How did we get to a week in which the world’s richest man could label our safeguarding minister and women’s rights campaigner Jess Phillips a “rape genocide apologist”, and the boss of the world’s biggest social platforms could abandon moderating even the most despicable content in the US?

Let’s go back 30 years. It’s 1995, cargo pants were slung low, Oasis were riding high. We were all going to Live Forever. And then the New York supreme court ruled against a long-forgotten company called Prodigy, which hosted online message boards. An unknown user had posted a message that the brokerage firm Stratton Oakmont (which had inspired The Wolf of Wall Street) had committed fraud. Stratton Oakmont sued for defamation and a crucial question was asked: was the site that hosted the comment responsible for it, in the way a traditional publisher would be for a comment on its letters page? The court decided that, because Prodigy had moderators and content guidelines, it was responsible. Another company that didn’t moderate had previously gone unpunished.

Politicians huffed and puffed, and section 230 of the US Telecommunications Act was born – and the internet as we know it. Section 230 concluded that no online site should be treated as a publisher, although the site could have the ultimate say on content it felt “obscene, lewd, lascivious, filthy, excessively violent, harassing or otherwise objectionable”. So no consequence if even the most heinous content is left up – but there is opportunity to moderate/censor (delete according to your political proclivities) as desired. Section 230 has been creating fury – as well as disinformation, polarisation and civil unrest. Trump threatened to repeal it when he was last president as he thought Facebook and Twitter moderators were using it to fact check or take down his messages. Then the see-saw swung under Biden, with moves to make online companies take responsibility for toxic content. With Trump’s return, the other end of the see-saw is crashing down once more (hence Mark Zuckerberg’s sprint to abandon moderation). Beneath it all lie the democracies, truth seekers and users, battered by online hate and misinformation.

Crying shame game

The first two series of The Traitors were genius for their heavy-duty scheming, lying, cheating (and Claudia’s eyeliner). But this third series risks being washed away in a vale of tears. Last week’s episodes were ruined by the relentless blubbing of contestants who seem to be confusing playing what is wink murder in tartan with something that actually, well, matters. Freddie was inconsolable because his housemates were doubting his faithfulness (er, that is the point of the game). Tyler was welling up when his name got called and Livi became hysterical that a bloke she’d met three days earlier was returning to the green room. It’s all become too Love Island with tears, tantrums and this moron-speak of “can we have a chat?” and “where’s your head at?”. Enough of the emotional incontinence, there’s enough to cry about in the real world right now.

Persona non grata

What a relief that’s the first week of January done. The energy required fulfilling unrealistic new year resolutions is too exhausting. This year, beyond the annual “more cardio, less custard” commitment, I’ve pledged to learn Latin.

I took my O-levels at a school which, had there been multi-word Ofsted gradings in those days, would have been classified as “bang average”. Classics belonged to posh schools and Pete Tong. Amid my insecurities, I dreamed of being able to think like Mary Beard and speak like Boris Johnson. Beard insists the classics help us respond better to the challenges of the modern world.

And so with a 10-day streak (oh yes!) of Duolingo behind me, I’ve been able to construct a classic rejoinder to Elon Musk: “Futue te ipsum, Elon.”

• Alison Phillips is a former Mirror editor-in-chief