Gaslit

I’m really angry this morning and I don’t want to be, this close to Christmas. I want to ice gingerbread men and mull wine and wrap presents in sustainable wrapping products and I can do none of the above because I’m so fucking angry.

Yesterday Maya Forstater lost her case at an employment tribunal. Her witness statement outlining her beliefs can be read here. In a nutshell, Mia was fired for believing that one’s biological sex is a material reality.  This, a judge held was a not a belief protected by The Equality Act 2010.

I urge you to pause and consider the implications of this judgement. I ask you to get your head around the fact that a belief in a self evident material reality is not protected, that a woman got fired for knowing what everybody knows – Biological reality exists.

Does it make you feel a bit crazy?  ‘Coz it’s sort of driving me nuts.  No-where in my mind can I accommodate an alternative belief.  Sure, I know they exist, but a lot of bat shit crazy ideas about the nature of womanhood exist, and I’m adept at ignoring most of them. Why do I have to capitulate to this one? More importantly, why would I, when it is devastating to women as a sex class, and intellectually lacking any discernible weight?

‘Gender is a spectrum’ is the latest apple they’re shoving down our throats. ‘Course it’s a spectrum, because not all women wear pink all the time, and some men cry at romantic movies marketed to the crying gender. Saying gender is a spectrum is a core message of feminists, forever. We created it to climb out of the home-maker box and the baby maker box and the sex maker box we’d been coarsely shoved into, a few thousand years before.

So far we are all in agreement. At one point do we start to diverge?

‘Gender is a spectrum therefore I am (… insert random made up word) to subdivide the already two distinct sex classes into a mosh pitt of meaningless sub categories that serve one clear aim – To eradicate women as a sex class.

This is the part of the game that separates the women from the girls, literally and metaphysically.

To be clear, I have nothing against metaphysics and have been a willing participant in many a conversation so pretentious and outlandish that it disappeared up its own anus, but co-existing with metaphysics is material reality. I thought all good philosophers knew this. Certainly, all ex mental patients do.

There is what is in our heads.

There is what is before our eyes.

Before my eyes there are two distinct biological sexes. My senses converge to reaffirm that position.  It’s not simply what I see, it’s what I smell, it’s what I taste, it’s what I touch, it’s what I perceive.  It’s coded into my brain and hardwired into my instinct.

I think if you put me in a room that played a twenty four hour loop of the mantra ‘Transwomen are women’, you still couldn’t change my mind.

Folks, you may have to shoot me, or at the very least fire me.  #istandwithmaya

Looking for a last minute Christmas gift, why not radicalise a loved one with a copy of my debut novel Nailing Jess?

 

 

 

 

 

Don’t they know it’s Christmas?

Shout out to the homeless kid outside the entrance to Superdrug on Nicolson Street, even though she ruined my day.  Cracked straight through my prism of fairy lights and scented candles with her holey boots and her dirty shawl.  All I wanted to do was fill my basket with stuff, go the counter and pay for it, take it home,  decant it, wrap it and write on it, and put it back in a different, fancier bag.

There’s nineteen shopping days left ’till ground zero.  Nineteen!  I can’t afford to get distracted by a homeless child sitting on a cardboard box in the pissing rain and the freezing cold that is an Edinburgh winter.

Maybe she’s not a child.  She could be a young looking eighteen, or a really young looking twenty one.

Browsing the hair dye aisle I concede she’s certainly young enough not to need to dye her roots.  In any event, it’s probably not a priority for her.  Where do the homeless dye their hair and wax their eyebrows?  Where do the go to dip their feet in soaking hot water after a long day or night of Edinburgh Winter?  Still, she’s young, this homeless child, so she probably has sturdy feet.

Sizing up the beautiful body, beautiful soul section in search of bath bombs.  I need four. Found them!  But they’re part of a buy two get one free offer.  I feel my head spinning.  Do I buy four, thereby getting one free?  Do I buy six?  And get two for nought.  But then I’ll have two I don’t need.  Can’t stand it when they mess with my mind like this.

What’s her mind like?  This homeless girl.  What does she think as she sits outside a beauty chain in the centre of one of the world’s most affluent cities and begs strangers for change?  Maybe she hasn’t been doing it long?  Maybe it’s a part-time thing?  Maybe it’s a lifestyle choice?  It would help if she had one of those hand-written card-board messages with some basic details explaining that she was not now, nor never had been, addicted to alcohol or drugs, and that she was, perhaps, an army vet, or made homeless because her Mum died.

I glance at my list and see there’s nail varnish in this season’s must have colour.  Puce. Where the hell do they keep their nail varnish?  Where the hell’s her Mother?  Does she even know?  I’d want to know if my son was begging on the streets of the city voted best  city to live in in the U.K., by a royal mail study published in 2018.  I wonder did she fill out that survey?  Is she literate?  Is English a second language?  That might explain the absence of a cardboard box biography.

Fuck this shopping lark! I abandon my basket and head for the nearest exit, which is also the entrance, where she still sits begging.

Damn these homeless children sitting on damp steps outside high street chemists on freezing cold days in the build up to Christmas.  Can the council not do anything about them?  Like they do with the drunks in the Grass-market in the run up to the fringe?