“There’s no such thing as the paracetamol-sin index, no matter what those Tylenol Autism pipeline gnomes tell you. And yes, in Britain a rule-abiding, principled white gnome can still ban a Black woman for stating the obvious. Don’t let them in. Especially not today. It’s Halloween.”
Veronika Kavendish-KnollEditor-in-Chief, Unsolicited Opinions
When Opinions Knock: Do Not Answer
The Fine Art of Shutting the Door
The other day, a gnome knocked on my door. Red pointy hat. Beard long enough to qualify for a public safety warning. Nose like it has been in everyone’s business. Ears that could pick up gossip from three counties away.
Before I could even say hello, it whipped out a megaphone and screamed:
“You’re wrong!”
“You take up too much space!”
“Too loud!”
“Go back where you came from!”
Charming little thing!
I whispered, “You’re not welcome here,” and closed the door quietly, like a British person pretending nothing happened. The gnome fumed, multiplied, and suddenly I had an entire Neighbourhood Watch of Moral Outrage banging on the door.
The cats stared. The dog sighed. I put my headphones on, and when Pink Pony Club hit the first note, they vanished. Because of course the gnomes cannot handle queer joy.
Opinions: a tragic love story
Opinions are like that faint smell in your fridge that insists on staying. You can move the jars, bleach the shelves, move house, it is still there, whispering, “Just saying.”
If you feel things deeply, emotionally, cognitively, physically, alphabetically, you know how much harder gnomes hit. Their shrieking is personal. Their hats are stupid. And yet somehow they get under your skin.
So, since the gnomes keep coming, I have prepared a completely unhelpful guide for how to deal with them. Because someone needs to.
1.
Know it is the gnome
Once my gnome realised I was done with its nonsense, it showed up again, this time on stilts, wearing a red academic robe and one of those square hats that screams PhD in Smugness.
“Science says you are wrong,” it screeched.
“Psychology says you do not belong.”
“Neuroscience says paracetamol is a sin.”
For a moment I hesitated, because, you know, citations. Then I realised: same gnome, new outfit.
So I said, “You are not welcome here,” and shut the door again. But not before feeling a twinge of pity, because this gnome had learned to quote peer-reviewed studies.
Opinions disguised as science are the worst kind. You cannot fact check fast enough before the gnome has already live-tweeted your disgrace.
2.
Befriend the gnome
A few days later, the gnome returned, tiny suit, briefcase, LinkedIn energy.
“I have read books,” it announced. “Therefore, I know the truth.”
Of course you do, darling.
I offered it a cuppa. Because I am polite, and also because watching a gnome hold a teacup is objectively funny. It sipped, sighed, and trauma-dumped about its creator, the heartache, the betrayal, you name it.
And then it stayed. Forever.
Moral of the story: once you let a gnome in for tea, it moves into your head rent-free and starts redecorating your self-esteem.
3.
When all else fails, call in the clowns
Gnomes hate clowns. Clowns are messy, playful, slightly terrifying, but most of all, they do not care. Gnomes are made of bitterness and tight trousers. Clowns are chaos in sequins.
So when the gnome refused to leave, I summoned my inner clown and said,
“Are you always this self-righteous, or have you been attending night classes at the JK Rowling School of Moral Certainty?”
The gnome blinked. Then fled.
Let me be clear. Gnomes are the ones with newsletters, panels, and podcasts about truth. Clowns are the ones who blurt it out without polish when someone important forgets their trousers. Gnomes make policy. Clowns make mess.
Neither are pleasant company, but they are both ours. Gnomes often disturb. Clowns heckle from the back and remind us that the emperor is not just naked but badly lit. Between them, civilisation staggers on while the rest of us clean up the glitter.
In the end, they are both you, arguing with yourself, while the dog still snores through Pink Pony Club.
Thank you for surviving my first contribution to the new content strategy. It only gets worse from here. If you’d like to see what other disasters are planned, you can read up on them here.
