Cancel Culture: Local Flavours May Vary

In every country, cancel culture has its own style – but the goal is always the same: to silence the truth-teller.

In Britain, cancellation appears swift and merciless. One day you’re a respected figure; the next, you’re trending for all the wrong reasons and being disowned by people you’ve never even met. A single wrong move, a bad headline — and you’re done. It’s brutal and deeply political.

In the US, cancel culture has a more puritanical, almost religious flavour. The legacy of the settlers still lingers — make a mistake, and you’re branded a heretic. Expect many long, anguished emails and perhaps a public struggle session. It’s not quite Salem, but you’d be forgiven for thinking Goody Procter had been spotted dancing with the devil again.

In Ireland, cancel culture doesn’t burn you at the stake – it quietly leaves you out in the cold. My own cancellation didn’t explode; it seeped in. The regime media stepped away, all the while insisting there was no problem, per se – they just didn’t happen to have the time or space to cover the Maya Forstater case, or the closure of GIDS at the Tavistock, or the Cass Review, or the fact that Genspect has over 360 detransitioners on our books, each with a harrowing story of medical malpractice.

Looking back, it’s strange to think how it all began.

When I first started raising concerns about medical transition and children back in 2017, I didn’t expect it to change my life.

I wrote that article out of a sense of professional duty. I was already writing extensively about parenting and mental health, and having experienced what’s now called gender dysphoria as a child, I understood the subject on an intuitive level. It’s the role of psychotherapists to advocate for vulnerable populations and I sought to highlight the risks attached to the medicalisation of gender nonconforming kids.

Although there was some pushback at the time, the Irish media — unlike in Britain or the US — hadn’t yet grasped the scale of what was happening, and there wasn’t the same fear around trans activism.

While making the documentary Trans Kids: It’s Time to Talk, I began to understand just how complex this issue had become. I realised many of these children were gay, lesbian, bisexual, or autistic — they didn’t need hormones; they needed help and understanding as they grew up.

That same year, I was introduced to a new world: puberty blockers, autogynephilia, and the so-called “gender-affirming care” model — an anti-psychological approach that replaces thoughtful, cautious reflection with a patient-led, consumerist form of healthcare. In essence, it says: let the buyer beware — a far cry from the clinical standards we’re meant to uphold.

In Britain, the backlash to my documentary was strangely symmetrical. It featured calm, balanced voices and that was too much in a society gripped by trans-terror. Trans activists called me dangerous; radical feminists and woke gender-criticals said I was too moderate — too conciliatory, not tribal enough, too focused on dialogue. I was either too extreme or not extreme enough. So I got shot from both sides.

The documentary never aired in the US. By then cancel culture was already in full swing, and — to my ongoing astonishment — Big Pharma had been embraced by left-wing Democrats as a human rights cause. And so I was cancelled in America before I’d even begun.

Ireland was different. The media knew me. I’d already published three books on mental health and parenting, and written widely in the national press. Anyone with a functioning brain could see I was no right-wing Christian zealot.

Although the Irish media were clearly nervous about me, between 2018 and 2022 they still published several of my articles on trans issues, and I appeared multiple times on national platforms to discuss the topic. I also continued to write and appear regularly in the Irish media to speak about mental health and parenting.

Over time, however, I sensed a growing unease. The Irish media were becoming more anxious. They didn’t understand the trans issue and they didn’t want to.

Irish journalists let the story pass them by, not because it wasn’t important, but because it made them nervous. What’s rarely acknowledged is that journalists around the world have avoided this topic out of fear — fear of losing popularity, credibility, or status.

In January 2019, Prime Time attempted to cover this issue but trans activists protested after Graham Linehan, Dr Paul Moran, Professor Dónal O’Shea and I appeared on the show raising concerns about the dramatic rise in the number of children attending GIDS at the Tavistock clinic in London. That clinic has since been shut down.

Rather than recognising that they had hit upon a hot button topic, Prime Time cringed in shame and proceeded to avoid the issue entirely — through the Keira Bell case, the Judicial Review, and the eventual closure of GIDS, where Irish children had been sent for treatment for over a decade.

They didn’t dare revisit the subject until December 2023, by which time GIDS had already been officially earmarked for closure. Predictably, trans activists protested again. And once more, Prime Time responded by avoiding the topic ever since.

Trans activists protesting outside RTÉ in response to a Prime Time segment in January 2019

Anyone can see that the trans phenomenon is one of the biggest social stories of our time. Yet long after other English-speaking countries began to engage with it — for better or worse — the Irish media continued to behave as if there was nothing to see.

There was a pattern. First they ignored it. Then they mocked it. Then they got angry that some of us wouldn’t stop talking about it. And finally, they tried to cancel us — not because we were wrong, but because we made them uncomfortable.

A turning point came in May 2022, when I spoke about gender dysphoria at the Principals and Deputy Principals’ Conference in Co. Wexford. The talk was well received, and I was invited to speak at several schools. But not long after, a backbench politician I’d never heard of — Mick Barry — used parliamentary privilege to publicly attack me, following pressure from activists.

Barry is a clear example of how the woke left has traded class politics for identity politics. In this case, he served as a mouthpiece for the medical-industrial complex, using a covert recording to misrepresent my words and claim I was unfit to speak at a schools conference, despite my long-standing record in that very role.

That secret recording, made by so-called gender-critical activists, has since been repeatedly used by trans activists to smear me — proof of how the woke gender-criticals often end up doing their opponents’ work for them.

In response to Barry’s attack, a respected Irish journalist called Mick Clifford investigated the story and defended me in the Irish Examiner. However, it seems likely the paper came under pressure from trans activists, as his editor has since stuck to feel-good, celebratory stories about trans issues.

In June 2022, a group of women were barred from attending the National Women’s Council of Ireland AGM. They took to Joe Duffy’s Liveline, speaking on air over three days. It was an open, honest exchange — with voices from both sides — and offered a tantalising glimpse of what the Irish media could be: curious, balanced, and brave.

But the trans activists rallied. They accused RTÉ of platforming “transphobia” and announced that the broadcaster was banned from Dublin Pride. RTÉ responded with public contrition. Since then, it has cowered from criticising the trans phenomenon.

Despite hundreds of calls to Liveline raising serious concerns, gender-critical women haven’t been given the chance to speak on the issue since.

Whenever the Irish media began to engage with trans issues, they did so weakly, belatedly, and with little real understanding. Many Irish journalists behave more like mouthpieces — focused on promoting their outlet’s position rather than uncovering the truth. Some newspapers now resemble a 21st-century version of Pravda, nervously repeating the approved narrative to stay popular.

There are a few honourable exceptions — Eilis O’Hanlon, David Quinn, Newstalk, and Gript and others have consistently covered the issue. But most of the media focus on “trans joy” and the wonders of Pride, delivered in a tone that feels embarrassingly out of date, like a grandad at a 21st thinking he’s trendy in skinny jeans. They’re years behind the curve, roughly where British and American outlets were in 2016 or 2017.

“Tits not lists”, a banner protesting the long waiting lists in Irish gender services

By 2022 it had become clear that I’d been blacklisted by RTÉ. They were deep into their Act of Contrition to the trans activists. Determined to prove their allegiance, they began broadcasting an increasing number of features celebrating the supposed joys of medical transition — without ever acknowledging the growing number of harrowing detransition stories being reported elsewhere.

RTÉ, once a regular caller, stopped contacting me altogether — the silence began shortly after Dublin Pride publicly reprimanded them for platforming “anti-trans voices.” After that, it was like a switch had been flipped. Overnight, I became persona non grata.

No one said it outright. That’s how it works. It’s a respectable kind of cancellation — all smiles and silence. But make no mistake: the message was clear. The whispers turned into avoidance. Longstanding professional relationships dissolved without explanation. I wasn’t challenged — I was ghosted. Quietly, comprehensively, and in a way that allowed those doing it to feel righteous rather than cruel.

And anyone who stood by me risked the same treatment.

At the beginning of 2023, I was preparing to release my book What Your Teen is Trying to Tell You — a broad-based guide to adolescent mental health. It covered a wide range of topics, including anxiety, eating disorders, and school refusal. It wasn’t particularly focused on trans issues, as my other book, When Kids Say They’re Trans (also released in 2023), explored that subject in more depth.

The release of a book is a highly orchestrated affair. RTÉ comes first, followed by other radio stations, and then print interviews. Everything is timed with precision so the PR campaign can land cleanly and effectively. My publishers had arranged an interview with Miriam O’Callaghan, which would be followed by a series of other media appearances. The RTÉ interview was the cornerstone of the campaign.

That’s why I became concerned when Brendan O’Connor — who had previously endorsed my work with enthusiasm — asked the publishers to remove his name from the cover of my book.

My worry doubled when the publishers who had booked my interview with Miriam O’Callaghan the previous December, cancelled this live segment a week before the book’s release. Suddenly, without any explanation, the PR campaign was derailed.

I happened to know the producer, so I called and said what everyone already knew: they were afraid of trans activists — even though What Your Teen is Trying to Tell You had nothing to do with gender issues. They were suitably embarrassed and assured me they would discuss this further.

The next day, they rang back and agreed to have me on — on the condition that I avoid any mention of trans issues. I agreed. The following day, they called again to say the interview would have to be pre-recorded. I pointed out that I knew them well, had no history of going off-script, and that pre-recording would throw off the timing of the book’s release. They wouldn’t budge. I had little choice, so I agreed.

The next day, they called to say they’d changed their minds — now I had to mention trans issues, as they “couldn’t be seen to avoid the subject.” I agreed again. Then, another phone call came, the fourth call, as they wanted to negotiate the exact wording of the question Miriam would ask. I agreed once more.

It was all a mess. Because the interview was pre-recorded, it didn’t air on schedule — and my carefully planned PR campaign fell apart.

Last week, I spoke about all this on The State of Us podcast with Ian O’Doherty. We talked about what it’s like to live through a slow-burn cancellation — to watch people you once trusted treat your honest, thoughtful stance as if it were dangerous.

Cancel culture in Ireland is a quiet deletion. A slow fade. No confrontation. No warning. Just the creeping realisation that you’ve been scrubbed from the invite list — not because you changed your values, but because you stuck to them.

And yes, it’s cost me — professionally, personally, socially. I’m not the same person I was. I’m more guarded now, more pessimistic, with a darker view of human nature. But I don't regret it. Something was wrong, and I spoke up. If telling the truth means being cast out, so be it. I’d rather stand with integrity than stay silent and betray vulnerable people. And I know I’m not standing alone — because truth has a way of drawing people to its flame.

Listen here: The State of Us – Episode 3: The State of Us podcast with Ian O’Doherty

As always, I welcome your thoughts. Let me know what you think in the comments — and thank you, as ever, for supporting this work.