The response to Lance Armstrong's admissions is ghoulish

If Americans are so invested in their sporting heroes that they are distraught when they turn out to be merely human then that's the nation's sickness, not just Armstrong's.

Last night more than three million people gazed at a man's eyes, waiting greedily to be the first to spot a tear. When he finally did break down, in describing the pain of admitting his crimes to his oldest son, the public reaction to his grief was glee.

Yes, Lance Armstrong lied. Worse, he also embarked upon bitter and unfounded lawsuits to maintain his lies. He was a bully to those around him, a hubristically unpleasant and arrogant man, and that is not to be defended: bullying is heinous. But – and this is the crux of the issue – we don't go after footballers with rape convictions with as much bile as we reserved for this man.

The Guardian's first words in the story covering last night's interview were therefore, "Lance Armstrong cried." The New York Times opened on "Amid tears." The New York Post did similar. So did ABC News. And Fox, E! Weekly. And the Daily Mirror. What is this obsession with tears? We saw it first in Britain after Princess Diana died – the national outpouring of grief that led to anger at those who were actually mourning at their failure to show weakness. What catharsis is it for the mob to see the strong break down and cry? What vindication does it represent?

Last night the words "public betrayal" was being thrown around, as if Armstrong had sold the nation out to its enemies instead of simply admitting to cheating. If I was a non-doping cyclist, I said on Twitter last night, then I would have been rightfully cross. But it looks as if those were pretty few and far between in Armstrong's era anyway.

I'll admit it: Armstrong was never my hero. I don't cry at sports games. Nor would I feel the victim of treason if, say, Bradley Wiggins or Jessica Ennis's performances in summer – which I enjoyed immensely – turned out to be spurious;  they would have been, to borrow a teachers' cliché, only letting themselves down. (I should point out that there is absolutely no reason to believe this might be the case.)

Yes, Armstrong started a charity by selling a narrative of sporting prowess that turned out not to be genuine. But he did genuinely overcome cancer to get there; moreover, Livestrong does and always did good work. What's honestly better – to tell the truth, and not save other lives, or lie to start a successful charity?

Moreover, there is something else at play than mere egotism. Sport is an industry in the US that so depends on such 'heroes' to sell products to the rest of us that they will turn a blind eye to almost anything, from doping to sexual violence unless it risks tarnishing their image – and pay them astronomical amounts of money to do so. Armstrong is set to lose more than $75m dollars in sponsorship money.

America, a young nation, idolises its heroes more much more than we British do. We look at ours with a sort of nostalgic fondness; just look at Michael Sheen's portrayal of Brian Clough, or Gary Lineker's self-deprecating advertising work for Walkers' crisps. We like a bit of weakness in our heroes; a touch of the bottle, maybe; a spot of darkness. America, in contrast, is the nation that invented the Hall of Fame: here, sporting heroes are golden calves to be worshipped unconditionally. That's why, when Armstrong or Tiger Woods turn out to be merely human, it hits fans so brutally, as a personal betrayal.

Armstrong has a tremendously long way to fall. But if Americans are so invested in their sporting heroes that they are distraught when they turn out to be merely human – egotistic, fame-hungry, and all the rest of it – then that's the nation's sickness, not just Armstrong's.

A man watches Lance Armstrong's interview with Oprah Winfrey in a bar in downtown Los Angeles. Photograph: Getty Images.

Nicky Woolf is a freelance writer based in the US who has formerly worked for the Guardian and the New Statesman. He tweets @NickyWoolf.

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The internet dictionary: what is a Milkshake Duck?

Milkshake ducking is now more common than ever.

The whole internet loves Milkshake Duck, a lovely duck that drinks milkshakes! Oh, apologies. We regret to inform you that the duck is a racist.

This is the gist of a joke tweet that first went viral in June 2016. It parodies a common occurrence online – of someone becoming wildly popular before being exposed as capital-B Bad. Milkshake Ducks are internet stars who quickly fall out of favour because of their offensive actions. There is no actual milkshake-drinking duck, but there are plenty of Milkshake Ducks. Ken Bone was one, and so was the Chewbacca Mask Lady. You become a Milkshake Duck (noun) after you are milkshake ducked (verb) by the internet.

Bone, who went viral for asking a question in a 2016 US presidential debate, was shunned after five days of fame when sleuths discovered his old comments on the forum Reddit. In them, he seemed to express approval for the 2014 leak of the actress Jennifer Lawrence’s nude photos and suggested that the shooting of the unarmed black teenager Trayvon Martin in 2012 had been “justified”. The Chewbacca Mask Lady – a woman who went viral for a sweet video in which she laughingly wore a mask of the Star Wars character – was maligned after she began earning money for her fame while claiming God had made her go viral for “His glory”.

Milkshake ducking is now more common than ever. It embodies the ephemerality of internet fame and, like “fake news”, reveals our propensity to share things without scrutinising them first.

But the trend also exposes the internet’s inherent Schadenfreude. It is one thing for an online star to expose themselves as unworthy of attention because of their present-day actions and another for people to trawl through their online comments to find something they said in 2007, which they may no longer agree with in 2017.

For now, the whole internet loves milkshake ducking. We regret to inform you that it still doesn’t involve milkshakes. Or ducks.

Amelia Tait is a technology and digital culture writer at the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 17 August 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Trump goes nuclear