It is early evening on a sunny Saturday. You’ve had a pleasant day with your family and are now sitting on the couch, taking a wee break for some solo time, as the kids rush around outside in the garden. The wife’s sunbathing with a crime novel. You’re content, but a bit sun-shattered. You idly take out your phone and start scrolling.
- war zone pic -
- Carmen’s getting married -
- Scotty’s depressed again -
- random Temu advert -
Your attention stops at a beautiful image. It’s an advert for an arts exhibition. The painting in the advert is a streetscape in oils of an Edinburgh street. You look at it for several seconds, from every angle. You remember fondly when you and your wife had a date a few years back, and, giddy with lust, in the first flushes of burgeoning love and intimacy, had strolled down this street, entangled in each other.
“Oh! That’s nice. One of my favourite streets in the city! Gorgeous.”
You post your admiration underneath the picture. The painting is by an artist you sort-of-know-but-not-really. She seems a nice enough lady, if a bit of a cat type, ye know? Used to date a guitarist you were pals with a few years back. Early forties, maybe, and you’ve said hello at parties. You think your wife, who is fond of art exhibitions - which you have sometimes been dragged to - might know her better.
It doesn’t matter. You’re just enjoying how she’s captured the light bouncing off the cobbles.
Your Messenger pings. It’s an acquaintance from your professional arts circle. You work for a massive music events promoter. It’s Alicia. The gentle singer-songwriter who owns a kiln and (it is rumoured) a castle in Aberdeenshire. Partner of Steve. An odd pairing, right enough. He’s a former musician; gave it up a few years back. Alicia’s proper-posh Edinburgh. Steve’s a Dundonian lower-middle-class coke-head-turned-Equalities-Officer for a leading Diversity Champion.
Alicia’s seen your comment.
“Just to let you know…”
Alicia is a concerned bystander. She says she simply has to let you know that your appreciation for this woman’s use of light and shade risks dragging you into the toxicity that it has been decreed must surround her.
Just to let you know.
This artist lady might well be excellent at what she does, yes, sure enough she is, Daniel, but she also takes the view that sex is a material reality. She thinks that women’s rights are actually definable and she meanly wants to keep the status quo. Which is, of course, evil.
Worse? She’s rumoured to be pals with that Lucy Hunter Blackburn of the policy collective Murray Blackburn Mackenzie - you must have heard of them, they’re downright naughty-ones. She was also once seen at a Magi Gibson poetry reading.
And, the clincher? The woman has retweeted Julie BINDEL.
Just to let you you know…
You’re not even involved in the ‘gender stuff.’ You’re a married man, straight, busy, a Dad; you’re vaguely aware that you’re called ‘cis’ now, but you’re staying well out of all of it. But, really, women? Trans people? Pft, live and let live, man, it’s 2024. World’s changing. What does the definition of ‘man’ and ‘woman’ have to do with you, anyway?
“Not my world, Alicia. I just liked her painting,” you type. “Sounds ominous, though. Thanks for the heads-up. Say hi to Steve.”
TERF is how Alicia has described her. Terf. Terfy terf terf. It’s concrete, that. Spitty. You could get some good phlegm behind that one. You’re familiar with the term, but haven’t thought that much about it. Now, you feel it in your mouth as the girls’ distant peal of laughter bounces around the garden. They’re climbing trees again.
“Watch you don’t fall!” you call from the sofa, seeing one of them climbing higher.
”I won’t, Dad!” she calls back, as her younger sister watches her, admiringly.
You stretch and sleepily go to the mini-fridge in the lounge. Take out a Bud Light and open it. Swigging in the pleasure of a day off - bliss! What could improve things?
A bit of light bantering.
You return to the sofa and open up Facebook again on your phone. Curious, a little excited, you see you’ve got notifications.
Steve has done a laughing emoji on your oil painting comment.
“She’s a massive fucking TERF, mate. LOL.”
There are five angry little faces on Steve’s comment, and six thumbs ups.
“Sigh,” the artist has responded. “It’s a painting of fucking Cockburn Street, you absolute wanker. Give it a rest would you?”
Many-hearted emoji-responses aside, this comment has received another laughing emoji from Steve.
Crikey.
You nervously hover over the ‘delete’ button. You could just take your comment off and that would delete the responses to it, right? But you take another swig. Your comment itself is fine. It’s not like you knew, right? Nobody’ll have a pop. And Steve’s just bantering.
You scroll down the other responses. In amongst some admiration and enthusiasm from, exclusively, women, there are also some pointed jabs about the artist, her worth, and her clothing choices. Aha! There’s Alicia.
She’s tagged you in her lengthy comment.
“Daniel, I’ve DM’d you crucial info. Time to educate yourself! *fist bump*
As for this post…Look: you know I used to really champion your work as an artist, but I just cannot support any art work, let alone a physical exhibition, from a known transphobe. And I see it is to hang in that gallery too. You have no right to pollute a space that is so important to the inclusivity of the arts community, which I, as a songwriter, am such an ally to. I am very inclusive in the kiln-hiring I offer, for example. And my kiln is only ten streets away from the gallery. I am afraid it’s ‘No TERFS on our Turf’ time for you! Also: just in case you are so far gone now that you cannot see this - it’s triggering for people that you’ve made this post public when it could be seen by any passing trans scroller or their allies. Just FYI. ”
“It’s. A. Fucking. Painting. Of. COCKBURN. STREET!!!!!!!!”
The artist, wherever she comments, is greeted with much love, much mockery, and a smattering of deep hatred. A feisty little commenter with a pouting selfie profile pic, her hand held up to the camera with ‘Fight The Patriarchy!’ written on it in black marker, posts a meme of an anime character cocking a gun, emblazoned with the slogan “Shut The Fuck Up TERF!” She posts this under every single comment the artist makes.
Sucks to be this artist, right? Oofty. You roll around the ‘TERF’ in your mouth again, along with the light bubbles of the Bud. Your wife calls your name from the garden.
“Huh?” you call out. But she wants you in person.
You go out. She smiles and reaches out to stroke your arm.
“Hey, lovely, where’s mine?” she gestures at the Bud.
“Eh, ah…Yeah, two tics, I’ll get you one.”
You walk slowly back inside as your wife puts down her crime novel and takes up her phone. Probably going to call the takeaway you always get on free Saturdays. They’re a rarity in your line of work. Ah, spare ribs in peking sauce. Chicken balls in batter. The girls love sweet and sour chicken. A solid, wholesome, family evening awaits! Something to look forward to.
Just need to deal with this first.
You return to the post.
“Listen, I didn’t know you were a TERF. Everyone - I didn’t know she was a TERF, ok, better informed now, let’s just move on, eh? No harm done.”
That’ll do it. Reputation saved! Thanks, Alicia! You post the above comment then toss your phone aside.
You get your wife a Bud, returning to more pleasant thoughts about the forthcoming takeaway. In the garden, your wife slowly pushes her sunglasses off her face and on to her head, raising herself up slowly from her deckchair.
She’s looking at you with that expression.
Shit.
What?
Now she’s standing in front of you with that quiet, beautiful fury thing she does. Holding her phone. This is the look that precedes a bollocking. Like that time you did a snort-laugh during a poetry reading she’d dragged you to; you’d thought the poem about the performer’s struggles with bulimia was meant to be funny.
“What. The. FUCK, Daniel!”
She whispers it furiously as the girls are nearby, playing.
“What!”
“Don’t give me FUCKING what, you prick! What are you doing, posting that!”
Ah, bugger.
“I know, I know. I didn’t know, ok!" you protest. “Alicia filled me in, it’s alright. I posted a second comment, you know!”
She’s being pretty unreasonable, eh. It’s only Facebook.
She’s almost shaking. She’s sat back down with her arms folded, eyes closed, taking deep breaths. Oh nuts, she is shaking. Instinctively, you put down both bottles of Bud, and crouch beside her, stroking her arm.
“Hey, hey…” you soothe. “Don’t get yourself upset over a TERF! It’s got nothing to do with us! Steve’ll be fine, he was just bantering!”
She makes a sound somewhere at the back of her throat. It’s part-howl, part- snarl. Oop. She’s snatched a Bud. Downed almost half of it in one go. Wait, what’s she doing? She’s just looked at the label and now she’s ranting about how she thought she’d told you to stop buying that pish!
She’s on her feet again now.
“Daniel. I am going to make this VERY clear to you.”
She stomps inside the house, leaving you bewildered in the fading sun.
A few moments later, she returns, with a massive glass of pinot grigio to replace the discarded Bud. She is also carrying a hefty tome. A big fuck-off book. Doorstopper kind. It has a purple spine. That’s all you register as she puts her wine down, and lifts it up with both hands in front of your face. She shakes it as she says each of the following words; its title blurs in front of you.
“TERFS have everything to do with us, Daniel,” she fumes. “And you? You’re fucking married to one. You’re reading this tonight, no arguments!”
She thrusts the book into your hand and you read the title. Oofty. The Women Who Wouldn’t Wheesht: Voices From The Frontline of Scotland’s Battle For Women’s Rights.
Bloody hell. Not exactly what you’d usually pick. So much for settling down with the latest Irvine Welsh after some prawn crackers, eh?
She’s angrily taking swigs of her wine. You sit down next to her and attempt to speak to her. You can’t. Every time you try to she snaps.
So you read. The whole first chapter. Then the next one.
The girls come up to you as you do so, and you absentmindedly give them hugs. Then, thrilled to be alive, thrilled to be so lucky to have two loving parents - though, they will not know how lucky they are until they are far older - they replace their tree-climbing for the trampoline. Occasionally, they call out to you to Look, Daddy, look!
You do. You applaud. But you also read.
Ohhhh.
Oh, right, ok.
Man, this is quite something.
Your tummy rumbles.
(Peking sauce. Chicken balls…)
“Are we… Are we going to, you know, call the Palace?” you ask your wife, timidly, after two chapters. After realising what a prick you’ve been.
“That depends, Daniel,” she answers, sharply, though you can sense she is cooling off. “You finishing that book, or what?”
You nod, fervently. You’ve a desire for the taste of something better than that nasty “TERF” that’s recently been in your mouth. You swallow the laughter at the pun that forms instantly after this thought. A pun you look forward to telling Steve about when you next see him and Alici…..
Ah. Steve.
You realise that the wife’s right.
This stuff might have something to do with you after all.
You sigh. And, as the sun winks its last for another day; as your family moves inside, you somewhat reluctantly, but better informed now, take to the sofa again to begin another chapter.
There must be a lot of people who have laughed at the celebrities fulfilling the dupe roles in Brass Eye who are now themselves playing the equivalent of the dupe roles in Brass Eye.
'Transwomen are women' is today's version of 'heavy electricity'. But hey, it gives some people who don't have any authentic politics an easy opportunity to play at having some politics.
I do hope the poor bastard got his takeaway.