CONTENT WARNING
Detailed accounts of transphobia and Autistic meltdowns, as well as mentions of far-right protests, zionism, police brutality, what we’re all trying to intersectionally stop!
Please also note that some photos have sparkly versions, which may flash and induce seizures. Do not click on them if you are epileptic or otherwise light/strobing sensitive.

THE LOWDOWN
WHO? 40,000 trans folk and their allies, even though those on there were liberally guessing a higher turnout
WHAT? The sixth (TIME GOES BY SO FAST) annual London Trans Pride protest march
WHERE? The Oxford Street and Piccadilly area, London
WHEN? 27th July 2024
WHY? Because Wes Streeting (let alone Keir, let alone the entire Tory party) clearly has a hit against us.
This post is in no way sponsored by, or endorsed prior to publication, the organisers of London Trans Pride. Everything published here is of our own volition.
If you are in any of those photos and would like a non-watermarked copy of your own, feel free to use the contact form or email me at lylani@ofthebabes.com.
If you would like your photo taken down, we will oblige – not only are many of these photos candid and therefore questionable, but we also know consent can also be withdrawn at any time.
This is my fourth Trans Pride; I was too lazy for the 2021 one and missed the 2022 one because Shift, but even with the Tories finally out of dominance, we might as well need Trans Pride more than ever; not just in London but all around this blue and green ball of fossil-fueled fire.
It also happened to be my Mum’s birthday, so I brought her along for the ride and, as time went on, thank fuck I did. As per instructions, I bought some flower-shaped hair clips and wore one of my silk scarves over my mouth on occasion. We also wore matching blue sequin dresses that both took a long time to see the light of day from closet.


Again, as it was my Mum’s birthday, I decided to not play the day straight and let my Mum celebrate in a way she wanted, so we decided to watch a bit of Sense8 and Pose, have a drink at the Duke of Wellington (served by a Cucurella lookalike and soundtracked by prime Slayyyter) and join the main crowd at Regent Street. Lukasz above guided us on the way – I knew they were going because they were wearing the tightest shorts along with a belt full of chains, but my Mum was like “way to assume!”


Once at the march, we entered at the front before Clay Taurus told us that area was for disabled and/or famous folk only. Even if that area was for everyone, it did feel a little sordid. (At least I finally got to shoot Yasmin Finney!)

Never got this person’s name, but they’re also a photographer


Taali Not Charlie
Finding a place behind the front, I also finally got to shoot Dannii Spooner, something I hope will be a frequent thing seeing as they’re a go-to gogo at Superstore. They were there with Taali who I most associate with Queer House Party, even though I think they’ve expanded their scope over the past few years. I tried out a new way of shooting with a mini ring light, which I ended up barely using, but Dannii thought it was very clever.
I also got to shoot a few strangers. I never caught their names and bothered them too little; just a simple “Can I just take your picture! Thanks, here’s my flyer”, so my Mum had to intervene/big me up. Next time, I’m going full “Oh hi, sorry to bother you, I’m starting up a new online publication for female and non-binary people and…”. Proper PR chic.


But enough about me, this is an event for the community; not just for them to be there, but for Middle England to know we will always be there; in fact, we are always. Yer usual “whose streets our streets” and “what do we want? trans rights?” slowly morphed into more football inspired chants, like “JK is a cunt, JK is a cuuuuuunt, she’s not a feminist, JK is a cunt”. At one point, a few Black Bloc-ers over my shoulder gave us this: “What do you think of Keir Starmer? Shit! Thank you. That’s alright! We hate Keir Starmer, we hate Keir Starmer…”. Unfortunately it did not catch on.
Plus we also had our obvious intersectional chants like “No justice, no peace, no transphobic police” and “Free free free Palestine”. This caused someone to rally “Free Sudan!”, to which I replied with “Free Congo!”. What they didn’t know is that not only was I talking about the cobalt-covered space under similar tyranny as Palestine and Sudan, but also the 1995 “Tim Curry, Bruce Campbell and a gorilla” movie that was actually filmed in Uganda and oozes “cult classic disasterpiece” vibes even though I haven’t actually seen it. Both need recognition, at the very least.


By the time we had a ten minute break at Green Park, I’d honestly had enough. My Mum swore down we were outside St James and we could have an ice cream there, to which I was like “then we’ll go to Trafalgar and get caught up with Tommy Robinson!”. (There was a far-right protest going on the same day, where he somehow went too Nazi despite already being at that edge, eventually getting arrested trying to flee the country). Turns out, St James is behind Green; my Mum has since apologised.
Even though my mood briefly perked up upon bumping into Janet fuck-I-forgot-her-last-name (the lady known by the name of Jeffery Hinton once she’s in a DJ booth), I was in the beginning stages of meltdown and had to split my Lizzie Line journey into two because rage and overwhelm had encompassed me. And that’s when we realised a meltdown, as stressful as it is, is nothing.


A couple on the Lizzie line – a Ginger-but-not-in-the-Ron-Weasley-way-oh-no-no-no-no guy and an attractive Essex girl – decided to point and laugh at me for wearing sequins and a trans flag around my waist. The guy literally told me “We don’t want you shoving [transness] in our face”. With a helping of my Mum’s wrath, two other people (a middle-aged White woman and a gay guy who materialised from nowhere; there was also a Black lady in the middle of the aisle who I swore was part of the defense) decided to defend me; for that I think they’re angels. Thank fuck my meltdown was at bay by then, but with it happening, I decided to not report this case of transphobia to TFL in case of them performing any ableist gotchas.
Both us and the harassers got off at Liverpool Street so, to avoid them, we took the lift – which took us out to Moorgate. With many cab drivers also hostile to two people wearing trans flags, we took a bus to where-have-you in Islington and walked down the canal back home. The day clearly ended there, and, somehow the day afterwards was probably the best day of the year, so far.

I’ve been to two outstanding Trans Prides (2019, 2023) and two just alright Trans Prides (2020, 2024). I pray for Trans Pride 2025 to be personable, changemaking and not too hot in temperature (literally; if Trans Wrath is the only source of heat there then I’m all for it). I’d love to go to the Brighton one as well; I feel like it’d be more intimate and possibly more authentic.