I read this in the paper yesterday and (totally fucking cracked up) was greatly moved (tears rolling down my face) by the sheer love and sacrifice that committed parents make for their children (ok, catching breath again). But any parent does such things, with regard to a child’s health, education, general wellbeing and a million other associated issues. But without wishing to sound all ‘JK Rowling’ about this, “very supportive of my pronouns”??? WTF??? They give him an extra vowel for his birthday? Few consonants for Christmas? Here, son/daughter/object-of-indiscriminate-gender-child-person, we’d like to give you a highlighter pen to underline precisely what you might be called on any given day. Even though you have a penis, don’t menstruate and wear a beard.

‘Personal pronouns’, to give them their full title, are just that. Personal. So… it(?) may think of his/her-self as a particular gender-or-non-binary thing, but that’s inside its own head. Others choose to ‘inflict’ pronoun usage on what stands before them. Unless we abolish his/hers/him/her/he/she for everyone in the world so as not to upset the 0.000321% of undecideds who might take offence at being referred to in the feminine merely because of a pink ball gown and massive tits. 

I appreciate that my views are predicated on the fact that I’m a ‘baby-boomer’ and thus they are entrenched in another, more ignorant frame of reference. And that any form of extremism, including in matters of political correctness, actually stimulates my ‘gag-reflex’ in a particularly strong manner. 

And  I’d rather talk about personal pronouns than football. I’d have been happy talking about football yesterday, but only up to 5 o’clock. When Spurs were still 3 nil up against West Ham. Were walking on proverbial water. Could do nothing wrong. All going swimmingly. In fact even at 6 o’clock, when we left the restaurant where Lila had eaten her supper, Joey had redistributed his around ours, and several nearby, tables and was running up and down the street screaming at the ice cream poster outside a different cafe, We parted from the babes, and their parents (we’re ALLOWED, innit, cos we do CHILDCARE BUBBLE, innit? so we can eat indoors as a 6!!!!) still 3 nil up. But in the 5 minutes it took to get home that was 3-1. Then 3-2 before I’d even closed the fucking door, and 3-all in the greatest footballing disaster that can’t be blamed on VAR, for-like-EVERRRRR!!!
Not very happy Monday
A xxxx