What those phrases have in common is, they are all lies that the left has promoted for its own purpose, which is two-fold: to if-not-destroy, then at least damage the progress of, capitalism. And two, to deharmonise and destabilise society/family and make it more dependent on the state.

Control.

The first three examples are obvious. I have noticed that now some doctors, and some educators, are beginning to express doubts about the received wisdom of “dyslexia” and ADD. At least in Britain – which means the Americans probably did it first – but these doubts are subjects in themselves and aren’t my focus here.

They’re all irritating, but I am increasingly exercised by the Big Lie of the “transexual” meme, although, in a sense, “transgendered” is even more manipulative. Transgendered is something that happened to them. They got transgendered. Passive tense. It wasn’t their fault! There was a universal mistake in their case and they were born into the “wrong sex”.

So they are only righting an error when they take their first tottering stiletto-heeled step down the road to “changing” their sex. Did they ever think they may just be gay? Or is that not dramatic enough?

But some things are impossible to change, even with the help of pharmaceutical companies and, where we are today, DNA is one of them.

I’m guessing that most of us, reading the latest account of some dissatisfied person who subjected him/herself to the surgeon’s knife and massive doses of hormones, stifle a yawn and think, “Whatever”.

But it’s a creepy, dangerous road we travel when we agree to perversions of the legal truth about these individuals.

A few weeks ago, the new lefty sensitivity scale was ratched up a few pointettes, when, in England, a “transgendered man”, who had had surgery and takes hormones to pretend he’s a woman, won a mayoral election. So far, so bland. What else is new?

Well, this “former man”’s partner is, wouldn’t you just know it? – also a “former” man! You could have knocked me down with a feather!

So now, these two guys are lesbians!

One is [ancient English titles] the “mayoress” and one is the “lady mayoress” [the wife of a mayor]. Except neither is a woman. They are both men who have been julienned and pumped up with hormones and silicone sacs.

A harmless enough hobby in many respects, in that it does no damage to other than volunteers.

Each to his/her aspirations, but for some reason, this silly story, accompanied by so many congratulations for their bravery by the newly “inclusive, nonjudgmental” British – kicked in an irritation with the “transgender” industry and a sense of unease.

There is, of course, no such thing as trangender. You are born with your DNA, which reports on whether you are a male or a female. The thing about DNA – the reason it can be employed to prove murder, for example – is that it is inalterable.

Sliced, diced, moulded, siliconed, pumped with megadoses of hormones, still do not a male or a female make. Your DNA knows who you are.

The ravenous lawyer wife of Britain’s recently retired – after his very last Final World Farewell Legacy Tour – prime minister is hyperactive in the courts of European Human Rights. She got her husband to ramrod through Britain’s membership of this fantasy new world order – everyone can be Cinderalla or her prince depending on which outfit you find more appealing – and then formed a law company to make out like a bandit.

While he was still PM, one of her more gruesome triumphs was to make it legal to get a birth certificate altered throughout countries which are EU signatories. Where it says “Boy”, it may now be changed, with no hint that it has been edited, to “Girl”. Sex choice by fantasy, not by the only definer, DNA.

A big lie endorsed by the European Court.

So Cherie Blair and her cohorts are making official and legal a sickening abuse of the integrity of legal birth certificates and perpetrating a fraud on the peoples of EU signatory countries. The consequences could be disconcerting to say the least.

This is horrifying and I’m surprised that genuine gays and lesbians who are comfortable with themselves as humans want to be mixed up with such a dog’s breakfast by belonging to societies serving the “gay, lesbian and transgendered communities”.

But it’s all part of the socialist brave new world. I swear, you can’t let your guard down for a minute!

It was dusk, so I thought if I said out loud, “I believe in magic!” it would be gone on the morrow. And indeed, it was! The next morning, gone!

The niggle was, having noticed the previous day that its head had been eaten, I was pretty certain it hadn’t woken up and ambled off. I also noticed my cat Anand, a tall, thin cat, sitting on the path, self-consciously regarding his claws.

I was gripped by a sudden memory of the episode in Fawlty Towers in which a guest dies in the hotel. In order not to upset the elderly permanent residents in the lobby by taking it down to the front door, Basil, the waitress and Manuel temporarily hide the corpse in an empty room. Unwittingly, Basil’s wife,on the front desk, assigns the empty room to a guest and the rest of the episode is Basil, Manual and Connie running around Fawlty Towers shifting the corpse in a panic.

Anand is a tall and thin. Like Basil Fawlty, in fact …

Anand was still sauntering around the bottom of the garden, particular attention to a huge bougainvillea. After a panicky search, I discovered that the iguana had been hauled up the step to under the bougainvillea, under a dense storm of thorns on branches that lie along the ground, so no one could get at it. I had been going to ask a muchacho working on a house down the street to come and help me, had the corpse been where I’d left it the night before, but now, it was inaccessible.

Friends advised that the smell of decomposing iguana would be intolerable.

How to get it out of those thorns without cutting down the entire bougainvillea? Night fell – again. To hell with it, I thought, breathing shallowly. Tomorrow is another day.

The next morning, Day Three, I ventured out to the bougainvillea wondering whether a long pole could possibly nudge it, as large and heavy as it was and as hard to get traction, far enough out for someone who was not me to bag it. However, it was a moot point. The iguana was gone again. Another frantic search around the garden, and no dead iguana. It was too big for anything to have eaten it, and besides, cats don’t eat carrion. I knew there was no way a cat, or any other animal, could jump up onto the wall with a fat, yard-long dead iguana clenched in its jaws. It was on my premises somewhere.

Around noon, sure enough, I noticed Anand taking a studiedly casual interest in the bodega where the washing machine is.

There was the corpse. Again. Dragged by Anand, for who knows what reason, from under the bougainvillea, down the garden path, into the bodega and placed, now bloated and stinking in the tropical heat, under the sink.

I summoned the will to somehow shovel it into a garbage bag and pour in a bag of cat litter. I didn’t close it because I thought if the iguana bloated during the night, the bag might explode.

There were three days before the next garbage pick-up for household waste.

Why had this cat been hauling a corpse five times its own size around for three days? And who killed it? Large iguanas have such powerful tails, they can easily slap a cat right off a wall. Although, as night falls and the temperature goes down, the iguana, a cold-blooded animal, gets sleepy. Cats don’t.

In any event, the prospect of the iguana in the bag growing ever more bloated and noxious before garbage collection haunted me for the rest of the morning, I called a Mexican friend, pleading for help. She called the city for me. I hadn’t realised it, but they come and pick up dead animals.

Twenty minutes later, the doorbell rang and two pleasant men in clean T-shirted city uniforms and driving a clean white truck presented a form for me to sign, picked up the garbage bag and left cheerfully. Solved! Just like that!

I can’t remember how they resolved the corpse issue on Fawlty Towers. But my poor iguana corpse was gone.

Episcopalian canon Dr Patrick Sookhdeo, himself a convert from Islam, whose own family immigrated from Guyana and who heads the Institute for The Study of Islam and Christianity, confirms that shariah courts now operate in most larger cities and operate according to their own traditions.

Dr Sookhdeo said, “The government has not been straight about this.”

I’ll say it hasn’t. The British government has based its policy vis-à-vis Islamic immigrants on appeasement. When four young Islamic terrorists blew up a part of the London Underground and a double-decker bus on a busy street during rush hour, Tony Blair raced onto TV to hector his countrymen into not taking reprisals against “the Muslim community”. Civil disorder is not a British habit and his words were received by Britons in stony-faced disbelief. (Blair has already assured “the Muslim community” that the government will not produce a bill to make forced marriages illegal.)

Faizul Aqtab Siddiqi, a barrister and principal of Hijaz College Islamic University predicts there will be a formal network of Muslim courts in Britain within the decade.

Indeed, opinion polls among Muslims indicate that 42 per cent of Muslim immigrants, and even their third generation offspring, want shariah law available to them. The Conservative Party’s spokesman for homeland security Patrick Mercer (fired by new Conservative Party chief David Cameron) said, “This is complete nonsense. If you want to live under sharia law, you should go to a country where it holds sway.”

And although only around 2.5 per cent of the British population is Muslim, they have developed, over the past decade an intricate network of official Muslim organizations that keep fueled a sense of grievance. Notes Parapundit, “It is becoming increasingly possible to use advances in media technology to help create a cultural and religious environment in an immigrant community that is at odds with the larger society they live in”.

And indeed, this is what is being essayed.

Britain is not alone on the other side of the Atlantic in suffering an assault on its advanced Western legal system. France has already had at least one stoning to death, in Marseilles, which would have been mandated by a shariah court. France, Britain and Sweden have all experienced do-it-yourself shariah murders of young girls who have “brought dishonor on the family” – usually for dating outside the “Muslim community”. Doctors in Italy, which gets many Muslim immigrants from N Africa, legal or otherwise, have experienced patients turning up with crudely amputated fingers or hands, the victims only resorting to seek medical help when “the bleeding gets too bad”, for fear of the “elders”.

The attitude of the host country is irrelevant in this aggression. The British Labour Party, slavishly conciliatory, promoted the fragmentation of Britain by terming the country “multicultural”, a notion that took the indigenous British, whose ancestors have occupied the territory for thousands of years, by surprise. The Labour party preaches that all cultures are of equal value and encourages Muslim immigrants not to integrate, free interpreters being employed in all the public services including the free medical services, free housing within ghettoes and close liaison with Islamic “community leaders”.

By contrast, France has a strict one-nationality stance, expecting all immigrants to learn fluent French, know and appreciate French history and integrate.

That, too, has been a failure, as we have seen from the riots and coordinated violence in the big cities during two Christmasses, and the burning of around 50,000 cars throughout the year, and the murders and rapes in the banlieus of young women for failing to wear a hijab. And French Muslims are now demanding a millet – a separate area of administration for Muslims.

Yet with so many Western European governments in denial, shariah-creep through the shadows is inevitable. Many hardline Muslims, after all, are in N America, Britain and Europe not as immigrants, but as advance combatants behind enemy lines.