Transvestites fight to take back their name

Residents of Transvest (an island in the Black Sea just off the coast of Hungary) have mounted a legal challenge to stop what they perceive as a smear against their proud heritage.

"I'm a Transvestite and proud of it," said Hadik Tivadar, Mayor of Transvest. "My father was a Transvestite, and so was his father. They never wore an item of feminine clothing in their life! But these men who dress up as woman and call themselves transvestites, they degrade our good name!"

The use of the word transvestite as a label for men who dress up in women's clothing dates back to the 7th Century BC, when Transvest was the home of crossdressing poet Zrínyi Sissí. He wrote of his love of putting on ladies' things, and the name Transvestite became synonymous with the practice.

A sample of Sissic Poetry (circa 630 BC)
A vision came of Aphrodite,
I must admit, I liked her nightie.

Associations with crossdressing isn't just troubling the mayor. In Llády (the capital of Transvest) the Headmaster of the local boys school is also up in arms.

"When I go to international headmaster conventions and tell them I look after the Llády Boys School, I'm laughed at!" he said.

A spokesperson from the neighbouring island of Räving Bénder was unavailable for comment.

On the move

The move observant among you may have noticed that BeckysWeb has been a little rough around the edges recently. Basically anything with a link to Flickr has stopped working properly, including my home page and even dear old Flickr Sudoku.

I'll save the latest rant about FastHosts technical "support" for another day, suffice it to say that this site is changing hosts. You won't have to change your bookmarks or anything, but you might have to put up with some additional broken-ness while all the little bits of my site get wrapped in newspaper, carefully labelled with meaningful titles such as "miscellaneous bollocks, 2006 to present" and shipped off to their new home.

I'm off to shout at FAQs about DNS settings until they stop being deliberately all complicated. Wish me luck!

[Update: well that seems to have been relatively painless! HostingUK have been very efficient and BeckysWeb is now ensconced in a new home. It will take a while for the change of address to propagate worldwide, but if you're reading this on my site then you've come to the new address.]

Artiface

My quickest Becky transformation EVAH. :-)

Flat 4, a pictorial tribute

We were up in Derby this weekend, partly to celebrate Sophie's birthday, and partly to mark the end of an era. Next week Sophie ups sticks and moves to pastures new, so it was the last chance to party in Flat 4, in one of the best houses in the Midlands.

I thought I'd give a short architectural tribute to the house, in the form of pictures.

Here we see the garden of Flat 4, note the eclectic mix of paving styles.



This photo gives some feeling of the fine high ceilings and excellent light in the property.



The central staircase is perfectly designed to serve all floors. Note the sturdy wooden staircase.



Finally here we see the grand entrance, with wide stone steps and influences that are probably Georgian, or something. Look, if you're really interested in that kind on thing go and buy a bloody book!



Ah... happy days. I'm gonna miss that place. For all the architecture, of course. :-)

"...and with the big hand pointing upwards and my little hand pointing towards my digital watch, I notice that it is time to go..."

It was a huge treat to get to see Humphrey Lyttelton at a live recording of I'm Sorry I Haven't a Clue late last year, at what turned out to be his last time in the chair. RIP Humph.

Balancing my account

There are three types of internet users, I've realised. First there are the consumers, they feed on the content the web provides, without ever thinking that it's possible to put stuff back. To them the internet is a more-or-less a "read only medium".

Then there are the transporters. They don't actually create any content, they just help move it around. They're the people who forward on each email joke they get to everyone in their address book. They're also the bloggers, myspacers and facebookers who fill their pages with stuff other people have made.

Finally, there are the creators. These are the people who actually generate content. Despite the vast number of web pages, they're actually rarer than you'd think. The internet acts like a vast hall of mirrors, infinitely reflecting small amounts of content to make it look like much more. This is all very well and good until you actually try to access something a little further away - like a child reaching for the apples at the back of the greengrocer's apparently heaving shelves - and realise it's just the same thing that you've already seen before. The apples at the back are actually the reflections of the apples at the front.

Like everyone else, I started as the first type of internet user. I grazed (does anyone really "surf"?) around the web just amazed at all the stuff that was there.

It wasn't until I set up this web site that I started to be, in a small way, a creator. The stuff here might not be particularly good, but at least it's mainly my stuff, that doesn't exist anywhere else. Of course, you could say the same about any site in my blogroll. But that's because I won't link to a blogger who's just linking or re-hashing other people's stuff.

That's not to say that you can't be a good blogger without being "creative" in the classic sense of the word. It can be as simple as just talking about who you are and what you're doing. If you're writing the words yourself, it's an act of creation.

Recently two of my favourite bloggers (and favourite people!) both packed up shop within a few weeks of each other. Miss K and Siobhan are both highly creative people, working in creative careers, which is one of the reasons that their blogs were so good. It wasn't that they ran out of things to talk about, they just seemed to run out of desire to talk about it on a blog.

That's purely my interpretation, of course. And I can kind of grudgingly understand and respect their reasons for doing it, even though I miss their blogs terribly.

I myself ran out of things to talk about about a month after starting my blog. I think it's a testament to my dogged determination that I didn't let that stop me blogging! And I'm not going to stop now, despite a general down-turn in the things that used to inspire me. Another factor that probably influences my blogging is that I don't have other outlets generally for creativity, which means I'll always keep chucking stuff here, whether you like it or not!

I'm not really sure where I'm going with this. Yesterday, while I was churning out a tranny-based Sherlock Holmes story, I found myself thinking why am I doing this?

(I guess a few of you read it and thought something very similar!)

I had to think about my motives, and it comes down to a realisation I came to a while ago.

I realised that what I was trying to achieve was to try to balance my account with the internet. I can't deny that I've got a hell of a lot out of the web, this is just my attempt to put something back in. I might never be a net exporter of content, but at least I'm trying!

Oh, and one last thing, there's nothing wrong with just consuming. If you really don't feel you have anything to say, then it's not a crime to just sit back and enjoy. What is a crime, I think, is not giving feedback to the people who are trying to put stuff out there. I feel guilty of it too, I don't spend enough time just saying "well done" to all of the fantastic stuff that I see on the web every day.

That's it. My brain is empty. Now I just need to think of the next blog entry.

Elementary

I was looking through an unsorted box of early 20th century TG fiction the other day when I came across the following. I can't make any claims to it's authenticity, there seem to be several historical inaccuracies, and it appears to be a degree more salacious that the stories that have been certified canon, but I think you'll agree that if it is for real it offers a unique new insight into the background of one of the greatest British figures there has ever been.

Decide for yourself!

THE ADVENTURE OF THE YELLOW DRESS

Looking back on my notes from the autumn of 1894, there are few cases that catch my eye. One adventure, however, stands out as one of the few occasions that one of the secrets hidden by the fog and bustle of London managed to truly astound me.

It was remarkably chilly, and Holmes and I increasingly spent our afternoons in the sitting room with a fire blazing in the grate. We entertained each other with games and puzzles we'd picked up during our travels.

One particular oriental puzzle appealed to Holmes immensely, and he'd trained his mind so completely that he was able to complete examples I set purely in his mind, without recourse to pen or paper.

"I think you'll find," said Holmes, staring intently out of the window during a particularly bleak Thursday evening. "That the third row on the fourth column must be a five... and, due to the fact that it's cousins are all used elsewhere within the square, its neighbour to the left must be an eight!"

I had no chance to congratulate Holmes on this particular piece of reasoning for at that moment the door burst open and Lestrade staggered, wheezing for air, into the room.

"Holmes!" he cried. "You must help!"

"Calm down my dear man," Holmes replied. "Sit down and catch your breath."

"Sit? I have no desire to sit, Sir!" Lestrade said. "Not after what I've seen. It makes no sense! The whole thing is inexplicable in the extreme!"

"So inexplicable that you saw fit to cross town from the other side of the City to see me, even abandoning your Hansom and running when it was stopped by a fallen onion cart at the end of the street..."

Lestrade stared open-mouthed.

"My running could be deduced by my lack of breath, and presumably the smell of onions about me, but how the devil did you know I've come from the City?"

"The running and onion cart I saw with my own eyes through the window," Holmes countered. "I'm afraid that my help solving some of your more complex crimes has left you blind to seeking the obvious answers. Occam's razor, old chap."

Lestrade sagged.

"As for your recent exertions near the City," Holmes continued. "I had to only look at the colour of the stone dust under your nails and the smear of mildew on your left shoulder.

"That kind of mildew only grows on Kentish ragstone, of the kind used to build the ancient Roman wall of London. There are only very few intact segments of this wall, and nearly all of them are in the same area at the heart of London, the City itself. I deduced you'd recently tried to climb the wall there."

Lestrade allowed himself a small smile.

"You're right," he said. "I was trying to climb an old bit of wall in the Minories. To prove a point to myself more than anything else. But let me start at the beginning."

Tea was brought and Lestrade recounted his strange tale.

"A few weeks ago we made a breakthrough in our investigations of the Compton association," he began.

"The infamous crime syndicate!" Holmes interjected, excitedly.

"The very same. We'd been given a tip off that an American in town on business, a man from Boston by the name of Taylor, was none other than the head of the whole operation! I immediately put a team of my best men onto him, watching from a distance and taking great care not to arouse his suspicions."

"I'm sure they were up to the task," Holmes said with uncharacteristic generosity.

Lestrade nodded. "We watched his activities for a few weeks, and we've pretty much got all the evidence we need to nail him. Two days ago he took lodgings in a house just opposite Fenchurch Street station. We were certain that he was getting ready to end his affairs in London, so I posted men all around the house, there wasn't an inch of the property that wasn't being watched. Many people arrived and left the lodgings, but they were all... professional ladies."

Holmes raised an eyebrow. "Professional?"

Lestrade flushed red. "You know, ladies of... the night. This particular lodging house is known for housing a number of them. We turn a blind eye because..."

"Because someone extremely high up in your organisation is a regular customer," Holmes stated flatly.

Lestrade fixed Holmes with a stare. "There are some mysteries that the Yard would not thank you to investigate, Holmes. Nor would you find them particularly rewarding, if you get my meaning."

Holmes smiled and brushed aside the pall that had momentarily descended with a casual gesture.

"Of course, pray continue with your story, Inspector."

"So several of these ladies arrived and left, but it became obvious that our man had gone to ground. I became impatient and ordered that the house be stormed, making sure that all escape passages were covered."

"What happened then?" Holmes asked.

"Pandemonium," Lestrade admitted. "Several of the ladies are threatening to protest outside the Yard!"

"But no sign of your man?"

"Precisely! Every inch of the place was searched! There were no trap doors, no hidden rooms, we've gone through the place top to bottom! He's simply disappeared!"

Holmes stood and walked to the window again, deep in thought.

"Tell me inspector," he said. "Did you find any evidence of male occupants in the house?"

"Plenty," Lestrade said. "No men entered or left during our watch, but there were three men in the house when we arrived. None matched the description of Taylor."

"A disguise?"

"I thought of that. One of the men was two feet shorter than Taylor, and the second was unquestionably a genuine negro."

"And the third?"

"The other I can vouch for personally and professionally," Lestrade said, fixing Holmes with a look that dared him to question further.

"And clothing? I'd take it that these men were in various states of undress?"

"Yes," Lestrade answered cautiously. "Why do you ask?"

"Did you think to match the discarded clothing to the men present in the various rooms?"

"No! I had no reason to suspect our man would try to escape naked!"

Holmes seemed to consider this.

"And why did you attempt to climb the wall?" he asked.

"I had reason to suspect that one of my men posted to the rear of the building had become distracted by the goings on in one of the rooms and may have missed Taylor escaping the back way. This particular building backs onto a closed courtyard, formed by the buildings and a portion of the old London Wall. He would have to scale the wall itself."

"A particularly tricky operation, with the wall so slimy from the recent rain."

"After attempting it myself, I decided it would be impossible. Especially for a naked man! Anyway, the officer charged with watching the area promises that nothing got past him."

"I have no reason to doubt him either," Holmes said. "But we're not looking for a naked man."

"We're not? But why the devil did you ask about the clothes..."

"All will become clear in good time," Holmes said, ushering Lestrade to the door. "Leave it with me and by the end of the night I have a feeling we will have found your man, Inspector. Meet us at the lodgings at midnight."

A short time later I was myself shooed from the study, and told to don my evening wear for a trip into the City that very night.

I was just checking my formal attire for signs of moth damage in the mirror, when there came a knock at the door.

"Are you decent, Watson?" came the unmistakeable voice of Holmes from the corridor.

"Yes old chap, do come in," I answered.

In my many years of assisting with Holmes's work, I'd become used to his uncanny skill with disguises of all kinds, including some incredibly convincing acts of female impersonation. However nothing could have prepared me for the vision that wafted into room.

She (I use the word "she" advisedly) was dressed in the the most provocative attire I'd seen outside of the flesh pots of Kabul. The entire outfit was undeniably feminine, but there was one element that jarred tremendously. The face, whilst rouged and tinted in an undeniably female manner, was unmistakably that of a male.

"I must say Holmes," I exclaimed. "I've seen you do better!"

Holmes seemed momentarily affronted, but immediately softened.

"In this case, Watson," he said. "The verisimilitude of my disguise relies in part on it's lack of skill. Now, are you ready to escort me into town?"

I must admit I more terrified to be seen out in public with this caricature than I was at any point in the Battle of Maiwand, but I gathered my wits and gamely took Holmes's arm.

Thankfully Holmes hailed a Hansom a few yards from our door and I was spared much potential embarrassment. As the cab took us across central London through increasingly darkening streets, I ventured to question Holmes on our destination.

"We are going to the Minories," said Holmes, checking his reflection in a small pocket-mirror.

"To Taylor's lodgings?" I asked.

"No, to a club nearby..."

"A gentlemen's club?"

"Not exactly."

"But your manner of dress... no club would..."

"I think you'll find we'll be quite accepted at this club, Watson."

Holmes refused to be drawn further, and a short while later we were standing outside an innocuous-looking door in the Minories.

"This is the place," Holmes said, knocking.

A slit opened in the door and a pair of kohl-rimmed eyes peered out questioningly.

"What's the password?" a voice asked in a strained falsetto.

"Beaumont," Holmes answered confidently.

The door creaked open and we were ushered to a small room inside. Two burly gentlemen stood either side of a descending staircase, next to a small desk at which sat some kind of clerk sat.

"How much is it tonight?" Holmes asked the clerk.

"Free for you tonight, darling!" the clerk said (it was then I noticed that it was he who sported the kohl-rimmed eyes). "Your friend has to pay the usual."

I grudgingly paid the fee and we descended into what can only be described as one of the circles of Hell.

The air was a fug of strong perfume and tobacco smoke. The shadowy figures framed by the candlelight sported bustles and elaborate coiffures, but the uniformly low murmur of the conversation betrayed a awful fact.

"My God Holmes," I exclaimed. "They're all men!"

Holmes motioned me to silence and spoke in hushed tones. "Show some manners Watson! Not all Gentlemen's clubs in London are as straight-laced and antisocial as the Diogenes! Some clubs cater for men with more particular tastes, who want to meet other men who... share their interests. Now, I am going to socialise, and I suggest you do the same."

With this he disappeared into the throng, leaving me very much to my own devices.

I actually have to admit that after some initial reluctance (nay abject terror) I began to very much enjoy my evening. I eventually got into a long conversation with what first appeared to be a domestic from some Parisian chateau, but which actually turned out to be a second lieutenant from my old Army regiment.

Holmes returned after a short while, with a broad smile on his face.

"Come Watson!" he exclaimed. "Lestrade's quarry is still very much within his reach, and we need to inform him of this fact!"

We ran the short distance from the club to the entrance of the lodgings where we'd agreed to meet Lestrade.

After some initial alarm at Holmes's appearance, Lestrade calmed down enough to hear his report.

"You should have more trust in your men's abilities to trail a suspect without being seen," Holmes said. "They hadn't raised Taylor's suspicions in the least."

Lestrade seemed surprised. "So he didn't bolt?"

"No, in fact he was so confident in his privacy this evening that he decided to indulge a hobby, at one of London's lesser-known attractions, a club in the Minories. Watson and I have spent the evening there. There were many men at this club, but only one of which was speaking in an American accent, a Bostonian accent, and spending money freely."

"But we never saw him leave!"

"You and your men were perhaps too accustomed to turning a blind eye to the activities of the female occupants of these lodgings. You never noticed that one of the women leaving this afternoon was not actually a woman at all..."

"You don't mean?"

"In about half an hour your quarry will return, blissfully unaware you and your men will be waiting patiently for him just inside the door. Look for the rather fetching yellow dress."

We left Lestrade to hastily arrange a reception party for Taylor, and were soon back in the sitting-room of 221B, Holmes returned to more conservative attire.

"There's just one thing I can't understand, Holmes," I said, as I started on writing up my notes. "How did you know the password for the club in the Minories?"

Holmes smiled enigmatically. "Suffice it to say, Watson," he said. "That I once had a need for a place to go... when I wasn't as confident in my ability to pass in disguise as I am now."

I decided to leave it at that.

Cover girl

Norwich Evening News: Introducing the mystery lady in my life

So...

A few weeks back I received an email out of the blue from Stacia Briggs, a feature writer for the Evening News in Norwich, who'd discovered this site and wanted to write an article about me.

At first I was fairly reluctant. I occasionally get this kind of request, and it's usually from some researcher or journo who just needs to fill their monthly quota of freaks for a women's mag or a daytime chat show.

But this was different, it was obvious that Stacia had spent at least a bit of time looking around my site, and had made the effort to craft a personal email that attempted to preempt any concerns I might have.

In short, it was a good email. She even said I was a clever chap and asked if I'd thought about writing columns myself, and that kind of flattery works wonders.

Also, I realised that my plans for multi-media world domination had stalled a little after the slot on Radio 5 at two in the morning, so it was time to move onto the next phase... newsprint!

So I said "yes", with a couple of small caveats (mainly for the sake of my privacy, and ... er... Lucy's).

A short while later she interviewed me, and the article above was the result.

I think you'll agree Stacia deserves the "Feature Writer of the Year" award she recently picked up, because I'm as chuffed as ninepence with what she's written.

It might not be the exact words I would have used (and it's all the better for it) but it promotes exactly the same attitude that I've always tried to get across with my blog writings and elsewhere: that dressing up in women's clothes isn't something to be ashamed of. Yeah, it might be amusing to see a grown man in a dress, but hey, I'm laughing too, because being a tranny is fun, funny and fundamentally not a bad thing.

I'm still Spreading the Word... one city at a time!