Discussing trans issues over gin and tonic

Scrolling through your phone as you wipe sleep from your eyes, it feels like the media, politicians, Twitteratti, and every social media personality want to tell you what they think about the TRANS issue, whether you want to hear it or not. Trans is all the rage, the thing to discuss over your morning latte in between letting the dog out for a piss and packing Gertrude and Tarquin off to school in the Chelsea tractor. Have you heard about the injections they are giving the kids, or that Charles from number twelve is now using the ladies loos as Charlene? Well, I never! Hold your string of pearls while you rearrange the twin set and reapply the Easte Laude pink lipstick.

Everyone has something to say, be it Beryl down the teashop, Linda at the Park, or Kate on the yoga mat. Maybe Kevin knows something about women’s sport, like who the fastest swimmer in the world over 100m, and how unfair it is that she beat Leah Thomas into fourth place. You know, that American bloke who wants to get his willy chopped off and can only compete against the girls because he was crap as a man. You know, just coz he heard it from Colin in Accounting.

Maybe Verity at the Pig and Bottle was right about that there London types arguing that it is corrupting the youth. Handing you the bitters and a pack of pork scratchings she mutters that in her day they right royally shamed them on the front page and sent them packing to the Costa Del Crime. Or something like that. Never in a million years would Gina be welcome in her knitting circle after she came back as Nigel from Bangkok.

It drips from every scrolling news feed, third and fifth page in the Sun, and that smart gentleman on the radio who really should call a man a man, not the name she now wants to be called. Gossip is over the fence, all around Fido’s dog park, and at the Chelsea tractor infested midden that is the Waitrose carpark. You know the sort, the ones who pick up the own brand white label cans because they need to save money for the leccy. Or the electric if you have to sent Maria to pick up Charlemagne from prep school.

What right do those flag waving types have to dictate to you what you call the funny looking one with pink hair who insisted on being called they/them as you testily waiting for them to finish the foam art on your oat mocha skinny frapalino. Surely they would not mind if you found it all rather silly, and then told them so as you walked away. Maybe Sue would back you up as you laugh and retell the story for the tenth time. You get to decide their identity, and surely the Times will back you up in the leader column tomorrow.

Stick on the BBC, and there is Rish! telling you that it is okay to question that queer looking woman’s identity, you know the one with the short back and sides who insists on being called Martyn at the prayer meeting. The Synod said it was okay to think that she is confused, for surely why would she ever want to be called Martyn? Afterall, the priest in his cassock said clearly last Sunday that men must wear mens clothes and women women’s, lest they be called abominations. Just look at the parade of alter boys all dressed up and fancy in their ruffs and collars.

Then there’s Doug, or politically correctly Sinthia Divine Toeses, reading those horrible books at the children’s library on the Common. You know the sort, the mincy ones who could not get a job bagging groceries at Tescos so must have begged those dastedly bar owners for a dress and wig. For shame, as you down another gin and tonic at three in the afternoon. What were they thinking, as you put pen to paper in your strongly worded letter to the editor of the Frimley on the Common Gazette. That will show them.

Tarquers from in through the backdoor, traipsing after another odd looking creature in a confection of pink puffer jacket and knitted hat. Before he scampers up to his room, he calls back that Jack in here for tea, and that his two mothers know he is here. Oh, and that he learnt in class today what gender expression is. Grand! You reach for the bottle of gin and pour out a double measure. Whatever is the world coming to when everyone is discussing these trans issues. You hope the editor prints your letter tomorrow, for else the sky will surely fall in. Who do they think they are putting ideas into their little heads?

Now the gin kicks in, and by the time Bob’s beamer pulls into the drive, Maria is already preparing her signature spag bol ala Manila. Funny thing this trans malarky, you think as you watch her stir, coz if a man wants to be a woman is just plain bonkers. How else would you be able to afford the house keeper, two cars, dogs, two kids, and the house? The Times says its all a man’s job, and the bottle of Mummy’s sweeties is there to make sure everything is okay. Just peachy. A okay. Its not like you’ve heard of a town called Stepford or some such. Just that Rish! and Suella are right about those Trans, lest they come and steal this all away from you.