Physics teacher and trade unionist.
Writing was never part of my life plan. I’ve joked that I chose my career in physics to avoid words. But, according to the stats, I’ve written 174,951 of them in 199 posts. To mark number 200, I’ve gone back to when this blog began: the summer of 2016.
When Liz Truss confirmed that the government was committing itself to banning LGBT conversion therapy, there was some bemusement: is the middle of a pandemic really the time for this? The decision was announced back in May, and Truss – who serves as equalities minister – conceded that ‘many forms of the practice are already prevented under current legislation’. But this ‘new ban’, she added ‘will ensure that it is stamped out once and for all.’
More than 80% of children who think they’re gender dysphoric revert by the time they hit puberty – so why are parents allowing toddlers to ‘become’ trans and later take hormone blockers? Watchful waiting is much better practice.
I grew up in 1980s County Durham; it felt at the time like a People’s Democratic Republic. When the miners went on strike in 1984, Labour held 53 of the 72 seats on the county council. But whatever impression southerners might get from watching Billy Elliot, boys like me did not engage in ballet. Labour may have been in charge, but attitudes were socially conservative. We played football and supported the Toon, or Newcastle United to give them their official name. Allegiance to Sunderland raised eyebrows — in my town at least — while Manchester United was beyond the pale.
Canadian archer Stephanie Barrett is making her Olympic debut aged 42 having only taken up the sport four years ago, but all the fawning articles charting her meteoric rise fail to mention that Barrett was born male.
Laurel Hubbard, born male, is competing in women’s weightlifting. Hubbard may be classified female, but retains many of the the advantages of a male body. The key is testosterone, not just now, but in the past.
Women in Scotland are angry. Yesterday [20 July 2021*], hundreds gathered by the McLennan Arch on Glasgow Green where their sense of betrayal was palpable.
