When Stephen King tweeted Holy Shit! in response to Baby Reindeer, he nailed it. Being stalked is about as much fun as a remote forest cabin owned by Annie Wilkes and Pennywise.  

My stalker, an ageing transvestite who claimed to rock a Playtex Bra with more vavavoom than a young Madonna, had taken against me in early 2022 because I was allied to the Terfs, a group whom he despised for having naturally formed vaginas. He was relentless, switching between multiple fake accounts, each one defined by a signature tic and the wanton abuse of a comma. His mission, conveyed in screaming capitals, was to expose me as a homophobic fascist, whose  High Court victory was the result of conspiracy and a corrupt judge. On some days, the stalking prompted only mild amusement because who, after all, doesn’t see the funny side of starring in a Hitler gif as a balding, chubby Aryan? On other days, when he’d got out of bed on the wrong side, there’d be a dozen chilling messages before breakfast. 

When I contacted the police in early Spring, he offered terms of surrender: If I vaporised myself from all social media, he would target somebody else. When advised to locate his ass on Google Maps and stick his terms where the sun fails to shine, he reacted like an ageing duchess who is stirred from pleasant slumber by a footman dry humping her leg. There would be MANY consequences for my crimes against the trans community, he raged. MANY CONSEQUENCES! 

Credit where credit is due. The consequences rolled in without pause to adjust a panty line. First, my daughter called from New Zealand and chirped, “Hi Dad. I hear you’re a paedophile, now.” Then a producer from Talk TV messaged to say that the threat of legal action from a credible  source meant that my appearances would, henceforth, be limited. Police forces were sent evidence of my vast criminal enterprise, and tipped off that I was behind the murder of Brianna Ghey and the attack at Club Q in Colorado. He edited a picture of my arm tattoo so that it read “The Guy Who Hits Women”, and claimed I was in league with the terrorist, Suella Braverman. 

During one dark evening in November 2022, my phone began to ping. Armed officers were about  to arrest me for blackmail and theft. When the raid failed to materialise, he reminded me that he  was handy on the ranges. YOUR SORT, NEED CULLING! he raged, relying on his signature mix of capitals and a dodgy comma. After that, we closed the curtains before nightfall and kept a baseball bat by the door.  

Then he targeted my wife. Doctoring an on-line photograph of her in a Summer dress with open  toed sandals, he republished with curious focus on her feet. Perhaps for the dozenth time, I went to the police, warning that if they failed to take decisive action, I would personally locate my stalker, and assuming that his balls had survived the journey to womanhood, would use them to drag him screaming to the nearest custody suite. The journey would have been a short one. My stalker was a serving officer with Leicestershire Police.  

… there is an uncomfortable effect to being stalked that amounts almost to victim betrayal

Besides the obvious horror of being hunted by a crossdressing copper with an unfulfilled foot fetish and access to handcuffs and pepper spray, there is an uncomfortable effect to being stalked that amounts almost to victim betrayal. Trauma bonding made him my significant other, the one I awoke to before rubbing my eyes. During the brief periods when he was absent from my feed, I actually became anxious for his welfare, worrying that he had been in an accident,  committed an act of self harm or, even worse, moved on. Stockholm Syndrome is bonkers, like a sleepover at Wuthering Heights. 

When the Crown Prosecution Service chose not to prosecute, claiming that any substantial harm I had suffered was collateral damage for being a gobby sod, I was relieved. If my stalker went to prison, who would look after his dog? When he was hauled before a disciplinary hearing, I wrote a letter to the Chief Constable, pleading for leniency. When he was dismissed and placed on the Barred List, making him ineligible to work in law enforcement, I was hit by a post traumatic lethargy that caused me to abandon WhatsApp groups or remain only as a silent lurker. Like surfacing too quickly from an eighteen month dive, the decrease in pressure created by his  sudden absence has left me with a chronic case of the social bends. Whilst my partner in Fair Cop, the indomitable Sarah Phillimore, carries on the noble task of holding Chief Constables to account, I lose myself to the sofa and watch reruns of The Bill. Honestly, I should hate my stalker. But here is the Holy Shit! moment. Whilst I don’t send him birthday cards, I genuinely wish him well.