From the pages of Metro, some highly emotional news:

I’ll give you a moment to steady yourselves. What with the brutality of it all. Namely, a supermarket aisle with – and I quote,

Apparently mere proximity to such a thing – again, a shelf of houmous in a supermarket – can traumatise grown men of a progressive persuasion. Including Mr Amro Tabari, whose dip-induced agonising unfolds before you now:

No, the relevance escapes me, too. Perhaps something will be made of this later, given sufficient contrivance.

I go for the red pepper variety, myself. Hey, I’m just sharing, too.

No laughing at the back. This is a tearful tale.

Stunned by houmous options. When not sobbing, I mean, or filled with a sickening outrage. As I’m sure you’ve noticed, Mr Tabari’s emotions, or professed emotions, incline towards the operatic. One might say baffling.

I suspect an explanation of a sort may be looming.

Ah, the aforementioned contrivance. Houmous as a political identity. I think this is where the credulous are meant to feel guilty, or deferential, or something.

I would guess that at least some of those baristas, flower shop owners and amateur theatre actors are just being polite. Not everyone needs a sermon with their dip. Even in Brighton.

You see, that’s where we’re going. Because of course we are. He’s had photos done and everything.

This is starting to sound like one of those fabulist anecdotes in which the speaker is supposedly always being asked, “But how do you cope with being so slim and pretty and loved by everyone?”

One more time. Dip.

And finally, inevitably, the demand:

Or you could just, you know, dial back the pretentious, self-involved whining. Three or four notches should do it.

Or, Not Neurotic Enough.

From Vancouver, via Alex Zoltan, an attempt to attend a “2SLGBTIAQ+-friendly” outdoor theatre is derailed by some cultural-sensitivity complications:

A woman in Vancouver was denied access to a “2SLGBTIAQ+-friendly” outdoor theatre because her hair violated the venue’s “Code of Conduct Cultural Appropriation policy.” pic.twitter.com/reB5DbDtL1

— Alex Zoltan (@AmazingZoltan) August 15, 2025

You see, madam’s hair – or rather, her woollen hair extension – violates the venue’s “Code of Conduct Cultural Appropriation Policy.”

Which is a thing, apparently.

Readers may not be entirely surprised to learn that the list of terms and conditions is somewhat extensive and includes both pre-emptive scolding that is nebulous and therefore open to interpretation by those so inclined:

And pre-emptive scolding that is more particular:

Because pronoun policing is the basis of every good night out. And with regard to madam’s supposedly scandalous hair:

That’s the non-consensual wearing of your own clothes and hair.

You see,

We’re talking, you’ll recall, about a trip to a “2SLGBTIAQ+-friendly” outdoor theatre. In the hope of a jolly time.

We’re also informed, sternly, that people of pallor do not experience,

And that,

Again, at a venue where luridly cross-dressing men can pretend to be women and must always be addressed with their fabulist pronouns.

In short, attendees must, 

Those forever downtrodden magic brown people.

And transvestites. 

I feel I should point out that the interaction filmed above goes on for nine minutes. You may wish to have a fortifying beverage to hand.

Or something to bite down on.

The complications of progressive fun times – specifically, what can only be referred to as ideological dancing – have been mentioned here before.

Update, via the comments:

Liz adds,

There is that. But if we start listing the things our Enforcers Of Purity don’t know, and the things they choose not to know, and the things they think they know but which are wildly incorrect, I suspect we’ll be here all day. And any interest in history, or in reality in general, seems likely to be subordinate to the neurotic, wearying drama that they wish to inflict on others.

Not unreasonably, Chow Bag asks,

Well, indeed. And likewise, if you’re obliged to continually “uplift, celebrate and hold sacred those most marginalised among us,” while fretting about pronouns and privilege and “how you take up space,” and while fretting about police brutality and “intergenerational trauma” and the sacredness of other people’s hairstyles… well, that may leave little time for watching the actual show. Which, I seem to recall, was the purpose of the visit.

But poking at the implications of their rules of admission almost certainly makes you a white supremacist and so you’re not allowed in.

Lest you contaminate The Purity.

All the fun of the fair. || A ride to remember. || Batman in a jam. || Her eyelash curler broke and her underwear keeps going missing. || “Mom, guess what?” || He wants to talk about greed. || Game over. || Incoming. || Nommy-nommy-nom. || The engineering of Mount Rushmore. || Just checking what you are. || Variation on a theme. || Very modern moral problems. || Novelty evaporates. || I remember seeing this one here well into the 80s. || Bag athleticism. || When you have a bedlamite infestation. || Because her big day was all about him. || I renounce the devil and all his works. || Yes, but how hard? || She doesn’t want the rubber room. || She’s not going to take it any more. || Tree house. || Truck life. || Replacing lost fingers with grafted toes. || And for seekers of challenge, I bring sex-toy news.

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For further rambling, and to be notified of new posts, I’m also me on X.

For newcomers, some items from the archives:

The Wellbeing Of Burglars.

Because burglars are special and deserving, unlike you.

Only Suckers Pay Their Way.

Or, my activist lifestyle should be subsidised by others, the less important.

And in don’t-mention-the-mental-illness news:

I should perhaps point out that it doesn’t get better as we go on.

As I was saying.

I suppose we could take a moment to ponder the fact that there are creatures, cross-dressing middle-aged men, for whom it is necessary to conjure court orders to deter them from attending nurseries, as if they were children, and from climbing into wheelie bins. While wearing soiled nappies.

I’ll give you a minute.

Cut-throat business, childcare.

Hey, I’m just reading what it says here.

That’s 90. Nine zero.

No, we’ve come this far. We must push on.

Mr Taylor, since you ask, “was also ordered to do 100 hours’ unpaid work and will have to wear a GPS tag for a year.” So that’s everything taken care of. I’m sure we’ll hear no more of Mr Taylor’s excremental self-expression.

Said video of the gentleman in question, doing his lady business, in a wheelie bin, in a totally ladylike manner, can be found at the link above.

Consider this an open thread. Share ye links and bicker.