According to an article in the Guardian, Romanian authorities have seized more than a dozen cars owned by Andrew Tate. These include a Rolls Royce, a BMW and a Mercedes Benz. Sources who are more aware of the ex-MMA fighter, webcam entrepreneur and social influencer tell me he has a Bugatti as well.
Obviously, there are more important things to consider than his collection of motorised transport – allegations of human trafficking, rape, sexual exploitation and organised crime being a few that come to mind. Still, the question does remain: what’s with all the cars? Why so many of them, and why do they need to be, well, so pointless?
But they’re not pointless; cars do serve a function beyond the fundamentals of moving us around, usually more quickly than if we walked. More crudely speaking, a £500 banger offers the same utility as a £5 million supercar. The variation in price does not mean that one is 10,000 times worse or better than the other. Given the fact that we’re all expected to adhere to speed limits, your average wreck that’s a month away from limping into the scrapyard will get you to where you need to be more or less at the same time as your Bugatti whatever-it’s-called. Sure, one might be more comfortable, more ‘exciting’, more crafted, more ‘magical’ than the other, but is it really worth the additional expense? Unfortunately, within capitalism, it is.
Cars aren’t just about utility, and I doubt they ever were. When they first appeared, they were called horseless carriages (and from that, we get ‘car’) but anyone who had one must have felt special, perhaps elevated. Status, then, is something that cars can confer or project. They are therefore symbols in that they stand for something else. But this only works if these symbols are meaningful in a system of exchange; we all pretty much have the capacity, and possibly propensity, to read and then understand what a car signifies about the person driving or assumed to own it. This is one of the sites in which Tate’s identity takes shape. Particular cars somehow add to, possibly even help create, whatever the idea of Andrew Tate is: it simply wouldn’t work, or have the same effect, if he were posing for a shoot with anything other than a particular type of car. Arms folded: check; biceps flexed: check; shades on: check; Nissan Micra in the background: wait, what?
The truth of the matter is that there is a market for cars that cost more than many of us might earn in a lifetime: apparently, the most expensive car in the world, according to one website, is a (perhaps that should be ‘The’) Rolls Royce Boat-Tail, coming in at up to £25 million; presumably it comes with cup holders and sat nav as standard, although some kind of hire purchase deal might be off the table. Less expensive, but still around the £1–2 million mark are Ferrari, Pagani and McLaren sports cars. And then we come to the relatively cheap-and-cheerful luxury and sports cars offered by mainstream manufacturers: BMWs, Bentleys, Jaguars, Range Rovers and even some Fords, Nissans and Toyotas hit the £100,000 mark.
Which brings us back to the aforementioned Andrew Tate. Why is it that expensive cars feature so prominently within his profile? Why does he need to surround himself with these things? One response might be that he evidences his economic success, and possibly even happiness, by showing the world what his success can buy him (cars), and what can be bought (also cars) makes him happy. Leaving aside the broader discourse around consumption, identity and lifestyle, a further question to ask is why does he need to signify this to the world? It’s possible that Andrew Tate knows what his cars signify as well. This is not exactly the same as advertising, but it’s not a million miles away from even traditional forms of branding. Andrew Tate is a brand, and within that is his dress sense, his body, his taste, his belongings and, of course, his views.
Expensive cars are not the only cultural objects that connote success, but they appear to be consistently relevant, although not in reach for most of us. This type of underlying, occasionally latent and not necessarily sublime signification becomes transmitted into normative thought; for some younger people, Andrew Tate is a role model. He’s a populist and, in some ways, is no different to the plethora of politicians, journalists and commentators we may encounter on a daily, or even hourly, basis. Clearly, the salience of social media, and thus ‘influencers’, is a key element within the broader tapestry of what constitutes information, ideas and therefore knowledge. Such public figures occupy a very distinct space, with their own audiences to develop and, to some extent, their capacity to create ‘influence’. Andrew Tate is not the only one who curates an identity that connotes success and happiness, but there is a discernible rise in hyper-assertive and offensive forms of masculinity. The use of the car, therefore, becomes just another – perhaps indirect – way of legitimising authority. To his followers, his success is self-evident and is reinforced by his apparent worldview: if you want to be like me, do as I say. The problem is, of course, that not everyone wants that version of success, or buys into an ideology (loosely speaking) that continues to promote success at the expense and exploitation of others.
Yunis Alam is a sociologist, working at the University of Bradford. His research interests span ethnic relations, popular culture, ethnography and postcolonial literatures. He has also published a number of novels and short stories.
Race, Taste, Class and Cars by Yunis Alam. Order here for £14.99.
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