A FANNY FOR A TRANNIE

We are as God made us, and if you believe that you will believe anything. From tits to bums to wrinkles on the brow, all can be changed at the flash of a scalpel. What the Almighty thinks of this assault on his handiwork Heaven only knows, but he must feel a soupcon of compassion for the Human race or we would all believe in man made climate change or that Elvis is alive and living over a chip shop on Balham High Street. The current flavour of the month amongst our metropolitan elite is the transgender community, or in plain English, them that’s had a chop and a change in regions of the anatomy not normally mentioned in polite society, a procedure invariably referred to as gender re-assignment. And if you have not worked out what I am getting at by this stage, then take my advice and give up while ignorance is still in a state of bliss. Now gender re-assignment is what used, in more robust times, to be called a sex change, a procedure certain people elected to undergo, folk who are unable to get to grips with what fate had endowed them with. Such a decision must be accompanied by great courage as who in their right mind would elect to have their knobs sliced off, and not by the missus after finding her old man playing the field on Ashley Madison. The latest craze is for children to be groomed as potential transgender candidates, some as young as three. Three! You may ask. Correct, children as young as three thinking about a sex change when they have yet to master the art of sitting on the pot without falling arse over tea kettle? Doubt me not dear readers, it is happening. Of course three year old tots are not hallucinating over the prospects of sex, but their mothers are, and their offspring are being carted off for counselling. Naturally. There is no condition in the human psyche, however preposterous that does not have a councillor waiting to administer to it, the dafter the problem the better, more money for the quack. Talking about cash, who pays for all this nonsense? You do, counsellors do not come cheap but they do come on the NHS. There is a woman in North Wales who is encouraging her eight year old boy to dress as a girl, the woman must be English as North Wales is hardly Hampstead, I bet they haven’t even heard of sushi in that neck of the woods. The young lad will be bullied senseless, but not to worry, mum will take him to a therapist and all will be made ten times worse. That woman has six other children and no husband, well there wouldn’t would there, a man would have given the lad a clip around the earhole then bought him a football so as the straighten him out. The salient factor in all this fandango is the mothers, they are without a shadow of doubt what in this day and age is termed a yummy mummy, you know the type, in all probability privately educated, speaks in a fake working class accent, is constipated with political correctness, shops at Waitrose and votes Labour, what hope can their children possibly have? What is the future for this middle class fad? Economics innit. Before we know where we are, our high streets will be littered with outlets called Fannies R Us catering for this new craze, then the supermarkets will get onto the craze, not Waitrose you understand, but Tesco? You bet. I can see it now, banners over the store fronts announcing “Buy two bags of spuds and get a fanny half price”. So, there you have it. Trannies of the World unite, you have nothing to lose but your balls.