Outrage as Jeremy Corbyn suspected of not having ‘LEST WE FORGET’ tattooed along the top of his cock

Jeremy Corbyn sparked fury today as it emerged that he was vanishingly unlikely to have any kind of statement supporting Our Brave Lads And Lasses indelibly marked into the north-facing portion of his old chap. 

According to an exclusive report by the Daily Express, the words ‘lest we forget’ do not appear anywhere along the leader of the opposition’s sexmeat, and he almost certainly hasn’t scratched all three verses of ‘In Flanders Fields’ into his liver-spotted torso with a kitchen knife.

Following yesterday’s Remembrance Sunday service, at which Mr Corbyn was dressed appropriately, fully poppied up and not apparently nursing a massive fucking hangover, attention turned to any other way he might conceivably have been betraying his naked contempt for our Courageous Troops.

Initial anger was directed at the flagrantly disrespectful angle of the soldier-hating commie’s head during the two minutes’ silence that traditionally follows the Prime Minister’s laying of the upside down wreath. Enraged onlookers reported seeing a disgusting two inches of available space between Mr Corbyn’s chin and chest, clearly indicating an obvious desire to back out an allotment veg-rich turd directly onto the steps of the cenotaph.

Wayne Pratt, an enthusiastic devourer of right wing diarrhoea from Ipswich, said,

“I’m fucking sick of this. It’s every year. First he wore a coat like he was some kind of 70-year-old man who needs to keep warm, then he wasn’t wearing the poppy he was definitely wearing, and now he shows up bowing his head at a perfectly normal angle like he’s thinking about defiling the corpses of servicemen. I’m definitely voting for the Brexit Party now.”

Sheila Sweals, who buys the Express for the TV guide and not the frequent outbursts of unconcealed racism, concurred,

“The cock thing was the final straw for me, to be honest,” she lied. “If he’s got nothing to hide, why doesn’t he just show us? The very fucking least the marrow-scoffing twat needs to do now is have a six-inch wide poppy leaf branded onto each arsecheek, and even then, I’d still find a way to hate him for it.”

We approached Mr Corbyn’s office for comment, but his spokesperson said they did not wish to ‘dignify the allegations with a response’.

Which is almost certainly some kind of Marxist code for, “He’s in Normandy pissing on graves.”

In defence of the true victims of Me Too: I will not desert you

The news that women have finally achieved true equality could hardly be more welcome. Who could fail to be uplifted by the realisation that fifty percent of the world’s population are now, without exception, paid what they are worth, able to express ideas without being shouted down by the other fifty percent, and free to go about their business without the threat of being leered at, groped or physically assaulted by some grubby, entitled piece of shit who devotes an unfathomable proportion of his depressingly limited brainpower to remaining stubbornly unaware of the very basic concept of sexual consent?

The exhilarating joy women must now experience as a result of their new-found freedom to safely go for a run in the park at dusk is matched only by the liberation conferred by the knowledge that they may decide for themselves whether or not they wish to bear children, without interference from people whose business it is fucking none of.

But has anyone actually stopped to think about the devastating human costs incurred as a result of this most gratifying of developments? Sure, it’s great that you’re now able to wear whatever clothes you feel comfortable in without being told you should show more cleavage, or less cleavage, or that you are now entitled to be a normal, regular face-owner without hearing that you should smile more, or smile less, but have any of you paused, even for a minute, to consider the victims in this selfish insistence that your abilities, your character and your right to make it through one fucking day without fending off the unwelcome advances of some pocket-wanking creep should be given greater consideration than the prominence of your tits?

The fact is, the collateral damage of the Me Too movement now lies scattered across the world like so many fractured and inutile penises. Men, who were previously able to enjoy a guilt-free squeeze of their secretary’s arse without such disproportionate interventions as ‘industrial tribunals’ and ‘the sack’, are now being forced to adhere to arbitrary and, frankly, unreasonable standards of behaviour, all so you can make it through to bedtime without the familiar exhaustion that inevitably arises as a result of perpetual fear for your own personal wellbeing.

The plaintive cries of these poor, broken beasts echo across the internet like the post-midnight reverberations of a haunted orphanage. 

“We can’t compliment women.” 

“We can’t flirt with women.”

“We can’t even SPEAK to women.”

Yes, you’ve finally done it, ladies. The entire male population will henceforth reside cowering in damp, badly-lit corners lest the glare of your torch of intolerance illuminates their inability to behave like reasonable human beings.

It was surprising, then, to hear that only last week, prolific and unrepentant sex offender, Harvey Weinstein, was seen enjoying cocktails at an exclusive members’ club, while fellow patrons complimented him on his professional achievements and clapped him on the back.

Equally surprising was the news this week that the Welsh Secretary was having to step down following the revelation that he was aware of the actions of an aide in sabotaging a rape trial in 2018 by making lurid claims about the victim’s previous sexual conduct.

And it was utterly fucking astonishing that a man who had previously suggested that women should ‘keep their knickers on’ to avoid rape, and that they were at least partially responsible for sexual violence perpetrated against them, was to be parachuted into one of the Conservative Party’s safest seats for the forthcoming election.

The surprises kept coming, though, as we were regaled with the charming tale of US rapper, TI, taking his daughter to visit a gynaecologist once a year that he may check her hymen is still intact. This quite nauseating level of coercive bullying was compounded by the knowledge that he forces her to sign a waiver allowing the doctor to discuss the results of the totally unnecessary and ultimately useless examination with him. And we did not learn that this fucking subhuman shitstain of a man violates his daughter’s body and her privacy in this most egregious way as the result of some elaborate sting operation, or by the woman in question speaking out, but by way of him openly and proudly bragging about it on a podcast recording.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. These men are all in positions of power. They’re rich or famous or influential, and as such are not cowed or emasculated in the same way as normal men, who live in terror that their perfectly innocent comments and actions will be taken out of context and twisted by rabid feminists intent on grinding them into the dirt just so they can enjoy an evening out with their friends without being drugged and raped by some abject bastard who should be de-cocked and fired into the fucking chromosphere. And you’re perfectly right, of course.

Which is why it came as a complete shock this morning that BBC Breakfast presenter, Naga Munchetty, should face a barrage of inappropriate sexual comments about her appearance during an interview with a World War Two veteran, and that such comments should have come from these perfectly normal and not at all famous men. Even the one who stated that he would ‘pay a fortune to see her slam dunked into that coffee table’ did not, to the best of my knowledge, have a recording contract, movie deal or television show of any description.

I’m at a loss to explain how any of these completely unexpected and entirely unusual developments might have occurred at all in this febrile and punitive post-Me-Too environment, much less how they could all have occurred within a single fucking week.

I suppose one possible explanation is that women are still not widely regarded as anything more than objects, placed upon this Earth by the gods of toxic masculinity for men to use as they see fit, before being cast aside like an empty Pot Noodle carton on the DNA-rich carpet of an incel’s bedsit. We might deduce that men still act largely with impunity when it comes to violating a woman’s right to simply fucking exist without being harassed, intimidated or belittled, and that such abstract concepts as ‘consequences’ and ‘accountability’ are only applicable in a dispiritingly low percentage of cases. I guess it’s even feasible that the Me Too movement was a tiny and important baby step forward, but that gigantic fucking olympic-triple-jump-sized steps have yet to be made before we can say that anything like true equality has been achieved.

It’s probably not that, though. Maybe it was just a bad week.

Privilege, self-satisfaction and the befriending of bastards

Privilege is a weird thing. Most of us have a certain level of privilege, and some of us even recognise it and try to use it to effect change. Some of us deny it exists at all, labouring under the self-imposed misapprehension that everything we’ve achieved has occurred as a direct result of our own unfiltered brilliance, and not because we live in a society in which more or less everything is heavily skewed in favour of straight, rich, white dudes. Others, of course, are so blinded by their own privilege that they see fit to stand up on national television and lecture those who are considerably less privileged about how they ought to respond to people who are, by any reasonable interpretation, objectively fucking awful.

“When I say be kind to one another, I don’t mean only the people that think the same way that you do. I mean be kind to everyone.”

This was a statement made by US comedian and chat show host, Ellen DeGeneres, earlier this week, which, on the face of it, you might think seems quite laudable. Who could reasonably object to a world where people were kinder to one another, right? This video was widely shared on social media, with lots of other quite privileged people responding with comments like, “Well said, Ellen! What a great message!”

It’s only when you realise that Ms DeGeneres made this somewhat smug, self-satisfied statement to justify her friendship with a guy who was responsible for the deaths of hundreds of thousands of Iraqi civilians, and who predicated his entire political career on denying rights to LGBTQ people, that you begin to see how fundamentally repugnant it is.

In terms of moral cowardice, this argument ranks alongside, “I know that Bundy guy was a little bit murdery, but he did make a lovely lamb casserole, and I just think you have to look for the good in people. We can’t only be kind to those who don’t think it’s acceptable to slaughter dozens of people in cold blood.”

There are, give or take, 7.7 billion people on Earth. Accordingly, there are 7.7 billion differing sets of opinions. It goes without saying that, if we were only ever friends with people whose opinions were aligned completely with our own, we’d exist in the same tragic state of isolation that Toby Young experienced on the night of his stag do.

I have a friend who thinks Star Wars is superior to Star Trek. I have a friend who fancies Chris Pratt more than Chris Hemsworth. I have another friend who thinks putting peanut butter directly onto unbuttered, barely toasted bread (like, it hasn’t even changed colour) is acceptable behaviour. They’re all disgusting people who should be shot at fucking dawn and I love them dearly.

I don’t, I’m proud to say, have a single friend who has overseen the destruction of a Middle Eastern country for their own political ends, or who has sought to deny people like me the right to marry, the right to access goods and services, the right to be housed, or the right to not be fired from my job because of who I’m attracted to. I don’t have friends like that because people like that are fucking abhorrent.

I’m just a little bit really fucking tired of hearing how it’s somehow ‘childish’ or ‘shallow’ to refuse to befriend a person with different political opinions, as though it’s some minor, inconsequential thing like a disgusting peanut butter/toast habit or the mistaken belief that C3PO is in any way more impressive than Commander Data. The fact is, our politics are a fundamental part of who we are. They define us. They are us.

For example, I could never form any kind of meaningful relationship, platonic or otherwise, with a Conservative voter. It’s not just that I disagree with them, it’s that I think they’re intrinsically unpleasant.

People are dying on the streets. Foodbank use is at an all-time high. Welfare spending has been slashed again and again. Mental health funding has been cut to the bone. People seeking to make this country their home are subjected to an environment that the government proudly describes as ‘hostile’. Queer asylum seekers are deported to countries in which they may be imprisoned, tortured or killed for being who they are and told to ‘act less gay’. On top of all that, we’re on the verge of the biggest self-imposed catastrophe ever to befall us, and the Tories are 100% committed to delivering something that will disproportionately affect the lives of the poorest and most vulnerable people in the country.

If you voted for any of that, you’re an appalling cunt, and there is no place in my life for you.

Similarly, I don’t care how well-received your sitcom was in the 1990s if you now spend every day of your life mocking, misgendering and directing hate at vulnerable and marginalised people. If I tolerated that kind of behaviour, I’d be as much of an arsehole as you are.

It’s so easy (and a bit fucking selfish) to say, “We should respect everyone’s beliefs,” if their beliefs will never impact you in any meaningful way. But if you’re a rich, white lesbian working in the arts, you don’t get to pontificate to black trans women on low incomes about who they should be nice to. They might just consider that the fact that they’re dying and being killed on an almost industrial scale matters quite a bit, and that offering kindness to those who would eradicate them completely is, in itself, an act of violence.

Views matter. Opinions matter. They are the essence of who we are. Of course it’s up to the individual to decide how much a particular belief matters to them and whether it’s a deal-breaker in any prospective relationship, but let’s not pretend that being nice to everyone makes you a good person. It doesn’t. All it makes you is complicit.

Man who has trouble predicting entirely predictable things somehow still alive

It has emerged today that a man who is unable to foresee the most obvious shit imaginable has somehow managed not to die, despite his prolific and unrelenting stupidity.

Rod Purley, an irredeemable twat who makes a living running the BBC into the fucking ground, has somehow managed to remain not deceased for a period spanning several decades, even though he presumably uses an electric fire to warm up his bath water.

Purley hit the headlines yesterday after booking known atrocious cunt Brandon O’Kneel to appear on one of the shows for which he has editorial control, before expressing surprise when O’Kneel said all the horrible fucking things he’s been saying for the past twenty years.

Social media erupted with condemnation of the booking, with many commentators convinced that it was grimly inevitable that a person who has predicated his entire career on being a contentious arsehole would, in fact, continue to behave like an absolute fucking prick.

Owners of functioning brains everywhere were steadfast in their insistence that exactly the thing that happened could have been predicted to happen by anyone other than the thickest of shit-thick wankers. Frank Exchange, a person possessed of normal cognitive abilities, said,

“It’s not even a tricky one. It’s like predicting the sunrise, or Boris Johnson being caught knackers-deep in a woman who isn’t his current partner. You’d have to be a fucking moron or a lying piece of shit to suggest with a straight face that you couldn’t have known that this notoriously shitty individual would belch up something objectively fucking awful on live television given even the briefest of opportunities.”

Purley, though, remained unrepentant.

“How was I supposed to know that this bucket of undiluted piss whose entire worthless existence has been characterised by crapping out dangerous and divisive opinions for the gratification of cunts would continue this long, unbroken pattern of behaviour? It’s not like it’s my actual fucking job to be aware of these things. Now, if you’ll excuse me, someone has dropped a grand piano from the top of that building, and I need to go and catch it in this plastic bucket.”

Puppies, poultry and self-immolation: an object lesson in being careful what you wish for

Imagine wanting something so badly that you’ll do anything to get it. Dishonesty, disloyalty, racism, homophobia, the steadfast promise to deliver something you know in your heart is intrinsically repugnant: nothing is off the table in your quest to lay your hands on that which is rightfully yours.

Imagine then, that you finally achieve your life’s ambition, and within a single week you’ve managed to reduce it to smouldering ruins via an unedifying combination of your own hubris, belligerence and wanton stupidity.

Sometimes, the thing you’ve always yearned for most turns out to be the thing you should never get your stumpy, aide-fannied fingers on because you’re essentially a dangerous fucking idiot who shouldn’t be trusted with anything more important than dogshit collection in your own back garden.

So it turned out to be the case for our new Prime Minister this week, whose first official week in the job was like watching an almost sentient mannequin of reconstituted offal perfect the art of being a useless dickhead in real time. By Friday, the bold, fanciful promises of the summer were splattered across the walls around him like the scene of a grisly murder at the cunt sanctuary, and the clownish arrogance that has characterised his entire existence so far had given way to dark-eyed, brooding contempt.

Even as the week began, it was clear that all was not well. Rumblings were afoot that traitorous elements within his own party were so hell bent on preventing Mr Johnson from dragging us into a place darker than Julia Hartley-Brewer’s soul to feed his own insatiable ego that they would vote with the opposition benches to scupper his nation-wrecking masterplan.

He responded as any self-respecting despotic cockend would: by threatening to remove such disruptive elements as the country’s longest serving MP, the guy who was Chancellor until six weeks ago and Winston Churchill’s actual fucking grandson from the Conservative Party if they did not fall in line. Even an idiot, though apparently not this particular idiot, could predict that this would not end favourably for Zipline Twat, and it’s beyond logical comprehension what could have possessed him to embark upon such a self-evidently self-fucking course of action.

Needless to say, it blew up in his ridiculous, latexy face, beginning with the moment Philip Lee defected to the Lib Dems in the middle of the PM’s Commons speech, providing a grateful nation with the endlessly amusing opportunity to witness the flicker of painful recognition in Bumbleshitskin’s eyes as he realised he’d fucked it before his bland, stilted bludgeoning of the very concept of oratory was even halfway complete. Like that video of the guy sliding down the middle of the escalator on the London Underground, eyes widening as he realises his taint is about to take a pummelling that will detrimentally and irreversibly affect his gait, knowing in that instant that he is utterly powerless to prevent the stance-altering impact to his terrified undercarriage, this will never not be utterly fucking hilarious.

Fast-forward to the aftermath of Johnson’s first, and frankly inevitable, Commons defeat on Tuesday night, whereupon he took the eminently sensible decision to slash his own majority to minus fucking loads by shitcanning party grandees in a fit of petulant rage like a spoilt toddler with tits. By Wednesday, he’d achieved the unenviable record of being the only Prime Minister since the Permian Era to lose their first three Commons votes, so at least he’ll make history for something.

So there he was: defeated, maligned, trapped in a maximum security facility for the terminally inept whose impenetrable walls were forged brick-by-brick from his own toxic entitlement and cemented with a seemingly inexhaustible supply of misplaced self-belief. All he had left now was family.

Thursday, then, must have gone down like a glass of unusually salty piss, as his brother announced that he was so fucking tired of his older sibling’s reckless twattery that he was quitting both the government and politics in general, and his sister urged him publicly to stop being such a monumental bellend. The day could only have ended more perfectly if the Downing Street dog had announced that shivering in a kennel full of his own turds was preferable to spending another minute under the same roof as this gelatinous hatefountain, and Stanley Johnson had called for a DNA test because he was sure that the preposterous laundry hamper in Number 10 couldn’t possibly have squirted out of his own stout little pecker.

Friday’s ‘damage control’ was as fundamentally tragic as the rest of the week’s ill-conceived wankery, as the official Conservative Party Twitter account tweeted a doctored picture of Jeremy Corbyn in a fluffy chicken suit. Far from swinging opinion back in the Tories’ favour, this intervention served only to embarrass them further, as the photographer of the original image tweeted that he hadn’t been paid for its use and subsequent alteration, and the best they could come up with for the initials ‘JFC’ was ‘totally spineless chicken’. Now, I don’t profess to be any kind of expert in the art of political manipulation, but I would posit that the very fucking least they could have done was to attempt a slogan beginning with the letters J, F and C.

Things didn’t get any better that afternoon, as journalists were delivered chicken breasts that were as dry and unappetising as a Theresa May press conference in single use plastic containers, with a leaflet implying that the galaxy brains at CCHQ were under the somewhat laughable impression that Colonel Sanders was actually a man-sized chicken.

If the unfortunate events of this week tell us anything, it’s that the massive fucking cock in this internationally humiliating clowncar of absurdity is most assuredly not the Colonel.

Adopting a puppy not a cure for being a prick, warn researchers

Arseholes will continue to be arseholes even after the adoption of a small dog, according to research published today.

A University of Slough paper states that traits such as disloyalty, misogyny and having hair that looks like you’ve just been fucked in a privet hedge by a 300 lb gorilla remain entirely unaffected by pet ownership of any description. The news came as quite the surprise to journalists from the BBC and Sky News, who were apparently labouring under the misapprehension that the presence of a Jack Russell terrier was of greater significance than an individual’s long and unbroken history of dishonesty, racism and arse-gaping incompetence.

The head of the research team, Di Tori, said,

“We’ve looked at this very closely and our findings are conclusive. Even one of the nice breeds that doesn’t look like a wire brush with legs would be incapable of preventing a notoriously self-serving cunt from being all self-servingly cunty. We even tried it with a Labrador and everything, but the effects on characteristics such as toxic white male entitlement, not knowing how many children you have and dressing like a laundry hamper overtrusted a fart in your immediate vicinity were negligible.”

Her colleague, Frank Exchange, went on to say,

“This wide-ranging investigation has left us in no doubt that the addition of a dog to a household inhabited by the kind of abhorrent cockwipe who directs hate at marginalised people for cash is vanishingly unlikely to turn them into an acceptable human being. Furthermore, we have definitively shown that the prominence given to these pet-related shenanigans by national broadcasters demonstrates a dereliction of duty akin to the time that moon-faced pig-fondler recklessly spunked the country’s social and economic future all over the eager, scarlet faces of Sun-reading xenophobes in an unsuccessful attempt to quell the bickering that had been raging for forty years in his atrocious party of minority-hating bastards.”

Rod Purley, a negligent wanker with a senior position at Broadcasting House, responded to this aspect of the findings with scepticism, saying,

“I think we all need to take this with a pinch of salt. I find it difficult to accept that, on a day where the very fabric of our country is being threatened by a megalomaniacal mound of straw-topped shit hell bent on dry-bumming the United Kingdom into a bloody, jizz-splattered pulp, the arrival of this would-be dictator’s canine companion shouldn’t command an absurdly substantial quantity of our airtime. I mean, look at his wickle face.”

Ms Tori, however, remained in no doubt as to the veracity of the paper.

“Look, this is fucking science, you twats,” she said. “You don’t get to dispute months of rigorous, peer-reviewed research based solely on your inexplicable desire to give Emperor Gelatine a reacharound live on News At fucking Ten.”

Straight Pride event a roaring success, insist sweaty virgins

Attendees of Boston’s first annual Straight Pride parade have declared the event a resounding success, as up to three dozen rat-bearded, sexually inactive basement-dwellers took to the streets to exercise their constitutional right to parade their toxic white masculinity in front of a bemused and much larger crowd of non-dickheads.

The tragic cockfest unfolded before a heavy police presence, and featured some lamentable tosser with his mobile phone in a belt holster, and that bloated Nazi cunt off YouTube. Not a single woman was in attendance, however, with ladies having been excluded from participating on the grounds that ‘they’re all prick-teasing bitches’.

Drab, colourless floats and thinly disguised racism were the official themes of this year's event, and were so well-received by the assembled pasty-faced cry-wankers that organisers are considering making this a permanent fixture in future years.

Harold, a 36-year-old sex pest who wished to be known as ‘truthspeaker365’, said,

“My mom told me this would be a pointless mound of shit, and that my time would be better spent looking for a job so I can get my own apartment, but I’m glad I came. The fags get everything these days: parades, marriage, sex...lots of sex, and it’s about time we made a return to the days where twelve of us could kick the shit out of one guy for looking a bit mincey, without fear of persecution.”

When asked to respond to allegations that this was little more than a rally for white supremacists who were cynically using sexuality as a vehicle for their twatty, poptart-fuelled hate, Paul, a prolific masturbator with a misspelled tattoo and actual full-sized tits, insisted,

“It’s not about race, and those who say those things are simply proving our point. Just because I’m wearing a MAGA hat, waving a ‘Trump 2020’ flag and standing on a float bearing the slogan ‘BUILD THAT WALL’, doesn’t mean I’m a raging fascist. The guy who works at my local 7-11 is some kind of ethnic, and I don’t even ask to be served by someone else. At least not when it’s busy.”

Many of those lining the route, however, were less than enamoured with the proceedings. Jane, a woman with self-respect and a functioning brain, observed,

“Look at the sad bastards. It’s like someone put racial intolerance, sexual frustration and petty jealousy in a big fucking blender with some improbably dense shit, and moulded the resulting woman-repelling sludge into these cunts. They’re never getting laid, ever. I wish they’d fuck off back to their sticky-carpeted bedsits so I can pick up my dry cleaning in under two hours without the stench of B.O. burning my fucking nostrils.”

The incel brigade remained stubbornly undeterred by this intervention, labelling Jane a ‘stupid fucking whore’, before heading home to rest up their overactive rage glands in time for Black History Month.

When Pride Month Is Over: How To Be An Effective Ally

Pride Month has drawn to a close. Corporations prepare to take down their rainbow flags, secretly pleased that they can stop pretending to give a shit about the queers for another year. The Home Office looks forward to removing any trace of inclusivity from its Twitter profile, relieved to be able to return to telling asylum seekers facing torture or death to 'act less gay'. Pitifully inadequate cis-het dickholes will temporarily cease their incessant, pant-pissing whining about not having a Straight Pride month, and begin laying the all-important groundwork for 'WHEN IS WHITE HISTORY MONTH?' month.

But it doesn't have to be this way.

I mean, for them it does, obviously, because they're...just...frightful fucking arseholes, but for you, there's no reason not to be an effective LGBT+ ally all year round.

Here's how you can support the queer community throughout the calendar, in the hope that, one day, Barry from Chigwell won't have to worry about his penis falling off because he encountered a handsome, muscular gentleman in a glittery belly top.

Be visible. Be vocal.

You don't use the word 'gay' to mean 'a bit shit'? Thanks. You manage to avoid involuntarily shrieking in terror when a butch lesbian enters a public toilet? Awesome. Showing the level of self-discipline necessary not to spend a twelfth of the year standing up in pubs and yelling 'CHEAP LOUSY FAGGOT' in time with a lot of other pissed-up straight people? Go you. But maybe you could do more.

Quietly accepting our right to exist is fine, I guess, but in practical terms, it's not a lot more useful than low-level homophobia. To really make a difference, you need to be seen. You need to be heard.

It's more or less certain that your place of work, your circle of friends, your school or your social media account contains one or more people who are struggling with their sexuality or gender identity. Being in that position and feeling like you have nowhere to turn is a lonely place to be.

Even those of us who are already out to some extent don't necessarily feel comfortable being open about who we are in all situations. We might be out at home, but not at work. Open at the gym, closeted at the pub.

We need a reason to come out. We need to know that people exist who will celebrate us for who we are. We need to feel safe and supported to be every bit of ourselves in every given scenario. We need an anchor.

You can be that anchor, but you almost certainly won't achieve it with passive 'I don't make bumsex jokes so what the hell do they want?' levels of engagement. Being a vocal and visible advocate for LGBT+ equality is probably the single biggest thing you can do to help queer people around you feel comfortable enough with their identity not to have to hide it from all but a selected few.

Talk frequently and openly about your support for LGBT+ rights, your queer friends, and the queer media you have seen and enjoyed. Wear the rainbow lanyard or a Pride watch strap or some other visible sign that you are a person who supports LGBT+ inclusivity.

Call out homophobia or transphobia wherever you see it. Don't sit quietly by while 'jokes' are made at our expense. Don't allow inappropriate language to be seen as remotely acceptable in your presence, because this is how hate is normalised. If Dave in marketing uses the word 'poofs', tell him to stop being such a fucking prick. If Carol in finance says she doesn't want trans women in the toilets, ask her why she's concentrating on other bathroom users' genital arrangements and not on pissing.

We see this stuff. We hear it. It matters to us.

Trans rights are human rights

There is no LGB without the T.

Trans people are a vital, integral part of our community, and they have fought shoulder to shoulder with us as we've battled for the rights we currently possess. And, of course, many of them are L, G or B themselves.

Their trans identities, however, are under serious and sustained attack from newspapers, politicians, social media commentators, virulently fucking unpleasant sitcom writers, and even from certain inexplicably shitty elements within the LGBT+ community itself.

It's up to all of us, queer people and allies alike, to fight back. Trans people are a tiny, vulnerable and marginalised minority, and they can't do it alone. If you're the kind of person who speaks out against transphobia in all its forms, and who offers a supportive and understanding ear, shoulder or other body part to trans people, you're probably already a pretty good ally.

If, however, the extent of your being an ally is attending Pride once a year for a fun, colourful day out dancing to Britney with some white cis gays while you spend the other 364 days looking the other way as trans people are thrown under a seemingly endless line of Craggy Island buses, you're not a fucking ally. You're a selfish dickhead who is using the LGBT+ community for their own ends.

Don't use our identities as insults. Ever.

I'm sure you're all familiar with the following scenario:

Homophobe says/writes something homophobic, 'ally' rides in with a truly hilarious riposte about how the homophobe is actually just craving a thick, veiny, glistening, throbbing seven-incher (sorry...drifted off for a moment there) but is just too nervous to say.

This is not helpful.

Yes, sometimes homophobes are closeted gays, obviously, but the majority of closeted gays aren't homophobic and the majority of people who abuse the LGBT+ community are not closeted gays.

An overwhelmingly large percentage of the vitriol that comes our way is from straight people, and automatically implying that someone who behaves that way must be a repressed homosexual lets straight people off the hook for the pretty unacceptable level of homophobic abuse most of us still have to face.

This lazy trope also reduces queer identities to a frivolous thing we throw at bigots in an attempt to ridicule or humiliate them, and that's not how an ally behaves. Fucking stop it.

Learn the language

Words are important. What we say and how we say it invariably reflects, in a very direct way, the content of our characters. If you don't care enough to respect someone's pronouns, or to understand that the word 'cis' is not an insult, how can you possibly claim to be an ally?

Taking the time to learn what terms are acceptable and which are not is the very bare minimum that should be expected of any ally, and it's really quite easy to do.

Half an hour on Bing (which you can find on Google) will almost certainly yield the majority of the information you need, and if you still don't understand, you can always fucking ask. Not a single LGBT+ person is going to be irritated or annoyed by someone who genuinely wants to be more supportive of our community asking questions about how they can achieve that. Not even me, and I get irritated by the sound of another person breathing.

Empower the whole community

We are a diverse group.

We are gay, we are lesbian, we are bi, we are trans, we are black, we are brown, we are white, we are Asian, we are asexual, we are gender non-conforming, we are queer, we are intersex, we are butch, we are camp, we are...so many other things.

It's great that we're all those things, but not so great that inequality still exists even within the community itself.

Queer people of colour are too readily left behind, bisexual identities too readily erased, feminine gays too readily derided or lampooned, and LGBT+ people on low incomes too readily frozen out of Pride events based on their inability to afford the ridiculous ticket prices necessary to bring in the big name pop diva demanded by white, middle class gays.

An effective ally doesn't just ask Granny not to say 'shirt-lifter' for an hour because Alan's boyfriend is having tea with us, they understand that different levels of privilege exist in the wide and varied subgroups that make up our community, and actively seek to redress those inequalities. They look outside of their immediate frame of reference and lift up those who would otherwise be forgotten or marginalised, so that the whole community might one day be viewed as equal, both within itself and amongst society at large.

Support LGBT-inclusive education

It's not 'inappropriate' for children to know that queer people exist. It's not 'confusing' for children to learn about families different to their own. No one is getting 'turned' into anything they weren't already as a result of receiving information about LGBT+ identities and relationships.

Section 28 was horrible. Like, really fucking life-threateningly terrible for so many people. And now, these tired old arguments are raising their ugly, intolerant heads again, particularly where trans people are concerned, but also in relation to wider LGBT+ issues, and it's incumbent on all of us to fight back against it with every bit of force we can muster.

It's not 'up to parents' to decide whether their children get to learn about a simple fact of life, and fuck anyone who says otherwise. This essential knowledge must be given to all children at the earliest possible opportunity so that another generation doesn't have to grow up isolated, afraid and broken.

This affects you. It affects your children.

Speak to your child's school today - do it now if you can - and make it clear that you support LGBT-inclusive relationship education right from the word go. The majority of people almost certainly feel this way, but the bigoted cunts who look back on Thatcher's Britain with a misty-eyed nostalgia boner are shouting a whole lot louder right now.

Let's drown the fuckers out, and make it so that the next generation of children grow up as natural LGBT+ allies and you no longer have to sit through turgid, rambling shit like this.