Pedophilia, Inc.

The only thing more protected than children’s innocence is institutional power.

If the world actually cared about children, Disneyland would be on fire, half the clergy would be in prison, and every cabinet meeting would begin with a trauma report instead of a photo op. But it doesn’t. It cares about pretending to care, and cashing in on the image of the child as an abstract, helpless angel who exists to justify everything from war to censorship to curtain-twitching moral hysteria. Children are only sacred when they’re not inconvenient. As soon as they start bleeding, talking, remembering, or pointing, everyone looks away.

The entire "protect the children" machine works because it has nothing to do with real children. Real children are messy. They say uncomfortable things. They’re raped in state housing and disbelieved in court. They age out of care into homelessness, or into prisons where they're called “young offenders” instead of what they actually are: former victims no one bothered to protect when it counted. But you’ll never see them on the banners. You’ll see cartoon stick figures holding hands, because nothing says systemic failure like infantilising the conversation to make it palatable for dinner parties.

Meanwhile, the supposed threats are people with no power. Drag queens reading picture books. Teachers answering questions about consent. Queer kids making TikToks about their trauma. That’s where all the outrage goes. Not to the man on a school board who deletes the complaint. Not to the judge who sends a child back to their abuser. Not to the newspaper editor who buries the story because the abuser has a peerage. The average predator isn’t hiding in a bush. He’s reading from a notes app behind a podium and calling it “moving forward”.

You can build an entire career pretending to care about children. You can get elected. You can get funding. You can get a palace. But try actually confronting the systems that harm them and see how fast you’re labelled dangerous. Not because you’re wrong, but because you’re interrupting the performance. The only thing this world punishes harder than abusers is anyone who tries to hold them accountable. Because that, unlike child rape, is genuinely disruptive to business as usual.

The Predator Has a Parking Pass

The most dangerous predator isn’t lurking in the shadows. He’s got an access badge and a direct deposit. He’s taking annual leave. He’s got a pension. The man you’ve been told to fear—sweaty, unshaven, skulking outside a playground in a rusted van—is a distraction. The real ones are inside. In the schools. In the offices. In the choir loft. In the boardroom.

The real ones don’t break in. They’re invited. They’re hired. They pass background checks because they know how to play the part. Abuse isn’t chaos. It’s organised. It’s tidy. It’s logged on spreadsheets and excused in email threads and “handled internally.”

People imagine paedophiles as loners. But they’re not. They’re colleagues. They’re deacons. They’re senior leadership. They exist comfortably within systems that reward silence, defer to hierarchy, and prioritise reputation over reality. Nowhere is this more obvious than the Church, where the language of holiness was used as both camouflage and currency.

In France alone, 330,000 children were abused by clergy. That’s not a scandal. That’s a structure. Ireland’s Magdalene Laundries operated as child prisons in God’s name. The Boston Archdiocese ran abuse like a relocation programme, reassigning known rapists like they were broken printers. They called it “inappropriate conduct” and “pastoral failings.” No. It was rape, sanctioned by sacred authority, with a communion wafer to wash it down.

Jimmy Savile didn’t “slip through the cracks.” He was the crack. He was the mouldy carpet placed over it. He was the mural painted on top. A man with visible necrophiliac energy was somehow allowed to DJ, fundraise, molest children on live television, and be knighted for services to charity, which in hindsight should have been a red flag made of human teeth.

He abused children in hospitals, schools, BBC studios, morgues—and somehow kept being handed keys. And the most British part? Everyone knew. Not “suspected.” Not “had a feeling.” Knew. But the man pulled ratings. He did marathons. He wore tracksuits. So instead of prison, he got a statue. That’s not a failure of oversight. That’s a cult with camera equipment.

Rotherham. Rochdale. Telford. Lambeth. The names blur because the pattern doesn’t. Girls were raped, trafficked, threatened with petrol and blades—and the official response was to hold a risk assessment meeting and file them under “at risk of exploitation,” as if that phrasing alone would ward off a rape gang. In Rotherham, over 1,400 victims. Children. Groomed, brutalised, ignored.

Police told them to “make better choices.” Social workers called them promiscuous. The local council ran media training before they ran safeguarding. No one lost their job. Some got promoted. Some got honours. The only people punished were the girls, for surviving long enough to be disbelieved. We like to call it “a failure of systems.” No. This is what the system was built to do: protect itself. Take minutes. Ignore screaming. Then lock the filing cabinet and carry on.

If the priest didn’t get them and the teacher didn’t get them and the social worker didn’t get them, there’s still one final gatekeeper ready to hand a child back to their abuser—the judge. In the UK, family courts don’t just fail children. They punish them for speaking. Mention abuse and suddenly the mother is “alienating the child.” Mention sexual assault and suddenly the child is “confused” or “coached.”

The term parental alienation (now used like courtroom Febreze to discredit any woman who dares accuse a father) is not just legally unregulated. It was invented by Richard Gardner, a psychiatrist who defended paedophiles, openly sympathised with incestuous fathers, and once claimed that child victims were often “seductive.” That’s the legacy embedded in the system.

Even when allegations are detailed, corroborated, medically supported, courts default to shared custody. Because nothing says “best interests of the child” like alternating weekends with a man under investigation for rape. Judges use words like “balanced access” and “maintaining paternal bonds,” as if what’s being scheduled is lunch, not survival. Children are forced into contact. Some get raped again. Some get killed. But the process is preserved. The image of fairness is maintained. It’s not just that the courts don’t believe children. It’s that they actively discredit the ones who do. In the eyes of the system, silence is maturity and trauma is bad manners.

There’s a reason the powerful never get labelled predators. They get called “eccentric,” “troubled,” “brilliant.” Prince Andrew settled a sexual abuse lawsuit with £12 million, swore he’d never met the girl, and then got photographed with his arm around her waist in a flat owned by Ghislaine Maxwell, who is currently in prison for trafficking children to no one.

Epstein ran a trafficking ring for billionaires, politicians, and royals, hosted them at his homes, flew them on his planes, and died in a prison cell where the CCTV broke, the guards fell asleep, and no one’s quite sure what happened. Polanski admitted to drugging and raping a 13-year-old and still gets invited to film festivals that treat him like he’s been wronged by time.

This is not accidental. This is infrastructure. This is how power functions when it protects itself—calmly, legally, publicly. You do not get to the top of any empire without the system learning how to cushion your fall. It’s not that the elite avoid consequences. It’s that consequences were never designed for them. They have private jets, private settlements, private schools, private islands. And when someone breaks the silence, the outcome is always the same. The child disappears from the headline. The man reappears at a charity gala. Child protection stops where wealth begins. There is no justice for children who accuse the powerful. There is only silence, payout, or disappearance.

The Algorithm’s Favourite Snack is Your Child

Children aren’t raised anymore. They’re posted. Before they can speak, they’ve got a digital footprint longer than your dad’s browser history. Their first bath is a Reel. Their first steps are monetised. Their first meltdown is edited into a wholesome vlog with ukulele music and a sponsored discount code for wet wipes. The child isn’t the centre of the home. They’re the content strategy. We tell ourselves children are sacred, too pure for politics, too precious for danger: and then we upload them straight into a platform optimised to push predators and paedophiles their way. The algorithm doesn’t see a child. It sees engagement.

There are entire YouTube empires built on the daily humiliation of children. Not characters. Not actors. Real kids. Filmed crying, throwing up, getting told their pet died for a prank. Filmed in hospital beds with IVs still in their arms while their mum records a thumbnail titled “Scariest day of our lives 😢💔”. Imagine doing your GCSEs with ten years of content out there showing you potty training and pissing yourself at Legoland.

These kids don’t get wages. They don’t get contracts. They get merch. Branded backpacks with their own face on it. If a television studio tried this, there’d be legal teams crawling through the walls. But on YouTube? All you need is a pastel aesthetic and a sobbing toddler in the frame. That’s not parenting. That’s child labour with a literal PR package.

Some parents used to show strangers photos of their kids like it was a personality trait. Now they film them sobbing mid-meltdown, upload it to TikTok with Lo-Fi Beats to Cry To, and caption it “She just found out our dog died 💔 send prayers” while a sponsored teeth-whitening kit sits in the background. These aren’t family moments. They’re trauma thumbnails. Kids being filmed through surgery, filmed through therapy, filmed while being told their nan died—for “raw content.”

There are toddlers with Instagram fan pages and preteens whose first breakup is a monetised mini-series. Influencer parents have turned childrearing into reality TV without contracts, unions or consent. And when the kid finally says, “I don’t want to be filmed anymore,” the ring light goes off, the camera pans back to the parent crying into their notes app, and suddenly they’re the victim. This isn’t parenting. It’s long-form exploitation with a swipe-up link for 15% off matching pyjamas.

If a man hangs around a playground in real life, he gets arrested. If he hangs around a digital one, he gets a username and a friend request. Grooming doesn’t happen in the shadows anymore. It happens in the group chat, in the Discord server, in the Roblox private lobby where the avatars look like Lego and the messages read like court transcripts. These platforms are designed for children and built without guardrails. Snapchat, Minecraft, WhatsApp; all turned into live-action hunting grounds where adults pose as teenagers and companies pose as helpless.

Tech CEOs testify before Parliament every few months, say they’re “very concerned,” shed a single tear made of venture capital, then go back to offering parental controls that don’t work and a report button that does nothing. They don’t fix it because fixing it would cost them users. And investors don’t like safe, they like scalable. These companies aren’t failing to protect children. They’re just succeeding at not being liable.

Roblox has a safety centre. Discord has community guidelines. Snapchat offers “family tools.” None of it means anything. Groomers use these platforms like they’re shopping centres. Private lobbies. Disappearing messages. Game chats where “wanna trade?” turns into “don’t tell your parents.” These are apps designed for kids and optimised for predators. And the companies know it. They’ve known it.

But instead of building protections, they build plausible deniability. They update the T&Cs, release a PR statement, and quietly outsource moderation to a minimum-wage contractor in another time zone with a queue of abuse reports longer than the Bible. These companies do not prioritise safety. They prioritise not being sued. As long as your kid clicks, comments, and keeps the screen time up, the system’s working. Doesn’t matter who’s on the other end.

This isn’t just about the predators. Or the platforms. It’s about us. The audience. The voyeurs. The people who watch a toddler scream while being filmed mid-tantrum and call it “funny.” Who scroll past a child dancing in lingerie and hit “like” because the caption says “she’s such a little queen.” Who see grooming in the comments, say nothing, but DM the video to their mates with “omg I can’t.” We say we fear paedophiles. But we keep building the platforms for them. Then we open them to the public and call it parenting.

If childhood is sacred, why are we selling it?

If children deserve safety, why do we keep pressing play?

We Don’t Need More Awareness. We Need a Fucking Reckoning.

The world doesn’t need another infographic reminding us that child abuse exists. It needs institutions dismantled, careers ended, and hard drives incinerated. It needs fewer press conferences and more public resignations. It needs a bonfire where every “child safeguarding” PowerPoint ever made gets torched, right next to the NDAs, the court transcripts, and the clipboards from social services marked “no further action.”

Because let’s be honest. We know. We’ve always known. We know the names. The schools. The churches. The studios. The YouTube channels. The judges. The group chats. We’ve seen the footage. We’ve read the comments. We’ve watched the kids cry while the likes roll in. This isn’t a mystery. It’s a marketplace. And everyone has a stall—even if it just looks like silence.

So no, we don’t need more awareness. We need refusal. We need disruption. We need every person who’s ever felt like something wasn’t right to stop swallowing it and start naming it. Because you don’t need a degree in child psychology to know that filming your kid sobbing for content is fucked. You don’t need to be an expert to know that “shared custody” shouldn’t include weekends with a rapist. You don’t need a campaign to understand that a grooming ring with a blue tick is still a grooming ring.

You just need to stop pretending you don’t see it.

And then choose not to be part of it.

Not with your clicks. Not with your silence.

Not with your vote.

Not with your watch history.

Not anymore.