I Anonymously Cyber Bully my Boyfriend’s Band for Fun

Words by Marina Argirova

It was a foggy, brisk, and dark day in my office, and the general 9-to-5 boredom kicked in at its usual time (3 pm). The coffee was drunk, the biscuit tin was empty, and the manager was out of the office. I was thinking about how I had moved my entire life to the great city of London, technically on the promise a random man I had never met (Match Montana, guitarist of Stereo Cupid) had made to my boyfriend (Ralph McCarthy Schofield, frontman of Stereo Cupid) about starting a band in London. It had come to my attention that, despite my unwavering commitment to the band, its shows and its groupies, that Stereo Cupid did not follow me back on Instagram. Can you imagine that? Me? THE muse? Ignored? The horror! This tiny little oversight, this remark of unappreciation, lit a fire of vengeance, one that would consume my consciousness entirely.

Revenge is the natural way of a Scorpio, so my idea was hatched in a millisecond, without much consideration of the consequences or how my betrothed would respond to it. I wanted to fuck with them a bit, in a cheeky way, wind them up, create a conspiracy, a buzz. Stereo Cupid had already harnessed a thrilling bad boy reputation, embodying the real spirit of Rock and Roll by doing whatever they fucking wanted in a beer-fuelled, sweaty storm. They were abrasive and fearlessly in your face. The scene had taken notice of their debauchery, carelessness and electrifying shows. I grew to know them well, and I knew that this would catch their eye. I hoped that, like true rock stars, the idea would flatter them as much as it would irritate them, and they would bite the bait.

Stereocupidaregay was born, an account of anonymous terror. (I am part of the LGBTQI+ community, so I feel that my reappropriation of the word gay was acceptably insulting.) My first comments on their Instagram reels were based on their homoerotic nature, shirts agape to their navels, slapping each other on the back. This caught Ralph’s attention. He screenshotted the account and blasted it on his social media; “Is this a sign you’ve made it?” he broadcast. I felt some guilt, but not enough to stop the operation. I knew there was still so much fun to be had with this, and I had to do whatever I could to stay in control. There was only one way to keep up the act. Ralph had to know; he had to be in on the joke.

That evening, at dinner, I confessed my sins. I have to admit I expected at least a giggle. I thought this was a really funny gag, that I had pulled it off seamlessly, and that he would find some level of respect for my commitment to the bit. “That’s really fucking weird.” His face was straight, unimpressed. We ate our meal in silence, which was occasionally interrupted by a sigh and a shake of his head. I was humiliated, but not enough to stop. He promised to keep my secret, but only out of embarrassment. “My missus bullies my band,” he wasn’t happy. The call was coming from inside his house, at least he knew now. It’s not fair, but his awareness of my secret identity meant that fun had really begun. Stereocupidaregay was alive and ready to provoke.

This is not my first experience of running an anonymous account. In 2018, when X was still Twitter, I started an account. The alias was called fishinabucket, as I had strangely discovered a large dead fish in a bucket in our college canteen. My second one was more successful, an Instagram account, rating the horrifying meals that my catered student accommodation would serve to us, starving students in 2019. It was named CarniConnoisseur, a spinoff from the Chicken Connoisseur, but targeted solely at my Carnatic Halls audience at the University of Liverpool. I used to sneak snapshots of people’s meal choices as I walked the dining hall, berate and rate them out of 10. It was easy and entertaining, and I thrived off the anonymity, off the conspiracy, off the hushed conversations in club smoking areas. I would get high off the shock, horror and respect when I confessed to people. Having an alias is not only fun, but it is addictive. The combination of the online attention as well as the publicity on the streets. It’s electric. People would wait for what was coming next; it felt like a less traumatising version of Gossip Girl. Once they had announced that we would be the final inhabitants of the accommodation, I decided to delete the account. It felt right to end the reign with the end of the era. It was easier for everyone that way. The only evidence I have of my naughtiness exists in people’s memories, and in all honesty, I love the romanticism of that; it suits the cause. Ask any Carnatic patron, and I bet (hope) that they get all misty-eyed and reminisce about all the laughs that CarniConnoisseur induced. It is a ghost of its time, just as Carnatic was. These experiences gave me the gall and gumption to bully my own boyfriends’ band.

I was present at live streams, calling them sausages, telling them they looked like they needed a wash, pulling all the “your mama” jokes I had in my arsenal. The light-hearted abuse was just the beginning of the fun of stereocupidaregay, it was the gateway drug. I had garnered the bands’ attention and was gagging for more. I couldn’t just stop there. The real fun began with the launch of the conspiracies. I started planting stories about who it could be, bare-faced asking band members who they thought it was, throwing innocent fans under the bus. Ralph got caught up in the excitement of it, dropping names in rehearsals, bringing up the endless possibilities. I was running with it, and it was all getting to my head.

Stereo Cupid (Picture by wwolnyphotography)

Then I began to infiltrate other bands, dropping obscene amounts of cringeworthy emojis on their live streams, liking their posts and commenting “You’re less gay than Stereo Cupid”. It had worked; Stereo Cupid was loving the attention of the account, and they thought it was funny. It emulated the Colonel’s philosophy (Elvis’ manager) that we should be selling to the haters as much as the lovers. It was rogue, fearless and hilarious.

But it was all getting out of hand. I felt invincible, and moreover, proud of what I was doing. I was growing arrogant, like those criminals who boast that they got away with their crime, only to be caught because of their loud mouths. It was all getting out of control. I was struggling to impose boundaries. There were times Ralph came home and said, “That’s too far, Marina.” My co-conspirator was turning against me. What was next? Would this ruin the fun? Would it ruin my relationship? In my blind panic, I began to confess. I was confessing to anyone that would listen. The girlfriends of the band, other co-conspirators, the accused, friends of Ralph’s, managers, my work colleagues, and random people at bus stops.

It is only a matter of time before I am discovered by the rest of the band, and I know now that it is better to control my fate rather than let it fall upon me. I have to get ahead of this while I can. There are people who would argue that there is life in this gag still, that we can take it to another level. But the pressure of this persona is becoming all too much. I am scared that this entity has become larger than life, and that it will simply deflate, anticlimactically. I refuse to let the great wind-up of stereocupidaregay wither away into the abyss of abandoned accounts. It has been nearly a year since its conception, and now, the time has come for me to admit to my antics.

This is my confession. It is me. I, Marina Argirova, loyal girlfriend to Ralph McCarthy Schofield, forever fan of the band Stereo Cupid, am the woman behind the infamous hate account stereocupidaregay. I wish I could say I am sorry, but I am not. And I regret nothing. I regret not printing merch or starting a podcast. I regret not launching a rival band called Stereo Cupid Are Straighter Than You Think. I have been the villain, the fan, the girlfriend, the ghost in the algorithm. I don’t want this to be remembered as just a prank. It was performance art. It was satire. It was love! My confession comes not for want but from necessity. I was my own worst enemy, and I have stood in the way of my own success, but in that process, I have lived.

Firstly, I hope that the members Stereo Cupid actually read this, and secondly I hope that they find it in their hearts to forgive me for reign of light terror. Thirdly, I hope that they still put me on the guest list instead of charging me for tickets to their gigs, and fourthly, I hope that they will continue to give me free merch. I have only one final thing to say:

Long live stereocupidaregay. Long live Rock and Roll. Long live me!

You can find Stereo Cupid on Spotify and YouTube – they’re worth the fuss, and are all definitely NOT gay.