Hello. As you may, or may not know — last year I attended the LGB Alliance Conference in London and things… they got spicy. I have started a serialised collection of articles telling the story (still ongoing) over on my Substack, which you can subscribe to free here: https://jenives.substack.com/ and follow the instalments as they come out. You can also subscribe to a paid subscription for exclusive articles, and access to my regular diary. Anyways, here parts 1- 3 compiled for you in an attempt to lure you over to my Substack. Enjoy!
Part 1 : Preface to Preface
Everything in this serialised article is the opinion of Jen Ives. It is written entirely from her perspective, and first-person experiences. The views expressed do not represent the views of anyone affiliated with Jen Ives, or her pet hamster Cathy — who has no interest in the matter at all, and is currently asleep.
Preface
Even today, I’m frequently surprised by how few people seem to know anything about the LGB Alliance. I used to tell myself that it was because “Trans Issues” were niche. But as things stand right now, they absolutely aren’t. Yes, we are a minority — but we are one of the most publicly talked about minorities in the UK media. Our very existence is debated so frequently, I wouldn’t be at all shocked if Bigfoot soon had to come out in defence of us.
With trans identities being attacked so often by the mainstream, and previously established health & social rights for trans people being stripped back wherever possible — I don’t think it’s too much to ask that people actually know something about the organisation that have been working tirelessly for the last few years to delegitimise, stigmatise, patronise and antagonise trans people into silence. They’re called the LGB Alliance, and under the current UK Government, they now have an official, registered charity status. You know, like Age Concern, or Shelter.
I will not give a full rundown of their entire history, but that information can be easy found elsewhere. What I will tell you though, is that the “LGB” in “LGB Alliance” stands for “Lesbian, Gay & Bisexual”. Simply put, their front-line pitch is that they are striving to re-establish “sex based rights” for “same sex attracted people”. It’s the LGBT community, but without the T (like in the good old days). They seem to operate on many contradictory, mixed up platforms — but the main gist as I understand it is, in their view — sex is a material reality, gender is a fantasy & trans people are therefor a risk to sex-based protections. They claim to have no ill-will towards “trans identified males” (trans women — their words, not mine) and seek only to protect women from men who seek to invade female only spaces. They are biological essentialists in the most dogmatic way, who reject gender-philosophy and perpetuate the idea that trans people are simply mentally ill homosexuals. From where I am standing, it seems like they will only be truly satisfied when trans people are excluded from everyday life entirely. They are known to be very litigious, have many public and not-so-public financial backers, and some of their biggest supporters engage in online harassment to intimidate and silence.
Their official website claims that their goal is to “advance Lesbian, Gay & Bisexual rights”. On the site, they claim that they “…engage with others respectfully” and insist “We do not condone, endorse or encourage any abusive or discriminatory behaviour towards any group or individual”.
Which is why, when last year I heard they were about to have their first ever official LGB Alliance conference in London, I decided I simply had to attend. Yes, I am trans — but I am also bisexual, so figured that I had as much right to go as anyone else. I hoped that if I attended, I’d be able to meet some of these “gender critical” individuals face to face, and engage with them respectfully, as equals. We could talk through their concerns, without any fear of abusive or discriminatory behaviour coming my way. And that’s exactly what I did — I attended…
…but unfortunately, things didn’t go quite to plan.
I hope you enjoy reading this account of my experience attending the LGB Alliance Conference last October. I have talked about it in minor detail on a few podcasts, and a few people wrote about it — one of whom, most recently was Graham Linehan. In his “article” he defamed my character quite shamelessly, and accused me of being a liar. This serialised article you’re reading now isn’t an attempt to “set the record straight” or prove Linehan wrong. It isn’t something I need to do, because as many already know — I was covertly recording my experience at the conference with a lapel microphone attached to my bra. Many of the things that I mention in this piece are captured crisp and clear in WAV format. I have been goaded by many anonymous, gender critical twitter accounts over the past 5 months to release the audio prematurely, without proper legal backing & I haven’t yet given into this for the simple reason that, I’d rather you think I’m a liar — than as fucking stupid as them.
Part 2 : Toilet Guards
I had joined the LGB Alliance mailing list months before the early-bird tickets were announced. Initially, I signed up so I could keep an eye on what they were doing during the lockdown. I didn’t have much on.
I remember not especially wanting to use my actual email address, but there are only so many email addresses you can make before you’re doing a Russian botnet’s job for it. Every now and then I’d get a cheery mail-out from them, advertising some online zoom conference discussing the indoctrination of gay-youth into the demonic transgender cabal. I watched a few — it was fun to see inside the LGB Alliance founders homes. Bev Jackson has a lot of ovens in her kitchen, so is clearly doing alright for herself.
The first email LGB Alliance sent out about the conference was suspiciously cryptic. They sounded excited to announce that tickets were going on sale for it, but they also weren’t about to give too much information away. For example, they mentioned that there would be sandwiches — but gave absolutely no indication to what sort of sandwiches they would be. Chicken? Peanut butter? Come on, reel me in. The main omission though, was the actual venue location of the event. Clearly they had been burned before, and weren’t about to let on about anything until it was absolutely necessary. I wondered where it would be held, because they insisted they had somewhere great. The car park in front of Lidl? The Scout Hut by St. Andrews Church?
A week or so passed, and sure enough more information trickled out. Apparently, there would be informative talks, with special guest speakers & book signings. There would be a plethora of original merch, as well as free coffee and even an evening disco. Yes, an actual disco. With dancing. Disco dancing. Gender critical disco dancing.
Well, naturally it didn’t take me long to book my ticket. I was so eager, in fact, that I completely missed the promotional deal from Lesbian and Gay News to get a discounted price. In the end I paid full price — £80. This included access to all the talks, all the food and of course, all the disco dancing I could do. On the one hand, as a trans woman who disagrees vehemently with everything the LGB Alliance represents, I did feel slightly conflicted about contributing £80 to their cause. On the other hand though, the prospect of possibly being able to romantically slow dance with Graham Linehan was so exciting that it completely overshadowed all of my “morals” or “principles”.
It wasn’t until the e-ticket hit my email inbox though, that the reality of what I had just done began to sink in. Was I really going to attend a conference, full of people who do a terrible job of hiding their distain for trans women? In my head — yes, I was. I was going to do it alone, bravely like some sort of gonzo trans-Theroux. I was Werner Herzog, brave and deranged — but with better tits. But after telling a few of my closest friends what I was planning on doing, I wasn’t greeted with the impressed adulation I was expecting. Instead, most people’s reaction was deep concern. “Are you going to be alright?” They’d ask. “You’re not going alone are you? What if something happens to you — you’re going to be outnumbered”. It hadn’t really occurred to me, because I don’t think clearly when I’m invested in a new project. Eventually, one of my good cis-male friends Riggs offered to accompany me to the conference to make sure nothing too untoward happened. This meant he’d have to buy a ticket as well, but luckily I now knew about the discounted rate from Lesbian and Gay News (a transphobic online news site) so we could support them, too.
Even by this point, there was still a lot of unknown information about the conference. They had revealed that it was being held at the Queen Elizabeth the II centre near Covent Garden (or “QE2” for cool cats). The building is government owned, so I was initially surprised they would be holding such a controversial event there.
The first thing I needed to do, though, was to contact the LGB Alliance directly — so I could find out more details about the sandwiched & the disco. The Alliance is a notoriously hard organisation to pin down, as “official membership” seems to go as far as signing up for the online newsletter — and any idiot can do that. Luckily for me though, with them now being an officially registered charity, it meant they had to have an officially registered switchboard number. It only took a few seconds to find online, so I phoned it.
The woman who answered the phone was cheery to start with. I asked her if it was true that there were going to be sandwiches at the event, and she assured me there would be. But when I delved a little bit deeper — to try and find out what might be in those sandwiches, she tightened like a clam. I tried a different tact, and pushed for more details on this disco I’d heard so much about. Again, she confirmed that it was going ahead — but wouldn’t give me any specifics about the tracks the DJ would be playing. These guys were tough. My biggest concern though, which I had to ask her about, was what the toilet conditions would be like at the Queen Elizabeth the II centre. I wanted to know if, heaven forbid, a devious transsexual-identified male were to infiltrate the conference — would proper measures be made to keep it out of the ladies toilets? Again came assurance. The LGB Alliance charity representative swore to me that during the conference event “toilet guards” would be stationed near the lavatory entrances to ensure no such deviances took place. I was relieved — and was thoroughly glad to have gotten our entire conversation recorded for posterity.
The last thing I asked her, was if she could tell me who the special guests at the conference were going to be. She clammed up again. She told me she wasn’t allowed to say. I pushed a little further — was it J.K Rowling? She wouldn’t say. Was is Graham Linehan? Again, no dice. I told her it was a shame she couldn’t tell me, because it was a dream of mine to slow dance with Graham Linehan at a disco — but I understood her predicament. I’d just have to wait until the day.
Although I was understandably relieved to hear about these “toilet guards”, I did wonder how a government owned conference centre could get past the law in such a brazen way. So I phoned the QE2.
The first person I spoke to was a receptionist. Initially, he didn’t seem to understand my question, and arranged to have someone phone me back. When I was eventually called back, the person assigned to help me thought I was concerned that the QE2 didn’t have toilets. He assured me that the venue does indeed have toilets, and I need not worry. Although a relief in itself, I still needed to know about the toilet guards — so asked him how the QE2 plans on subverting the law to keep trans-identified males out of women’s spaces. Surprisingly, he said he had no idea who LGB Alliance actually were, or what they were about, and that if they were having a conference there — they would have their own security. He offered to put me in touch with the man doing press for the LGB Alliance — Rob Jessel — who could give me a call back to put my mind at ease.
I don’t recall ever getting that phone call, so instead I managed to find Rob Jessel’s contact information on an LGB Alliance affiliated website and gave him a call myself. After leaving him a voicemail, he did eventually get back to me — and he seemed surprised that I had been told there would be “toilet guards”. He asked me who had given that information, and I told him it was the woman on the LGB Alliance charity switchboard. He had an understanding, and well trained manner to his voice. I could tell from our first speaking that he was a well trained, experienced press agent — who could keep calm under pressure, and tell people exactly what they needed to hear.
It wouldn’t be long until I would meet Rob Jessel face to face — and put his slick, client-facing patience to the test.
Part 3 : Using the Ladies Room at the LGB Alliance Conference
It was the morning of The Conference, or just Conference as I would later learn the gender critical delegates called it. “Are you enjoying Conference?” they would ask one another, with a smile. Very casual, like. Very hip. Cool, hip young things don’t say “the”.
Myself and Riggs get up early to coordinate and plan. We discuss what we might do if things go wrong, but mostly we talk about where we might get a coffee. We want to get to the conference centre early, not for any practical reason — but more as a sort of low-key flex. I wanted to show how eager I was for Conference. I wanted to impress these people.
As we make our way on the tube, I wonder why I’m not more nervous about all this. In the build up to this day, people have told me left, right & centre that I should be. But I’m just not. It’s not bravery though, because there are plenty of things out there that make me anxious and scared. Missing my last train and having to walk back home in the dark. Having eight spiders crawl into my mouth while I’m sleeping, and live inside my belly. Getting trapped and dying in a deep, tight, claustrophobic cave (that is on fire). But confronting a room full of gender critical activists who appear to hate me just isn’t one of those things. So often, trans people are misrepresented and demonised on the internet. As a trans woman, just existing in an online space such as twitter opens you up to an array of anonymous, obsessive, cruel individuals who often seek to dox you, or intimidate you into silence. And many trans people, understandably, believe the things these cruel, mean-spirited people tell them.
One of the biggest ironies, I think, about the “gender critical” movement is that it paints trans women as space invaders. But in reality, a lot of these people will attempt to engage in “debate” with trans people online who are simply just trying to live their lives in peace — unsolicited. They are goaded into engaging in an argument they never wanted to have, by people they have never even met, who don’t even have the confidence to put their face online.
Full disclosure — for a long time, I worried about gender critical activists. Not so much online, but definitely in regards to their affect on my real, lived life. What if one screams me down in a public toilet? What if a group of GC protesters show up to one of my comedy shows?
In the height of a slight mentally unwell period a few years ago, I also had a very real worry that one of my friends or family might reveal themselves to be gender critical. Or that someone would confront me publicly or even assault me. I was living some days in a sort of “They Live” style nightmare, where everyone I encountered was a potential enemy. It played on my mind for quite a while — and I do think that one of the reasons I chose to attend this conference was because I wanted to break the mystique. I wanted to confront the adult, human boogie-men and women who “live rent free” in the minds of so many trans people on the day to day & at the very least, demonstrate to them that I not only do I not fear them — but I am also willing to engage in conversation, on their patch.
We get off the train and make our way to the conference centre. It’s a large building, right in the centre of town, that holds several different floors for different conferences all running in unison on any given day. There is a clear banner outside advertising the LGB Alliance, like a dystopian nightmare come to life. Police circle the front in pairs. It’s still early, and skies are grey — but a few attendees are here before us, which is annoying. Plus, they’ve got “Adult Human Female” t-shirts on. Hopefully, they’ll have some for sale inside.
Riggs and I get in line behind them, and go through a set of metal detectors. We have our bags searched, and after I am officially classified as not a threat the next task is to get our LGB Alliance Conference 2021 lanyards from the front desk.
The front desk is manned by 4 women, all of whom are also wearing LGB Alliance t-shirts. There are hundreds of lanyards strewn out on the desk in front of them. The woman, who is not wearing a covid mask, asks for my name. I tell her “Jen Ives”. She says “What?” I say “Jen Ives”. She then says “Can you put your mask down, I can’t hear what you’re saying?” She seems to not like masks. I take my mask down and I say “Jen Ives”. She hands me my lanyard, which I put around my neck straight away. The card at the end of the lanyard has my name on it. Are these the ID-cards gender critical activists are so keen on people wearing? I was surprised that they didn’t feature a declaration of birth-sex, but I was grateful as that would have given the game away immediately. The woman behind the counter wished me a good “Conference” as I rejoined Riggs. Little was I to know that later that day, me and that woman we would not be friends anymore.
Conference was on the third floor. I was keen to get up there and see the stalls, but for now only one thing was on my mind. The toilet. Before we had arrived, Riggs and I had gotten a couple of large coffees from around the corner — and sure enough, I was paying for that now. I had to go. I approached a security guard, and inquired as to where I could find the ladies toilets — to which he very helpfully directed me. As I entered, I passed several keen adult, human female attendees of the conference who batted no eyelid at my presence there. I made my way into the cubicle and I did a wee. Then, I left the cubicle and I washed my hands beside another, presumably adult human female at the sinks. As I left the ladies room, another (I’m guessing) adult human female entered the ladies room, completely passing me.
Bladder emptied, Riggs and I got into the lift and made our way up to the third floor. As we ascended, we looked at one another and braced for the unimaginable horrors we would find up there.
The lift stopped. The doors opened. And we were greeted by a smiling woman in her 60’s who handed us both a free brochure and some stickers.
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