I seem to have a habit of continuing on a theme. Last time was about accepting the rough with the smooth. It’s less successful when you have to accept the rough with the rough.
Was at a lovely little event for two friends’ daughter’s communion at the weekend. Like most of my friends, we’re not bitter so the actual event was in the local Masonic Halls. I thought nothing of going there, as in general, I don’t encounter many social problems on account of being Transgender.
Had a fantastic little afternoon, with just one fly in the ointment. A bigoted fuck of a barman who insisted on calling me Sir every time he served me. Slowly. Deliberately. To cause offence.
I lasted three visits to the bar before I cracked. On the third occasion I beckoned the barmaid beside him over and politely informed her that if her colleague called me Sir one more time, I would pull him over the fucking bar. All she could do in response was stand there with her pendulous jaw swinging in the wind. Like a faulty metronome.
And that ended that. I’m not sure I’d have carried out that threat. It’s generally poor form to become embroiled in a fight at a child’s celebration. So I took one for the team and got on with enjoying the afternoon.
There are actual options for repercussions if I wished. Reporting the licensee for violating both the Equalities Act and the Prevention Of Harassment Act being just two. They are just as accountable for the actions of their employees as if they did it themselves.
But to what end? You don’t change the mind of bigoted throwbacks like that. So it remains pointless. It’s just another thing to chalk up to experience. And experience, good or bad, is always useful.
Next time, I’ll meet the fat fuck when his shift ends, armed with a brick and a cricket bat. If only because it amuses me to think of leaving him toothless, sobbing and mumbling, barely coherent, “Thank You Sir, May I Have Another?”. Of course I wouldn’t do that. While he will always be a prick, I can at least try to be a lady.