They Might Not Be Giants

“”Take care, sir,” cried Sancho. “Those over there are not giants but windmills.” Don Quixote by Miguel de Cervantes

 

According to legend, they once hanged a monkey in Hartlepool.  The story goes that the local populace, fearful of the Napoleonic menace, and primed to be on the lookout for nefarious enemy spies, found a very small and hairy ‘Frenchman’ washed up on the shore from the nearby wreck of a warship.  Despite his inability to understand English they gave him a summary sea-shore trial and hanged him from the mast of a fishing-boat. With much cheering, drinking and singing no doubt.  They had visited personal judgement on a feared and hated enemy.  Whether he was indeed a Frenchman or no didn’t trouble them much I’m sure. He seemed French enough for their purposes.

 

I’m sure a rousing chorus of “Bash the Fash,”a 1993 song by anarcho-punk band Oi Polloi, would have tripped happily from the sea-side lynch-mob’s lips.  It quotes Hitler as saying that the only way the Nazi party could have been stopped was if it had been “smashed in its infancy with utmost force.” Well of course he would say that, he was a genocidal fascist dictator – his solution to every problem was to use murderous violence.  I wouldn’t suggest taking Hitler’s advice on anything, unless you are happy to risk becoming like him.  Bash the Fash became a popular term on the internet in 2017 following the American white-nationalist Richard Spencer getting a smack in the mouth live on television and the ensuing debate on whether violence was now an acceptable form of political protest.  It seems that for a growing number bashing the fashes is indeed acceptable.  But who exactly are these “fashes” that they now feel justified in bashing?

 

“I wanna fuck some terfs up, they are no better than fash.” The words of Tara Flik-Wood.  That statement formed part of the evidence presented at Flik-Woods prosecution for the beating of 61-yr-old Maria MacLachlan, Facebook-ed as it was just a few hours before that attack at Speaker’s Corner.  Despite the matter being conclusively decided against her assailant in open court (and before a rather unsympathetic judge) to this day, MacLachlan has to contend with a campaign of disinformation that tries to present her as the aggressor. How can this lunatic claim (that a slight 5’5” grandmother with osteoporosis overpowered a 6’tall male-bodied person in their twenties and shook them like a “rag doll”) be taken seriously by any intelligent human being and in spite of all the abundant freely-available video evidence to the contrary?  MacLachlan is undoubtedly a feisty female but Wonder Woman she ain’t.  So what peculiar mental process is at work here?

Time for another song; “Terfs Are Trash” by the Bo String Duo, a pair of modern-day monkey-hangers.  This gleeful slice of sadly-broke woke-bloke folk contains lyrics telling “terfs” that they “deserve a brick in the teeth” and a “sidewalk curbstomp.”  They are not alone in expressing these sentiments; Their compatriots the Degenderettes held an exhibition of rainbow-coloured weaponry at the San Francisco Public Library along with a blood-stained t-shirt bearing the logo “I Punch Terfs”.  “We must be radically and transformatively violent..Violence against terfs is always self-defence..Fascism must be smashed with the greatest violence.” These words were tweeted by Edinburgh Action for Trans Health the day after Maria MacLachlan was assaulted and in defence of her attacker.  “Imagine being a TERF and sticking razor blades under your stickers, inspired by Nazis doing that” just one of many tweeted in support of a ridiculous claim about the ‘Sticker Woman’ phenomenon that, despite investigations by police found absolutely nothing, undertaken while their attentions were sorely needed elsewhere.

Who are these terrible terfs, these supposed ‘crypto-fascists’, that such violence should be visited upon them?  Women who recognise that sex-based oppression cannot be challenged if it is hidden.  Lesbians who defend their boundaries against male encroachment.  Parents who do not want their children to suffer surgical or chemical treatment for psychological problems.  Even men who do not agree they have to identify as female if they don’t behave in a stereotypically ‘masculine’ way.  Terf was coined as a vaguely disparaging term to describe a subset of feminists (Trans Exclusionary Radical Feminists) but it has since become an umbrella term of abuse to slur anyone who dares question any part of the increasingly extremist trans-activist ideology.  There is nothing “radical” or necessarily “feminist” about asserting the biological fact that a male-bodied person with a penis is a man and an empirical fact is exclusionary by its nature.

Ironically for proponents of a non-binary society, the label TERF is used to enforce an exclusively binary “us-and-them” mentality.    The slogan ‘transwomen are women’, in the absence of any non-circular definition of ‘women’ by its proponents, is offered as a statement of political allegiance rather than as any sort of testable proposition.   It is mainly used as a test for heretical terf-ery, always accompanied by the statement that there can be ‘no debate’ about it.  If you do not accept it completely and unquestioningly, then you are a “terf,” and, they would have you now believe, automatically by extension some variety of “neo-Nazi”.

One of the marks of a civilised society is that it promotes the protection of the weak from the strong as a reflexive moral response.  The twisted genius of the post-modern left is that is has found a form of words to turn the oppressed into the oppressors for the purposes of no-cost public displays of moral virtue. Why go to all the danger and discomfort of hunting out the scarce crop of actual, possibly violent, neo-nazis in the UK when they can conjure up softer and more plentiful targets closer to hand, even if they are in reality concerned parents or older feminists?  The Disney-fied, quixotic left are desperate for a fight with someone(anyone)to earn their spurs and fill their on-line hours with glory. Dress up a “thought-criminal” in Nazi garb and then, mob-handed and anonymously, you can lynch them at your leisure to the approving roar of the crowd.  Yes, much easier and safer for these social justice “warriors” to tilt at “terf” windmills.  How brave, I leave for you to decide.

The Love That Dare Not Speak Its Name (Again)

“Will: [to Jack] Oh my God, it’s finally happened. You’ve gotten so gay that you looped around to straight again” – Will & Grace

 

“Oh, so you hate trans people then.”  This was delivered, quietly and plainly, as a statement and not a question.  A ludicrous assertion from a person who has known me since we were both awkward gay teenagers.  And what had brought on this quick and thoughtless dismissal?  My statement that I had the week before been to a meeting with speeches by radical feminists and gender-critical transsexuals.  That one reported act of mine, to go to a meeting, was enough to banish in an instant all of our thirty years or so of shared history, laughter, tears, learning, growing, nervous flirtation and drunken fumbling.  All of that long knowledge of one another swept aside in a Pavlovian rush to judgement. My subsequent attempts to explain what had actually been said there, to discuss the actual ideas, counted for nothing – the issue had already been neatly decided, sorted and labelled.   Having once been warned not to “die of ignorance” we live to witness reason getting smacked to death with slogans.

 

A very modern faux-pas; I had misjudged the acceptable limit.  I had assumed our long acquaintance would allow me a little latitude to talk a little freely.  But, no, I had gone too far.  Just as, not so long ago, growing up in small towns in the West Country, we had both had to watch our mannerisms, our way of speaking, where we looked and for how long, what we said.  “You’re being a bit camp…you might want to tone it down a bit…stop staring…you’re being embarrassing…stop being so gay.”  But here we are in 2018 still policing each other for fear of offending mainstream morality.  Old habits die hard.

 

When is diversity not diversity?  When it smothers actual difference to appear inclusive.  Gay Pride is becoming seen to be lacking in this department with its unfashionable and ‘exclusionary’ implication that gay men and women should be its primary focus, hence the rise of Diversity Festivals & Carnivals, the lopping off of ‘Gay’ from ‘Pride.’  But why are they going to all the effort of rebranding the gay away when they could just redefine homosexuality itself?  Thus spake the San Francisco Dyke March this year: “We want to confirm..our commitment to ALL Dyke’s(sic);including transdyke, MTF, transfeminine, transmasculine, genderqueer and genderfluid dykes.”  What about gay-male dykes?  Unopened-jar-of-Grey-Poupon dykes? Sharpei-Lhasa-Apso dykes?

 

I have no doubt that my old friend would not argue with this hash-tag style redefinition of dyke.  Would probably applaud the censure of a group of boring-old-vanilla-lesbian dykes for holding “anti-trans signs” that read ‘Biology is not Bigotry’ and ‘Violence will not Silence Us’(and the bullying mob there tested that last statement to its limit and proved its truth.) Would approve of the ‘Dyke’ march organisers excusing the harassment of actual dykes while fawningly offering the word as a label for anyone who feels like trying it on for a while.  “Who’s been sleeping in my bed?” asked Mummy Dyke, “Anyone who fucking wants to” replied the massed Goldilocks of the SF Dyke March.

 

The same attitude was in evidence at the London Pride March when lesbians staged a daring protest and the responses were predictable.  Again, the issues raised by actual lesbians at an event conceived as a political statement of their existence were ignored and they were defamed and ridiculed, told to shut up and go away.  Their fears of coercion and attack are not imaginary, but they remain determinedly unaddressed by their community.  The simple fact is that lesbians are now considered a minority within the ‘lesbian’ community, (amongst all these new transdykes, genderqueers and genderfluids) and are expected to behave as such.  To know their place..to tone it down a bit..to stop being so obviously lesbian!

 

Lesbians are undoubtedly at the sharp end of this, but luckily they have their gay brothers standing with them, don’t they?  Those who lesbians stood shoulder-to-shoulder with through the AIDS crisis; there at every march, every protest, every fundraiser, though they were the least affected group of all.  Surely gay men have immediately rallied to their beleaguered sisters’ defence in THEIR time of crisis?  No.  The silence from gay men has been both shameful and self-serving.  After all, they are not scared of women using male toilets, of being coerced into accepting man-gina into their sex lives, of being physically attacked by transmen for holding a banner at a march.  It is a betrayal based on convenience and a studiously-maintained show of ignorance, at least in public.  In private you may hear gay men expressing views quite different from the ones they carefully voice in public; I certainly have.  With the aid of a couple of pints and a quiet corner, you will too.

 

The perception, though, is that to speak out would be ‘taking a side’- as if it were a schoolyard soccer match!  Well, dear brothers, your side has already been picked for you.  You can flood our community with inclusively re-labelled straight people with interestingly coloured hair, male ‘lesbians’ and non-binary performance artists but the experience of men-who-love-men and women-who-love-women will always be distinct and different, and the threat to us from the majority persists – all it has done is take off its crucifix and slap on a wig instead.

 

Already there are growing numbers calling same-sex attraction “transphobic” and insisting it is merely a “genital preference,” of course there are – the ideology behind all this by definition relies on gender stereotypes and so is unavoidably homophobic in its outcomes.  The ‘Queer’ community is becoming a new closet for gay people, one in which we are not shut away so much as overwhelmed, drowned out and lost from view. There was a time when strategic shows of submission in the face of a hostile mainstream seemed necessary, but I would point out that all our gains came once we abandoned this attitude.  If “so you hate trans people then?”  is your response to a mere mention of scepticism then you need to ask yourself why you don’t dare value lesbians and gays more.

Transfixed

This is a rough draft and not finished yet, but here it is.  All rights reserved.

 

KITCHEN. NIGHT. A FEW CANDLES PROVIDE LIGHT.

GOODY APHABA STANDS SLICING POTATOES. SHE IS DRESSED IN A MODERN VERSION OF PURITAN CLOTHING WITH A PINAFORE OVER IT AND HER HAIR IS COVERED. OFFSTAGE AND AT A DISTANCE, FROM FURTHER INSIDE THE HOUSE, A MALE VOICE CRIES OUT IN HORROR. APHABA STOPS, LISTENS. THERE IS A SECOND SIMILAR CRY THAT DESCENDS INTO SOBBING THEN SILENCE. SHE WAITS PATIENTLY FOR A THIRD CRY THAT DOESN’T COME AND THEN CONTINUES CHOPPING AS EFFICIENTLY AS BEFORE.

MASTER AMOB ENTERS FROM OUTSIDE. SHE IS WEARING A MAN’S BLACK SUIT AND SHOES. HER HAIR IS VERY SHORT IN A MASCULINE CUT OR TIED BACK. PERHAPS A HAT ALSO, A FEDORA?

AMOB: I pissed in the bucket.

APHABA: (gasps) Master Amob, how could you?

AMOB: I did. I squatted right down and I pissed right in it.

APHABA: Sister Gesta washes her wimple in that bucket!

AMOB: I know. I hope it goes all yellow and smelly. Like her.

APHABA: Sister Gesta is a good woman!

AMOB: Sister Gesta is a horrible cow. With big white horns.

APHABA: Amob! If I didn’t know you were joking…

AMOB: I’m not. What’s for dinner?

APHABA: For you? Nothing. Her Ladyship will be having hotpot.

AMOB: I don’t think she will be, not tonight. Did she sound hungry to you?

APHABA: Once she’s had her pills and a nap she will be.

AMOB: She won’t be taking any naps tonight.

APHABA: Why not?

AMOB TAKES A LARGE, OFFICIAL-LOOKING ENVELOPE OUT OF HER INSIDE POCKET, HANDS IT TO APHABA. SHE ACCEPTS IT, SUSPICIOUSLY, TAKES THE SHEET OF PAPER OUT OF IT AND READS. SHE STARTS, RUNS TO THE INNER DOOR, THROWS IT OPEN.

APHABA: Sister Gesta!

AMOB: (grabbing her arm) She already knows.

APHABA: Master Amob, please unhand me.

AMOB: (letting go of her) Forgive me, Goody Aphaba. I meant no offence.

APHABA: Then I won’t take any. But I don’t much like being grabbed at, sir. Nor do I much like surprises, of any sort! (shoves letter at her.) Nor can I make hotpot for such guests. And I have nothing in. Nothing! (she starts digging through cupboards)

AMOB: They won’t be eating.

APHABA: It doesn’t matter. That’s not the point. There must be something.

AMOB: Is there anything I can do to help?

APHABA: Yes, go put your head in that bucket. No, on second thoughts, put my head in the bucket.

SISTER GESTA APPEARS IN THE INNER DOORWAY, CANDLE IN HAND. SHE WEARS BLACK ROBES BUT NO RELIGIOUS SYMBOLS. HER HAIR IS UNCOVERED AND IN SOME DISARRAY.

GESTA: What is all this infernal racket??

AMOB: We thought you were with her ladyship.

GESTA: Not that racket, this racket. All this clattering about and calling-out.

APHABA & AMOB: Sorry, Sister Gesta.

GESTA: Her Ladyship is not herself. She is distressed, transported! She must be calmed. She must be soothed. She must be coaxed back, gently, serenely, to herself. In peace! In quiet!! In tranquility!!! Tranquility, d’you hear me – I DEMAND A LITTLE PEACE AND TRANQUILITY HERE!!!!

APHABA & AMOB: Sorry, Sister Gesta.

GESTA: Was ever there such a cacophony! Such hullaballooing and caterwauling? I will not stand for it. I will not suffer such a hubbub and pandemonium. Not one bit of it. Has everyone here lost their senses? Where is your dignity? Your sense of propriety? We are gentlefolk who dwell here, not common guttersnipes. I will have at least SOME semblance of order in this house. I insist upon it, and I will have it, do you understand?

APHABA & AMOB: Yes, Sister Gesta.

GESTA: (unaware) An orderly appearance begets an orderly life. An orderly life is a happy life. Without order there is only chaos and anarchy and confusion.

AMOB: You seem a bit disordered yourself, Sister.

GESTA: Master Amob, I disapprove of cleverness.

AMOB: Yes, Sister. Sorry, Sister. It was just..(points at her uncovered hair)

GESTA: Cleverness leads to questioning and questioning leads to doubt. Authenticity will not suffer questioning, it is outraged by it and rightly so. No, a happy mind is a mind free from questions and doubt. An educated mind knows what to think and what to call things. An education is freedom from doubt, as modesty is freedom from vanity, submission freedom from conflict, marriage freedom from lust..(sees Aphaba pointing gingerly up at her own head) What is it, girl? (remembers, smooths at her hair) T’was not my doing! Her Ladyship, in a passion, snatched my wimple.

APHABA: (handing her a clean cloth) Oh! Is it damaged?

GESTA: (tying the cloth neatly over her hair) I think not. Though she worried at it with her tooth. It will, I fear, need washing.

AMOB: Shall I wash it for you? In the bucket?

GESTA: Certainly not.

APHABA: She is no better then, her ladyship?

GESTA: Worse, much worse. So little of her remains. She is unrecognisable now, even to herself.

AMOB: Is she fit to receive visitors?

GESTA: She is not fit for anything. And almost every word out of her mouth is a heresy.

APHABA: Heresy!

GESTA: Unwittingly so, to be sure. But heresy nonetheless.

APHABA: Oh, goodness!

AMOB: Should I send and tell them she is indisposed?

GESTA: That will not work again, now. They will come tonight whatever we say. If I can just calm her enough. She does listen to me, sometimes. There are times she thinks me a common nurse or some such. And she listens then. If I could just calm her long enough for her to actually hear me, to follow what I say. Then I could persuade her, or at least provide her the words she needs to say. I believe it could be done.

APHABA: But, heresy! Would they punish her? In her condition?

GESTA: I think not. But nor would they leave her here, with us, unsupervised again. If she were to be discovered saying such things. Her, of all people. I fear they will take her in. I know they would.

APHABA: And what will become of us, then?

AMOB: Maybe just a little pill or two crushed in her food?

GESTA: No, her mind must be active, alert, else how can I persuade her? And persuade her I must. Time is wasting. Goody Aphaba, what have we for dinner?

APHABA: Hotpot, Sister Gesta.

GESTA: Hotpot?

APHABA: I didn’t know!

GESTA: You didn’t need to know. I decide what you need to know and when. I thought you’d know enough to have a fully-stocked larder. Wait a minute, how do you know?

AMOB: It was me. I confess. I showed her the letter, Sister.

GESTA: Why?

AMOB: I thought she needed to know.

APHABA: But I didn’t know until now. And now all I have is hotpot.

ON THE PIANO, ‘CHOPSTICKS’ PLAYED TENTATIVELY AND MOURNFULLY SOMEWHERE DISTANT INSIDE THE HOUSE. THEY LISTEN, TENSELY, FOR A MOMENT.

GESTA: I thought I told you to lock the piano.

AMOB: You did. But you didn’t give me the key.

GESTA: More cleverness. I must go to her.

APHABA: But, hotpot?

GESTA: Put the good cheese on the top.

APHABA: Yes, Sister Gesta.

GESTA: And salad.

APHABA: Salad?

GESTA: Yes. Are you deaf, girl? Serve it with salad. We have salad, don’t we?

APHABA: Yes, plenty.

AMOB: Lots of nice stuff, grown fresh from the garden.

GESTA: Then salad it is! And plenty of it. They won’t eat it anyway.

SISTER GESTA EXITS BACK THROUGH THE INNER DOOR, CLOSING IT BEHIND HER. APHABA BEGINS FRANTICALLY SEARCHING OUT AND ASSEMBLING SALAD.

AMOB: I have offended you.

APHABA: Thank you for showing me the letter.

AMOB: I meant no disrespect.

APHABA: I have no tomatoes.

THE MUSIC STOPS SUDDENLY. THEY BOTH STOP AND LOOK AT THE INNER DOOR. THERE IS NOTHING BUT SILENCE.

AMOB: Under the sink. Behind the potatoes. They’re on the vine.

APHABA: How did you know that?

AMOB: I am a man of many parts.

APHABA: Are you indeed.

AMOB: I put them there. They taste funny out of the fridge. I like tomatoes.

APHABA: Then grow your own. (she retrieves them) Thank you.

AMOB: Can I help?

APHABA: This lettuce is dusty. Wash the lettuce, if you want.

AMOB: Will do. (She takes her suit jacket off, she has a plain shirt-and-tie on underneath. She hangs it on the back of a chair.)

APHABA: Not there! On the hook. Please. This is an orderly house.

AMOB: Orderly, yes everything must be orderly. Orderly appearance, orderly thoughts. Orders must be obeyed.

APHABA: Wash your hands first.

AMOB: My hands are quite sore, still. From digging the garden yesterday. Turned the soil. Trimmed the bush. Laid some turf. Hard work though. Hard on the old hands. Look, that’s a blister, almost.

APHABA: I haven’t got time for hands. What are you bothering me with hands for now?

AMOB: Look! See?

APHABA: I can’t see anything.

AMOB: Definitely coming. And they’re quite rough anyway. From working on my bike, too. I like to go for rides in the countryside. Do you like the countryside?

APHABA: I’ve been in it.

AMOB: And did you like it? The great untamed wilds? The savage majesty of nature?

APHABA: It rained.

AMOB: Oh.

APHABA: And it smelt funny.

AMOB: Oh.

APHABA: Have you finished with that lettuce yet? Then put it in that bowl for now.

AMOB: I bet your hands aren’t rough. I imagine yours are very smooth…

APHABA: Can you please stop talking to me about hands! We are having a crisis! I have no more time for hands!

AMOB: Goody Aphaba, will you step out with me?

APHABA: I beg your pardon?

AMOB: You are not courting at the moment?

APHABA: No! But…

AMOB: Then will you do me the honour of walking out with me? Please?

APHABA: Master Amob, this is hardly the time. I have salad to make. Hotpot to heat. I have eggs to hardboil. I cannot be talking about courting now!

AMOB: Now might be all the time we have left.

APHABA: Nonsense. Don’t say that.

AMOB: I am a good man. I am an honest man. I have a bike. I have a little money put by.

APHABA: Amob, I am not of a mind to discuss this now!

AMOB: I would look after you. Care for you. I am a gentle man. I am told I am quite fetching. I would honour you, with my mind and with my body…

APHABA: Master Amob, please stop! This is not to my liking. You are not to my liking. I’m sorry to have to say it but there it is.

AMOB: But how can you say that? How can you know?

APHABA: I just do.

AMOB: I’m only asking you to walk out with me. You are unattached. What harm can it do? Why not give it a try? I may grow on you.

APHABA: I am not interested. Please leave this. I am busy.

AMOB: Why do you find me so displeasing?

APHABA: I don’t. I am very fond of you. I just don’t think of you that way.

AMOB: Why not? What do you find wrong with me? Am I too short? Too pale? Too bumptious?

APHABA: No, it is nothing like that. You are very nicely put together, I’m sure. But some people like carrots and other people do not. Her Ladyship loves carrots and I do not.

AMOB: But how do you know if I am a carrot or not.

APHABA: I have worked in kitchens long enough to know a carrot when I see one.

AMOB: But what if I am in fact an unusually ruddy parsnip?

APHABA: I have never come across such a thing.

AMOB: But it is possible?

APHABA: It’s possible, but I’d still know anyway.

AMOB: But how would you know it was actually a parsnip just by looking at it?

APHABA: Its not just a matter of colour. Parsnips are smaller and thinner and have little beardy-bits on them.

AMOB: And if a carrot had all those things too.

APHABA: It would still taste wrong.

AMOB: But you’d need to take a bite to know, wouldn’t you?

APHABA: Yes, but I wouldn’t bite it so I’d never know. I don’t like carrots. Why would I take a bite out of a weird-looking carrot when there are plenty of lovely parsnips about? Hang on, are you a parsnip or a carrot now?

AMOB: (thinks) I am no longer sure. I have confused myself.

APHABA: And me. But you have reminded me to put the hotpot in the oven.

AMOB: Do you not find me pleasant company?

APHABA: Yes, mostly.

AMOB: Then why will you not walk out with me?

APHABA: Because, Amob, it would be a waste of time. You are wasting your time, right now, because..I am a lesbian.

AMOB: A lesbian? You?

APHABA: Yes.

AMOB: Why didn’t you tell me this before?

APHABA: Because, quite frankly, it was none of your business.

AMOB: Have you always been a lesbian?

APHABA: What’s that got to do with anything? When. I mean, weren’t you a lesbian once?

AMOB: I have always been a man. Even before I knew I was.

APHABA: But you used to describe yourself as a lesbian didn’t you? Before you were confirmed?

AMOB: I wasn’t confirmed, I am identified.

APHABA: Oh. Does that mean..

AMOB: Yes. I am the sort of man that a lesbian such as yourself would find interesting.

APHABA: No.

AMOB: No?

APHABA: I only like lesbians with penises. Sorry.

AMOB: What have you got against vagina-lesbians?

APHABA: Nothing at all. I am one, aren’t I.

AMOB: I have a vagina!

APHABA: But you’re a man. I only like women.

AMOB: But what about men with penises?

APHABA: Terrible creatures. I avoid them.

AMOB: I know there is something wrong with what you are saying, but I can’t quite put my finger on it right now. Give me just a moment to think.

APHABA: No, Master Amob, you are just a bit confused.

AMOB: No, no. Something is not right here. I’m sure of it.

APHABA: Nonsense. You have carroted yourself again.

AMOB: That’s it! Lesbians love women, not penises! You have fallen into exclusion..ary..ness.

APHABA: No, don’t be so silly. What are you saying? I am a good woman, I don’t exclude anyone. I just have a particular preference, that’s all.

AMOB: A preference? So you find a certain women lacking then?

APHABA: It is not a matter of lacking. Not at all.

AMOB: Isn’t it? Are you sure about that? I wonder what would Sister Gesta would make of your penis “preference”?

APHABA: No. Please, listen, you have misunderstood me.

AMOB: I’m starting to think there may be more than one sort of heresy at work in this house tonight.

THE INNER DOOR FLIES OPEN AND GESTA ENTERS, AGITATED. HER CLOTHES ARE IN SOME DISARRAY, HER HAIR IS UNCOVERED AGAIN AND WILDER.

GESTA: Heresy! Heresy! I hear nothing but heresy!

APHABA: (Throwing herself on her knees, bursting into tears) Please, forgive me, sister. I didn’t know what I was saying.

GESTA: She feels a lack, a LACK!

APHABA: No, I feel no lacking. Master Amob, he lacks for nothing. I swear!

GESTA: She weeps for that was taken from her.

APHABA: I weep for shame. Please forgive me, such shame.

GESTA: Oh, the shame, the confusion. She is beyond help.

APHABA: No, no! Please, Master Amob, I would love to go to the smelly countryside with you on your knackered bike. I can make sandwiches, if you like!

GESTA: There is no hope for her. She will be put away.

APHABA: No, please Sister, don’t put me away. It was just a silly mistake, don’t put me away! I forgot myself.

GESTA: What are you talking about, stupid girl? It is she, SHE, that has forgot herself. Her Ladyship, she is beside herself. She can speak of nothing but her loss.

AMOB: What loss? What has she lost?

GESTA: It. That thing. The thing they took from her when she was confirmed. It!

APHABA: (Gasps) You mean..

GESTA: Yes, that. Her fleshly misfortune. That miserable appendage that nature cruelly inflicted upon her at birth. She is fixated upon it. She can no longer encompass its loss

AMOB: Oh. Lost? Does she still have it somewhere in the house?

GESTA: Of course not, you idiot. Where would one keep an eighty-year-old penis?

AMOB: In the freezer?

APHABA: But she has not lost it, not really. It was just reshaped when she was confirmed, right? She still has it, just..refashioned.

AMOB: Inverted!

APHABA: You should tell her.

GESTA: I did.

APHABA: Did it help?

GESTA: She fainted.

AMOB: Is there nothing can be done to save her?

APHABA: To save us?

GESTA: I cannot make her listen. She is transfixed upon it. It fills her mind entirely and whilst it does I cannot make her listen. We must prepare for the worst.

AMOB: This is terrible. And I’ve just got the runners bedded in. I hope they look after the garden, whoever they are.

GESTA: They will see this as a failure, on my part. I will be finished.

APHABA: But what will become of me! I have no prospects. All I’ve ever done is work here. And I only got this job because I’m cheap and local. What am I going to do?

AMOB: I’ll look after you. I’ll find us something. I have my bike!

APHABA: Look after me? You can’t even look after your bike. Its in pieces. It’s scrap.

AMOB: I’m improving it.

APHABA: How are you going to find work on it? It has no wheels!

AMOB: It’s still a bike, even with the wheels off.

GESTA: Stop! Wait! That’s it. A wheel-less bike is still a bike. A wimple-less Sister is still a Sister..

AMOB: A dickless man is still a man!

GESTA: No! By all the thousand genders, no!

APHABA: Master Amob! How can you even say such a thing!

GESTA: No. A woman who has forgotten her gender is still a woman.

AMOB: Yes, yes of course she is! That’s what I meant. Isn’t it?

GESTA: Yes! Her mind may be gone. But not her self, her authentic self, that cannot be changed, only revealed. She has gone back to the first stage of her journey of self-discovery. She has become like a newborn, like a child again and what does one do with a child?

AMOB: Face-painting!

GESTA: One educates them. I see my mistake now, it is not heresy it is confusion. I sought to persuade when I should rather have instructed. The only thing she lacks is the path to follow. I can provide it, I will lead her back to herself.

APHABA: Can you do it?

GESTA: It is what I have always done, it is my life’s work. Teach the language, name the names, provide the certainty. Yes, that I can do. (she picks up a carrot) She misses what she has lost only because she needs to have it so she can reject it again, to claim her innate womanhood. A beautiful rebirth in truth. How brave they are these lucky people, to claim womanhood, a pure, ideal womanhood. To fight for it and win it while we lesser creatures squander it and wallow in our mere biology.

APHABA: So brave.

GESTA: Inspiring.

AMOB: And men too!

GESTA: What?

AMOB: We are brave and lucky too. With our manhood. Claiming it and stuff. Aren’t we?

GESTA: Oh, goodness, yes. Yes, of course.

APHABA: Definitely. Oh, yes. Stunning. Absolutely.

GESTA: Goes without saying.

APHABA: Yes.

AMOB: Oh, well. That’s good to know.

AN AWKWARD PAUSE.

APHABA: How will you do it? Re-educate her.

GESTA: Basically. As I would a small child. I might start with this.

APHABA: A carrot?

GESTA: This isn’t a carrot.

AMOB: Is it a parsnip?

GESTA: No.

APHABA: What is it then?

GESTA: Its a penis.

APHABA: But it is a carrot.

GESTA: Excuse me?

APHABA: I mean, its obviously a carrot. Isn’t it.

GESTA: Goody Aphaba, are you questioning me?

APHABA: No, not really. I’m just…

GESTA: Your questioning has upset me. Disappointed me. It has made me angry.

APHABA: I’m sorry, Sister Gesta, I truly didn’t mean…

GESTA: Do you want to be a disappointment to me? Do you want me to be angry?

APHABA: No, of course not.

GESTA: What do you think would happen to you if I were to remain angry and disappointed with you?

APHABA: I don’t know. I wouldn’t like to say. Please don’t be angry with me.

GESTA: Kneel.

APHABA: Pardon me?

GESTA: Kneel. Now.

APHABA: But what for…

GESTA: Do it.

AMOB: Do you want me to kneel too?

GESTA: Be quiet. Kneel.

APHABA KNEELS.

GESTA: Sensible girl. Tell me now, what do you see me holding in my hand. Think, before you answer.

APHABA: I see a penis, Sister Gesta. I see it clearly now, thank you.

GESTA: A penis, yes. (she snaps the carrot in half, throws the pieces aside) You can get up now. Master Amob, put on your jacket. (AMOB does) There, doesn’t he look smart now?

APHABA: Yes, Sister Gesta.

GESTA: A fine figure of a man. And quite imposing too. You will accompany me, Master Amob. I may be in need of your assistance.

AMOB: Of course, Sister Gesta. Happy to help, always.

GESTA: Don’t say anything and don’t smile.

AMOB: (confidentially) You might want to swing by the medicine cabinet on the way up. Half of a blue one will calm her a little but not too much.

GESTA: (nods) Goody Aphaba, the food please. Our guests will be here before long.

APHABA: Yes, Sister Gesta.

AMOB WINKS CONSPIRATORIALLY AT APHABA THEN FOLLOWS GESTA OUT THROUGH THE INNER DOOR.

APHABA WATCHES AFTER THEM FOR A MOMENT. SHE CHECKS THE HOTPOT IN THE OVEN. SHE THEN HURRIEDLY GATHERS UP ALL THE CARROTS AND CUCUMBERS SHE CAN FIND AND BEGINS HURLING THEM FURIOUSLY ONE-BY-ONE OUT THROUGH THE OUTER DOOR. AS SHE IS DOING THIS HEADLIGHTS SUDDENLY ILLUMINATE HER AND THERE IS THE SOUND OF A CAR ON GRAVEL. SHE CLOSES THE DOOR QUICKLY. FROM INSIDE, THE PIANO STARTS, ‘CHOPSTICKS’ AGAIN BUT THIS TIME PLAYED JOYOUSLY, CONFIDENTLY AND IN A BOOGIE-WOOGIE STYLE. SHE PUTS OUT THE CANDLES AND SITS IN THE DARKNESS.

LIGHTS DOWN.

My Letter to my employer about their new ‘Respect & Dignity’ and ‘Transitioning At Work’ policies.

I sent this to them, via e-mail, on 24th April 2018.  I had a twenty-minute meeting acknowledging receipt of this letter and discussing its contents the week after, but have had no further response to it of any sort since then.  The name of the company and any individuals (except for myself) have been redacted.

“xxxxx,

I would like to thank xxxx for the sensitive way in which this issue is being handled. I appreciate you giving us all the opportunity to discuss these matters privately and in confidence so that we can speak freely about them. And I am also grateful that you have given me the opportunity to direct my concerns to you personally. I think that reflects very well on xxxx as a company and on the xxxx store and its management particularly.

I understand that you are seeking only to protect the rights and well-being of your workforce with the introduction of your new ‘Dignity and Respect at Work Policy’ and ‘Transitioning At Work Policy’ of March 2018. Having read both these policies carefully, though, I do feel that you have not fully considered the practical implications of all of them. I have several issues regarding some of the definitions that you use, which I consider imprecise and not having a commonly understood meaning, but I think a lot of these will not be able to be judged until they are put into practice. For the purpose of this letter, then, I am going to confine myself to the two major issues that I see arising from them in their current form.

Firstly, the ‘Dignity and Respect at Work Policy’ states: “A single incident can amount to harassment.” And then later: “Harassment of someone who is trans could include unwanted attention, using the ‘he’, ‘him’, or ‘his’ pronouns deliberately to upset someone, or carelessly towards someone”. My concern here is that “carelessly” is an unhelpfully vague word with a variety of possible interpretations. Would forgetfulness count as carelessness in this context if it caused offence? There are a growing number of pronouns coming into use, here are some of them; co, en, ey, he, she, they, xie, yo, ze ,ve, zie, tey, e, sie, hi, le, hesh, thon, himer, hann, ne, ay, et, phe, shkle. This is not an exhaustive list, more can be found here; https://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/Appendix:List_of_protologisms/third_person_singular_gender_neutral_pronouns. These are just the nominative, each of these also has an accusative (e.g. I saw THEM) a possessive adjective (THEIR head) a possessive pronoun (that is THEIRS) and a reflexive(they like THEMSELF.) I am not even sure how all of them are pronounced. I think the chance of mistakes, and even repeated mistakes, is fairly high, particularly when genderfluid people may use more than one set of pronouns. Of course, given time it is possible to learn any set of new words or terms, but when you can be disciplined for a “single incident” of “carelessly” using the wrong pronoun I feel that you are exposing your employees to an unfair risk. You might reply “We wouldn’t discipline someone for using the wrong pronoun once or twice” but what if the complainant insists that the incidents are carelessness? If they genuinely believe it (rightly or wrongly) its written in your policy and that gives them the right to insist that you act upon it. Does carelessness require malice, or does it also encompass a failure of memory? How much effort would you have to prove to refute a charge of carelessness and how would you prove it?

The second issue I think potentially has more serious consequences for the company as a whole. In the ‘Transitioning At Work Policy’ it says: “If you identify as trans you can start using different facilities. You will use toilets and locker/ changing rooms that correspond/ match the gender you identify as. We’ll never expect you or ask you to use the disabled toilets instead. If you identify as non-binary you may use gender neutral toilets if they’re available, or the toilets that you feel most comfortable using.” Neither of the definitions “trans” or “nonbinary” as used here are recognised in law. The 2004 Gender Recognition Act does recognise a class of person who has changed legal gender upon receiving a Gender Recognition Certificate, but you are not requiring that. Under the law, women are a protected class and so even a trans person with A GRC can be prohibited access to certain women-only facilities (such as changing rooms and toilets.) If you do not want to enforce these legal exemptions, that is your choice. But I think there is another protected class that you need to consider also. A significant proportion of the workforce at our store (and I am sure many others) are under the age of 18, legally minors. Under your proposals, someone such as myself – a six-foot-tall, heavy, hairy male could go to my line manager or P&C and say that I am now non-binary and am going to use the ladies locker room and toilets. Knowing me as you do, you might be very surprised to hear this, you might even doubt it, but your policy says; “Everyone is unique – you will choose your own way to transition and decide the pace at which this happens.” So you can’t challenge me, in fact you have no criteria for defining these statuses with which to challenge me! I am not aware of any person at my level or lower in the workforce at our store who has been DBS checked for previous convictions. So now I am free to go into any locker room or toilet, unvetted, unchallenged, unsupervised and in areas with no cameras or security and share these spaces with smaller, weaker, more vulnerable girls aged 16 or 17 in various states of dressing or undressing. Does xxxx not see the possible danger in such an arrangement and the legal repercussions that you are leaving yourself open to? You might feel justified in waiving the legal exemptions for women, but for children? Has waiving these exemptions for children ever been allowed? Also, quite a few of our colleagues are hijab-wearing muslim girls who are not even allowed to display their hair in front of males who are not blood relations, let alone undress. You might decide that a trans woman is a woman (and non-binary people are by definition not women,) but will their mosques,imams or parents agree? Again, without even a GRC the law offers you no support in this.

We all want everyone to feel safe, happy and valued at work, but introducing policies that makes one group of people safe while exposing other groups to risk will not achieve this. I applaud what is being attempted here but would urge xxxx to look again at this policy again, thinking of the impact on and safety of ALL of its employees.

Thank you for listening to my concerns, xxxx, and I am happy for you to share this letter with anyone else in the company whom you think should see it.

Yours sincerely,

Matthew Greenfield”

Pascal’s Lottery: Doubt, Damnation, What a Drag.

This article was posted by Public Discourse, the online publication of the Witherspoon Institute yesterday; http://www.thepublicdiscourse.com/2018/05/21492/ An American organisation, they publish articles written from a right-wing and often religiously influenced perspective.  I am not American or conservative nor am I any longer a Christian but I sometimes find things in their articles that I agree with.  In this one, I did not.  In fact, I found the central argument (that marriage should be reinforced as being ‘for life’ by the removal of quick-divorce laws by government) an arguably tyrannical and certainly interventionist suggestion. Particularly if done in service of the philosophy that the article spends the majority of its time examining; the theology of an 18th Century slave-owning elite. It also seems an odd proposition coming from an organisation that states it “promotes the application of fundamental principles of republican government and ordered liberty.” I thought Republicans were all about small government, not social engineering? (and “ordered liberty” has a whiff of the oxymoronic about it and to my mind a tang of the totalitarian – who would do the ordering?) For the most part, I found it a well-presented and soundly-argued piece if not at all persuasive (but your mileage may vary.)

Then I got to the last section;

“Another means of promoting good character, as Washington and Jefferson agreed, is to promote faith in a God who endows mankind with the gift of liberty and requires us to perform the basic duties of the laws of nature.  Washington: “reason and experience both forbid us to expect that national morality can prevail in exclusion of religious principle.” Jefferson: “can the liberties of a nation be thought secure when we have removed their only firm basis, a conviction in the minds of the people that these liberties are of the gift of God? That they are not to be violated but with His wrath?”

I was surprised by Muñoz’s conclusion, which is much more friendly to the founders than one would expect from his earlier argument. He writes,

the deepest teaching of West’s Political Theory of the American Founding might be that a secular natural rights political theory—that is, natural rights and natural law without God—is insufficient to sustain the natural-rights republic. The founders, of course, understood this, which is probably one of the reasons why they declared our unalienable rights to be “endowed by our Creator.”

If there is one truth that the entire philosophic tradition may be said to embrace, in spite of all its disagreements, it is this: reason teaches that it is unreasonable to expect people to act by reason alone.”

Here the implicit paternalism of the position is made explicit: To prevent the people from behaving in ways that are not illegal but are not judged to be positive by the state, they need to be made to feel an atavistic or omnipresent fear of the consequences of doing so. This is an horrific proposition. It is the same reasoning that enabled the theocratic nastiness underpinning the feudal system and, with God replaced by the State, was a favourite tool of the worst totalitarians of the 20th Century. It can be dismissed out of hand for its inhumanity and callous manipulativeness and quite obviously has no place in a 21st Century liberal democracy. Go and watch ‘The Handmaids Tale’ for a dramatic example of such a policy in operation (”Under His Eye” indeed.)

But I found the tone of this religiously-concerned article very interesting. For a piece that ended with a call to play on the emotions of the crowd to control their anti-social behaviours it was curiously emotionless itself. This was no pulpit-pounding rallying of the faithful to go out and evangelise for the good of the masses, it was far more cerebral then that. And then there was all the talk of the Founders themselves, possibly not a conventionally devout bunch when it came to their personal beliefs. Certainly not in the visceral, urgent way that Protestant Christianity is understood and practised in America today. In fact, one of the religious philosophies popular amongst them I felt was being suggested by the rational, detached tone of this piece – Deism.

To quote Thomas Paine; “In Deism, our reason and our beliefs are happily married.” Like much of religious thought it does not easily lend itself to concrete definitions, but to put it broadly for the purposes of argument it is the belief in a creator god whose works are discovered through personal observation (by yourself) not revelation (from prophets and holy books) and it tends to a view of a deity who has set the universe in motion and withdrawn, no longer taking an active part in it. I think there are very few people around now who would claim to be full-blooded Deists (none of the Founders were likely to have been that either) but such thinking is familiar today in what we now consider agnosticism. I don’t just mean that in the sense of the person on the street who, when asked if they believe in God, shrugs and say “I’m not sure. I don’t worry about it.” I also mean in the sense of a person who believes in a God or but does not follow an organised religion. Or one who does belong to such a religious community but observes its forms, lore and rituals without any remaining belief in their truth or efficacy whilst still believing in a deity. Now why would anyone do that?

I myself was in this last category for a while when I was younger. I still felt strongly that there was something out there, but I no longer believed in Adams & Eves, Jonahs, Lots, Jesus as presented in the New Testament,etc. Baptisms were bunkum, hymns were a badly-sung bore, sermons were snoozefests, etc. But I was greatly reluctant to leave that community, as poor an attendee as I had become, not just for the loss of fellowship, though that did prove to be a wrench. But also because I had seen the good it could do and the good it inspired to do. The group or herd instinct can be a wonderful thing when positively directed (even if it rarely is.) Being one of many hands working together can make you feel marvellously strong and purposeful – and valued, even as one among a multitude. I have rarely managed to exactly re-capture that feeling again anywhere else. But if you don’t believe in the cross and the good book any more why go to Church? If you think God doesn’t listen why carry on praying to him?

Enter Blaise Pascal and his famous wager (via Wikipedia https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pascal%27s_Wager)

“Humans bet with their lives that God either exists or does not. A rational person should live as though God exists and seek to believe in God. If God does not actually exist, such a person will have only a finite loss (some pleasures, luxury, etc.), whereas they stand to receive infinite gains (as represented by eternity in Heaven) and avoid infinite losses (eternity in Hell)”

Personally, I don’t buy this any more. I no longer believe in a God, but if I am wrong I am sure Richard Dawkins is right in his observation that, as an omniscient universe-creator, he would most likely know when someone was trying to fool him (or her!)   I have gone from a faithful-agnostic in the Wager-ish style, to a skeptic-agnostic in the Dawkins style. Many want to take this bet still, and that is a matter for them (good luck!) In some theocratic countries it is a more dangerous gamble not to take this wager, at the risk of the lives of yourself and possibly your entire family. This should never be the case.

But what if you are an “empty throne” Christian Deist?   If God is no longer watching or listening or is incomprehensible, unknowable,  indifferent?  If the watchmaker god has set his creation in motion, peopled it with the free-willed, and withdrawn leaving the  teachings of Christ (divine or not) and the ‘natural law’ laid out in the Bible as a rule book, then Pascal’s wager becomes less about hedging your personal bet with a wrathful, God and more about an enforced lottery scheme in which all must take part lest the great machine collapse and fail.  Doubt in the existence of an interventionist deity, does not mean you doubt the usefulness or importance of His Church in guiding humanity along the ‘correct’ path to avoid disaster.  In such a worldview you can see it might be deemed acceptable to leave the more simple-minded to take all the lurid bible stories literally, as a diversion and a lure and a means of control, while the more enlightened are busy about their duties steering the ship of state.  As Jefferson, quoted above, said; “Can the liberties of a nation be thought secure when we have removed their only firm basis, a conviction in the minds of the people that these liberties are of the gift of God? That they are not to be violated but with His wrath?”

But such a system would require a general populace monolithically free from doubt and surely that is no longer possible in a Western democracy?  Think backing to my own personal experiences, what surprises me most was how far from unusual my doubts were. I was part of an active youth group at my small Baptist church (the Junior Covenanters or ‘Jucos’.) A large percentage were just there for the ping-pong and the often excitingly aerial games of snooker. But of those who did pay attention to the ‘god stuff’ I had many conversations of an agnostic or Deist flavour, even with the most committedly Christian of them and, most notably, with one of the Youth Leaders. He left not long after (though that may have been more to do with the fact that we constantly called him “Nick the Prick.”) But it raises the question of what do you do if you are higher up in the hierarchy and have more invested in it, your livelihood and your living-place perhaps, when doubts start to surface?

This fascinating article contains examples of this; https://unherd.com/2018/05/losing-religion-priests-turned-god/ It also contains this quote from a former Bishop and Primus of the Scottish Episcopalian Church

“In the late 1960s, I emerged from a period of radical doubt about the whole Christian doctrinal system, and I fell into a very common trap: I reacted against my own uncertainties by attacking doubt and uncertainty in others. A closet sceptic, I condemned in others what I was too afraid to look at in myself.”

I recognise this reaction and I do not think it is uncommon. In this age of knowledge, of sharing, of mass-migration, there is no-one who cannot be aware of the manifold religions and belief systems around the world. How strange they seem, how silly their stories sound, how daft their ceremonies appear and likewise how people from these communities find our own comfortably-held shibboleths preposterous. And we all may have a point. We may all express our mutual bemusements as politely and tolerantly as we can, but culture is a conversation that never ends and can’t ultimately be limited or contained. The writer J M Murry described religious dogma as “fossilised ideas.” Fossils are fragile and don’t like being shaken about; likewise dogmas won’t survive a cultural collision for long. Not in the unceasing glare and immediate intimacy of modern information technology.  They are based on custom and tradition, sacred habits, the reasoning behind them long since lost. If you try to reshape them, they will break.

There is going to be a lot more doubt about. Often that causes the reaction described by the Bishop above, which is why I think we are seeing an upsurge in fundamentalism and fanaticism. At the same time, in the West, new secular movements, similar to religions in their methods and modes of thought are rising to fill the void left where religion is absent. Based around the individual and identity, they form communities, often online only, based around totemic language and labels. These too, already, seem stung to extremism and fanaticism by doubt at their obviously irrationally-based beliefs. I would suggest a more Deist worldview might actually be helpful in allowing compromise between the faithful, though I do not presently see any way to start a meaningful conversation with these new Individualists. Their movement is fuelled by always finding new sources of victimhood and oppression for themselves and allows for no sacrifices or compromises in the name of a higher power or greater good; it is always about division and the individual.  Reach a compromise with one group and it would subdivide along a new axis of oppression and more demands would be made, a possibly endless process.

I do not think it is an accident that the approach that the Individualists favour is the same one being suggested by Mr West in his Public Discourse piece; top-down control. Notice also how little time either group spends in persuasion or debate; both groups have an almost naive faith in the power of laws, natural or otherwise.   Mr West thinks making divorce harder will force an improvement in public morals (for all his Deist- sounding language he makes very Fundamentalist suggestions), the Individualists, as represented in their most aggressive form Trans Rights Activists, think that a law stating men can voluntarily declare themselves to have physically changed sex will force public acceptance: neither is correct. A law can be undone in one afternoon in Parliament (or Congress.) Bad laws have a long history of being wilfully ignored or circumvented by an uncooperative populace.  Any law is just one small part of the grand contract between people and state, and like any contract, it requires the consent of both parties – as I observed first hand when I was surrounded by the Poll Tax riots in central London back in the early 90s.

Nor do I think that it is an accident that the members of these two groups, Elite Fundamentalist Christians and Trans Rights Activists, are predominantly straight, white men. The liberalisation of western democracies has started an erosion of their power and privilege and they are seeking to re-assert it in various, and sometimes innovative,  ways.  True to form, they prefer the top-down approach to taking it back.  In Mr West’s case it is literally the fear of God, a reintroduction of biblical shame, that must be promulgated amongst the masses.  In the TRA’s case it is a fear of social pariah status and the thuggish compliance of thoroughly politicised police.  This will not,  of course, be enough to bring everyone into line.  But neither of these groups need to make total converts of everyone, they just need us to make a show, to tow the line, to take a ticket for Pascal’s lottery like a good citizen.  It is doubt of the power of their beliefs to persuade on their own, and their impatience for bringing a hopelessly utopian vision of society to pass while they still have the means, which now drives these people to their extremes.  It is our doubt, voiced publicly and loudly, that must be used to defeat them. When offered a gamble like these, fuck Pascal, say no.

Moosketov

Drawing back the firing mechanism on her Luger, Iffy kicked open the door. Squatting massively in the gloom at the back of the basement, a hunched figure shifted. Iffy’s stomach clenched in fear, her finger tightened apprehensively on the trigger, her gaze pierced fiercely into the murk. Like a coiled spring, she tensed ready for release in violent action. But that movement in the dark had stirred a waft of air that brought with it a smell, an aroma, that stopped her short. It was sweet, flowery…girly. Strange, but somehow soothing and..familiar?

“Miss Foxtrot. At last! I’ve been expecting you.” It was Moosketov. His eyes weirdly green in the light from his laptop, his pudgy fingers clutching greedily at the pearls around his neck, which clattered together sharply and tinily, like a lobster’s balls. “Do come in,” he said, his high-pitched piping voice breaking into a breathy chuckle.

“No, Moosketov,” she declaimed boldly, her clear voice bouncing sharply off the dank, slimy walls; “I won’t be coming in. In fact, tonight’s the night that YOU will be COMING OUT!”

There was a serpentine hiss of anger and a cat-like thinning of his eyes. His kaftan billowed and stretched like a rhinoceroses knees as his arms flailed in impotent anger. His pearls swung wildly about the fleshy rouches of his neck, colliding concatenously and combining with the fickering light from the laptop bucking on his trembling thighs to create the effect of some infernal, demonic disco. Some hellish nightmare realm in an hermetic dimension of pure torture and pain. Or a Bradford nightclub on a week-night. Iffy allowed herself a tight smile of victory – but it was short-lived.

He stopped suddenly, one meaty paw grabbing his necklace as if viciously choking a chicken. The other swooping down into the bucket at his side. And there was that smell again. What was it? Her head began to swim slightly. His hand withdrew from the bucket, filled with a mass of orange, worm-like shapes which he tossed, carelessly into his gaping mouth and swallowed, hugely, in one gulp.

“Wouldn’t you like a Wotsit?” he whispered, invitingly. Momentarily, she was unable to speak.

The sudden exertion had caused beads of sweat to break out on the pink, fleshy expanse of his head. As she looked at it, surrounded by a black horse-shoe of lightly-dandruffed hair, she felt a sudden shift in her perception. His male-pattern baldness wasn’t just one more element in his general unattractiveness. She suddenly realised it was a sign of his potency; the result of his massive intellect forcing upwards through his skull and thrusting the puny hairs out. As he hurled another fistful of cheesy treats into his opened mouth, she found herself marvelling at the animal passion with which he indulged his appetite. There was something thrillingly ravenous and raw about it. She watched enraptured as he licked and sucked the orange crumbs lasciviously from his deliciously sausagey fingers. Her gun wavered in her hand.

“You really should, you know. These aren’t just any old Wotsits. These are Mammy’s SPECIAL Wotsits.”

A primal sense of danger pierced through her rosy glow; “Mammy’s?” She asked, nervously.

“Yes, didn’t you know? If you came to apprehend Muxter Moosketov, you really have wasted your time. Muxter doesn’t exist any more. I’m Mammaria Moosketov now. Mammy to her friends. I’m a WOMAN. Just like you!”

The deranged cackling tore at her senses, she shook her head, stepped firmly forward, aimed her Luger. “You’re nothing like me!”

With one swift movement his hand swept into his quivering cleavage and from there, slapped up onto his head, a beautifully-tied pretty pink bow. Iffy gasped at the unrestrained femininity of it. It was so girly that it seemed to actually pulsate with demure loveliness. Iffy was speechless, trans-fixed!

“And the resemblance doesn’t stop there, either.” His hand slipped back into his kaftan, ferreting under the other moob this time, and coming back out with a very familiar black calling-card. Hers. He held it up and read, with gusto, aloud; “Miss Iphegenia Foxtrot KCMG CBE OBE RNVR(Rear Admiral(Retired(Mrs))). Billionaire Adventuress, Professional Zeppelin Pilot, Thwarter of Plots, Unraveller of Schemes, Stout Defendress of Queen & Country and International LESBIAN! No job too small.”

“That’s a misprint,” she querulously interjected.

“What is?”

“It was supposed to read “Intersectional Lesbian.”

“And you didn’t have it corrected? With YOUR money!”

“It gives me something to aim for.”

“Whatever. It matters not. You are a lesbian, and so, my dear, am I!”

This was nonsense so extreme that Iffy felt the malefic influence of the pretty pink bow loosen on her slightly.

“You are not, you monster! You have a man-gland,” she spat at him, disgustedly.

Mamma Moosketov chuckled wickedly, “Oh no, my poor, unenlightened precious. I’ve been feeding myself exclusively on these radioactive-oestrogen Wotsits for months now and you arrived just in time to see my transformation complete. Kneel!  Abase yourself before the magnificence of the Lady-Penis!!”

And with that Moosketov rose upwards, like a whale majestically breaking surface. His kaftan flew up and off, like a sheet into a hurricane and he stood, his full glory revealed before her.

“Where is it?” Iffy asked.

Slightly put-out, Moosketov reached down and gently lifted the lowest of his belly-rolls.

And there it was, nestling in the warm dark like a kitten; cashew-like and imperial purple, and dripping with womanliness.

As gloomy as it was in that basement, Iffy hit it with her first shot.

Dr Doodrian

These are some Tweets of mine about an obnoxious medical personage.  Any resemblance to a real person is..um..well, let’s not go there!

Dr Hadrian Stirrup writes; “Sour, terfy types often ask me ‘what is a woman?’ That’s easy, they’re the ones I don’t fancy! Just like transwomen, therefore they are in fact women too. QED. Put that in your pipes and smoke it, you musty old fish-fingerers! Can I be on TV now?”

Dr Hadrian Stirrup writes “Twitter harridans ask me how, as a medical professional, I can deny the existence of biological sex. I don’t DENY it, I GLOSS OVER it! A liberal dose of slogans and stock phrases is just the antidote for uncomfortable facts. Thought=wrinkles, ladies!”

Dr Hadrian Stirrup writes; “How do I deal with accusations of misogyny? I take off my shoe and apply it, rapidly and percussively, to the face of my accuser until she shuts up. Then I orchestrate a dog-pile on social media and have her removed from her employment. I am a liberal”

Dr Doodrian Stirrup writes; “Some transallyphobic comments on a pic of myself I tweeted causes me to put aside my nascent media career momentarily & respond. I am not “a sentient testicle” nor a “football filled with misogynistic pus” nor is my face a “soggy dilator collapse”!”

Dr Doodrian Stirrup writes; “I’m pretty miffed at you lemon-sucking viragos twisting my words. When I tweeted to Dr Crusty Jennitals “Smack those bitches down, U da bossman” I was quite clearly proposing a new charity for heroin-addicted dogs which he would helm. Copy to GMC.”

Dr Doodrian Stirrup writes; “As a male doctor, I am rarely wrong about anything. But some of you misunderstood my recent statements on African brides. I only said these thing to avoid socially awkward situations for myself and I apologise that you were too dim to realise this.”

Dr Doodrian Stirrup writes; “The Twitter henhouse is now clucking that we’re fascists! When you do you ever see trans activists dressed all in black blocking public meetings, assaulting people in public, hounding them from jobs and calling for their deaths on public platforms?”

Dr D Stirrup”For example, look at these friendly activists holding up windbreaks to protect ungrateful Terferinas from being blown away like the dry broomstick twigs that they are. You can see how cold it was by how warmly they’ve all wrapped up to carry out this selfless task!”

Dr Doodrian Harrumph writes; “After squabbling with Terfigants all day, LGBT Awards like a lavender bath for me. Delighted to see so many Bunny-identified girls there. Trans-species rights are human rights! They warmly received the gushing attentions of translesbians there.”

Dr Doodrian Harrumph writes”Biological lesbians weren’t allowed in, for fear of upsetting the Bunnygirls with their butch and aggressive manner. The translesbians were most accommodating though, showering them with praise – there wasn’t a dry hand in the place!”

Dr Doodrian Harrumph writes;”Gotta say how marvellous my dear friend Ms Handdrier Willyboobies is. Who else could look that demure while screaming her gender directly into the faces of women? You swivel-eyed siren, you! Yours is the femininity that reaaaallly PENETRATES! Mwah”

Dr Doodrian Harrumph writes:”Exciting news, my adoring Harrumphies: I have just appointed myself White Knight in Chief For Policing Women! I will wield the Gag of Truth and the Blindfold of Diversity fearlessly. Look out for branded T-Shirts and Scold’s Bridles on sale soon!”

Dr Doodrian Harrumph writes; “Big shout-out to Nonmanroe Bigdong for ‘What Makes A Woman Validate Me.’ Can’t believe the abuse she’s getting from vile Cisty-women refusing to unquestioningly agree with her about everything. “Evidence?” Is this some new lezzy slang? Sick shrews! ”

Dr Doodrian Harrumph writes”There are a lot of doods who are social users of womanface. It doesn’t have the permanent properties of surgery nor the health risks. In fact,it is only harmful to actual women who are all cows anyway. My lips are numb,thx for the pickmeup Dr Chrusty!”

Dr Doodrian Harrumph writes;”Zolidarity zister to Ms Toerag Shit-Wolf, violently attacked with a 60-yr-old woman’s face but winning a stunning victory for NonManHood by being found guilty in court. A statue please of this modern Balldicea, Vaseline Wankhurst, Militant Foreskin!”