The metamorphosis of Andrew Tate from a flash, fast-talking provocateur to a rugged, contemplative, freedom fighter is well underway. Weathered by three months in Romanian jail, this period of solitude will become his version of Jesus’ 40 days and 40 nights – weeks under extreme duress where the messiah not only failed to crack but left with his beliefs hardened.
It’s all a pile o’ shite, of course, but people will believe. He might not win over any new fans – I imagine we’re at the stage with Tate where everyone will have their mind broadly made up – but his intention will confuse his effect. Fast cars, cigars and superyachts inspire fans. Perceived injustice, theological musings and preaching tenets inspire followers. Followers mean power, and power is what Tate is now after.
Since last year ive been in 24 hour lockdown. No yard time.
Pacing a 3metre cell with zero electronics or outside contact. Absolute clarity of mind. Real thoughts. Real plans.
One hour home and I cant stand my phone.
Some habits die hard.
We must defeat Shaytan. pic.twitter.com/Q6TBK5KTqU
— Andrew Tate (@Cobratate) April 1, 2023
The War Room seems to be the place these most devout followers congregate. Both Tate’s Twitter page and website drive people towards the vaguely titled space, though quite what it entails is unclear, other than encouraging like-minded men of a certain calibre to come together. Where is the War Room? Everywhere. Who are the members? People just like you. What does the War Room do? Empower men to become the best versions of themselves. Lovely, generic, meaningless nonsense.
From the outside, the War Room is built on flimsy foundations – much like the rest of Tate’s empire – but what if you scratch a little deeper and enquire about joining this illustrious group?
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You first encounter a chatbot. It asks you to choose a product, and you reply, ‘War Room’. It then asks if you have $5,454 ready to send via either bank transfer or crypto. You say (for the sake of hard-hitting journalism) yes. It asks if you’re sure. You say yes. It asks if you’re really sure. Once again, yes.
Then, the Cobratate robot informs you (in a short sentence style reminiscent of its uber-dominant leader), that: “Let’s talk about the War Room. You are extremely lucky. A member of Tate’s PERSONALLY trained special forces will be with you shortly. Enter your email. And send ‘ready’ as a message below. Do not close this chat.”
There’s something about the tone of Cobratate’s instructions that really got me going. I love it when a robot takes control. Anyway…
The robot bid me farewell and I was greeted by an account called ‘RP.BP’ with a profile picture of the red and blue pill from The Matrix. A series of generic questions followed, and I tried to give the most testosterone-filled answers I could each time. I said all I knew about the War Room was that “I’ve got what it takes to be a part of it.” I said London was a dying city with dying jobs and I wanted to move to the Middle East. I said I had £8,000 in crypto. I said I wanted to change my life. I said I belonged in the War Room.
My new friend Red Pill, Blue Pill, was a man of few words. Any attempt I made at finding out more about this mysterious space was batted away, as he marched onward with terse questions of his own. I complied until eventually he asked: “Who do you need around you that can help change your life and show you the way to move and achieve what you want in life…brokies or millionaires?” I thought about replying “Billionaires” to out-alpha this alpha but played it safe and settled for millionaires.
In your final days, memories of brotherhood flood in.
The bond forged, battles fought.
Laughter echoes through the years.
Money cannot buy this experience.
— THE WAR ROOM (@ReachTWR) April 7, 2023
After a little more feigned resistance, Red Pill, Blue Pill decided I had the right attitude. The whole idea of earning your place is clearly meant to make you feel worthy, but there’s never any real resistance. He then asked if I had any questions of my own, at first replying only with a link to the War Room website, but then he started calling me ‘G’ and being a little bit more receptive.
Once the $5,454 ‘vetting fee’ had been paid, Red Pill, Blue Pill would “onboard me to the rooms”. How much of it was online? Just 5 per cent, he said – “95% is in real life meet ups,” including “a large group in London that meet every week”. He told me he’d been in the War Room for a “few years” and that the group had helped him “in more ways than one”. He said any further questions about his identity were not possible until after the fee had been paid when he would “dox” himself. His patience soon wore off with the rest of my questions as well.
It became clear this was all I would get, and we moved on to payment. I explained I’d rather keep my money in crypto, so bank details to an account in the United Arab Emirates were sent over. The account name was ‘New Era Learning’, and all the details were registered to a media branch in Sharjah, just outside Dubai.
I was neither able nor willing to part with such a sum of money, but others have. Contrary to what I imagined – given the immediacy and shady nature of the transaction – it seems some sort of War Room does exist, but is, unsurprisingly, not all it’s cracked up to be. It is almost entirely online, despite Red Pill, Blue Pill’s promises, consisting of a series of Telegram channels, each offering coaching in various parts of life. From careers to investing to cars to fitness to – of course – women, these men come together and discuss best practices, sharing supposed success stories.
But the crux of the War Room’s issues – other than its exploitative nature and objectionable moral compass – is that the people inside it are not millionaires or success stories. Chances are, the kind of people who part with over $5,000 for the vague promise of success are people who are desperate for something more, likely making the War Room echo chambers of lost, disenfranchised “brokies”. I guess I’ll have to find another way to achieve my dream of a vacuous life in Dubai.