I Slapped a Christian

You read that right

Mrs. Capricious
4 min readAug 8, 2023
Copyright - author

Hi, I’m Abbie Drake. It’s been a while.

Today, in the centre of Liverpool, a British conurbation of just under a million people, I gave a full-faced slap to a man probably less than half my age. So why am I admitting to what is technically a crime?

Well, the arsehole had it coming.

Let’s rewind a tad.

Saturday 29th July was, for me, the day after the second anniversary of being engaged to my delight of a girlfriend.

It was also #LiverpoolPride.

This year, following on from my city’s hosting the Eurovision Song Contest on behalf of a beleaguered Ukraine, we stood, sang, chanted, and marched in solidarity with #KievPride. After all, wherever there’s war, you can bet queer people are doubly affected. So, less than ten days ago, I was at the head of a throng of people carrying a 60-foot trans flag, yelling calls and response (without a loudhailer).

Despite my 18+ month radio silence on here (after a mental health crisis that saw me delete all my prior content) I’ve not been silent in my queer activism. That said, this was my first pride.

Such things are milestones for any queer person. And for all the ways in which I’m exceptional (😜) this isn’t one. No-one stands a chance trying to silence me. Not then. Not now. Not ever.

Imagine the scene then. Queen’s Square, Liverpool, England - a busy bus station. Mid-afternoon on what most would consider an atypically sunny, early August day. I’d just had laser treatment, maybe two hours prior. My face was still red, and some of my dark facial hairs may still have been visible (you can’t shave before hair removal). Maybe I wasn’t looking my best. I don’t give a fuck. Regardless…

I did not deserve to be called a ‘tranny’. No-one does. Ever.

My girlfriend and I had just visited parts of the 2023 Liverpool Biennial. Out. Proud. Having a nice day.

That’s when two, mostly black clad (one suspects by default rather than design. You know, the straight male ‘whatever’ dress code), young men passed us and called me a ‘tranny’ (I say ‘me’ rather than ‘us’ for a number of reasons. Yes, my girlfriend is trans also, but it was perfectly clear to me I was the target). I stopped in my tracks, only to hear the same man say it again, at the bottom of the steps we’d ascended (it should be noted his companion said nothing. Thus he remained unslapped). I turned. A heartbeat. The decision was made. I was pursuing this.

“What did you call me?” I called. No response. “Hey, melt (I’m British. This is an insult. Don’t judge me.), what did you just say?”. Fuck knuckle and buddy carried on walking. All the way over to the Christian preacher…

No excuses. No hesitation. On their part nor mine.

My girlfriend had carried on, but now stopped and turned to see me strolling toward the gathered men.

The one of the pair who’d castigated me was already explaining himself to the preacher. By this time I was a ‘trans person’. At best.

Some additional context here… Back in the day, some 25 years ago I became apostate. I’d spent my youth on the church. For Merseyside in the 80s that was VERY unusual. I was also one of the youngest parochial church council members for my area. Not to mention an autodidact Christian apologist. A quarter of century away my faith is long dead, but I never disparage the religious. My view is that at least they have some form of aspirational code. My apostasy was formed on the basis of others in my church utterly refusing to recognise how complacent we were, compared to the radical life than the book of Acts calls all Christians to live.

(I’ll happily expound elsewhere if necessary.)

I asked again, “What did you call me?”


I’m no stranger to nonchalance. Truth is, I’m as sangfroid as they come. Usually. But he was now simply taking the piss.

I asked him why.

This sealed his fate…

“Cos it’s degenerate. It’s wrong in Christ’s ey…”

My girl heard the crack from 50 feet away. In front of several hundred people I assaulted someone. I felt, and feel, zero remorse. Fucker had it coming.

Violence isn’t the answer. Except when it is.

This young man, maybe 20, made a decision. Acted on it. Was challenged. Doubled down on it. And he felt SECURE. See… Turns out, he was part of a youth group who’d accompanied a couple of older church members to town to harangue passersby. Whatever. Dime a dozen (or ‘ten bob a million’ as an old friend of mine once said).

I didn’t set out with the intent of bursting this young man’s bubble. But it was a nexus of so many points of oppression. He was white, straight, young, affluent, able-bodied. A1+ rating according to the credit reference agency of life.

I’m a middle-aged, disabled, gay, trans woman (OK, I’m white… You got me). And I’d still have let it slide, I’d still have engaged in good faith...

If he’d had ANYTHING to say.

Did I feel good about slapping the twat? Meh. Not really. I did what I had to. I didn’t punch him. Didn’t knee him in the balls. It was a gesture.

I sure don’t feel bad about it.

He needed to be reminded of Matthew 7:1.

Welcome back to TERF Island.



Mrs. Capricious

Capricious by name, steadfast by nature. Trans femme dyke. Smutsmith. Provocateur. Witch. Poet. Slut. Idiot.