Apologies in Advance, We’re Covering a Lot Today
From Chocolate Sprinkles to Contradictions: Another day, another set of unrelated musings. Hopefully someone finds this crap interesting.
This morning started with me taking photos of my breakfast, because apparently that counts as content these days. I was virtuous as usual until the end, when I spotted the chocolate ice cream again and asked for one scoop. The poor lady’s English was so limited she froze on the spot and gave me two. I didn’t refuse. And then I fell even further and put chocolate sprinkles on top. But it was only a relatively small bowl, so perhaps my sins will be forgiven.
Yesterday’s Substack article was written in Tree View, which is about as close as you can get to camping out in the cesspit of Pattaya. My plan had been to scribble away and then get one of those funny little taxis all the way back to the Hilton afterwards. But I lingered longer than I meant to, and by the time I finally left I’d drifted too far off the beaten track for a taxi. No problem, I thought, I’ll find my way back myself. How hard can it be? It’s a thirty-four–storey hotel on a tiny strip of land.
Somewhere along the way I gave in to temptation and ordered a plate of cheesy loaded chilli chips with an extra dollop of cheese. I’ll confess they were fucking delicious. But since all I had had for lunch was six delicious oysters and an espresso martini, I felt like I’d earned this. Fuelled by melted cheese and bad decisions, I carried on, zig-zagging through the backstreets, chasing glimpses of the Hilton as it disappeared and reappeared behind buildings like some elusive beacon.
On the way I stumbled through a little market, bought a small white dress that looked rather nice, and took a photo of myself in it. Then I ducked into one more bar. There were some ladyboys inside, and they were, as always, incredibly sweet with me. One asked all about my facial surgery. She said she could never afford anything like that in her whole life. But I looked at her and said, “you don’t need a single thing”. She had all the features I’d paid for tiny nose, smooth forehead, perfect little chin, beautiful cheeks and I told her this.
And then, in one of those surreal moments, we ended up comparing breast implants. Hers were much older than mine, but I’ll admit, they’d aged really well.
Breakfast Musings
As an aside, I’m sitting here in the breakfast buffet, writing this, looking out over the sea. Across from me, at two separate tables, are a pair of men, each sitting alone. Both of them must be nudging 300 pounds.
I can’t help thinking, God, I used to be like you. Trapped in a body like that. And maybe — just maybe — they’ve glanced at me, clocked that I’m a transgender woman, and secretly craved to be one too. Just like I did all those years ago.
Their plates are piled high with carbohydrates, vast mountains of them. One of them even glanced at mine, probably reassured that I had a big plate too. And I do — but mine’s teriyaki salmon on lettuce with a bit of beetroot. Not the toast, rice, or whatever else they’ve heaped up.
I’m not criticising. I ate exactly like that once. It’s just strange seeing your old self sitting across from you, right there in the buffet in the food, in the body, and maybe even in the unspoken longings they’ll never admit.
So Today’s Waffle Line Up!!
Next and I’m not entirely sure if any of this is interesting, these are the subjects I’ve decided I want to talk about today:
Normal service resuming: how I’m finally lifting my head after months of endless navel-gazing.
Contradictions and premises: Ayn Rand’s line about checking your premises, and how it applies to me as a transgender woman.
How much is too much?: the clash between my right to tell my story and my family’s right to privacy.
Something wholesome; maybe I’ll find a boat tour today, something that doesn’t involve a shopping mall or a bar.
And then, to finish:
The Pattaya Problem — because this place really is two extremes with nothing in the middle.
Normal Service Resuming
What I mean by this is that the last twelve months have been, to many people, an endless navel-gaze. I know there are family and friends who have probably looked at me in horror at the sheer amount of self-reflection, the obsessional inner therapy, the relentless inward-looking I’ve been doing. It’s been all-consuming. Out of character, even.
I made comment after comment about discovering myself, peeling back the layers, sounding (to their ears) like some Temu Dalai Lama. Cringe, perhaps. And I do understand that. But honestly? I had to do it. I’d put off thinking about who I was for so many years that once I finally began, it was like diving deeper and deeper into a trench. Each time I stripped away a layer, there was another beneath it. Eventually, I hit the bottom. And now, at last, I’m rising back up, slowly breaking the surface, starting to see the world again.
It feels natural. Over the last few weeks especially, I’ve noticed the shift. My facial feminisation surgery is done. Sure, there are some touch-ups to come, but it’s no longer all-consuming. I know the last few surgeries I need, we’ll do them, and that’s it. Life back. Thank you.
And my interests are shifting too. For a while, my YouTube subscriptions were ridiculous — The All-In Podcast sitting right above James Charles. And for months it was more James Charles than current affairs. But lately I’ve rekindled my curiosity about the outside world: economics, news, politics. I’m excited about that. I see it differently now than I did before, and I wrote about that yesterday.
So yes, I’m glad. Glad to be surfacing. Glad the endless navel-gazing has run its course. I know who I am now, and I feel unshakable in that knowledge.
Enough inner navel-gaze. (Though, full disclosure, I’ll probably sneak a little more in before this article is over. Hypocrite that I am.)
Contradictions and Premises
Keeping in line with my re-emergence from the chrysalis, I caught a short video yesterday by Konstantin Kisin. He quoted Ayn Rand — a line I remember well: “There is no such thing as a contradiction. If you find one, check your premises.”
Now, I’ve moved on from my Randian phase, and I see a lot of her ideas as naive. But on this one she had a point. When it comes to the trans debate, contradictions are everywhere. Which means, if we’re honest, our premises need checking.
So here I am, checking mine.
Identity: Who (and What) Am I?
Let’s start with the big one: definitions.
Trans women are women, they say. The implication is a superset called “women,” containing two subsets — natural women and transgender women. And that’s where the contradictions start. Because if asked directly: “So are they real women?” — the answer often becomes yes. Some even stretch it further: “biologically real women.”
I can’t square that. I don’t think you can build a neat superset of “women” and tuck two entirely different categories inside without ending up riddled with unresolved definitions.
Where I land is simpler. I am not a biological woman. I am a biological male who presents to the world as a transgender woman. That’s what I am, that’s what I’ll die as. And I’m fine with it. I don’t feel a contradiction there.
People can call me “transgender,” or even “trans-identifying male” if they want to be smug about their new terminology. Whatever. I couldn’t care less. I know what I am, and that’s enough.
Minors
If someone had given me oestrogen at 14, I would have looked prettier. Life would have been easier in some ways. But I also wouldn’t have had children. My life would have gone down a completely different track.
Do I wish that had happened? No. Not because I wouldn’t have wanted it, but because I don’t think I, or anyone else at that age, had the wisdom to know if it was permanent.
So my premise here is clear: no medical transition for minors. No contradiction.
Sports
This is where the “Turf Brigade” love to hammer away. And usually, right after they raise it, they’ll throw in something cruel about someone who doesn’t pass well. Which to me shows what the debate is really about: revulsion. But let’s not get side-tracked.
I break it down like this:
Professional sport — absolutely not. Trans women should not compete. The physical advantages of male puberty — muscles, bone structure, heart size — are too significant.
Amateur contact sports — also no. Boxing, rugby, even football. Safety risk.
Amateur non-contact sports — here, it’s mostly fine. Daily Mail headlines about a trans woman winning a pool tournament are laughable. There’s no competitive advantage in pool except maybe having spent too many hours in pubs smoking B&H. Same with Park Run, fun runs, marathons. If you finished 24,333rd, do you really care you’d have been two places higher without a trans woman ahead of you?
So again, no contradiction.
Women’s Spaces
This is where I stumble.
Here’s my lived reality: I walk into a women’s toilet, I go to the loo. I walk into Mango, try on a dress in the changing room. That feels natural and safe for me. It would be ludicrous for me to use the men’s. Honestly, unsafe. It would feel violatingly awful.
But then, where do we draw the line? I may pass OK’ish, and I’m committed “you’re one of the “all 'in” type of trannies, Stevie” they say. But what about men sneaking into changing rooms, saying “I’m a woman” with cameras? Women find that threatening, and rightly so.
Here my premise falters. Because my premise says: I should be allowed into those spaces. But does that extend to everyone who says the same? I don’t know.
And this is the one contradiction I can’t resolve. When I argue online, I stumble here. Because all I can honestly say is: I should be allowed in. But I can’t guarantee everybody should be. The people working in these places should use their common sense for God’s sake. But it’s not a great answer.
So yes, I’ve checked my premises. And in most places they stand. But here, in women’s space, the contradiction remains.
How Much Is Too Much?
I know I’m really upsetting some people with the level of content I deliver about my life and, by extension, their life.
This is the line I keep circling back to: my family have a right to privacy, but I also have a right to tell my story. Where those two rights meet is often a clash, and I don’t always know which side should win.
So far, I’ve released nine chapters of my autobiography. Chapter ten introduces my soon-to-be ex-wife, but it’s written in the abstract. No names, no detail, nothing compromising. I feel comfortable with that being out there.
Between chapters eleven and nineteen, it’s all a quiet, private re-emergence of Stevie. Some of it is actually quite moving — gentle moments of rediscovery, the beginnings of a self I had long buried. There’s nothing there that crosses any lines of privacy.
But then, from chapters twenty through thirty, things change. That’s when I came out to the world — and to my wife. Those chapters inevitably include events, conversations, reactions. What she said. How she responded. How we navigated those early days.
And that, for me, is too close to the bone. Not too much for me to share — but too much for the other people involved.
There are some parts that I can probably include, things I did alone, and some standalone milestones, like when I went to Barcelona as Stevie for the first time. But a lot of it isn’t for public consumption right now.
So, if you’re following along with my story, I need to apologise. There’s going to be a jump — a big one — straight from chapter nineteen all the way to chapter thirty-one.
And Finally… The Pattaya Problem
Sorry if I’ve waffled on a bit heavy at times today, but I just want to finish off with one more observation. And it’s about Pattaya.
I’ve been here three nights now, and honestly, it feels like there are only two ends to this place — and nothing in the middle.
On one side, you’ve got the Hilton and a few other supposedly “nice” hotels (though, let’s be blunt, they don’t come close). You can sit in the rooftop bar, which really is stunning. Windy, yes, but the views are extraordinary. Still, nobody’s going to boogie up there. It’s sterile, it’s flat, and it’s where you go to pay some ridiculous amount for an espresso martini.
On the other side, you’ve got the Strip. Or, God forbid, Tree Town. The cesspit of humanity. There you’ll find cheesy-loaded chilli chips with an extra dollop of cheese on top. (And I’ll confess — I ate some last night. They were fucking delicious.) But the place itself? Rough. You’re surrounded by predatory touts, ladies of the night who may or may not be prostitutes (I genuinely can’t work it out), and then gangs of men from Hull and Newcastle whose only mission is to fuck them.
And in between? Nothing. No middle ground. Nowhere you can just go for a decent late bar, where the music’s good, people dance until two in the morning, and nobody’s trying to fleece you or fuck you. That’s all I want — somewhere with a pulse, but not a cesspit.
So far, it doesn’t seem to exist here. Or maybe I’ve just missed it.
Anyway, I think today I’m going to try and find something more wholesome. Maybe a boat tour. Something that doesn’t involve a shopping mall or a bar.