‘Cross-dressing straight men are currently one of the most pandered-to demographics in existence, and women are under no obligation to applaud the people caricaturing us.’ So says JK Rowling, a natural-born woman who has ironically proven herself to be in possession of far bigger balls than most of the men that once fawned at her feet as the creator of a pop cultural phenomenon and as a notable MSM-friendly face of Ye Olde Left. Amidst all that pandering she referenced, one success for the maniacal collective of unhinged fanatics who froth at the mouth whenever the ‘Harry Potter’ author opens hers is a dubious development that serves as a microcosm of how the safest of women’s spaces have been gate-crashed by men demanding entry – the gender-neutral toilet. I must admit the first time I became aware of such a questionable advance was via the now all-but forgotten series from the late 90s, ‘Ally McBeal’, which was a popular Channel 4 fixture in its day. Set in a corporate workplace, the series beamed the latest US ‘progressions’ into British homes long before they took root over here; however, like every bad American invention of the past 40 years, gender-neutral toilets were exported to every corner of the Anglosphere and became one of many entitlements for a minority that the corporate world conceded to without a fight.
Anyone who perused the previous post and how it documented the decadent freak-show that is the 21st century Eurovision Song Contest will be aware of how the anti-biological fad for non-binary gender-fluidity has penetrated the mainstream to the point whereby concessions to narcissistic fetishes are the norm, despite most of these niche interests alienating the public. Imposing appeasements to the minority upon the majority without any prior consultation exacerbates the growing gulf between those who rule and those who are ruled, and when the ruled come into contact with these changes at their own lowly level, the extent of this penetration into everyday life impacts in a way it doesn’t when headlines reference abstract Culture Wars. Although public lavatories – along with public phone-boxes (despite the two sometimes being interchangeable) – are the kind of once-commonplace street fixtures we’d struggle to locate these days, loos outside the home environment remain a legal requirement for the likes of cafés and restaurants where the public are concerned, and all businesses have to provide such facilities for their staff. Even if they’re no longer on street corners, toilets are easy enough to find for those in danger of being caught short.
But it’s not merely the usual ablutions that these oases provide an outlet for. Women can use public loos as exclusively female sanctuaries, especially in, say, a pub or a club – whether for applying makeup, indulging in an intimate girl-chat, or evading the unwelcome advances of a sex-pest. The unspoken rule that prevents a man crossing over the threshold of the door marked ‘ladies’ is something we all learn from a very early age; it’s why whenever men receive a glimpse beyond that door via a movie or TV show, it’s often quite an eye-opener as to just how nice and civilised ladies’ loos seem compared to the piss-tiled troughs men usually have to endure. Despite the current trendy myth that there are no differences at all between the sexes (though why any woman would want to be a member of the Garrick is a mystery), there are many cases – as with prisons or single-sex wards on hospitals – when separating men and women from each other is sensible, necessary and largely appreciated by those who benefit from the separation. Gender-neutral toilets have been an innovation few demanded for that very reason.
Last week, the Government belatedly announced proper single-sex lavatories will be a legal requirement for all shopping centres, offices, restaurants and bars (trendy or no) as of later this year. It’ll finally become a compulsory inclusion in any commercial space after a decade of disquiet with the gender-neutral model, imposed on the public without the public having any say at all. Housing Minister Lee Rowley spoke about the decision as a challenge to activists who had promoted the gender-neutral loo with their usual mild-mannered rationality; Rowley said the aim was that ‘single-sex toilets, providing privacy, decency and space for both sexes are not abolished for alternatives which might offer none of that – and make the whole process of using the loo even more inefficient.’ A cynic might say the timing of this move could be seen as another opportunistic gamble by the Government on proving that it’s prepared to take on Wokery, despite several of its ranks having being infiltrated by such thought processes – Penny Mordaunt’s embarrassing declaration that ‘trans-women are women’ being one example; but the need to re-establish what some see as ‘traditional’ Conservative values is a must if the Party is to prevent a further drift in the direction of the likes of Reform by lifelong Tory voters or a switch to Labour by the more fair-weather floater. The Government has lately indicated public dissatisfaction with the creeping cancer of gender ideology in the workplace is something it is finally prepared to tackle, with the NHS and schools already targeted for long-overdue reform; and now the humble public lavatory is getting the same delayed treatment.
It comes as no surprise that the likes of London’s Old Vic theatre was one of the front-runners in the gender-neutral revolution by replacing its single-sex facilities with the mixed-sex toilet in 2019; the Arts are amongst the most fervent propagandists for this mind-set, after all. It naturally assumed its patrons would fall into line with its groupthink approach, almost daring them to object; but perhaps confronted by the unpleasant realities of a physical manifestation of the inclusivity dogma they’re happy to spout at dinner parties, many forced to pee beside the opposite sex weren’t entirely comfortable at the prospect. The Old Vic claimed their gender-neutral loos would enable visitors to ‘avoid responding to a label placed on you which you may not identify with’; but, as ever, Identity Politics rhetoric – which is built entirely upon pigeonholing and labelling – justifies its decisions by pretending the motivation is to transcend pigeonholing and labelling (not to mention biological fact). One suspects the replacement of single-sex toilets with this stunning and brave innovation was probably concocted by a man, for all toilets represent to a man are urinals where you try and get the job done with as much haste as possible as you stand next to another man and not only avoid his eyes by staring at the grubby wall ahead of you, but under no circumstances must you glance in the direction of his dick.
Women and Equalities Minister Kemi Badenoch said the new regulations ‘will guide organisations to design unisex and single-sex toilets, ending the rise of the so-called gender-neutral mixed-sex toilet spaces, which deny privacy and dignity to both men and women.’ She went on to say that ‘Today’s announcement will also create better provision for women so that our particular biological, health and sanitary needs are met….this demonstrates how this government is committed to ensuring single-sex spaces are protected for all.’ Not only women, but also the disabled and pensioners, have expressed concerns with the gender-neutral bog, though it was to be expected that a move back towards common sense was destined to be met by opposition from those who had advocated the unwanted ‘progress’ in the first place; the Chartered Institute of Personnel and Development said a transgender person refused access to female-only facilities was ‘discrimination’. Housing Minister Lee Rowley tried to distance himself from such accusations when he said ‘The ground beneath our feet is constantly shifting – pushed by unelected activists who try to move us in directions that the average person doesn’t support, nor which often don’t make sense. And when it makes no sense, it is the job of a responsible Government to stop that happening.’ Well, it’s one small step, and even if that step was only taken because there’s an Election in the air, so be it. Anyway, nature calls…
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Fitting – that’s the word that sprang to mind when it came to 2024’s host nation for the annual camp carnival that is the Eurovision Song Contest; half-a-century on from Abba’s historic victory in Brighton, Sweden was the venue thanks to the triumph of Edwina Scissorhands with a song everybody forgot the day after last year’s shindig in Liverpool. And, amidst an avalanche of TV shows marking the 50th anniversary of ‘Waterloo’ – which I’d always foolishly imagined had happened in 1815 – we came full circle and hopefully drew a line under any further documentaries about Bjorn, Benny, Agnetha and Frida. Besides, another element has come to dominate Eurovision since the innocent, distant days of 1974, and that is politics; I first noticed it 21 years ago, when Russian lipstick lesbians Tatu were booed during their performance, the same year when Europe made its feelings known about the invasion of Iraq by giving the UK entry its first-ever ‘nul points’, even if the tone-deaf vocals of Jemini quite possibly played their part. This year, Israel was cast as the pantomime villain. With the War in Gaza being the cause célèbre of the moment amongst all Bright Young Things with a social conscience – the latest fashion accessory for the dedicated collector of causes – it was only natural that Eurovision disciples on ‘the right side of history’ would demand Israel’s expulsion.
If the current trend for everyone who ever lived before us being judged on the social and moral mores of our times rather than their own continues, one wonders how the present day will fare in the future’s cultural courtroom. How many individuals and attitudes will be found not guilty and how many will be condemned to eternal damnation without the hope of redemption? I’ve long suspected some of these individuals and attitudes will eventually be cast in the same negative light as those they themselves retrospectively demonise, yet for the vast majority of folk – who don’t control the means of mass communication or run corporations and institutions – the insanity of this ascendancy to positions of power and influence was both baffling and concerning from the off. Most of us already knew this wasn’t a good idea, but the sheer weight of propaganda relentlessly streaming from the platforms the masses depend upon – along with the vicious attack dogs those platforms can summon – has marginalised and suppressed dissenting voices and encouraged self-censorship. But were one to look into the crystal ball, it’s evident that today’s indulged ideologues are tomorrow’s slave-traders or eugenics advocates; today’s dogmatic mantras are tomorrow’s discredited belief systems.
Picture the scene: Scotland’s First Minister indulges in another of his race-baiting speeches, spitting out the word ‘white’ with enough thinly-veiled venom to warrant a complaint; once back home, there’s a knock at the door from the Edinburgh Police, who inform him he’s just committed a Hate Crime and they cart him off to the nick. That’s the trouble with creating monsters; the monster has a habit of eventually turning on the creator. Just ask Maximilien Robespierre. The architect of the Terror during the aftermath of the French Revolution was ultimately responsible for dispatching thousands of his fellow citizens to a rendezvous with Madame Guillotine, and yet he met the same fate himself a year after introducing the policy. The brief stint he enjoyed as the most powerful and feared figure in France saw Robespierre as a prominent member of the National Convention’s Committee of Public Safety – a title used without irony, yet one which has had echoed down throughout history ever since; it’s there in every totalitarian state that calls itself a Democratic Republic, and it’s there in legislation masquerading as fairness, tolerance and equality. War is Peace, indeed.
Okay, let’s get it out of the way straight away: Wales will shortly be led by a black man, something that happens whilst Northern Ireland is currently led by a Catholic woman, not to mention the fact that Scotland is now led by a British Asian Muslim, and Britain as a whole is led by a British Asian Hindu – at least for a few more months. How’s the oppressed minority narrative going, then? Much is naturally being made about the fact none of the constituent countries of the United Kingdom are headed by a white man anymore; so, does this represent the ultimate triumph of multiculturalism? Does it spark the latest chapter in the demise of the indigenous population? Well, only if one concludes the indigenous population are best represented by a privileged clique of ex-public schoolboys; they’re the ones conspicuous by their absence from the premier political map of the nation at the moment, so if anyone feels the lack of white males in positions of power means the majority are no longer accurately represented, it’s not as if they were anyway. And whilst skin colour may have been elevated to a defining characteristic of a person’s value and worth thanks to the odious cancer of Identity Politics, it’s not exactly an accurate barometer for measuring whether or not someone makes a good political leader.
One of the most intriguing and inventive acts to emerge from the ‘Art School’ strand of Glam in the early-to-mid-70s, Cockney Rebel – along with Bowie, Roxy Music, Sparks, and Be-Bop Deluxe – helped give a much-maligned musical movement the kind of intelligent, stylish flair lacking in the likes of Gary Glitter or The Sweet. Cockney Rebel were led by Steve Harley, a charismatic singer-songwriter with a distinctive London drawl who fronted what was essentially a backing band; indeed, between the release of their second and third albums, Harley was abandoned by the bandmates who resented his dominance and he was forced to recruit a fresh batch. With the old band having enjoyed top ten hits with the curiously camp ‘Judy Teen’ and ‘Mr Soft’, Harley’s new line-up scored their only chart-topper, the evergreen ‘Make Me Smile (Come Up and See Me)’ in 1975 – the lyrics of which were a barbed attack on his ex-colleagues. Like many artists of his generation, Harley found himself out in the cold when Punk exploded and struggled to recapture commercial success for the best part of a decade, only eventually returning to the top ten in 1986 – a duet with Sarah Brightman on the title track of Andrew Lloyd Webber’s musical, ‘The Phantom of the Opera’; he went on to play the role of the Phantom on stage before being replaced by Michael Crawford.
Despite the relentless flogging of an undeniably dead horse by the BBC in the vain hope it would attract the attention of those who had rightly given up on it a long time ago, the 60th anniversary of ‘Doctor Who’ last November was the mother of all damp squibs where the general TV audience was concerned. With the latest right-on reboot drawing in record low viewing figures, it was telling that the only birthday gift worth a jot was the appearance on the iPlayer of the surviving back catalogue; all bar the very first story – 1963’s ‘An Unearthly Child’, absent due to unresolved rights issues – can now be viewed on the Beeb’s online outlet, but as I myself grew-up during the Jon Pertwee and Tom Baker eras (ones I’ve relived multiple times since then via VHS and DVD releases) I found it more interesting to take the Tardis back to the very beginning. And what a refreshing contrast it is with the unwatchable charlatan of a series that has misappropriated the brand name today.
A fortnight off this treadmill may be unusual, but this time it’s one prompted more by the need for a well-earned break than the four months’ absenteeism provoked by less-benign reasons almost six years ago. Periodical private reviews of my most recent publication during occasional stints in the Armitage-Shanks cubbyhole have helped to remind me that this here Winegum serves a purpose of sorts, so I was keen to return to the fold once the holiday season was over. And, in my current absence, what has changed? Well, missing out on a routine obituary – in this case for Terry Venables – was a minor compromise, but as for the wider world, it appears my vacation didn’t miss much in the way of progress. The Israel-Palestine thing is ongoing, but what’s new? That’s been ongoing for the best part of 75 years, give or take the odd intermission. The blind eyes turned to the true intentions of Hamas are equally nothing new where the so-called ‘liberal’ intelligentsia are concerned, so there wasn’t much I could really add to that particular conflict when spending my evenings overdosing on After-Eight mints at the radically-early hour of 7.00pm; yes, things really were that decadent.
Much like ‘Curb Your Enthusiasm’, ‘South Park’ appeared on the cusp of a fresh century that had a different approach to making people laugh than the one we were poised to wave goodbye to. What it shared with Larry David’s series was something the best comedy has always done in its refusal to ring-fence any subject and take no prisoners – something both series kept on doing even as the walls began closing in. ‘Curb’ identified and satirised a specific brand of what used to be known as Political Correctness, one that was then coming to dominate discourse in the strongholds of the American entertainment industry but had yet to capture the corporations and institutions of the entire Anglosphere. 25 years on, it’s somewhat amazing that at least the animated adventures of four foul-mouthed school-kids and their dysfunctional families are still going strong, operating in a field of one as all around them capitulate to a consensus seemingly conceived to kill comedy. ‘South Park’ has always courted controversy, despite the fact it actually balances its satire to skewer both sides of the widening divide; it’s just that one side tends to get offended more than the other, and is in possession of platforms that enable its objections to be heard the loudest.
Although rapidly becoming as polluted by the BBC’s tedious agenda as the majority of other shows produced by the Corporation, the Saturday lunchtime institution of ‘Football Focus’ I can still just about stomach if viewed a little later as a recording I can skim through 90% of. Last Saturday, I paused this process to watch a feature on Eddie Parris, the first black (or mixed-race) footballer to play for the Wales national side; although not the first non-white player to turn out for one of the Home Nations (Scotland’s Andrew Watson beat him to it by an impressive 40 years), Parris was nevertheless still an unusual sight on the international stage in these islands at the time, and his story was undoubtedly interesting. What was characteristic of such a story when aimed at the BBC’s imaginary audience today, however, was the presenter pointing out how newspaper reports on Parris when he played his one and only game for Wales in 1931 placed particular emphasis on the colour of his skin, as though that was somehow symptomatic of a less enlightened age – yet this feature was part of the BBC’s contribution to ‘Black History Month’, a celebration based entirely on the colour of…well…and they used to say it was only Americans who didn’t get irony.
So, take a week-and-a-bit off and return to be confronted by the same old stories straight from the Emperor’s Indian summer wardrobe. Okay, there’s the Trans thing once again – as ever, a dependable source of crackpot stories and genuinely disturbing developments; but haven’t we done it more than enough? Not when yet another woman is being targeted by angry men that the Law refers to as ‘women’, no; and this is always a topic that throws up its fair share of irony. For example, I suppose it is amusing that a government so desperate to signal its virtue via irrelevant gestures concerning crimes committed centuries ago is simultaneously, not to say aggressively, promoting a lifestyle choice that has led women prepared to defend their hard-fought rights being publicly demonised in ways that evoke the demonisation of women who were branded witches back in the safely-distant past. Yes, only the obsession with independence can compete with the SNP leadership’s fanatical embrace of Trans ideology, though where the latter is concerned the Holyrood administration is hardly unique, as a cursory visit to any public space or institution will swiftly confirm; subscribing to the unhinged Stonewall vision of Britain is seemingly compulsory in the corporate world, and much the same can be said of many one-time public bodies that have engaged in so many private/public partnerships over recent decades that the two have become indistinguishable.
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