Before Q

Before Q, we were okay. Before Q, you were okay. Yeah, we argued, sometimes, like people on different pages of the same book. And then Q came along and burned all the books ‘coz reading is for losers and Donald Trump rocks (even with covid).

Q was the game changer. Like a last stage cancer it spread over our friendship and the globe, simultaneously, covering the uncertainty of the moment in a layer of virtual treacle trapping humans like flies as they sped round targeted sites looking for answers. And you were taken, in an instant, and now they own you and your mind belongs to them. And it’s very sad.

And not just for you and me but for all them and all us Q’s created as it cuts through families and society with the same precision blade. Q doesn’t want stable followers, he can’t sustain them, and luckily for him, he doesn’t get many.

I’ve personified Q as a male. Fact is no-one’s sure who or how many Q is. We know where he came from – the chans (4 and 8), the online equivalent of those late night bars you’d never willingly enter when sober, and the chans are unequivocally male and misogynist and white and racist and anti sematic. They are a virtual playground for the kids that were too weird (think burning cats not been really good at maths weird) to have friends.

And origins matter. Especially when the tale they tell is so tall, and is their a taller tale in the history of tall tales than Donald being the chosen one?

And what a stroke a genius to make it about children because everybody’s for children and against paedophiles, except the paedophiles, obviously. So which are you a Trump supporter or a paedophile? And how the fuck did we get here because the question makes no sense? And that’s what Q does. Murders common sense.

And after that it’s like talking to a cultist. And everybody knows you can’t talk to cultists. But nobody thinks their friend is going get trapped in a cult until they do.

The good man paradox

Not all men are wankers but enough of them are, to come out in force and say that they’re not all wankers, whenever you point to the actions of any given wanker, or group of wankers.  As if this is relevant.  As if I’m supposed to care that some bloke in Cardiff raises his three kids because their mother abandoned them.

As if that, somehow, negates the crisis in family courts, where violent men gain access to kids and violent male sexual predators gain custody of kids.  Or the crisis in rape prosecutions, where less than 2% of rapists (men) are convicted for their crimes.  As if that will save the life of either of the women killed by their male partners this week in Britain.

It should be self evident that anecdotal examples of compassion, or even simply  of taking responsibility – I’m talking to you, doting Dad from Cardiff – have no real place in a conversation about the epidemic of male violence that’s never gone away.  And yet, it’s such a common ploy among the defensive, that it has its own acronym – NAMALT.

In the week since the British rape victim returned from Cyprus, the internet has been awash with rapists, rape apologists and rape enthusiasts.  Any rape that makes headlines becomes a catalyst for all that is dark and damaged and depraved and downright dangerous about online mankind to surface.  Keyboard warriors across the globe celebrate her conviction because it makes them feel better about their own, unsanctioned crimes.

‘I was accused of rape once.’  They say.  Only once?

‘THE LYING WHORE SHOULD BE LOCKED UP!’  They shout.

‘It’s women like her that make it harder for real victims to get justice’  They proclaim, but never qualify how.

And as awful as these rants are, they somehow make sense.  In a world where one in five women are sexually assaulted, there’s got to be a lot of rapists, and most of them will be able to type.  A case that highlights the brutality of rape, the corruption of police investigations, the incompetence of legal systems, and the complicity of political systems  is a case with a lot to prove.  Rapists have a lot to defend.

What never makes sense to me is those who do believe her, but still want you to know that not all men are like a group of Israeli rapists.

‘It is important,’ they tweet, ‘that you remember there is good men in the world.’

Why is that important?  In what way does that empower the victim of a savage gang rape and an international miscarriage of justice?  In a world where men do most of the killing and raping and maiming, I can see how it’s comforting to know that your Barry puts the tea on the table four nights a week and always picks the girls up from ballet.  I just don’t see why it’s important.

The existence of good men is not what we question when groups of men conspire to deny a rape victim justice, but the persistence of bad men.  Not all men are gang rapists of teenage tourists, but gang rape is an exclusively male crime.  If we can’t call a spade a spade, for fear of hurting the good man’s ego, or the happy wife’s happy life, then perhaps these people are neither as good nor as content, as they contend.

Not all writers think like me.  If you like this you will also like my debut novel Nailing Jess.

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?