What’s your favourite conspiracy theory? Mine is that Paul McCartney actually died in a car crash in 1966 and was replaced by a professional lookalike nicknamed Faul (Fake Paul) to keep the Beatles machine churning.

Many years ago I disappeared down the online rabbit hole of ‘Paul is Dead’ lore where I discovered forum upon forum dedicated to the forensic analysis of this myth. Though incredulous to begin with, after hours of dissecting the shape of Paul’s head pre-1966 (rounder), his eyes post-1966 (greener, somehow sadder) and several cryptic Beatles lyrics supposedly alluding to McCartney’s death and subsequent cover-up, I had no choice but to put my tinfoil hat on and swear allegiance to the mighty detectives of the internet.

You’ve cracked it again, lads, I thought, as I prepared to delve into my generation’s slightly less culturally significant version of that theory: Fake Avril Lavigne.

I’ve been thinking a lot recently about this particular period of my life, given the bonkers conspiracy theories abounding on Covid vaccines. Last month, I was stunned to see the owner of a Glasgow wellness clinic take to social media to declare she would not be providing treatments for any vaccinated customers in order to protect herself from “the unknown effects of this experimental injection”.

She claimed even being in the presence of vaccinated people could be detrimental to her own health, saying she knew of unvaccinated menopausal women who had experienced a mysterious return of their period after spending time with their jabbed acquaintances.

But what about the seemingly rational people who get caught in the iron grip of disinformation? What turned Kate Shemirani, a former nurse, into a strident anti-vaxxer comparing those administering jabs to the Nazi doctors executed at the Nuremberg trials? We all know someone who has become bogged down in these beliefs, and they’re not all like Dee Dee from Limmy’s Show.

Though I believed the ‘Paul is Dead’ conspiracy theory for all of 72 hours before I forgot about it and moved on, my exposure to it came about during my student years when I was going through what I can only describe as a strong David Icke phase.

A powerful combination of having far too much time on my hands, internet access, a keen interest in aliens and a desire to be part of some sort of counter-culture rendered me not quite a lost-the-plot conspiracy anorak, but absolutely the kind of person who would corner you at a house party to talk about the Anunnaki.

I liked the feeling of telling people about something they didn’t know or, even better, the buzz of meeting someone who had also been up until 3am the night before reading about UFOs. Once you knew somebody was receptive to one theory, you could generally assume they believed others – from lizard monarchs to fake moon landings – and derive a sense of satisfaction in feeling like you belonged to the same anti-establishment tribe.

I recall this period of my life as being quite a lonely one, so these connections were important. Though I had a boyfriend and friends, I was unhappy at university and spent a significant chunk of time by myself. I would wager that many anti-vaxxers have experienced profound loneliness over the past year, as many of us have to varying degrees, which could be instrumental in the formation of their beliefs.

Research published in the Journal of Experimental Social Psychology in 2017 found that the more excluded people felt from society, the more likely they were to harbour suspicion and seek patterns and meaning in co-occurring events. Covid restrictions created the perfect breeding ground for coronavirus theories to spread as virulently as the virus itself.

Conspiracy theories offer a sense of control, too; a way of making sense of circumstances that are difficult to digest. We struggle to deal with the random and the unexpected, which is why any time a shocking global event takes place – whether it’s the death of Princess Diana or the September 11 attacks – there’s an immediate desire to frame it as something planned and controlled by the sinister powers that be.

For conspiracy theorists, it seems there is oddly a greater comfort in believing terrible things happen because of malevolence – and of course, sometimes they do – rather than because life very often is unpredictable. Closure and certainty is preferable to the jumbled mess of the unknown.

But is it really feasible that a government with senior members who variously cannot control their hairdos or even their genitals could somehow co-ordinate a plan with other world leaders to inoculate all citizens with a microchip? Why go to the bother when the very phone you’re tweeting your nonsensical ideas from is already tracking your every move?

Studies show that conspiracy belief is correlated with lower levels of critical and analytical thinking. Theorists are powered by confirmation bias, so once they’ve arrived at their opinion they will only consume content that perpetuates the feedback loop. Seeking a counter-argument poses the risk of unravelling the beliefs that have afforded them control, identity and connection; to rescind them is to give in to the chaos of reality.

And reality is chaotic. The anti-vaxxers who believe vaccinations contain toxins don’t want to hear about the toxins they ingest every hour of the day through their food, the air they breathe, the bottles they drink from. Those who think the virus was leaked deliberately to wreak havoc on the world don’t want to think events like this can, and do, strike like a bolt from the blue at any time.

It is almost impossible to reason with people who are invested in conspiracy theories because they haven’t arrived at their conclusions through solid facts or meaningful research; they’ve been guided by a tangle of feelings and circumstances that are so much harder to unravel.

We can call them selfish all we like, but it will only serve to strengthen the disconnect that drove them to where they find themselves now. I don’t know what the answer is, necessarily, but hurling abuse at them will surely only make the problem worse.

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