Big Ole Balls

Maya Forstater has just won her appeal at the Employment Tribunal, which has doubtless led to a whole swathe of women scratching their heads.

And their big ole hairy balls.

In the greatest twist, worthy of a literary genius, the doyenne of fiction JK Rowling has been established as the standard bearer of non-fiction.

Who’d have thunk it?

Imagine a world where a judge declared that World of Warcraft were real, and nobody could state otherwise. A dissenter could express a contrary view and have that adjudged ‘unworthy of respect in a democratic society’.

You’d say that democratic society had lost its marbles as well as its pride and joy.

Well, that’s where we were with the initial judgement.

Gender is by definition role play. It’s not real but performed.

Geezers should be able to dress how they like, bump and grind with their favoured squeeze, and even use different (and made-up) pronouns, without the fear of oppression and detriment and with the full protection of the law.

Let them vacuum the shagpile to the backdrop of I Want To Break Free and even break other established conventions by confidently explaining the offside rule at Anne Summers parties.

I couldn’t agree more with all of those propositions, and that is why gender recognition certificates are in my book tickety-boo.

But they don’t alter material facts of irrefutable science and, crucially in this case, the right to state that and to celebrate it.

Hallelujah! The law got its balls back even though many of the mustachioed misses won’t get theirs.

Facts have once again squeezed into the ascendency.

We’ve missed them.

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