People often call me a feminist. It’s not a label I’d give myself even if never disagreeing with anything in the small amount of feminist literature read. I do, though, consider myself relatively well informed on issues relating to women.

Aware, for example, of WASPI, the campaign against state pension inequality, the current system leaving women unjustifiably worse off; or the frequently overlooked fact it’s mostly women who are the victims of murder; or that the plight of women in a war zone is critically severe despite this aspect rarely getting mentioned when wars are reported on. 

I’ve read plenty enough though—feminist and otherwise—to know misogyny is the oldest prejudice known to humanity, dating as far back as the very dawns of Our time; yet unlike racism or transphobia it isn’t currently considered a hate crime in the UK or indeed the majority of other countries the world over.

When the UN recently declared the slave trade the greatest crime against humanity, it wasn’t lost on me that there isn’t a single core aspect of slavery that can’t be found not only pre-empted in the name of misogyny but also carrying on today in broad daylight without so much as a bat of an eye. Just recently, I was speaking to a woman in Bristol who was originally from Birmingham; she had moved, she told me, as her ‘culture’ demanded the woman move to where the man lived. She wasn’t happy about it in the slightest and certainly couldn’t raise the issue with anyone directly involved.  

I’m aware of the odd bedroom dwelling weirdo with the potential to create carnage, having lived in Toronto when Alek Minassian went on his woman-focused rampage; and also the likes of the unsavoury Tate brothers thanks to the frequency they appear in the news.

And let’s face it, despite all the good work that might’ve been done, women can still face rampant misogyny wherever they go.

Yet, despite seeing it like this, Lost Boys—which starts with the most appropriate quote a book ever has: ‘Only by being terrible do they avoid being comic’ C. S. Lewis, The Four Loves—still left me checking my male privilege in a major way.

Bloodworth approaches the subject of the ‘manosphere’ with his trademark dry humour—the Alsatian scenario just one to have me laugh out loud—without ever demeaning the overall seriousness of the subject matter.

In the process Lost Boys joins all the dots within the manosphere agenda to show a connection that includes right-wing politics even in the mainstream form of Republican/Conservatives and more so religion in the guise of the Christian right: the very same people crying foul at the idea of jihadists and immigrant men who don’t know how to treat women are found simultaneously subscribing to an agenda that produces the likes of Alek Minassian and elects a President who happily makes derogatory statements about grabbing women.

Of course there’s lots of money to be had from and tied up with it all, no less the multi-billion dollar dating industry that got the author involved in all this in the first place; for somewhat bravely, Bloodworth admits his introduction into this murky world where most see women as meat and men who don’t as inferior, came from innocently wanting to know how to approach a woman with something bordering on a bit of confidence.

With respects to the money, Lost Boys can be said to complement the incredible work on capitalism and its direct links to a greater subjugation of women Caliban and the Witch, by Silvia Federici; Bloodworth shows the witch hunts for all intents still very much alive and kicking.

It’s on the personal level that Lost Boys finds its greatest strength thanks to Bloodworth coming to the subject with genuine intention to indulge it.

It’s here that lessons can perhaps be learned. James might have had principle enough to realise the manosphere wasn’t the place he wanted to be, but nonetheless something took him in its direction in the first place.

Bloodworth’s journey began 2006. This reminded me of something that happened circa that time when I was involved in a project trying to help young musicians understand the industry they wanted to succeed in.

Drinking in a pub one night with three of the lads involved, the subject of how to approach women came up with me viewed as the ‘expert’ not only by virtue of being older but more so due to previous ‘successes’.

I hated to inform them, but there was no magical spell involved in any of my previous . . . activities. I never spoke to women with any motive beyond having a decent conversion; if we clicked and it went somewhere from there, so be it, but more importantly if it didn’t, I’d still had a decent conversation.

But this wasn’t the sort of information they were after; they wanted to know how to start the conversation in the first place.

I decided to demonstrate.

The pub had numerous support pillars dotted around its large open expanse; to make good use of some, fruit machines had been placed against each of the four sides. This meant that from any part of the pub, various aspects of players could be seen from their back, to side profile to face.

Opposite me, I could see the face of a woman playing a machine; she looked in a good mood, so I got up, walked over, introduced myself and said something like the following:

‘You see that group of three young lads I’m sat with over there. They’re all shit scared of talking to women; I want to show them you don’t generally bite or anything. Would you mind if I stood here and chatted for a bit; I’ll even put a couple of quid in if you let me press a few buttons and you can keep any winnings.’

She was laughing her head off.

We had a giggle for a few minutes, even if my input of coins and pressing of buttons didn’t improve her good fortune one iota; and then, true to my word, I left and walked back to the table.

The lads desperately wanted to know exactly what I’d said for things to go so well, the positioning of the particular machine meaning they’d been able to see the interaction perfectly. I replied that I’d simply walked up and asked if she wanted any help pressing her buttons.

One of the lads had seen someone he liked the look of playing another machine facing us from a different column; with my example in mind he plucked up the courage to go over.

The opening exchange garnered a smile in return . . . but from there things clearly started to go downhill, the lad stood there looking a bit hapless, conversation stilted and awkward.

Returning dejected to the table, he told us that the fruit machine on that side of that particular pillar hadn’t in fact been a fruit machine but instead a cash machine (ATM), and having worked himself up to go over and utter the line, ‘do you want any help pressing your buttons?’ he’d still stood there and said exactly that even though he’d realised what the machine actually was.

It gave the rest of us a good laugh at least.

All three of them were decent guys and I believed that sincerely, so I told them that above anything else they just needed to be themselves; in fact, it was imperative: after all, if things went well then they’d be spending a lot of time together, potentially a whole lifetime. 

Blokes I knew who went out solely ‘on the pull’ never succeeded, meaning they always finished the night feeling in a state of unaccomplished; it was a complete waste of time for so many reasons.

Genuine advice that I truly thought would set the lads on the right path, one of whom was James Bloodworth. I know now from Lost Boys platitudes such as ‘just be yourself’ sound like hollow clichés; especially when there are people out there promising wonderful results for anyone prepared to part with the money to learn their techniques.

In the fewest words possible Lost Boys is eye-openly frightening, and that’s reading it from the perspective of a man. Anyone of the same sex who like me considers themselves an ally might find as I did that they seriously need to up their game to come anywhere close to truly being so.

Lost Boys on Amazon

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