The Shmon Shmuggins Paradigm

The day I was told to stop making waves.

By Aisling (Ash) Mills

If you've read The Authenticity Arbitrage, you may remember a passing reference to somebody describing me as "persistent in making waves."

This is that story.

Or at least the version that can be published without requiring a team of barristers.

The Shmon Shmuggins Paradigm wasn't born in a psychology textbook.

It was born inside a local Facebook group.

Let's call it the Shmouthwold and Shmeydon Spaces, Places and Chat Group.

A community of more than 12,000 people.

One day a discussion emerged about whether local businesses should be allowed to advertise.

A poll appeared.

Almost nobody saw it.

A decision was made.

I questioned the process.

Politely.

Repeatedly.

Which, as it turns out, was where I went wrong.

Soon I found myself receiving private messages from the group's administrator, Shmon Shmuggins himself.

I was informed that if I continued discussing the matter, I could face a lifetime ban.

Naturally, I asked whether anybody else involved in the discussion or group had received the same warning.

No.

Just me.

Apparently I was "the only one persistent in making waves."

The phrase was intended as a criticism.

History would take a different view.

What followed was one of the most bizarre social experiments I've ever accidentally participated in.

There were arguments.

There were public pile-ons.

There were accusations.

There were people explaining why I was everything that was wrong with modern society.

One woman informed the group that my behaviour made her ashamed to be a woman.

Which felt ambitious, given that my crime appeared to be supporting local businesses.

There were debates.

There were factions.

There were spectators.

There were people who seemed to arrive purely because they enjoyed watching the chaos. (I mean, who doesn't love a bit of Facebook drama)

At one point an AI-generated image appeared depicting me in the company of an elderly gentleman in circumstances that strongly implied we'd spent the previous evening together.

I remember looking at it and thinking:

"Well this discussion has certainly evolved."

And yet, despite all this, I was never actually banned.

Which was odd.

Because if somebody truly wants you gone, why leave the door open?

And that question led me to something much more interesting than one Facebook group, one administrator or one disagreement.

It led me to a pattern.

The Shmon Shmuggins Paradigm.

Every community has one.

If you're already thinking of somebody, congratulations.

You've met a Shmon.

If you're not thinking of somebody...

There is a small possibility that you are the Shmon.

Thoughts and prayers.

What Exactly Is A Shmon?

A Shmon is not necessarily a bad person.

In fact, that's what makes the phenomenon so fascinating.

Most Shmons begin life as perfectly ordinary human beings.

They start a Facebook group.

Join a committee.

Acquire a clipboard.

Become an administrator.

Organise a local event.

Volunteer for a worthy cause. (And can be quite shouty about it!)

At first, they're genuinely useful.

Helpful, even.

Then one day they discover the intoxicating power of controlling access to something.

And that's when things get interesting.

The Rise Of The Gatekeeper

The transformation is subtle.

Nobody wakes up one morning and declares:

"I shall become a gatekeeper."

It happens gradually.

A post gets approved.

A comment gets removed.

A decision gets made.

A little influence appears.

Then a little more.

Before long, stewardship quietly transforms into ownership.

Ownership transforms into control.

And control transforms into territory.

The community stops becoming a shared space and starts becoming a personal kingdom.

Questions become challenges.

Disagreement becomes disrespect.

Contributors become competitors.

And the Shmon begins patrolling the gates with all the confidence of somebody protecting the Crown Jewels.

Despite the fact they're actually moderating a post about a village jumble sale.

The Digital Fog Arrives

This is where things start getting really interesting.

Because the first casualty is rarely a person.

It's the atmosphere.

The Digital Fog begins to roll in.

People stop speaking quite so freely.

Ideas become smaller.

Conversations become safer.

The room becomes quieter.

Not because nobody has anything to say.

But because people are no longer sure it's worth saying.

The irony is beautiful.

The Shmon believes they are protecting the community.

In reality, they are slowly removing the very thing that made it vibrant in the first place.

The Percy Protocol Kicks In

Now if you've read The Coastal Paws Paradox or The Authenticity Arbitrage, you'll already be familiar with the Percy Protocol.

The Percy Protocol loves logic.

It wants explanations.

It wants fairness.

It wants everyone to get along.

So when somebody suddenly finds themselves on the wrong side of a Shmon, the Percy Protocol gets to work.

Perhaps I misunderstood.

Perhaps they're having a bad day.

Perhaps there's a rule I missed.

Perhaps there's a perfectly reasonable explanation.

The Percy Protocol can spend weeks, months or even years trying to solve the mystery.

It's basically a neurotic sausage dog trapped inside an Excel spreadsheet.

Then The Duggy Compass Starts Barking

Eventually, however, another voice begins to emerge.

The Duggy Compass.

The Duggy Compass isn't particularly interested in politics.

Or hierarchy.

Or approval.

The Duggy Compass asks one simple question:

"Why am I working so hard to stay in a room that clearly doesn't want me there?"

Now we're getting somewhere.

Because that's usually the moment the fog starts lifting.

The Great Miscalculation

This is where the Shmon makes their biggest mistake.

They assume exclusion creates silence.

Sometimes it does.

But often it creates something else entirely.

Independence.

The person who was ignored starts building.

The person who was dismissed starts creating.

The person who was repeatedly told "no" starts asking a very dangerous question:

"What if I build my own thing?"

This is the point where many accidental entrepreneurs are born.

Not through ambition.

Not through strategy.

Not through a carefully crafted five-year business plan.

Pure stubbornness.

Which, incidentally, is one of the most underrated business skills on the planet.

The Grandiosity Trap

Every Shmon eventually encounters the same danger.

Visibility becomes confused with importance.

Influence becomes confused with ownership.

The story becomes:

"I built this."

Then:

"This wouldn't exist without me."

And eventually:

"I am the community."

This is generally the point where the universe starts preparing a very humbling lesson.

Because communities are never built by one person.

They are built by hundreds of people contributing tiny pieces of themselves over time.

Nobody owns the tide.

They're simply standing on the beach when it arrives.

The Beautiful Irony

The thing I love most about the Shmon Shmuggins Paradigm is the ending.

Because the ending is almost always the same.

The exclusion creates resilience.

The rejection creates innovation.

The gatekeeping creates alternatives.

The attempt to silence a voice inspires that voice to find a louder microphone.

The person who was once desperately trying to fit in stops asking for permission and starts building something of their own.

And suddenly the very thing the Shmon was trying to prevent becomes reality.

Competition.

A new community.

A new conversation.

A new room.

The H2H Reality

At Millsight, we talk a lot about H2H.

Human to Human.

Because behind every profile, logo, title and committee badge is still a person.

The strongest communities aren't built on control.

They're built on connection.

The best leaders don't create followers.

They create more leaders.

The best communities don't demand permission.

They encourage participation.

And the most successful people I've met rarely followed a perfect roadmap.

They followed their Duggy Compass.

When the fog rolled in, they kept moving.

When the gate closed, they found another route.

When they were told they didn't belong, they stopped asking for permission.

The Lesson

If you've ever found yourself excluded, overlooked, ignored, ostracised or quietly shuffled towards the exit, take heart.

Many of the most successful businesses, communities and movements began with somebody being told they didn't quite fit.

The Percy Protocol will spend months trying to understand why.

The Duggy Compass will quietly point towards the horizon.

And eventually you'll realise something important.

A closed door is often just an invitation to build your own entrance.

And trust me.

Once enough people start making waves, no gatekeeper is powerful enough to stop the tide. 🌊

If you're still not sure whether you've met a Shmon, don't worry.

The comments section will sort itself out.

If you're building something of your own after finding yourself on the wrong side of a Shmon, Millsight would love to hear your story.

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