Far be it from me to deny that Isla Bryson, née (or perhaps né) Adam Graham, is a genuine woman. Just look at her earlier photograph and you’ll instantly see her feminine side trying to break out of the hard outer shell of a repulsive male thug.
I’d only like to comment on the standards of womanhood that seem to be more fluid than ever before. In the past, arguments about femininity weren’t so much physiological or psychological as aesthetic.
People disagreed on what makes a beautiful woman, not a woman as such. For example, in the early 17th century people put a premium on hefty secondary sex characteristics, enveloped, if Rubens’s canvases are to be believed, in quite a bit of cellulite.
During our lifetime, the official concept of womanly charms began to diverge from the one widely accepted among the masses. The arbiters of taste began to promote the concept of a new Venus as a woman in the early stages of anorexia.
Men around the world pretend to agree. After all, who are they to argue with the gurus? However, privately 90 per cent of them still prefer fat women – and only 10 per cent, very fat ones (according to my own private poll).
One way or another, no matter how fluid tastes may be, few men – or for that matter women – see someone like Isla as a modern-day Venus de Milo. However, aesthetics aside, all of them are forced to accept Isla as a woman on pain of ostracism or, in the near future, perhaps even criminal prosecution.
Charge? I’m amazed you need to ask. Transphobia, of course, which crime is defined neither in its etymological sense as an inordinate fear of transsexuals nor in its new sense of implicit hatred. No, transphobia means simply refusing to accept Isla as a woman.
In her previous incarnation as Adam Graham, this dainty creature violently raped two women, a crime for which he/she/it was convicted and put in prison before sentencing. Alas, since those events unfolded in Scotland, he/she/it was put in a prison for women.
Now, I say sometimes that the only two good things to have come out of Scotland for decades are whisky and James MacMillan (the order is dictated by the rhythm of the sentence, not, as I hope James realises, relative importance).
And about the worst thing is Scotland’s politics, as exemplified by two consecutive SNP leaders, Alex Salmond and Nicola Sturgeon. Between them they prove that there’s something decidedly fishy about Scottish politics.
Thus Scottish parliament has passed the Gender Recognition Reform Bill, which, to its credit, British Parliament has blocked. That pernicious bill makes it easier for youngsters to change their sex. Now any Scot, 16 or older, can be legally castrated without the annoyance of having to seek parental consent.
A person that age can’t legally buy cigarettes or that second greatest Scottish contribution to civilisation, whisky (you can see that I’m not a great fan of David Hume and Adam Smith, although both had their good points). But that same youngster is deemed old enough to make a more or less irreversible decision about his or her sex.
That strikes me as a wee bit insane but, as Pascal didn’t quite say, the Scots have their reasons that reason knows not of (les écossais ont ses raisons que la raison ne connaît point).
However, that bill was passed after Adam went on his raping rampage and subsequently decided he was really Isla. Since even the Scottish parliament hasn’t yet progressed so far as to make its progressive laws retroactive, Isla is afforded no special protection.
Still, even the old laws were progressive enough to put Isla into a prison where her/his/its fellow inmates weren’t quite fellows. And then all hell broke loose.
The naturally female inmates loudly protested against having a convicted rapist with all his relevant bits still intact sharing their cells and shower rooms. And what do you know, their voices were heard and heeded.
A public outcry ensued, and Isla has been transferred to a proper men’s prison, where other rapists, robbers and serial murderers may well test her womanhood empirically. There’s a part of me that would actually welcome something like that to happen, but I admit it’s not the best part.
I do marvel at the sudden outbreak of gender dysphoria, which used to be an extremely rare condition. So rare, in fact, that in the less progressive past sufferers could often make a living by exhibiting themselves at county fairs.
There is always the possibility, nay certainty, that most of those aspiring conversos are actually sham transsexuals. In fact, Adam’s ex-wife used that precise adjective to describe his ‘transitioning’.
I’m not going to treat you to a why-oh-why lament about our declining civilisation. God knows you’ve heard enough of them. Instead, just this once I’d like to propose an instant solution to the problem, something that’s guaranteed to make transsexualism as rare as it used to be.
The government must stop recognising transition to a different sex as a legal status. That’s job done. Overnight, those malcontents will stop playing silly buggers and decide to stick with the sex specified on their birth certificate.
Glad to be of service.
P.S. On an unrelated subject, I continue to learn my English from commentators at the Australian Open.
To wit: “He found the breach from junior to professional tennis very hard.” I would have been tempted to say ‘transition’, but then I wasn’t born to the language.
Also: “The match is building to a crescendo.” ‘Crescendo’, I used to believe, is a musical term denoting a gradual increase in loudness. Thus you can’t build to a crescendo because it itself means ‘building up’.
“She showed hesitancy in hitting that shot.” Hesitation? Who knows.
“As I ascertained earlier…” I could have sworn the poor chap meant ‘mentioned’, but then why didn’t he say so?