At home with the Proctors
Alan, Sally and Stephen Proctor walked sombrely to Church. It was the joint funeral of two family friends, ‘Labour’ Dave and ‘Pompous’ Alex. Dave and Alex, who were “good socialists”, had come to know the Proctors by performing philanthropic acts of voluntary social work in the block of flats in which the Proctors lived.
Their voluntary work had entailed vital acts, which really got to the root of social depravity, works such as picking up discarded hypodermics and returning them to their owners and painting over profane graffiti. The work had been indispensable, and, in Alex’s case, a real sacrifice, as he had balanced his social work with being an in-house DJ at ‘Filth’.
Dave and Alex had died of a mortifying sense of irrepressible loss, caused by New Labour’s electoral catastrophe and the fact that John Prescott had an affair. However, it was also a big day for the Proctors. Stephen had fulfilled his childhood dream by making it into the funeral direction business. The last incumbent of Stephen’s job had resigned for ‘personal reasons’. An ebullient Stephen was recounting these ‘personal reasons’ to his beaming father.
“You see Dad, this old boy wanted to cross-dress.” “Eh?” “Yeah. He wanted to dress as a woman usher.” “Disgusting,” grunted Alan, whose love of discipline and propriety could not accommodate transvestites, especially when they were providing services. “A woman usher. Didn’t know they had ‘em?” Sally inquired. “And never a he-she usher!” Alan interjected. Stephen explained, “Said he’d recently experienced a ‘psychological gender change’.” “Bloody hell.
“Well yeah. But apparently under new legislation, if you’re over eighteen you have the human right to determine your own gender. Don’t matter if it’s different from the one you got at birth.” Alan was speechless. Stephen continued, “Under this, he reckoned he should be allowed to dress as a female usher.” “Sounds alright,” said Sally. Alan swore in disgust.
“Problem was, the he-she had horrible pasty and hairy legs, which he wouldn’t shave because of women’s lib,” said Stephen. “Oh Jesus!” Alan blasphemed uncontrollably, just as he entered the Church. “Why wouldn’t they let him?” Sally asked. “Well they did sort of, said he could work from home, but not the office or a Church.
“Why?” “The boss said, ‘the sight of an usher in drag’, with horrid, hairy and pale legs, ‘might cause embarrassment, distress and disruption during the funeral’.” Stephen then earnestly explained, “That’s an atmosphere which is incompatible with most mourners’ wishes. And at the office, it wasn’t clear whether he’d use the Gents, and it wouldn’t be right for him to use the ladies. So he sort of had to resign. He’ll probably take us to an employment tribunal.
11th May 2006