public consciousness after appearing on Big Brother in 2016, where he was subsequently removed from the house. His prominence grew through provocative online content, amplified on platforms like TikTok and further fueled by extensive media coverage. 

This promoted a version of masculinity based on getting rich, building physical strength and retaliating against contemporary feminism (which, in this context, we understand as the advocacy of women’s rights based on the premise of gender equality). He allegedly became wealthy by selling access to his “Hustlers University,” which claims to teach subscribers how to make money online.

In 2022, Meta banned him from Facebook and Instagram. Shortly after, Hope Not Hate’s research director, Joe Mulhall, described him as a “genuine threat to young men, radicalizing them towards extremism, misogyny, racism and homophobia.” TikTok and YouTube later followed suit, banning his content and inadvertently increasing his notoriety. Today, he has around 10 million followers on X (formerly Twitter).

Garrulous and always ready to offend, Tate became a magnet, attracting interest from everywhere, including Romania where he and his similarly regressive brother were arrested on suspicion of human trafficking and rape, charges they both deny.

Tate has been variously labelled the “king” or “messiah” of toxic masculinity by outlets including The Washington Post, The Sunday Times (South Africa), The Irish Independent and The Guardian. Yet such designations raise a central question: is Tate genuinely shaping minds, or has he become a symbol for broader anxieties?

Limited influence, strong rejection

Our research suggests Tate’s real-world impact is limited. Only a small proportion of men reported any influence, and even then, many described a kind of inverse effect. One participant noted that encountering Tate’s views increased his willingness to confront misogyny: “His influence means I’m more likely to take a stand when I hear those views. So perhaps I have been influenced by Tate—but in the opposite direction.”

Others echoed this sense of reactive engagement: “I feel a more direct responsibility to challenge misogyny than I did before the manosphere existed. Previously, if one of my friends or someone at work said something ignorant about men or women, I’d probably let it go. Now, I feel it’s more important to say something—even if it makes people uncomfortable.”

Far from adopting Tate’s ideology, a significant proportion of men describe their response as deliberately oppositional. “I’m more determined than ever to be an ally to women—just to spite men like Andrew Tate,” said one participant. Similarly, another man stated plainly: “It’s made me a much stronger advocate for female causes.”

The majority of respondents found Tate’s views harmful. Even those who rejected his ideas acknowledged their potential to influence others. One participant observed: “Tate believes men should have authority over women in relationships—including controlling how they dress, who they speak to and what they do. He also thinks women bear some responsibility for being sexually assaulted. It’s completely misogynistic and toxic and just shows how out of touch he is in the 21st century.”

Indeed, the danger may lie less in what Tate says than in what he allegedly does. In April 2025, four women filed a civil lawsuit against Tate alleging sexual violence and coercive control—a pattern of behavior intended to dominate and isolate. He denies all allegations.

A crisis questioned

Toxic masculinity is often invoked as both cause and symptom of a broader crisis in masculinity.  It bears resemblance to “hegemonic masculinity,” a phrase first coined in the 1990s by Australian sociologist R.W. Connell (now Raewyn Connell), to describe a form of masculinity culturally idealized by the likes of Arnold Schwarzenegger and Sylvester Stallone and associated with strength, power and control. The new equivalent is coupled with a crisis captured by the observation: In the USA and UK,  teenage boys are more likely to own a smartphone than to live with their biological father.

As one participant in the survey put it: “Many younger lads find it hard to find their place in the world, especially when it comes to relationships. That’s always been the case. Tate tells them it’s not their fault—and that the way to overcome it is by acting dominant and treating women not as equals, but as possessions.” Another was more direct: “He’s brainwashing boys, young men and adult males who should know better.”

Although 84% of respondents acknowledged the existence of toxic masculinity, few saw it as personally relevant. The concept appears widely accepted but weakly internalized—more a matter of cultural script than personal conviction.

A cultural mirror

The story of Andrew Tate may reveal more about the cultural context in which he operates than about the man himself. Like Hans Christian Andersen’s fable of The Emperor’s New Clothes, the discourse around Tate reveals how narratives can gain authority through repetition rather than evidence. It captures a timeless social truth about the power of groupthink, fear of dissent and a tendency to uphold a fiction for fear of exclusion or ridicule.

A consensus has formed, amplified by media, educators and policymakers. Young men, we are told, are in thrall to a pernicious ideology perpetrated by Tate. But our research suggests a different reality: Most young men reject Tate’s views and don’t see themselves in this alleged crisis. Like the emperor’s subjects, many may privately dissent from the prevailing narrative but remain silent, assuming everyone else sees what they do not. 

In that sense, andrew Tate functions less as a catalyst and more as a mirror, reflecting broader concerns about gender, authority and social change. His influence may lie not in what he says, but in how society reacts to him.

[Nicolette Cavallaro edited this piece.]

The views expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect Fair Observer’s editorial policy.

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