I miss the concept of shame. As social correctives go, it was underrated.

Apparently, we’ve arrived at a stage of civilisation in which chunky middle-aged men dress as women and then deliberately piss themselves in public, on camera, as an erotic high, before sharing the recording on social media and awaiting likes. Which is to say, affirmation.

See also, via Stephanie, this. And somewhat related, this item here.

Lifted from the comments, which you’re reading of course. Also, open thread.

And in ladies’ changing room news:

Trying it on is indeed a phrase that comes to mind.

At which point, readers may note how Mr Firico’s professed “non-binary” status doesn’t mean that he’d be content in the men’s changing rooms, as an option, with either being fine, and instead grants, in his mind, an entitlement to violate store policy and the boundaries of women. He’s “not a man,” you see – and by the same logic, if that’s the word, not a woman either – but apparently, that women’s space is his kingdom now. And ladies who’d rather not get undressed near some random male interloper – whether that man is mentally ill or an opportunist pervert – are expected to shut up and comply. Because his identity, or feigned identity, trumps theirs.

It’s all terribly convenient.

Despite his incongruity, Mr Firico doesn’t appear at all curious as to the preferences of any female customers on whom he might be imposing, and his view of the store’s female staff is perhaps best judged by his willingness to ignore their objections while barging into a space not intended for men:

Views as to which party should feel ashamed may, I suspect, differ. And note that any female customers who might feel uncomfortable or degraded by sharing an intimate space with a bearded bedlamite are, again, expected to keep quiet and defer. In this new, inclusive world, there is, it seems, a pecking order.

Despite a subsequent apology by the store’s manager, we’re told that the experience of not getting his own way immediately and entirely without objection was “embarrassing” for Mr Firico, especially as a sales assistant “rolled her eyes.” Readers are invited to say whether hearing of such unspeakable trauma will deprive them of any sleep.

Mr Firico, complete with stunning gown, can be seen here. The clasping of the hands is a lovely touch.

Via ripx4nutmeg.

Come, let us dip a toe in the world of transgender Reddit – specifically, rFTMOver30 – where the sexually dysmorphic hunt for slips-ups, pronoun blunders, and tiny acts of transgression. As you might imagine, things can get quite competitive.

First, a little background on the author of this particular woe:

The struggle involves a devilish innovation in the world of “transphobia”:

This inadvertent favouring of factual accuracy is, it turns out, only the appetiser. The main basis for umbrage is about to become clear.

And so,

There we go. New ground broken. Drinks all round.

After the gathering, when the guests had left, apologies were of course extracted from the author’s partner, along with confessions of wrongdoing, for daring to suggest that no harm was intended. Needless to say, and despite the lengthy confession and profuse apologies, and despite promises to “sit down” with Alison and correct her, the author of the piece is, we’re told, “having trouble moving on.”

You see, if friends come over for a pleasant evening and they don’t immediately consider you a potential mugger of women, or rapist of women, this is oppressive, “invalidating,” and “transphobic.” Such that it feels like “a punch in the gut.” It’s perhaps not the most obvious basis for invoking the unfairness of the world and one’s own endless suffering, but hey. In this competition, contrivance equals bonus points.

Quite what the author’s partner makes of this news – that in order to avoid being “transphobic,” she must consider her transgender lover a potential rapist – is, alas, not divulged.

Readers are invited to ponder the prospect of a dinner party at which, in order to be polite and suitably affirming, you’re obliged to insinuate that the host is rapist material. And to do it convincingly. Rather than, say, compliment the cooking or the décor.

Please update your files and lifestyles accordingly.

Via Eliza Mondegreen.

Update, via the comments:

Speaking, as we were, of the Guardian’s imperious opinionator Polly Toynbee, madam’s latest outpouring finds her reflecting – if that’s quite the right word – on the burden of her own elevated status. The woes, as it were, of the upper-and-upper-middle-class socialist:

Wait for it.

Update, via the comments:

We’re also told that, as a child, Dear Polly “envied” her much poorer friends, with their “cheerful,” noisy, and rather small dwellings, which had “ever-open front doors.” Though, alas,

As a way to conjure gravitas and fish for sympathy, it’s a bold approach.

The point of the piece quoted above, a long and rambling extract from Ms Toynbee’s forthcoming memoir, is far from clear – as is Polly’s way. However, the gist seems to be that class is a terrible, terrible thing, and that our author, a descendant of the Ninth Earl of Carlisle, and whose life is cushioned by multiple homes, here and overseas, and a well-into-six-figure income, is every bit as much a victim of it. What with her fretting so much.

For brevity’s sake, I’ll attempt to paraphrase: ‘I have never known, and will never know, anything approaching poverty. My lack of diligence, or indeed competence, has never been a significant setback, on account of my class and privilege. Therefore, you should listen to me and do exactly as I say.’

Again, bold. Must be that “painful self-awareness.”

In the comments, further thoughts occur.

Update 2:

Regarding Polly’s purported envy of the humble and downtrodden, Mike D asks,

Which reminded me of the reliably ludicrous George Monbiot, a man who agonises over the “isolating” effects of disposable income, double glazing, and TV remote controls, and who believes that we – thee and me – should imitate the peasants of southern Ethiopia, where homes are made of leaves and packing cases, and where, despite Stone Age sanitation and alarming child mortality, “the fields crackle with laughter.”

For Dear Polly, mingling with the working class is somewhat similar, I should think.

Oh, and Mr Monbiot, lest we forget, was schooled at Stowe, an imposing boarding school in Buckinghamshire, where annual fees are a mere £36,000.

At which point, readers may discern the makings of a pattern.

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

For devotees of the farcical and grotesque, a spot of history:

In the following video, quoted above, Professor James O’Flannery concludes his lively, somewhat unorthodox three-part lecture series on the Chinese Revolution. Or, to borrow one of his chapter headings, Our Turn Fuck Up World.

Needless to say, given the subject matter, some dark turns are taken. Notable moments include an explanation of the inevitability of sociopathy in communism; the pivotal role of hysterically self-righteous adolescents; and a lesson in demented street signage. Readers may also detect some, shall we say, contemporary resonance. And do watch to the end.

Parts one and two.

The professor’s lectures on the French and Russian Revolutions, the latter in three parts, are also recommended.

How drunk you should be while watching them is entirely your own business.