Trans or otherwise, it's time to overhaul the law on "rape by deception"

Take your bed-partners as you find them and if they turn you on, what’s past history got to do with it?

The law is an ass.  Or rather, since that view is already axiomatic in some quarters: the law in relation to intimate consent is an ass – an unholy heteronormative, patriarchally-inspired man-protecting mess.  So asinine, in fact, that the time may finally have arrived to tear up what we have already and start again. Bizarrely, it has taken the implausible coincidence of quite separate cases involving transgender individuals and undercover police to edge this debate into the open.

Let’s start with the trans side – though don’t, for a moment, imagine this is just about “teh tranz”.  An Appeal Court ruling has this week been published in respect of Justine McNally, sentenced  to three years in prison in December 2012 for the crime of deceiving their girlfriend as to their gender. Justine, who was 17 at the time the alleged offences took place, entered into the relationship as a boy, called Scott: their partner agreed to sexual intimacy but later told police that consent was based on a deception.

Whether Scott/Justine explicitly misled his partner remains unclear. Equally unclear is whether Justine/Scott is trans or, as newspapers and, at times, the judges have positioned her, some sort of “evil lesbian deceiver”.  But then, the judges appear not to understand the distinction between gender identity and sexuality, either.

What the appeal judgment makes clear, is this: deceiving an individual as to age, marital status, wealth or even HIV status doesn’t invalidate consent. One could add – though the judges probably didn’t because it would make very poor PR - that deception in respect of past criminal history, including rape, violence and child abuse don’t necessarily invalidate consent. Nope. 

The only thing that really seems to vex this bunch of middle-aged blokes is being misled over gender, which must raise questions as to why such fears.  Is this, as they remark, merely “ a broad commonsense way" to deal with "evidence relating to 'choice' and the 'freedom' to make any particular choice”.  Or is it delicately muffled – and bewigged – homophobia?

Meanwhile, inquiries into the activities of undercover police – and their propensity to have sex with activists as a “necessary” part of maintaining their cover, rumble on. One might inquire, wearily, in what universe “having sex” is required as a means to keep up the appearance of being an ordinary everyday chap.  But this is police culture, so perhaps the question is redundant. Or, as Chief Constable Mick Creedon, currently leading an inquiry into these matters puts it, lying about your sexual status is par for the course:  "There are many people who say they're not married when they are married. It happens."

So far, so predictable.  I have been asking questions of the Crown Prosecution Service and the police ever since the first milestone case – that of Gemma Barker in 2011. I may not be the world’s trendiest woman: but I am good at scenting the first faint whiff of an issue about to trend!

The CPS, to their credit, are meeting and talking to myself and members of the trans community this week. As for the Met: it is not just their response, but the way they deliver a response that speaks volumes. Why did the police investigate Justine McNally? A spokesman explains: “a complaint was made to the police”.

Short. Sharp. Sweet.  (If only the police were so decisive in all cases of alleged rape.)

Why didn’t they investigate complaints about undercover police?  Much waffle follows: paragraphs about Operation Herne, which is now investigating the totality of undercover misdemeanours and is headed up by the aforementioned Mick-“it-happens”-Creedon.

No obvious understanding that investigating a rape complaint is not really the same thing as setting up a portmanteau inquiry run by the police themselves.  Nor, over the two years I have been asking about this matter, any sign that they understand parallels between the two cases. No: just sheer incredulity that anyone might compare gender deception with deception as to police status.

Though that may be about to change, as Northumberland Police Commissioner and former Solicitor-General, Vera Baird – who may therefore be assumed to know a thing or two about the law – this week argued that police undercover actions could have amounted to rape.

A debate is long overdue, even if its outcome may not entirely please everyone. Friends with whom I have discussed the matter swing between two extremes. On the one hand, consent should be based on full information, a bit like the insurance industry’s “uberimma fides”.  Anything and everything should be revealed – including birth gender. Against that, the counter-view: take your bed-partners as you find them and if they turn you on, what’s past history got to do with it?

Jane Fae is a feminist writer. She tweets as @JaneFae.

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France is changing: an army stalks the streets and Boris Johnson wanders the Tuileries

Will Self on the militarisation of France, and Boris Johnson at the Foreign Office.

At the corner of the rue D’Hauteville and the rue de Paradis in the tenth arrondissement of Paris is a retro-video-games-themed bar, Le Fantôme, which is frequented by some not-so-jeunes gens – the kind of thirtysomethings nostalgic for an era when you had to go to an actual place if you wanted to enter virtual space. They sit placidly behind the plate-glass windows zapping Pac-Men and Space Invaders, while outside another – and rather more lethal – sort of phantom stalks the sunlit streets.

I often go to Paris for work, and so have been able to register the incremental militarisation of its streets since President Hollande first declared a state of emergency after last November’s terrorist attacks. In general the French seem more comfortable about this prêt-à-porter khaki than we’d probably be; the army-nation concept is, after all, encrypted deep in their collective psyche. The army was constituted as a revolutionary instrument. France was the first modern nation to introduce universal male conscription – and it continued in one form or another right up until the mid-1990s.

Even so, it was surprising to witness the sang-froid with which Parisians regarded the camouflaged phantoms wandering among them: a patrol numbering eight ­infantrymen and women moved up the roadway, scoping out doorways, nosing into passages – but when one peered into Le Fantôme, his assault rifle levelled, none of the boozing gamers paid the least attention. I witnessed this scene the Saturday after Mohamed Lahouaiej-Bouhlel ran amok on the Promenade des Anglais in Nice – it was a little preview of the new state of emergency.

On Monday 18 July the French premier, Manuel Valls, was booed at a memorial service for the victims of the Nice attacks – while Marine Le Pen has been making all the populist running, whipping up anxieties about the enemy within. For many French, the events of the past week – including the failed Turkish coup – are steps along the way limned by Michel Houellebecq in his bestselling novel Submission; a via dolorosa that ends with La Marianne wearing the hijab and France itself annexed by a new caliphate.

Into this febrile drama comes a new player: Boris Johnson, the British Foreign Secretary. What can we expect from this freshly minted statesman when it comes to our relations with our closest neighbour? There is no doubt that Johnson is a Francophile – I’ve run into him and his family at the Tuileries, and he made much of his own francophone status during the referendum campaign. In Paris last winter to launch the French edition of his Churchill biography, Johnson wowed a publication dinner by speaking French for the entire evening. He was sufficiently fluent to bumble, waffle and generally avoid saying anything serious at all.

Last Sunday I attended the Lambeth Country Show, an oxymoronic event for which the diverse inhabitants of my home borough gather in Brockwell Park, south London, for jerked and halal chicken, funfair rides, Quidditch-watching, and “country-style” activities, such as looking at farm animals and buying their products. Wandering among ancient Rastafarians with huge shocks of dreadlocks, British Muslims wearing immaculate white kurtas blazoned with “ASK ME ABOUT ISLAM” and crusty old Brixton punks, I found it quite impossible to rid my mind of the Nice carnage – or stop wondering how they would react if armed soldiers were patrolling, instead of tit-helmeted, emphatically unarmed police.

I stepped into the Royal Horticultural Society marquee, and there they were: the entire cast of our end-of-the-pier-show politics, in vegetable-sculpture form and arrayed for judging. There was Jeremy Corbyn (or “Cornbin”) made out of corncobs – and Boris Johnson in the form of a beetroot, being stabbed in the back by a beetroot Michael Gove. And over there was Johnson again, this time rendered in cabbage. The veggie politicians were the big draw, Brixtonians standing six-deep around them, iPhones aloft.

The animal (as opposed to the vegetable) Johnson has begun his diplomatic rounds this week, his first démarches as tasteless and anodyne as cucumber. No British abandonment of friends after Brexit . . . Coordinated response to terror threat . . . Call for Erdogan to be restrained in response to failed coup . . . Blah-blah, whiff-whaff-waffle . . . Even someone as gaffe-prone as he can manage these simple lines, but I very much doubt he will be able to produce rhetorical flourishes as powerful as his hero’s. In The Churchill Factor: How One Man Made History, Johnson writes of Winnie overcoming “his stammer and his depression and his ­appalling father to become the greatest living Englishman”. Well, I’ve no idea if Bojo suffers from depression now but he soon will if he cleaves to this role model. His Churchill-worship (like so many others’) hinges on his belief that, without Churchill as war leader, Britain would have been ground beneath the Nazi jackboot. It may well be that, with his contribution to the Brexit campaign, Johnson now feels he, too, has wrested our national destiny from the slavering jaws of contingency.

Of course the differences between the two politicians are far more significant: Johnson’s genius – such as it is – lies in his intuitive understanding that politics, in our intensely mediatised and entirely commoditised era, is best conceived of as a series of spectacles or stunts: nowadays you can fool most of the people, most of the time. This is not a view you can imagine associating with Churchill, who, when his Gallipoli stratagem went disastrously wrong, exiled himself, rifle in hand, to the trenches. No, the French people Johnson both resembles and has an affinity for are the ones caught up in the virtual reality of Le Fantôme – rather than those patrolling the real and increasingly mean streets without. 

Will Self is an author and journalist. His books include Umbrella, Shark, The Book of Dave and The Butt. He writes the Madness of Crowds and Real Meals columns for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 21 July 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The English Revolt