I Pay £7k a Year in Tax and Still Eat Tesco Pasta in My Childhood Bedroom

(A Love Letter to Gen-Z Despair)

DISCLAIMER: This article does not endorse crime. But it does endorse stealing your little brother’s WiFi and taxing the rich until they weep.

It hits you at 11:03 PM: a Lloyds notification “Transaction Declined: Deliveroo Plus – £3.99.” You stare, paralysed. Not because of the fee—because this is your rock bottom. You, a taxpayer! A contributor to society! Who earns just enough to owe HMRC a kidney annually, yet still lives with Nan because your salary buys you a shoebox of damp in Croydon and nothing else. You do the maths: £7,000 a year in tax. That’s 583 lattes. 233 Avocado-gate toasties. Or, in practical terms: the exact cost of your will to live.

Your “side hustle”? Selling your ex’s hoodies on Depop as vintage streetwear for £12 a pop (profit: £2.50, minus the emotional toll of reliving The Situationship). Your LinkedIn screams “HIRE ME”; your TikTok FYP whispers “EMBEZZLE.” Suddenly, it’s there: a glitter-text tutorial titled “How to Forge a British Gas Invoice 💅✨,” comments flooded with “Queen!” and “This is why I fw Gen-Z.” Your moral compass, already on life support, flatlines. “…Could I?”

When even the bank says, ‘You’ve had enough,’ and it’s only £3.99. #MidnightMunchiesDenied

The Financial Downward Spiral (A Tragicomedy in Three Acts)

ACT I: THE DELUDED DARLING

You’re a girl’s girl! A manifesting queen! You budget on pastel spreadsheets, thrift “capsule wardrobe” basics, and ignore the Temu ads colonising your feed. Then your landlord jacks up rent by “just” £200 (“It’s the market, babes!”), your weekly “budget” shop hits £90 (one bell pepper: £1.20), and you’re Googling “Can I sell my eggs? Do they mean chicken eggs? …Oh.”

ACT II: THE DELULU DETECTIVE

You’ve entered the “maybe OnlyFans?” era. Your search history: “Is crypto a pyramid scheme or my pyramid scheme?” You screenshot a TikTok titled “Finesse Your Council Tax” and text the group chat: “Asking for a friend… hypothetically…” Your new hobby? Calculating how many Greggs sausage rolls you’d have to steal to pay Nan’s heating bill. (Answer: 472. Hypothetically.)

When your self-esteem hits rock bottom, so you ask your Nan for 99p to get a warm Gregg’s sausage roll to remind you life isn’t all bad.

ACT III: THE MORAL RUBBLE

You’re fluent in FraudTok’s lexicon:

• Skrilla: The £4.75 in your account, or alternatively, the digits on that “missing” Starbucks gift card.

• Finesse: Disputing a £400 Shein order as “fraudulent” while wearing the exact dress in your PFP.

• Girl Math: Returning a Zara blazer you definitely didn’t buy, then using the voucher for canned wine. It’s recycling!

Why We’re All Secretly Rooting for the Scammers

Let’s be real: #ScamEconomy isn’t a trend—it’s a primal scream into capitalism’s void. We watch these tutorials like Ocean’s 8 meets Sisterhood of the Travelling Card Skimmer, equal parts horrified and …inspired. The aesthetic? Cottagecore gone feral. The message? “If the system’s a scam, scam the system.”

But here’s the bitter truth: most of us won’t risk it. Not because we’re saints, but because we’re tired. Tired of choosing between ADHD meds and heating. Tired of paying taxes that don’t fix potholes but do fund MP’s second homes. Tired of eating Aldi penne in the same room we cried over GCSEs.

So we laugh. We screenshot. We comment “Same bestie 😍” on a tutorial we’d never try. And when the guilt creeps in—“Should I be a better person?”—we remember: Jeff Bezos exists.

Nan shouts up the stairs to ask if you want tea. You yell yes. Fraud can wait.

Let’s face it, scrolling through TikTok’s #ScamEconomy feels like binge-watching a dystopian heist film where everyone’s wearing Balenciaga dupes and dropping lines like, “Dispute the charge, babes—the bank’s insured.” These creators aren’t just peddling scams; they’re curating a vibe—a glitter-coated middle finger to a system that’s left Gen Z choosing between avocado toast and actual toast. But beneath the slick edits and “girlboss” aesthetics lies a darker truth: FraudTok isn’t entertainment—it’s a symptom of late-stage capitalism’s rot.

The Aesthetic of Desperation

FraudTok thrives on paradox. It’s Ocean’s 8 meets The Hunger Games, where creators serve lewks while demo-ing “hacks” like disputing legitimate charges or faking energy company invoices. The comments? A chorus of “Same, bestie” and “We love a morally grey queen.” But this isn’t rebellion—it’s resignation. When wages stagnate for 15 years while rent soars 40%, rule-breaking morphs from taboo to survival tactic.

Gen Z’s immersion in digital culture—averaging 4+ hours daily on social media—makes them prime targets. Scammers weaponise their trust in platforms like TikTok, where “finfluencers” blur the line between advice and grift. Case in point: 42% of Gen Z admits to “friendly fraud” (disputing valid charges), viewing it less as crime and more as creative budgeting.

Who I strive to embody in 2025.

The Real Villain? A System That Monetises Breathing

Let’s autopsy the Cost-of-Living Cringe:

• Groceries: £10 hummus vs. £2 pasta. Bon appétit.

• Energy bills: Charging your phone at Pret because your landlord’s meter runs on tears.

• Therapy: Your actual budget line item, because surviving capitalism requires emotional support ferrets.

When “sell a kidney” and “sell your soul” are equally viable options, Gen Z’s moral compass doesn’t spin—it vaporises. Why fear fraud when the system itself is a rigged game? As one report notes, 83% of Gen Z falls for online retail scams—not out of naivety, but desperation.

FraudTok Isn’t a How-To—It’s a Scream Into the Void

Most FraudTok “hacks” are fake, illegal, or both. Yet their virality isn’t about crime—it’s about collective catharsis. Each “Get Rich or Die Trying” tutorial is a primal scream against:

• Inflation: Avocado prices up 400% since 2008.

• Corporate greed: CEOs hoarding wealth like Smaug with a LinkedIn account.

• Financial gaslighting: Being told to “skip lattes” while billionaires dodge taxes.

But here’s the kicker: Gen Z isn’t fooled. They know FraudTok’s “Cartier bracelet” fantasies are scams. Yet 38% of Gen Z fraud losses start on social media because, as one expert notes, “They’re drowning in a sea of ‘too good to be true.’”

Solidarity Over Scams

Would I actually commit fraud? No. (Hi, future employers! Let’s grab coffee ☕.) But do I get it? Absolutely. FraudTok isn’t a manifesto—it’s a mirror reflecting a generation raised on hustle culture and student debt, now watching the American Dream crumble into Temu-grade plastic.

So next time you see a “Become a Crypto Millionaire in 10 Days!” tutorial, laugh, report it, then Venmo your mate £5 for their Netflix password. Why? Because survival isn’t a solo mission—it’s a communal grind. And while FraudTok glamorises chaos, the real power move is outlasting the system, one legally streamed rom-com at a time.

Final Word: FraudTok’s allure isn’t about greed—it’s about rage. Rage at a world where wages can’t keep up with WiFi bills. Rage at influencers selling “financial freedom” while ignoring systemic collapse. But as the FTC reports $10B lost to fraud in 2023, remember: the ultimate flex isn’t a Cartier bracelet—it’s surviving with your soul (and credit score) intact.