Political correctness

The first thing that astonishes about Gillette’s effort to alienate an entire customer base in a single two-minute slickly produced virtue signal is the arrogance. The unblinking temerity of a brand believing it’s somehow its duty not merely to make an appeal for commercial inclusion, but rather to instruct millions of people on how to lead their lives. If the ideological vacuum left by the decline of Christianity in the West really is being filled with a rush of competing forces, then surely we can view Gillette’s ad as consumerism’s most blatant effort yet from the pulpit of modernity to claim the hearts and minds (and souls) of the lumpen masses.

Last night, as I was safely tucked up in bed with a kale smoothie, I was visited by three apparitions, each one determined to change my outlook on the toxic nature of Chr*stm*s. The first ghost appeared at midnight, a shimmering androgynous specter floating in front of my window. ‘Godfrey Elfwick, I am here to show you the error of your ways. Come with me on a journey into your past...’ they said, proffering me a semi-transparent hand. ‘Erm, excuse me, what are your pronouns?’ I inquired respectfully. ‘I’m sorry what?’ was the answer. ‘Well, do you prefer to be referred to as he, she, they, xe, xie, ze, ve, yo...’ As I listed all 592 currently available pronouns, I could see the spirit’s eyes begin to glaze over, and so I took hold of their hand.

I met Titania McGrath at the Genderfree Silent Poetry Class I used to attend on a Thursday evening at the Basement Bar in York. I remember her standing out from the rest of the artistes because of the amount of screaming she did. Since her first draft of ‘My Ovaries Are The Devil’s Kidneys’ which she wrote back in 2013, her work has come on in leaps and bounds, and improved with every court summons. More recently she has found her niche on Twitter. She inspires thousands of followers, or dare I say, disciples, with a heady mixture of defiant slam poetry and staunch feminist views. Her poems are raw, unbridled, angry, and often nonsensical. Like Lewis Carroll meets Quentin Tarantino.

Is there anything better than the sound of a bustling kitchen, the scent of turkey roasting in the air and children laughing, free from the burdens of gender identity? At least that what I tell my sister-in-law, as I urge her to let my nephew, Cody, watch Dora the Explorer instead of giving into the gender stereotypes permeating Go Diego Go. It seems obvious she should use the show as a tool for teaching Cody about the ‘explorers’ bravely making their way from South America in the migrant caravan — the people our racist president wants to kill. Many Americans watch football on this national holiday, but with the culturally insensitive Redskins not on yet, my opportunities to bring some social justice perspective on the toxically masculine game are limited.