On the getting of a gender recognition certificate
My adventures in the gender recognition trade.
Mostly harmless.
Now read on…
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Ramble
So, anyway. I felt like it was time to get my gender recognition certificate (grc). Cause i reckoned i needed my vagina “serviced” (™ — The Bad Baroness) by some NHS nurses. But it was gone tea-time already.
I phoned first thing next day. Tuesday. By early afternoon my shiny new certificate was winging its way down the motorway to me, courtesy of the magic of postage and the Royal Mail. By Thursday, i was done and dusted. Result!
My first official servicing is already booked.
And if you believe that, you are beyond gullible. Or a gender crit. Answers on a small postcard, please, to my secret address!
Pre-ramble
Why, really?
There’s this fairly obvious line i include in my stand-up. About how i transitioned for the cheap insurance and the early pension.
Then, blow me! (With surprise, you smutty reader, you!). They only went and changed the law, so…
