As the winter solstice approaches, and as the yuletide festivities remind us of what marvels can occur, Pissed-off Toff announces to the world that he self-identifies as a trans-species parrot.
For some years now I have felt a vague sense of unease, the source of which I was unable to identify.
It all began when my arms started twitching and flapping after I got out of bed in the morning. Then, when I went for my daily walk in Hyde Park, I felt the most extraordinary sense of one-ness and togetherness with the numerous parakeets now living there. Later, and especially after a couple of G&Ts in the evening, I started screeching, unstoppably. High-pitched screeches and squarks, time and time again. Like this: “Pretty Polly! Pissed-off Toff! Pretty Polly!! Pissed-off Toff!!”
Something, I knew, was profoundly wrong, terribly mis-aligned. My body felt alien to me; my mind equally so. What was going on, I wondered? And then, in what can only be described as a Damascene moment, the answer revealed itself.
I am, in fact, a parrot.
As various transgendered humans will tell you, if you say you are a woman, then you are a woman. Full stop. No question. And what applies to trans-gender must also apply to trans-species. N’est-ce pas? I am, I now realise, the first ever trans-species parrot … a parrot born into a human body, ‘assigned human at birth’, as they say, but finally on the way to regaining its genuine avian identity (I’ve got the possessive pronoun correct, too, you will note).
And what a relief it is, to be true to my real self. For the past few weeks I have been living ‘in-species’ … just as trans people like to live ‘in-gender’ before making the full transition to their chosen sex. I now hop happily out of bed in the morning, before enjoying a healthy breakfast of nuts and seeds. Then I go into the drawing room, there to sit on a custom-made reinforced perch. Then I squark and screech a bit, and hop around the flat. And come six o’clock, I mix myself a nice Pina Colada (rum and pineapple juice, for those of you who don’t know) … quite delicious, and it takes one back to one’s ancestral home in the West Indies.
Already, I am in consultation with a friendly vet about ‘species realignment surgery’ … and I am looking forward to having my horrible arms turned into nice feathery wings, and my nasty mouth turned into a nice healthy beak. (See above for a photograph of the suave figure I will cut.)
When that is done, I’ll ask our admirable and most capable prime minister Theresa May, who seems to be all in favour of transgenderism, to up her game from revising the frankly inadequate Gender Recognition Act, and to introduce a long-overdue Species Recognition Bill. When approved by Parliament, this will give me the right to ‘self-identify’ as a parrot, and to be legally recognised as such. And high time too!
Yes! A parrot!! That is what I am!!! I know it!!!! I feel it!!!!! And I long to see it on my passport, with an appropriate photo and appropriate details, thus:
Name: Pissed-off Parrot
Species: Avian (parrot)
Gender: M (?)
Age: MYOB
Occupation: Trans-species spokes-parrot
As the question mark in the above personal data suggests, there’s another thing, too. Because although I now self-identify as a male parrot, I am beginning to wonder whether I’m a straight male parrot. Perhaps I’m a gay parrot? Or perhaps I’m really a female parrot trapped inside the body of a soon-to-be trans-species male parrot? In which case, one would be looking at not just ‘species realignment surgery’, as they say, but at ‘species realignment surgery’ plus ‘gender realignment surgery’ on the side.
Sometimes it’s all a bit muddling. So I’m thinking it’s time for a stiff Pina Colada, in true West Indies parrot style … and perhaps I’ll play a Chopin prelude on the Steinway grand, before I have those horrid human hands chopped off and turned into beautiful feathery wing-tips. There will be no going back after that. But I am quite sure that it is the right decision.
Who wants to be human, after all?
