It’s always the YouTube drama that sneaks up on you when you least expect it—and this week, the spotlight falls on Becks, a YouTube commentator who's just hit my channel with a barrage of copyright and privacy strikes. Her message? Remove my videos featuring her, and in return, she’ll consider removing the strikes. The reason? The clips, she says, were recorded during a “very upsetting time” in her life.
Let’s rewind.
This all started because The Mouse—another of YouTube’s anonymous warriors—reuploaded a voice-note Becks had sent. I confess, I thought it was new. Turns out, it was from four years ago. My bad!
But hearing it now? Honestly? It's hilarious.
The message reads:
“Matt, people have been right about you. You are a sexual deviant and you need to get off YouTube and never come back.
You know, how could you portray Katie like this? All of us when we’ve supported you?
You know, Babs Collier, hey! Lee Moon, wow. Insulted every single one of us, who the fuck does she think she is? She’s nobody to me, I don’t even know who the woman is. All I know is that you done a video saying that she was dead. That’s terrible what you’ve done Matt. I don’t know how you can live with yourself. But hey hoo. That’s you isn’t it.”
Four years later, and hearing it now for the first time—it cracked me up. It’s pure gold. A soap opera rant in voice-note form.
Fast-forward to today, Becks sends me this:
“Matt….. I left you a comment on here last night explaining the voicenote Mouse uploaded was from nearly 4 years ago. You have uploaded and made an A.I video playing my voice note over the top. I don’t appreciate this as it was a very upsetting time of my life. Perhaps you should time travel back. I have put in a privacy strike on all your channels where you have uploaded these videos and used my voicenote without my permission. If you remove them all today then I will cancel the strikes for privacy.”
Now look—I get it. Emotions were running high. Maybe she regrets it now. But to demand censorship based on an old voice message she voluntarily sent about me, seems more like a power play than a genuine plea for compassion.
This is the frustrating part about interacting with YouTube commentators. Some of them want to play victim after years of throwing punches. They’re fine with name-calling, smearing, and lobbing accusations in public—but when the clip resurfaces, suddenly you become the villain for replaying it.
Let me be clear: I have every right under Section 107 of U.S. Copyright Law to use clips that are part of public discourse—especially when I’m the subject being criticized. The law allows for "fair use" in instances of commentary, news reporting, criticism, education, and parody. My reupload was transformative, and clearly fits the remit of fair use. I’m not making money off it. I’m making sense of it.
And frankly, this isn’t just about legality. It’s personal.
Because right now, I am going through an incredibly upsetting time in my life. And hearing Becks label me a “sexual deviant” with such over-the-top drama is—ironically—one of the few things that actually makes me laugh these days. It brings me joy. It’s theatre. Satire. Ridiculous, surreal performance art at its finest.
And no, I won’t be bullied into removing something that gives me a moment of levity in an otherwise dark time. I appreciate the message for what it is—an explosive tirade frozen in time—and I won't pretend it didn't happen just because someone else regrets it now.
If we’re going to hold people to account, let’s start by allowing the public to see what was said, how it was said, and let them judge for themselves.
To Becks: I don’t hate you. I’m not angry. In fact, I thank you. Your message—while meant to hurt—reminds me I’m still capable of laughing.
And in these times, that’s a gift I won’t delete.
The Myth of Leaving YouTube: A Deep Dive into the Psychology of the 'Exit'
Every so often, a content creator on YouTube slams the proverbial door shut with a bold declaration: "I’m leaving YouTube." They might post a final video, teary-eyed and dramatic, or a venom-laced rant about toxicity, betrayal, and the burdens of fame. The comments are flooded with "We'll miss you," "Stay strong," and "Good riddance" in equal measure. But more often than not, the story doesn’t end there.
Instead of vanishing into the digital ether, these self-proclaimed deserters often reappear — not as content creators, but as shadows. They go "undercover." They create burner accounts. They lurk in livestream chats under cryptic usernames. They haunt their critics’ comment sections like ghosts with Wi-Fi. And in an ironic twist, they spend more time on YouTube than they ever did before.
The Exit That Isn't
Leaving YouTube is not like leaving a job or moving house. There’s no formal resignation, no key handover. It’s performative, theatrical — a statement aimed not at disappearing, but at being noticed. And this is the first red flag. Anyone truly intent on leaving doesn’t announce it; they simply go. But the ones who do the whole production? They’re already laying the groundwork for Act II.
In many cases, the departure is triggered not by burnout, but by backlash — a scandal, a wave of criticism, a humiliating exposure. The exit becomes a defence mechanism: "I’m not running because I’ve been exposed. I’m leaving because you are toxic." It’s an attempt to seize back control of the narrative. But as time passes, their grip on that narrative weakens. Curiosity gets the better of them. Ego demands updates. The descent into lurking begins.
The Lurker's Life
The lurking phase is marked by a fascinating duality: invisibility and obsession. These individuals aren’t just peeking in to see what's happening. They’re watching everything. Every upload, every comment, every dig, every mention — dissected and scrutinised like a detective at a crime scene.
They may no longer be uploading, but they’re still active participants in the ecosystem. Some will even create fake accounts to defend themselves anonymously or to stir the pot for fun. They can't help themselves. They need to see what’s being said. Not knowing is worse than the worst insult.
Paradoxically, leaving YouTube often makes them more obsessed with it. Because when you're no longer in control of your public image, every word said about you feels like a threat. And since they’re not “officially” present, they feel powerless — which only drives them deeper into their rabbit holes of paranoia and surveillance.
The Re-Emergence
Eventually, many of these YouTube fugitives re-emerge. They frame it as a comeback. "I’ve had time to reflect." "I’m stronger now." Or the classic: "I never said I was gone forever." But make no mistake — they never really left. They were in the comments. They were on Discord. They were watching your livestream on 1.25x speed with a fake name and a VPN.
The comeback is not a surprise. It’s inevitable. YouTube, for many creators, isn’t just a hobby. It’s a source of identity, validation, even purpose. Leaving it behind entirely is like cutting off a limb. And after spending months obsessing over what people were saying in their absence, they return with new grudges, new grudging respect, or both.
What It All Means
Ultimately, these dramatic departures followed by obsessive lurking and eventual return aren’t unique to YouTube — they’re a symptom of modern digital identity. We are all a bit addicted to what people think of us, and for creators whose lives revolve around public performance, that addiction is amplified.
To leave YouTube is to try and escape a mirror — but most who try find themselves coming back to it, sneaking glances even when they claim to have walked away for good.
So, the next time you hear someone say, “I’m leaving YouTube,” don’t mourn. Don’t celebrate. Just smile knowingly, and remember: they’ll be back. In fact, they probably never left.
Leaving YouTube is often more about attention and narrative control than genuine disconnection. Most return. And those who don’t post videos anymore? They’re still here. Watching. Waiting. Refreshing the comments.
Am I a Bad Man for Being a Sexual Deviant?
The term "sexual deviant" is often thrown around like a weapon—loaded with judgement, stigma, and an air of moral superiority. But what does it actually mean? And more importantly: does identifying with or being labelled as a sexual deviant make someone a bad person? I believe the answer is a resounding no—and here’s why.
Let’s start with the obvious: consent. The golden rule of adult intimacy. If every participant involved is a consenting adult, fully aware, enthusiastic, and empowered in their choices—then where, exactly, is the harm? There is none. What consenting adults do behind closed doors, whether it involves kink, roleplay, toys, fetishes, or any non-traditional expression of sexuality, is their private business. The law, ethics, and common decency all hinge on one central concept: mutual consent and the absence of harm.
Being sexually adventurous or non-conventional does not equate to being immoral, unethical, or dangerous. The phrase "sexual deviant" might sound dramatic, but it simply means straying from what society considers “normal” or “acceptable.” But society’s definitions of normal change all the time. Homosexuality was once considered deviant. So was interracial marriage. So were women wearing trousers. Should we measure our worth by outdated moral frameworks? Of course not.
There are those who may try to weaponize terms like "deviant" to imply criminality or perversion, as if all deviation from the norm is suspect. But I don’t involve children. I don’t involve animals. I don’t cause harm. I don't violate anyone’s rights. So what makes me a "bad man"?
Is it because I’m honest about my sexuality? Because I don’t conform? Because I don’t hide behind closed doors and pretend to be someone I’m not?
We need to move away from the outdated idea that sexuality defines morality. Someone can be a pillar of their community, a loyal friend, a good father, a loving partner—and also enjoy things in the bedroom that don’t fit the vanilla mould. That’s not deviance—it’s authenticity.
The world is full of people pretending to be righteous while hiding skeletons in their closet. I’d rather be real, open, and honest about who I am—warts, kinks, and all—than live a lie for the sake of approval from a society that often can't even decide what it stands for.
So, am I a bad man for being a sexual deviant?
No. I am a free man. I am an honest man. I am a consenting adult engaging in consensual adult fun. And if that makes me “deviant,” then so be it.
But don’t confuse deviant with bad.
Because there is nothing bad about truth, freedom, and pleasure—especially when it harms no one.
Let the prudes judge. I’ll be too busy living authentically.
