Violent clashes in Melbourne after protesters descend on women’s rights rally

Yea, on this day in the dark century—the twenty-first, in the waning days of the second millennium’s hangover—the forces emerged from their digital citadels, armed not with sword nor spear, but with Substacks and viral tweets. And lo, the land did tremble.

From the Isle of Briton, clad in robes woven from childhood nostalgia and publisher’s gold, rose Lady Joanne of Rowling, wielder of the Sacred Pen of Potter. Once beloved by all the kingdoms for her tales of boy-wizards and sorting hats, she turned her gaze upon the scrolls of gender and spake: “A woman is a woman, immutable and true.” And thus the TERFs were summoned, an order of gender-knights sworn to defend the cis-temple of Womanhood from what they deemed unnatural incursions.

Across the battlefield stood the trans legions, radiant and wrathful, armed with hashtags, lived experience, and eyeliner as sharp as any blade. They came not to conquer, but to be. “We are here,” they declared, “not as invaders, but as those long denied their place in the annals of the binary.”

And lo—the skies darkened with discourse.

Verily, they clashed—not with fire or fury, but with think pieces, panels, and petitions. Gender scholars were summoned like necromancers of old, conjuring theories from Judith Butler’s sacred scrolls. Alliances were made and broken on morning shows. Scrolls of Twitter were rent asunder.

Meanwhile, in the valley between these mighty hills of ideology, dwelled the men.

And the men—yea, the men—did cower.

They cowered in fear, hoping to be left alone. “O please,” they murmured from their recliners, clutching their remote controls and fading relevance. “Must the genders war so loudly? We just wish to grill.” Some shaved their beards in quiet solidarity. Others Googled "what is a woman" and promptly closed the tab.

“We men,” the men said, “are but mere players of rugby, known for battles that save our balls—but we fear greatly this coming storm, for we may lose ours, and for naught. For this ain’t our war.”

And lo, the scrolls of the men were unrolled. One such man, clutching a dusty parchment, did proclaim: "Behold, I am but a humble soul, seeking only peace in this world of gender tumult. I have not cast stones nor waged war in the land of these fierce ideologies. I stand not on one side, for both sides are far too loud for mine ears. We have done some wrong, we have done some good, but we fear these darks skies for our bedding. Let it be known that I am merely a spectator, desiring not the crown of righteousness, but the serenity of the grill and an endless supply of beer."

Thus did the man read, and thus did the crowd murmur in fear, having long ago cast off the shackles of wars of their own.

And so, in his quiet deflection, the words became clear, as though whispered by the wind itself: This is not my war.

And so the battlefield raged on. The TERFs built forts from dusty dictionaries. The trans rode data clouds, streaming TikToks into the sky like signal fires. And from the mountaintops, young queers built temples of irony and joy, singing in neopronouns and remixing the world with memes.

But the men—yea, the men—did not stand idle in their fear.

The men gathered in solemn circles, their voices rising, each man bringing his own flavor to the chant. Their words did not echo in uniformity, but rang out with the clamor of a people unsure of their place in this strange new world. The chant, of Gregory, rolled like thunder, each phrase carrying a different tone, a different plea:

“Not my war, not my fight...
Can we just grill tonight?...
I don’t know what this means...
Just pass me the remote, please...”
“I’m out of my depth, can we just chill?...
I don’t want to choose, just leave me still...
This is too much for me to take...
Give me peace for heaven’s sake...”

The chorus swelled in diversity, each line both an exclamation and a plea for respite. They were not united in one sentiment but in the shared hope for a quiet life and a reconition of past misdeeds, free from the squabbling of ideologies that felt far too loud and far too distant from their day-to-day concerns.

The words echoed, not in hymnals, but in a low, brooding chant—like monks of old, yet with the despair of men who wish not to be drawn into battles of identity they do not fully understand. Their chants swelled, reverberating off suburban walls and weak Wi-Fi signals, a cry for peace and for grillin' without interruption.

And then, with one final cry, they spake:

"We caused enough problems, but this one ain’t ours."

The final chapter is yet unwritten.

But let it be known: on that day, the war was not for territory, nor for gold, nor even for glory. It was for the soul of becoming. And the men? They barbecued in silence, quietly whispering, “Leave me the fuck out of this.”