Liam Tuffs: The Beetroot-faced Bullshit Merchant of “The Dozen”

This is not my first dance with Liam Tuffs, that pulsating, red-faced caricature of a man who looks like he’s one bad kebab away from a coronary. Oh no, this knockoff Phil Mitchell wannabe has been stinking up my feeds for too long, peddling his far-right fellating YouTube channel, “The Dozen,” like it’s some kind of intellectual oasis in a desert of woke. Spoiler alert: it’s a cesspool. A steaming, fly-ridden pile of unfiltered drivel where Tuffs invites every tin-foil-hatted, conspiracy-chugging moron he can find to spew their bile without so much as a raised eyebrow. Fact-checking? The man wouldn’t know a fact if it crawled up his arse and started a book club.

I’ve written about this prick before, and I’ll write about him again because, apparently, he’s got the staying power of a cockroach in a nuclear winter. Tuffs doesn’t interview; he nods along like a bobblehead on a dashboard, letting his parade of “controversial” guests – think Stephen Yaxley-Lennon and his ilk – rant about their apocalyptic visions of Britain’s downfall. No pushback, no challenge, just a smug grin and a “go on, mate, tell us how the immigrants are stealing your fish and chips.” It’s not journalism; it’s a circle-jerk with a microphone.

Let’s talk about his latest stunt, shall we? Tuffs, in all his vein-popping glory, posts a video ranting about a police officer who wouldn’t shake his sweaty paw. Cue the dramatic music, the close-up of his beetroot face practically glowing with righteous fury, as he spins this into some grand conspiracy about the state oppressing the “true patriots.” The internet laps it up – 1.7 million views on X, 3.6K reposts of brain-dead drones crowing about “two-tier policing.” Except, here’s the kicker: the cop wasn’t snubbing him because of his politics. The police have this pesky little rule called impartiality. They don’t get to play favourites with every red-faced loudmouth who thinks he’s the second coming of Churchill. Shaking Tuffs’ hand would be like endorsing his whole “Britain’s going to hell” shtick. No dice, mate. That’s not a scandal; that’s just the law doing its job.

But Tuffs doesn’t care about facts. Facts are for losers who don’t have a YouTube channel with a logo that looks like it was designed by a drunk toddler. He’s too busy fanning the flames of outrage, hoping one of his videos will spark the riot he’s been wanking over since he first discovered Tommy Robinson’s Twitter. Remember when he was tagging along with Stephen, getting kicked out of a restaurant like a pair of pissed-up lads on a stag do? Peas in a pod, those two – both allergic to self-reflection, both convinced they’re the last bastions of “truth” in a world gone soft. Here’s a hint, Liam: if you’re getting chucked out of places, maybe it’s not the world. Maybe it’s just you being a colossal prick.

This man’s career is a monument to mediocrity. “The Dozen” isn’t a podcast; it’s a soapbox for every washed-up ex-gangster, bare-knuckle brawler, and self-proclaimed “patriot” who wants to scream about the “Islamisation” of Britain or whatever fever dream they had after too many pints. Tuffs doesn’t ask questions; he hands them the mic and says, “Go wild, mate.” That’s not an interview; that’s enabling. It’s like giving a toddler a flamethrower and calling it “free expression.” And the worst part? People eat it up. His fans – those mouth-breathing keyboard warriors – think he’s some kind of truth-teller, when all he’s doing is profiting off their paranoia. Check the links in his video descriptions: Shilajit supplements, testosterone boosters, and other snake oil for the insecure. Ka-ching, Liam. Nothing screams “man of the people” like shilling overpriced vitamins to your cult of angry dads.

Here’s the deal, Tuffs: you’re not a journalist, you’re not a revolutionary, and you’re not even a particularly good grifter. You’re just loud. That throbbing vein on your forehead isn’t a badge of honour; it’s a medical emergency waiting to happen. If you want to play interviewer, try learning what an interview actually is. Ask hard questions. Challenge the bullshit. Stop nodding like a bloody Churchill dog and start thinking. Until then, you’re just another loudmouth in a crowded room, shouting into the void and hoping it shouts back. Spoiler: it won’t. The void’s got better taste than that.

Spider Thompson, somewhere in the country, probably chain-smoking and regretting this entire article.