On Thursday, I was verbally abused in the street for being trans.
I wonder, what kind of person do you imagine doing that, and where? Are you thinking lower working class, poorly educated, teenage, rolling down Sauchiehall Street after a night of promotional jaegerbombs? Or maybe a shaven-headed neanderthal, drunk, in a pub I should have the sense to avoid?
Nope. Middle-aged man, a packed Buchanan Street, 5.30pm on a sunny weekday evening. I was standing to the side waiting to meet a friend for dinner.
The man took a moment from his busy schedule to look me up and down and then snarl “my fucking god” at me before continuing on his way home from work.
What did you do today, darling?
We like to think hate is the preserve of people who are worse than us. They’re not as sophisticated as us, or as well educated, or as clever. But that isn’t true. Hate can wear a suit, have multiple degrees and subscribe to current affairs magazines. I feel more welcome at a rock festival full of taps-aff neds than I would at a dinner party for readers of The Spectator.
I don’t worry about shaven-headed drunks. You can see them coming.