The Manopause & The Transgendered Song Of The Damned

The Manopause & The Transgendered Song Of The Damned
It's not for me to say whether there is such a thing as the mAnopause or not. But, given that I have had some dealings with the craziness of hormonal fluctuations, I wouldn't doubt that it did exist. Take my old man for instance, if he isn't a case in point of a guy reaching a certain age and going doo-lally, well . . .
What has piqued my interest in this whole area of rampantly surging, and, totally uncontrollable hormones, is news straight off the mojo wires from my auld country of birth refarding a dosed-up transgendered woman running amok in a supermarket and then blaming it all of the menopause. Is it possible? Well, several emminent psychobabblers back there in Camelot claim so. Interesting, I thought, I mean, were the 'menopausal' symptons the poor, besotted and deranged, tranny experienced while lunging at frigid supermarket stackers and tweed-attired ladies straight from Marks & Sparks, a female menopause or some hybrid manopause sparked by heavily-concentrated doses of mare urine? Where is the line? Ye gods, is there even a line? I hear, from very unreliable sources using the last remaining BT phonebox on the Whitechapel Road, that in the public bar that night the argument was both heated, and, uh, testy. I can just imagine it.
But, look at it in the vice versa: I mean, say if my aunt Joan suddenly decided she was going to be become uncle Jack, which is all well and good and no one's business but her (his) own I might add, and then uncle Jack ran amok in Sainsbury's, would that be a menopausal woman, a mAnopausal man, or, some transcendentapausal crossbred? Jesus, hormones are dangerous things, and, being liberally used, as they are, by a medical profession barely aware of the full detrimental effects of the damned things, sometimes makes me wake up shivering with sweat. Oh, that's the hormones doing that of course, not my own fear. In fact, I have no fear, not since I heard the Icelandic ditty entitled 'The Transgendered Song Of The Damned', a rollicking sea-shanty-esque ode that was once used by grizzled harpooners up on the decks greasing their instruments of destruction for the hunt ahead.
What are Icelandic harpooners doing singing about the transgendered anyhow? The world is a strange and bizarre place, especially in Reykjavik I'm told. Where gender-bending, enemas and oilskins are big business. Everywhere I look thesedays, there is madness . . .