Readers may recall this chap here, a cross-dressing educator – the one who records classroom videos of himself faffing about with his wig while expecting applause for his feats of fake-hair management:

This clearly female teacher has a deep voice, do you think it’s from smoking? pic.twitter.com/CGoFhMXy1C

— Dr. Jebra Faushay (@JebraFaushay) May 15, 2025

As I said at the time,

Hence the numerous videos of such men vamping and cavorting in a classroom setting. Marking their territory with an arsenal of bad wigs and curiously oversized fake boobs.

It is, I’d suggest, enormously presumptuous, and selfish, to coerce other people’s children into what amounts to a personal affirmation exercise. A gratuitous flex at their expense. While knowing that the parents of those children may not approve, and may be left to deal with whatever upset or confusion ensues. Any number of inapt or premature questions.

Well. Let’s catch up with the chap in question, Mr James Roman Stilipec, and his predictably emboldened activities:

Videos that his students could easily access. A coincidence, I’m sure.

I know. You’re intrigued. Here you go:

🤰 “I’m having twins!”

Trans teacher openly flaunts his pregnancy fetish online when he’s not in the classroom.

If you didn’t think perverts would exploit gender-identity policies in schools to gain access to impressionable children, look no further.

It’s already happening. pic.twitter.com/La6H5iZYAm

— Gays Against Groomers (@againstgrmrs) November 21, 2025

Yes, it positively screams ideal teacher material.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, parents expressed concern:

“Nobody can see my autogynephilia,” replied Mr Stilipec, with a confidence born of indulgence, and while making sure that any passers-by, including children, could see his colossal fake breasts and fake pregnancy.

Because fake boobs can’t ever be too big. For a certain kind of chap.

A relief to all parents, I’m sure. No hint of anything untoward there. And now that the doors of cross-dressing have been kicked wide open in the name of progress, including the doors to classrooms, I suppose anything goes. Having given away the store.

Our educator, Mr Stilipec, also tells us, “I was dysphoric about [not] having boobs, so I got them.” This prosthetic enhancement, all 36DDD of it, is, we learn, “just for my own self-gratification.” And hey, what’s self-gratification without a captive audience of other people’s children? Five days a week.

But of course.

And because a cake needs icing:

But remember, to be A Good Progressive Person, you must learn to disregard any and all warning signs. Those little flashing red lights.

“Good morning, class.”

Previously in the world of not-at-all-concerning cross-dressing educators, a three-part saga of sorts: One. Two. Three. Though the faint-of-heart may wish to proceed with caution.

From the Guardian‘s lifestyle pages, some exquisite sensitivity:

Being so special, you see.

It’s all rather high-gear, positively operatic.

Like I said, for an opening, it’s pretty rich stuff.

The one being so immensely special, so rapturous and ecstatic, is Ms Miranda Luby, a lifestyle journalist who “writes regular opinion columns… about life as a 30-something.” Which is to say, about herself.

Ms Luby was excited to discover that her immense specialness has a name:

Vivid and complex. Not at all like you.

The last three words, I’ll just leave those there.

When not aching with her own humanity, Ms Luby likes to tell other people about how she aches with her own humanity:

As readers of the Guardian‘s lifestyle pages can doubtless testify.

Clearly, more self-absorption was in order.

At last, a special hat.

Self-absorption, it turns out, comes at a price.

Well, yes. Not exactly a plot twist, but modish, very now.

Such is the quest for specialness. Happily, Ms Luby tells us that she’s steered clear of any neurotic spiralling:

No identity-announcing hat required. Ah, all is well.

Ms Luby’s numerous accounts of her own remarkableness include what it’s like to have face-blindness and to be afraid of supermarkets, what it’s like to think you’re dying, and what it’s like to realise the “negative effect mirrors were having on me.”

Entirely unrelated to anything above:

Now excuse me while I hide the breakables.

Via Julia.

Regarding wrinkles. || He speaks Russian. || Not quite grasping the convention. || No, I don’t think that’s something I’d care to normalise, thank you. || She’s trying out her new labels and has self-diagnosed as an amputee. || She won’t be elaborating on that statement. || About your bottom. || The sounds of suburbia. || His shot is better than yours. || Minutes from the border. (h/t, Stephanie) || It’s what he would’ve wanted. || He doesn’t identify as white, because that’s a thing you can do now. || Simulator of note. || Think of it as a challenge. || Her thirst detected. || A passion for pebbles. || The unspanked commute. || “Apply and lie,” says she. || Perfect slices every time. || The progressive retail experience, parts 684, 685 and 686. || Child rotation. || Tourists, 1864. || It fits two to four people.

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Some items from the archives:

Don’t Oppress My People With Your White-Ass Folk Music.

White people strum banjos, have fun. Fretting ensues at University of Sheffield.

An Inexplicable Dislike.

On media mendacity and self-congratulation:

Catching Their Good Side.

On spite as progressive pseudo-piety.

I Know, Let’s All Film Our Mental Breakdowns.

An election occurs. Cue meltdowns and moon-howling.

She Has Queer Temporality.

In which we’re told “LGBTQ+ people experience time differently.”

For those craving more, this is a pretty good place to start.

By all means consider this an open thread. Share ye links and bicker.

I paraphrase, of course. Though not, I think, wildly:

Yes, from the pages of Vice, it’s a men-are-the-problem-and-therefore-unnecessary article. Because we haven’t had one of those in weeks.

Lesbian relationships being entirely free of aggravation and disappointment, you see. With rates of failure and divorce twice that of heterosexuals, more than double that of gay male couples, and with high rates of alcoholism and spousal abuse. What one might infer from that, I leave to others.

And,

At which point, readers may wish to share their favourite joke about female indirectness and the two dozen possible meanings of the words “I’m fine” when uttered by a woman, depending on the precise intonation and the current alignment of the planets.

Readers may also note the replacement of a once common but now seemingly unfashionable grievance – ‘Men don’t express their feelings’ – with one of a much more modish kind – ‘Men are expressing their feelings and it’s exhausting and unfair.’

One more time:

It occurs to me that there’s something a little dissonant about the framing of affection and basic consideration – say, remembering your partner’s birthday – as “unpaid.” As “emotional labour.” As if being in a relationship or having any concern for those you supposedly care about were some onerous, crushing chore. As if you should be applauded – and financially compensated – for the thirty-second task of adding a birthday to the calendar on your phone.

The attitude implied by the above would, I think, explain many failures on the progressive partner-finding front and the consequent “stepping away from dating altogether.” Though possibly not in ways the author intended.

Before we go further, it’s perhaps worth pondering how the conceit of “emotional labour” is typically deployed by a certain type of woman. Say, the kind who complains, in print and at great length, about the “emotional labour” of hiring a servant to clean her multiple bathrooms. Or writing a shopping list. Or brushing her daughter’s hair.

And for whom explaining to her husband the concept of “emotional labour” is itself bemoaned as “emotional labour.” The final indignity.

The kind of woman who bitches in tremendous detail about her husband and his shortcomings – among which, an inability to receive instructions sent via telepathy – in the pages of a national magazine, where friends and colleagues of said husband, and perhaps his own children, can read on with amusement. The kind of woman who tells the world about how hiring servants is just so “exhausting,” while professing some heroic reluctance to complain.

As I said, worth pondering.

But back to the pages of Vice, where Ms Ashley Fike is telling us how it is:

Stoic, heroic women burdened by needy, emotional men. It’s a bold take.

And I can’t help but wonder what all of those single women, cited above, are doing instead of finding a suitable mate and building a happy life, perhaps even a family. Are they searching for a sense of purpose in causes, protests and political fashion, fuelled at least in part by envy and resentment? Just speculation, of course. But it would, I think, explain the tone and emotional convulsions of so many single, progressive women.

Again, the term “emotional labour” and its connotations of calculation, antagonism, and something vaguely inhuman. As if the concept of wanting to care, to help, to remember those birthdays, were somehow alien or offensive.

The reliance on this conceit – as the basis for an article, perhaps an entire worldview – doesn’t strike me as an obvious recipe for contentment, or indeed love. What with the endless cataloguing of shortcomings. All those reasons to resent.

Ah, a glimmer of hope.

So, don’t bore your wife with your troubles, gentlemen. No, search out a therapist. Or, “Be vulnerable, like we asked, but somewhere else.”

Also,

Again, connotations. Things implied. Not a wife, or wife-to-be. Just a shag. A rental.

And then, given the above, an inadvertent punchline:

No laughing at the back.

What women want, we’re told, is “mutual support,” which is to be had, apparently, by “the choice to stay single” and “choosing solitude over stress.” Ditching all those tiresome, exhausting men who appreciate having their birthdays remembered. Because “being alone is easier than managing someone else’s emotional life.”

Yes, I know. “Mutual support” via “solitude” and “being alone.” It’s a mastery of logic available only to expensively educated female journalists of a progressive leaning. You may have to tilt your head and squint.

So I see. Perhaps the crying and depression will come later.

As so often with progressive lifestyle advice, it’s hard to shake the suspicion that the one giving the advice is speaking, unwittingly, of themselves and their own immediate circle, their similarly progressive peers, rather than of men and women more generally. Just as one might wonder whether the objective is to encourage the credulous to sabotage their own lives, their own prospects for happiness.

See, for instance, the blatherings of Laurie Penny, who seemed very excited that “more women are living alone than ever before,” and who thrilled to the “growing power of uncoupled women.” By which she means, but is careful not to say, a dependence on the state and on state benefits. And for whom the “emotional labour” of coupledom includes cooking food, which single people don’t require, of course, and being considerate of a partner’s allergies.

Readers may wish to imagine a version of the article quoted above from a male perspective, and the likely reactions to it, at least from the scrupulously progressive readers of Vice.