Others join in. Opponents of political correctness join your fan club. You’re right where you started, but with more followers than ever before.

The following week, some other celebrity says something provocative about reproductive rights, and the hive descends on them instead.

It’s not enough to be quietly controversial: if you want to get properly cancelled, you have to mean it.

So, you star in a whitewashed film adaptation, but your horde of supporters blame the casting director instead of you. You date teenagers as you surge into middle age, but they ask who wouldn’t date a 19-year-old Brazilian model if they had the chance. You pull out examples of long-buried hate crimes from your wanton youth, and they ask, “Didn’t we all do stupid things when we were kids?” and give you a lead role in an underwritten, over-directed franchise.

You keep trying. You say outrageous things in interviews. You tweet nonsensically into your echo chamber. You befriend controversial personalities: right-wing radio hosts and brainless YouTubers, doubling down on opinions no one asked for. You’re off the rails. People write concerned think-pieces about your fall from grace, and crackling hatred is countered by sympathy. No matter what you do or say, there is always someone rushing to your defence.

You’re a hammy actor accused of domestic violence, and the entire internet targets your ex-wife instead. You’re a middle-aged comedian who cornered your colleagues and exposed yourself to them, and people whose political consciences hinge on contrariety fund your global tour. Can’t we separate the art from the artist?

Loading

You’re a children’s author with a mob of indignant defenders who insist your dog whistling commentary on trans rights is innocent if you just suspend your reading comprehension for five minutes. You’re a union-busting billionaire who is too maniacal to pass for a believable Bond villain, and people still laud your questionable business tactics as savvy.

No matter what social contract you violate, your loyal fan base excuses everything you do. The more ridiculous you become, the more rabid they get.

If you really want to be voted off the island, you can’t be merely problematic. You’ve got to do something heinous, like sexually assaulting so many women that you get sentenced to more than 20 years in prison. You’ve got to savagely attack your popstar girlfriend until she’s unrecognisable. You’ve got to demonstrate a long history of predatory behaviour that aligns a little too closely to your role as a psychopathic American president. Go big or get forgiven.

But at that point, when there’s no one left in your corner, when you’re on the cusp of universal loathing, are you cancelled, or are you a criminal?

Anything short of conviction slides off like you’re Teflon. Was all of this some invention by oversensitive millennials, or is it just something to complain about when you can’t handle valid criticism?

The comments section fizzles into silence. The sun rises again. You keep booking jobs and raking in millions because the conversation has moved on, and no one really cares to circle back.

Huh. It’s almost like cancel culture doesn’t even exist.

In case you missed it: the culture stories that start conversations

For decades depictions of sex in Hollywood have studiously avoided focussing on a woman’s actual sexual desires and pleasure. That is, until two female directors changed that this year.

Mildura, six hours drive north-west from Melbourne, is used to being overlooked. So, why did US band Kings of Leon choose this town – better known for its production of citrus fruits – to be the kick-off of their Australian tour? And how long did it take locals to realise this was not a practical joke?

Sunkissed, behind aviator shades, on a yacht with the Italian coastline behind, is Dominic West too handsome to play Prince Charles in the fifth season of The Crown? Fans definitely think so.