Daisy Cooper for Varsity

Welcome to LinkedIn: that “essential” networking site that became the black hole I was flailing towards in my mid-degree crisis. I wanted to throw myself into its deepest, thirstiest pit and be churned out as a fallen fame hustler. I’d use envy, lust, and low-cunning. Anything to land that illustrious grad job.

I mean, that was the dream, right?

It all started innocently enough: a casual “humbled to accept” post about next year’s accommodation. Yes, accommodation. My marketing spin: “an opportunity to exploit to the fullest degree.” Little did my connections know, I was just hyping up the prime location for pre-drinks. The result? A measly 26 likes. A bit shabby. Perhaps a tad gauche. But hey, at least a few “mad lad, what are you doing?” DMs trickled in from fellow social climbers, genuinely concerned I was giving up that treasured six-figure training contract for, I don’t know, a low-paid career in stand-up (spoiler alert: it was tempting).

That was at the end of my second year, when the freshers’ fizz had dried up, finding yourself felt more like losing the plot, and the tomfoolery of first year was no longer cute but career-destroying. I had already blown my shot at a law training contract.

“I wanted to throw myself into LinkedIn’s deepest, thirstiest pit and be churned out as a fallen fame hustler”

But LinkedIn was my way in. Learning from my initial faux pas, I decided to upgrade my content game. Enter the Linfluencers (that’s LinkedIn influencers, in case you haven’t been blessed by their wisdom yet). I was going to win this game the only way I knew how – by shamelessly copying their content.

My next post was simple but effective: “I haven’t paid for a single meal in two months … It’s easy when you know where to look. Just hit up every free society event. #WealthHack.” Boom! Within a day, I hit double digits, baby! Upper double digits, if you’re wondering. I was the talk of the town. Classics students praised my free-thinking, Chemists gave me high-fives in the dining hall, and even the Anthropologists suggested an ethnographic study on my rise to fame. I had done it.

With confidence soaring, I doubled down. This time, I went for the killer combo: productivity flex with a dash of #humblebrag. “Ciaron, how the heck do you accomplish so much every week?” I teased, then dropped the bomb: “The secret to my success? I haven’t slept in seven months. #SleepWhenYou’reDead.”

I felt unstoppable. 4,000 impressions rolled in overnight. People I hadn’t spoken to since sixth form were sending DMs like, “Mate, you’ve cracked the code!” At this point, I was convinced my future was sealed with a 7-figure salary and a London penthouse.

But then, it all went wrong.

“At this point, I was convinced my future was sealed with a 7-figure salary and a London penthouse”

Enter Jack Raines, the kingpin of LinkedIn cringe himself. The guy whose posts I’d, let’s say, borrowed for inspiration. Jack had the nerve to call me out publicly. He stormed into my comments like a frat boy on a mission: “Bro, this is my content. Thief much?” Triple-digit likes appeared on his comment in minutes. I was done for. Cancelled. Publicly flayed alive by a LinkedIn influencer. My career, if you can call it that, was over.

What followed can only be described as a nightmare. For 24 hours straight, my phone blew up with notifications. Every time I tried to sit through a lecture, there’d be another ping from a tech bro screaming, “FAKE!” I’d barely utter a word in my tutorials before hearing, “Isn’t this the guy who plagiarised sleep deprivation posts?” People in hall shot me side-eyes as if I’d just confessed to cheating on my finals.

It wasn’t just a LinkedIn disaster – it was a personal crisis. How could I have been defamed as a man who steals? I follow the commandments, for goodness’ sake! I mean, isn’t there one about not stealing somewhere near the one about not coveting? And trust me, I wasn’t coveting the guy’s 6-week Harvard online negotiation course certificate either. No thanks.


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But the damage was done. My brief glory had crumbled, and my inbox was emptier than a Monday morning lecture. Recruiters? Vanished. My pristine garden of Gethsemane? Now a wasteland of ghosted connection requests.

So, let my downfall be a lesson. Don’t try to play the Linfluencer game if you’re not ready to be dragged across the algorithmic coals. And most importantly – if you’re thinking of ‘borrowing’ some inspiration for your next #Hustle post? Don’t. You might find yourself canceled by the very tech bros you’re trying to impress.