The rise of the Body Snatchers
Has anyone noticed how gender crits have lately joined with islamophobes and racists in focussing on fears of women “being supplanted”? It’s an old myth, as old as transphobia and Janice Raymond’s Transsexual Empire, and about as sensible. So rather than engage with it, here’s a rant.
Read it fast and out loud!
So I was watching a film the other night: the Body Snatchers, I think it was. At any rate it was either 50s film noir about the communist threat, dressed up in some hokey plot about giant pods appearing in the middle of a suburban community and replacing the real people. Or gender critical documentary about the threat from trans women busy infiltrating society while the decent people slept.
Replacing the real women.
Nightmare vision or fantastic fiction? Fact or paranoid prediction? Who knows?
But then in October 2020, in this, the arse end of an arse-end year, it is increasingly hard to distinguish dysphoric terror from dystopian error.
Dystopia? Dysphoria? What difference does it make anyway, given that most people I know with dysphoria would rather be living in almost any other advanced western democracy right now.
Or even a non-advanced one. Since in those countries, the fascist option is at least on the ballot paper and pretty clear about what it wants. Whereas here in the UK it still comes with a smile and the promise of a bright tomorrow.
Ruritania offers better weather. Better food. More gold braid. And a vague possibility of being rescued from abject subjugation by a Belgian boy reporter named Tintin.
Which is about as likely as British voters not voting for the present shower.
Because Labour might crash the economy and, it is alleged, could not organise a piss-up in a brewery. Whereas the Tories will crash the economy each year, every year, regular as clockwork. And they once were the party of the breweries. Yes: when the electors grow weary of the present incumbent — and they will — they’ll dust off the nearest talking chimp in a suit and make him leader. They’ll promise Peace or at very least Piss-up in our lifetime.
And like some sort of austerity Terminator, they’ll be back!
But Tomorrow. Tomorrow. Tomorrow belongs to me.
Because you see, i’m a supplanter.
Wassat? You heard right. I’m a supplanter, busy burrowing away, getting ready to supplant the entirety of womanhood and TAKE OVER.
Least, I think you heard right. Supplanter. As opposed to “planter”. Though that makes about as much sense, and arrives with the same intellectual rigour as a gender critical lecture on prison stats. Since the entire threat to womanhood posed by trans women is peanut-sized. If not flavoured.
I’m not entirely sure what flavour trans women are. Nor whether it is legal to find out.
Though apparently the scent of a trans woman is highly distinctive to anyone with acute womansense. For, according to gender crits: “they can always tell”. Which is why they are even now crowdfunding for a remake of the Hollywood original, starring Al Pacino as the Transfinder General: an ageing visually challenged military man with a hard on for trans pussy.
But I am going to have my work cut out if I, and my band of active tranz are going to supplant UK womandom any time soon. Because us transes are few and far between. Maybe 25,000, tops. OK. Some bottoms. Still, we are but 25,000 and pretty much a cross-section of society.
So even were I to concede the myth being spread earlier this week by media commentator Julia Hardly-Bluer — and I don’t — that permitting trans women to compete for Women’s Literary Prizes means the end to Women’s Prizes as all are subsumed into a muddy murk of mansplaining,we still have a long way to go. Because: stop me if you’ve heard this one before! Even in today’s world of namby-pamby politically correct woke, you have to have some modicum of literary talent before they give you a prize for writing stuff.
“What I did on my holidays”, dragged out to epic length, delivered by a trans woman, who once read the first three pages of À la recherche du temps perdu, and whose only experience of writing since her English GCSE was the inevitable transition blog, just won’t cut it.
But, but, but… The crits are never entirely honest on this. According to one half they have no problem with trans women: it’s just the male imposters they mind. Did I say half? I meant quarter. OK: ten percent. Alright. One gender crit in a maudlin post-prandial alcoholic haze might just have said, whispered, ventured, that on a Blue Moonday in spring they once conceded a trans woman was an actual woman.
But it’s those bastard men that spoil this for everyone else. Because in order to hoover up a handful of literary trinkets, men — authors of international renown and second-rate swindlers alike — are going to trash their reputation and life chances by pretending to be trans. Of course they will. Because evidence. Which may not actually have been published anywhere. But that’s the first rule of conspiracy: don’t talk about the conspiracy! And that just proves it’s real.
And so, to sweep the fields of literature, sport, business, academia, law and much, much more besides it will be left to the top 1% of trans women to step up to the plate. That’s all 250 of us. Like a cut-price 300. But with sparklier outfits. And no Gerard Butler.
That means we need to work hard and fast. No sleep for us wickeds!
I’ll take writing and academia. I, alone, with my inescapable man-taint, fully expect to be appointed Chancellor of a middling redbrick Uni by Tuesday. Two days later, I’ll be accepting the Nobel Prize for Women’s Literature.
What do you mean, “that’s not a thing!”? I’m making it up. Well you started it.
I’ll pass on sport, though. For reasons too obvious to mention, I am allergic to any activity involving balls. And in any race between me and your average semi-senescent long in’t’tooth tortoise, the tortoise wins. Every time.
No matter. We’ll easily find 30 trans women to dominate soccer, cricket, weight-lifting, track events and snooker. Because.
Don’t tell me this is all nonsense. A fictive fantasy frothed up by a family-pack of fanatical faux-feminists. (Try saying that again after two spliffs!).
We are the supplanters. The body snatchers. The peanut in your health warning.
So do not go to sleep any time soon, because we’re already here. And you’re all in danger! We’re after you! We’re after all of you! Your wives, your children, everyone! WE’RE HERE, ALREADY! YOU’RE NEXT!