At Home with the Proctors
It was a crisis. Alan and Sally Proctor were sitting at the kitchen table confronting their youngest son Brian. Earlier that afternoon, the police had paid the Proctors a visit. The visitors weren’t actually policemen as such. They were in fact officers of the fearsome Community Support Unit: a conglomerate of Lolli-Pop ladies and bumptious traffic wardens, consumed by their fabulously ineffectual power trip, as they posed as Officers of The Law.
It was however the first time in a decade that a policeman • even one who was merely a powerless poseur • had been seen in Headington. For that alone, it was a memorable occasion. The occasion was less than auspicious, for it had transpired over the course of the day that fifteen year old Brian Proctor was a rent boy. Brian’s career move was his answer to the recent cessation of his pocket money. He had advertised extensively on the internet.
The Community Support Officers had a warrant for Brian’s arrest. He had been charged, under the Street Offences Act 1959 with “loitering or soliciting in a public place for the purpose of prostitution”. The Community Support Officers had given him an ASBO for good measure, because they never missed an opportunity to do so. Brian had not denied these charges, and he would stand trial at the local Magistrates Court in two months. Alan was livid, Sally was trying to comprehend.
Alan went on the offensive, “What about this profile?” “What about it?” Brian replied. “Well, under the heading ‘Services’ for instance?” Sally interjected, “Domination, fetish and role-play. Sexual preferences: gay.” “I’m not really…” “Oh really! I suppose you just dabble occasionally!” “You get more money if you…” “Brian, I don’t want to know. It’s absolutely disgusting. To think I had a part in your upbringing.
“Alan shut up! We’re trying to help.” Sally continued examining the profile, “Endowment: eight and half inches.” “Christ,” said Alan, humbled and undermined. “Yeah Dad, to think you had a part in my upbringing.” Sally looked earnestly at Brian and said, “I can’t comment on the specifics, but we’ll stand by. I won’t discipline you for this.” “Not gonna discipline him! That’s appalling. They should bring back hanging for people like him.
“Alan! This is your son! If you’d provide for him and stop bullying he wouldn’t be in this mess.” “Provide for him?” Alan exclaimed, gesturing in disbelief to the opulence that was the Proctor’s floral motif kitchen. “Pocket money.” “I’m not paying him £120 an hour.” At which point, Brian interjected, “Actually, I’ll stay on The Game; it pays better.” Alan had had enough.
He admitted he’d failed as a parent, and called the Social Services to have him taken to a Retirement home.
25th May 2006