Domestic violence, also known as domestic abuse, spousal abuse, child abuse or intimate partner violence (IPV), can be broadly defined as a pattern of abusive behaviors by one or both partners in an intimate relationship such as marriage, dating, family, friends or cohabitation. Domestic violence has many forms including physical aggression (hitting, kicking, biting, shoving, restraining, slapping, throwing objects), or threats thereof; sexual abuse; emotional abuse; controlling or domineering; intimidation; stalking; passive/covert abuse (e.g., neglect); and economic deprivation. Domestic violence may or may not constitute a crime, depending on local statutes, severity and duration of specific acts, and other variables. Alcohol consumption and mental illness can be co-morbid with abuse, and present additional challenges when present alongside patterns of abuse.
As a woman of a certain age I am shocked and appalled by the sewer that we live in these days. Times change so quickly and before you know it you’ve unwittingly made another faux pas in this politically correct cesspit of a culture. Ron Atkinson can tell you how that feels. I’m sure you all remember the pivotal moment, the embarrassment, the shame, the media frenzy and the shunning of a once great man. Yes you’ve guessed it, I’m talking about him going on Countdown while Des Lynham was host. While I’ve flicked my bean over Des many a time (and will continue to do so, even if society dictates that I should not do it on the London Underground anymore), the show should have died with Richard Whitely. As Vorderman should have. Bitch is 5 years older then me, looks like she could be my daughter, but what an arse! Anyway, I digress.
Two nights ago, while enjoying an order of Kentucky Fried Chicken in my local KFC Emporium, I was shocked and stunned to see some chavette giving all manner of abuse to what must have been her boyfriend. However he was no boy and should have been no friend of hers given that she shouted that he was “an impotent fuckwit who never listens and who’s got the genitalia a fucking hamster would be ashamed of!”. There was more, a near five minute diatribe in fact, but I became distracted by the latest single from ‘The Saturdays’. This in turn made me think of football on a Saturday, then Match of the Day and before long I was back to Des Lynham, strumming away in front of a visibly disturbed Chinese mother of three and the Polish sort behind the counter. The chavette was too busy haranguing her ‘boyfriend’ to notice and he was too cowed and bowed to see beyond the last hot wing on his tray. He wanted it, it was obvious to all, but his bitch liked hot wings too. If he ate the last one there’d be hell to pay – what a fucking pussy!
Now, dear readers, we get to the crux of the matter. Twenty years previously, before I had the sex change operation and was no longer the person known as ‘Leslie Grantham’, I had been that man. I had been in that very same KFC weeping uncontrollably. The reason? Aversion therapy. For years the plight of the poor chickens, the freakshow poultry, reared without feathers or beaks, with outsized breasts and wings, born to be thrown into vats of boiling water and scream their way out of consciousness and into death, had caused me nightmares. I could hear them you see, I could hear the chickens, I could hear the chickens screaming. I CAN HEAR THE CHICKENS SCREAMING EVEN NOW!
rIGHT sOrRY AboUt that. WHere was I? Ah yes, aversion therapy (PLEASE STOP THE NOISE! I HAVEN’T SLEPT IN WEEKS FOR THE NOISE!). I went to KFC in an attempt to face my fears. As you can imagine, this was not easy and at the first sight of a Zinger Tower burger I crumbled, sobbing into my fries like a baby. My wife at the time, who we will call ‘Deceased Whore #1’ for now, took me to task in no uncertain terms, accusing me of not being a real man etc. I of course gave her a swift backhander that knocked her off her seat and onto the mayo and lettuce covered floor. The ‘crack’ of the slap turned every head in the room and all conversation stopped. As ‘Deceased Whore #1’ furtively tried to get back in her seat the gentlemen in the room each gave me a nod of acknowledgement before giving their spouses a dry slap too. “Before you get any fucking ideas”, said one, as he broke his wife’s nose!
There was a time when it was acceptable, indeed the norm, for the man of the house to give his good lady wife a beating if his tea wasn’t ready when he got in from the pub. As the radical feminist that I am now I long for a return to those days. I have such fond memories of deliberately ‘forgetting’ to put the dinner on for the first Mr H (who I married just after my op), safe in the knowledge that he’d blacken my left eye to match my right one. Back then men were men, children and chickens were seen and not heard, and us women got nailed up the shitter whether we wanted it or not – and legally too, happy days! Not any more though. That poor man in KFC had no such recourse in this vile age of ours. That’s why I kicked his bitch in the cunt til she bled instead, not that the prick was grateful!
Fear not though readers, as some good came of my night in the cells – a chance meeting with a muslim gentleman named Rashid. Now I have no truck for his islamic fairy tale – indeed, I would have happily told Rashid that Allah was a goat blowing, bacon sandwich eating paedophile but as I know she doesn’t exist I didn’t need to! However, some sense has prevailed as it turns out that you can stone your wife to death in Rashid’s country. Rashid had to carry out that very act himself after he discovered his wife had been raped, the adulterous whore! Obviously they bring it on themselves showing off so much eyelid to any Tom, Dick or Harry. Unfortunately for Rashid he’d forgotten he was in Bradford and not Baghdad when he killed Mrs R. So, things are looking up readers and you know what to do, if you want to continue to beat your missus then convert to Islam, but remember that your KFC must be halal from now on. CAN YOUR HEAR THEM? I CAN! CAN YOU HEAR THE CHICKENS SCREAMING?!
Night Rashid, take care.