Death

I've lost 2 friends in the past couple of weeks. First there was Tracey, and then Stella this weekend.

I knew Stella long before she was famous. Before she was a comedian. Before she was a writer. When she was someone who hung about on disability messageboards like the (now closed) BBC Ouch boards. In fact, years before she started doing stand up she said to me "I plan to come to England one day and seeing you perform is one of the things I want to do."

Though I knew her for a decade online, I've actually only met her twice; and they were both while she was here covering the Paralympics 2 years ago for the Aussie press. First at a protest outside Atos's HQ, then at a rugby match. She never saw me do stand up, I had to quit due to illness in 2007. Five years before she came over here.

Felicity Ward, Tiernan Douieb, Stella and me
One of the first things I noticed about Stella when I met her was that she sits on the front edge of her wheelchair seat, and sticks everything like her phone in the space behind her - between her butt and her wheelchair's backrest. I noticed because my mum did exactly the same thing: Her handbag, usually a tape measure, and all other kinds of junk were stuffed between mum's back, and the backrest of her chair. Even me when I was small enough to fit. On Saturday it'll be the 6th anniversary of my mum's death.

Tracey's death was sad, but not surprising. When I first met her 20 years ago she'd already lost a younger sister to the same condition she had. I knew she wasn't going to be around forever. Stella's death was an utter shock. I read about it on Twitter on my phone and my hands started shaking. She seemed so vibrant and healthy. Just a couple of weeks ago she wrote a letter to her future self.

When people with OI die; everyone breaks out the snowflakes. It's become a motif. Stella hated it. When a mutual Facebook friend of ours died in October; Stella posted the following status update:

This weekend a young woman with OI that I only knew from Facebook died. I was really sad to hear it. I didn't know her well at all, but she seemed like an interesting person and someone who was highly regarded in the OI and LGBT community.

Within hours, my facebook feed was flooded with pictures of snowflakes. And poems about snowflakes. And analogies about snowflakes melting as a symbol of death. Apparently at some point a parent of a kid with OI decided that their kid was like a snowflake. Presumably because having Osteogenesis Imperfecta make you small, fragile, delicate, unique, blah, blah, blah. Whatever. Call your own child whatever nickname floats your boat. They may grow up loving it, or they may grow up rolling their eyes. Who knows. But this snowflake business seems to have caught on in the OI community and it makes me pretty uncomfortable.

I understand why it may resonate with some people, and having a symbol like that can be comforting when you lose someone from a community you feel a part of. It does remind us of our own mortality. And I know there's no real harm in just letting people have their thing.

But in case I get hit by a bus tomorrow, I want to make something clear.

I am not a snowflake. I am not a sweet, infantilising symbol of the fragility of life. I am a strong, fierce, flawed adult woman. I plan to remain that way in life, and in death.

The second I read about her death I remembered she'd written that and had to dig out that status from 2 months ago and share it on Twitter and Facebook before everyone started changing their userpics to snowflakes.

And people have respected her wishes. I haven't seen a single snowflake.

But BuzzFeed are dicks.

In 2012, Stella wrote this:

It doesn't matter how we got like this. Really. Are you asking because you want to know or because you need to?

So I can just imagine how she'd feel about an article Brad Esposito wrote. I'm not going to link to it, I don't want to reward their clickbait with clicks. But here are snippets in the context of a review.

These are almost certainly not Stella's x-ray's. They'll just be random ones found from a google image search. But for fuck's sake; you can make out the genitalia of the people involved even if they are anonymous.

I'm disgusted that someone would use a person's death for an excuse to break out the x-rays to give the public a good gawp at what our freaky skeletons look like. As Stella had discussed; the public want to know, they don't need to know. A disabled person's medical history, such as x-ray's of what someone will have vaguely looked like under the skin, are not in the public interest. The name of her condition, sure. Her cause of death if that comes to light, yes. But anatomical images of her insides? No.

Stella was fortunate that she'd made her wishes about snowflakes clear before she died so wasn't subjected to them. I know I'm not going to be memorialised in the same way: I'm not famous, I'm not popular, I'm just benefit scrounging scum. I won't be remembered by former Prime Ministers, news outlets won't write articles about me. I'll be lucky if more than 5 people show up to my funeral and 3 people write blog posts about me.

But I feel I need to make the following quite clear:

• No snowflakes either. I'm not small and delicate. I weigh 75kg: You would not want a snowflake my size landing on you. I'd crush you and the imprint left in the snow after I'd squished you would not look like the traditional snow angel.
• No bullshit clickbait fetishising my deformed bones. My innards are my innards. Porn is about seeing the normally unseeable, like getting a good view up someone's cunt. When I was doing my MA in Cult TV I read CSI described as "the porn of death" because with the autopsies, and "the CSI shot" where you get to see a bullet smashing it's way through someone's chest, that's about seeing the normally unseeable too. This kind of article is basically impairment porn: Where you get a have a bloody good look at all someone's unusual bits, both inside and out.
• Do not use the word "RIP" in reference to me. Seriously. If you care that I'm gone you can either type the three whole words "rest in peace" or just not bother.
• Can someone please play Raise Your Glass by P!nk at my funeral. I may be wrong, but it's in all the right ways.

If someone does write that kind of impairment gawp fodder about me, please direct them to this post. These next 5 words are for them:

Fuck you, you creepy arsehole.

In the same article as "It doesn't matter how we got like this. Really. Are you asking because you want to know or because you need to?" She carried on that paragraph with:

If you're just sitting next to one of us on the train, or taking our order at a cafe, you don't actually need to know. If we've actually met and had a conversation beyond "Do you want honey with your chai?" then perhaps it gets a little more relevant. It might come up in conversation, and when it does, we'll be happy to tell you. It's just not a very good opening line.

TV and articles like that one by BuzzFeed just feed into the public notion that a disabled person's medical history is public property that absolute strangers feel they have a right to demand from you. As well as the examples Stella listed, I've been asked by strangers on the bus if I have phantom limb pain, despite the fact that I've had nothing amputated. I once had a woman on the High Street ask what happened to me... and then carry on walking without waiting to hear my answer (which would have been expletives, obviously). She just asked and carried on walking like "did you have an accident?" is some kind of cripple's alternative to the nod and "alright?" that you generally offer when you acknowledge someone's presence in the street.

I was sad when I woke up this morning. But now I'm angry. Angry that Buzzfeed would exploit the death of a popular comedian and activist to get people to click and stare at what her skeleton looked roughly like. Despite it being the kind of thing she publicly railed against.

The #BigBangTheory Season 6: My thoughts

Seeing as season 6 finished in the UK about a month ago, and season 7 starts in the US tonight, I can't imagine there's anyone that gives a crap about The Big Bang Theory that hasn't seen the sixth series in its entirety. But just in case; I'll put the rest of this post beneath a jump.

♫...So come on let me entertain you...♫

Nine years ago an old friend sat on his living room floor and uttered one sentence which would change my life. Yesterday I saw him for the first time since that night.

In July 2002 I was doing a week's work in a school back home in Cambridge. It was after my parents had moved from Cambridge to the arse-end of nowhere so I crashed at some friends' house in Ely for the week. One night I was in the pub which had kinda been my local for the last year I lived in Cambridge; when in walked someone I'd gone to Long Road with about 6 years earlier and had not seen since.

He was living in Brighton at the time and was also on a fairly fleeting visit back to Cambridge. After lots of talking we agreed that I could stay at his in Brighton after Pride the following month.

So the night of Pride in 2002 we sat in his living room talking half the night and getting even more wasted than we already were. I mean so wasted that on the train the next day I was grateful for those shitty old trains where wheelchair users had to sit in the guard's van out of sight of all the non-disabled passengers. No-one could see how green I looked and I could occasionally whimper because there was no-one around to hear it.

At one point I said something that made him laugh: Made him laugh so hard that he fell off his chair. Once he'd regained enough composure to be able to speak he said "you should do stand-up."

I don't remember what I said, but I'm sure that under the harsh light of sobriety it wouldn't be remotely entertaining. However, his remark sparked a thought process in my head that I couldn't shake off.

I'd been a fan of stand-up for a long time. Like most people my age, my introduction to comedy was The Mary Whitehouse Experience. The first time I saw it, aged 12 at a sleepover at a friend's house, I remember laughing so hard I couldn't breathe: It was the single greatest thing I had ever seen. In 1992 Both Newman & Baddiel and Punt & Dennis toured the UK and played at the Cambridge Corn Exchange. I remember Newman & Baddiel came to town in April 1992; my 13th birthday was in May and I begged so hard for tickets as an early birthday present. That gig was the first time I saw live stand up, and was followed about 2 months later by seeing Punt & Dennis. Having had my appetite for stand-up whetted I saw several other comics off the telly when they came to town like Jo Brand and Jack Dee. And, of course, Newman & Baddiel and Punt & Dennis a few more times.

I'd always loved performing but the thought of being a stand-up had never crossed my mind. I actually kinda thought that being that funny was like a superpower and it wasn't something that regular people could do. His comment triggered this niggle in my brain that "well maybe I could do it?"

I spent the next two years procrastinating on the idea, while seeing loads of comedy. I regularly went to comedy clubs, to see solo shows at theatres and I went to loads of TV and radio comedy recordings on account of them being free and me being a poor student. It wasn't unheard of for me to go see comedy 4 or 5 times in a week.

When I started doing stand up in November 2004 I very quickly realised that I'd found what I wanted to do with my life. I loved it. Of course, I'm the unluckiest person in the world so stand up dreams were shattered by illness.

I gave it up in 2007 when I became too ill too often to carry on. I was hoping that my health problems would only be temporary and that a few pills here, quick operation there and I'd be good to get back to it. So I decided to bow out before I alienated every promoter in the country. If you're booked to do a gig and you have to cancel on the day because it's a "spend the day in bed with a bottle of morphine" day then you're going to put that promoter in a bind. It doesn't matter that you're genuinely ill, you've left that promoter in a tight spot with a gap in their bill and only a couple of hours to fix things. So they're never going to book you again and are probably going to badmouth you to other promoters that they meet. Luckily the only promoters I pissed off with my health-related unreliableness were small fish rather than any of the really key national bookers. But it was only a matter of time.

It's looking increasingly like I'll probably never be well enough to work again. Kinda ironic really that the current political situation for disabled people in the UK has given me so much I want to say through the medium of comedy; more than I've ever wanted to say before. And the stories I want to tell are so shaped by being ill that I probably wouldn't have the same stories to tell if I was well enough to go out and tell them.

It was politics that led me to bump into him yesterday. I quickly popped in to the Bank of Ideas to check out the access so I could write it up on WtB. I'd been in the building only a few seconds when someone brushed past me and mumbled "Hi Lisa" as he did so. It was him; the guy who'd told me to do stand-up. We didn't chat long because I couldn't stay; this current infection had me feeling like I was dying. Honestly on the bus home I felt almost as nauseated as I did on that aforementioned train journey 9 years ago. We were catching up and he said "I know you're a comedian now..."

"And I have you to thank for that. Do you remember that night 9 years ago when I crashed at yours after Pride? I said something that made you fall off your chair laughing and you told me I should do stand-up."

He didn't remember.

♫...Take the National Express when your life’s in a mess, it’ll make you smile...♫

On October 9th (yes, I know it's taken me nearly a month to write this up, my health sucks) I took part in UK Uncut's Block the Bridge, Block the Bill protest.

Just like the last UK Uncut thingum I went to; I did a few funnies. Only this time the fab @miggiuk filmed it:



I apologise for saying "erm" and "you know" quite so much. You have to remember it's more than 4 years since I was forced to give up comedy due to illness so I'm rather unrehearsed these days. Miggiuk filmed all the comedy and put it on YouTube so after my ums and ahs go watch some other people who are properly funny as a palate cleanser for the soul.

There's a transcript below the jump. I'm afraid I don't have the techno know-how to turn that into synchronised subtitles on the video itself so if anyone does then please let me know.

♫ = National Express by The Divine Comedy

Ricky Gervais and the politics of Mong

I've just realised how long it is since I last blogged. I knew I'd been ill for a while but I didn't realise it'd been nearly 6 months.

You know that feeling when you've eaten a huge, huge, meal (e.g. on Xmas day): You feel exhausted because all your blood has rushed to your stomach leaving no energy for the rest of your body to do anything. But at the same time you can't sleep because your digestive system is working so hard. And of course you can't force any food down because you already feel like you're going to explode. Normally the sensation only lasts a couple of hours until your system has made good progress of dealing with the oversized meal.

I've felt like that since the beginning of June. I've spent much of the summer depending on meal replacement drinks because I couldn't force any food down. I've had no energy to do anything (e.g. blog) because my digestive system has been being so irrational and I've also not been sleeping because of the digestive mania which has been increasing the sensation of exhaustion.

Despite the fact that I'd much rather be lazing, watching telly and eating Cadbury's Deadheads (because they're the only thing I've managed to eat today without ending up bent barfing over the bog within 60 seconds) I felt I had to quickly comment about this week's Ricky Gervais mong twitstorm. Everyone else is blogging about it and I just love a bandwagon.

It seems a lot of people don't know the origin of the word, so in a nutshell: It's an impairment-specific insult and refers to people with Down's Syndrome. In the 1860s Dr John Langdon Down decided to classify people with learning difficulties by "which country they looked like they came from" (really!) and he thought people with an extra 21st chromosome looked like they came from Mongolia so named the condition 'Mongolism'. (Later renamed after Dr Down because the Mongolians took offense.) So 'mong' isn't really associated solely with people with DS, it's also a slightly racist term with regards to citizens of Mongolia.

Gervais apparently thinks he has some kind of "right" to reclaim the word "mong"; despite the fact that - as far as I'm aware - he does not have Mongolian citizenship. He maintains that the definition of mong has moved on and it's no longer anything to do with Down's. Though that argument loses credence when you realise that 4 hours later he posted a tweet using the word "twongols", clearly derived from the term "mongols" further establishing the link between "mong" and the outdated diagnosis of mongolism.

It's been quite big news with most papers and radio shows discussing whether or not "mong" is offensive to people with Down's. I've seen quotes from Nicky Clark, Richard Herring and Christina Martin on the offensiveness debate. Odd thing is: They're all non-disabled. Don't get me wrong, they're all great disability rights activists and I value their contributions to making the world a slightly better place. I'm constantly pointing out how much we need non-disabled people to give a crap about disability issues. So I'm gonna repeat it and italicise it this time to really drive home my point: they're all great disability rights activists and I value their contributions. And I have no issue with them giving their opinions on these issues when asked for them.

But it's odd that when the subject is "is mong offensive to people with Down's Syndrome?" That the only people being asked for their opinion on the subject are non-disabled disability rights activists. Radio presenters would never ask "is using 'gay' as a pejorative offensive to homosexuals or has the meaning of the word changed?" Without including LGBT folk in the debate. So why aren't people with Down's Syndrome invited onto the radio to discuss how they feel about Gervais's words? Why is it only non-disabled people who are being asked for their opinion? That's the bit that bothers me; not that non-disabled people are giving their opinions, but that people with Down's are not being asked.

Not only is the exclusion of people with Down's from a debate about Down's almost as problematic as Gervais's original tweets, it also seems like a circular discussion that we'll never reach the end of. People without Down's can express their opinions but until we ask people with Down's Syndome "does mong offend you?" We'll never have a definitive answer to the question "is mong offensive to people with Down's Syndrome?" AOL can run polls asking the general populace their opinion but until people with an extra 21st chromosome are included in the debate it's all very abstract and inconclusive.

I'd be particularly interested to hear the opinion of actor Russell Ramsay who was in an episode of Extras so having worked with Gervais probably has an insight into both sides of the debate. (Random fact: When I was a child my parents would drag me kicking and screaming to church every week. I went to Sunday School with Russell. Haven't seen him in at least 20 years though.)

Despite the fact that we haven't yet got a conclusive answer as to whether or not people with Down's find "mong" offensive today (because they haven't been asked) the history of the word is clearer: It's historically a term of abuse and a form of hate speech. Disablist hate crime is on the up due in no small part to the bullshit rhetoric being peddled by the government and press in attempt to whip up support for welfare reform. People are getting called a "scrounging cunt" in the street or being followed down the road by someone shouting "fucking DLA stick" at them. That Gervais is using an historically abusive term so liberally and encouraging his fans to use it is pouring fuel on the already raging fires of hate. Ironically Gervais is calling people who disagree with him "haters" and stipulating that they only disagree with him because they're jealous of his success. If being successful means that you feel superior to members of oppressed minorities and have a licence to use abusive language then I'd rather remain unsuccessful but a decent human being.

How I spent March 26th

Based on the TUC's access info I'd planned to meet a bunch of other WtBers in Savoy Street for 11am. This was supposed to be the gathering point for disabled people to have a "safe space" at the front of the march. I have brittle bones and I was with 2 people whose joints dislocate easily so the notion of a "safe" space where we wouldn't get smacked around was pretty important for us to protest, you know, safely.

Apparently no-one hit the TUC with a clue stick. The gathering point in Savoy Street wasn't actually at the front of the march. That would've been much too sensible. They had us gather in Savoy Street and then walk through the crowd to get to the front of the march:

The pink cross on the map shows where we gathered and the turquoise line shows how far we had to walk through a sea of people to get to that "safety". Moving through large crowds as a wheelchair user is not easy at the best of times. You're at arse height to everyone else and people don't tend to look down when they move around so they walk into you, trip over you and generally leave you feeling pretty bruised. Add banners, flags and other things that feel like weapons when people hit you with them and it's even worse.

So that the TUC had us gather some distance away and then walk through the crowd where we got a bit battered was a serious common sense fail. Between the lack of logic and getting smacked around I started off the march really quite pissed off.

This was us gathering in Savoy Street looking cheerful prior to our adventure through the crowd:

This was my view of people's backs as we were making our way through the crowd:

And it's worth noting that I took this photo at a point while walking through the crowd when I had enough room around me to actually do so! I spent a lot of the time using my arms to protect my face from people's backpacks and such.

Eventually we did make it to the "special" spot:

Jack as taken by his wife Emsy

Thankfully once we'd made it through the crowd and the march set off there were no more such access fail dramas. As a result I began to really enjoy myself. The following 3 photos were taken by Emsy during the march:

>

We made it into Hyde Park at about 1pm (after what seemed like quite a long human traffic jam at Hyde Park Corner). Most of us quickly nipped to the loo and then headed off to Soho Square for the UK Uncut comedy at 2. I didn't want to stick around in Hyde Park for the rally mainly because Mr "I'm in favour of cutting disability benefits" Miliband was speaking. I feared my anger at him would cause me to regress a few evolutionary steps and start flinging faeces.

I've always been disabled, but until about 5 years ago I was perfectly "healthy"; I was free from illness. For many people there's a massive overlap between "illness" and "impairment", but there's also some differences too. So I've always had a rubbish skeleton but before I acquired a plethora of illnesses unrelated to my mobility impairment I used to do that working-for-a-living thing.

I used to be a stand-up comic. Yes, I'm aware of the irony of a wheelchair-using stand-up.

On Friday evening while I was in the supermarket shopping for more T-shirts to iron the WtB logo onto a thought occurred to me: "It's comedy against the cuts. I'm doing all this stuff about the cuts to disability benefits and I have a background in comedy; I should be speaking." So I emailed the organisers and asked if I could do a short set. The reply I got back was "the line up's pretty full, but we'll try and fit you in." But in the end (and with a little help from the lovely Johann) I ended up on the bill.

This photo by Chris Coltrane who compered the gig shows what the crowd looked like from where the acts were (and makes me happy that I ironed the WtB logo onto the back of my T-shirt):

That's Josie Long performing. She opened the show. The crowd had gotten much, much, bigger by the time I went on. This CiF piece estimates there were nearly 1000 people watching the show. I wouldn't have thought there were quite that many, but there were certainly a couple of hundred.

Against all the odds I had a brilliant gig. Look, people were smiling and laughing!

Photo by Noa Bodner

If you look you can even see Mark Thomas laughing along in that pic. I'm actually quite proud of that as he is, basically, the industry standard to which all political comedy gets compared.

I say "against all the odds" because by rights I really should have died on my arse. It's 3 and a half years since I last gigged due to becoming too ill to carry on with the comedy thang. Usually if you take a break from comedy for 3 and a half weeks you come back to find your timing's a little off and your rhythm's a bit out. And I wasn't doing tried and tested material, I was doing stuff that I'd written 12 hours earlier because I only had the idea to ask to go on about 18 hours before I ended up on "stage". I shouldn't have been "in shape" enough to deal with a heckler and turn around a joke that was a bit of a dud. OK, the heckler was very nice and friendly but it's still an interruption to your rhythm and you need to regain control and come out on top with a laugh.

Somehow it was all OK. Sure, it wasn't my best gig ever but given everything going against me it went so much better than I could ever possibly have dreamed of.

In the past I used to mix up jokes about disability issues and other stuff because if I'd only talked about disability I'd never have been able to hold the attention of a non-disabled audience. But given that Saturday was such a political gig and the reason I'd asked to speak was to talk about benefits I did a set solely about cuts to disability benefits. The only reaction I was really expecting was some polite applause when I finished from people thinking "aw, wasn't that nice the disabled woman telling us about benefits." I wasn't expecting such a warm response and to come off stage to have all my friends hug me at once. It was like being mauled by an octopus, but in a nice way.

I've always thought that comedy had a wonderful capacity for education, another reason I really wanted to speak. So I was chuffed to bits when I got home to read this in The Guardian's Live Blog about the day:

I just spoke to two teenagers aged 17 and 19 who have come from the comedy show in Soho Square, and they said that what they heard there made them think more than anything they have ever learnt at school. It's their first demonstration and when I asked why they came they said they realised that the demonstration is about more than just the UK.

They can understand the connection between the shops and the banks that people are targetting and the global situation that is effecting everyone. They've heard Mark Thomas and a disabled comedian and Johann Hari speak. For these teenagers the protest is absolutely opening their minds to a much wider picture.

Noa, who snapped that pic of me in action, said:

you rocked it woman, it was FUNNY and also very disturbing to learn a few of the stories you shared. many thanks and please keep healthy and get back on stage where you belong!

I'm absolutely thrilled that I opened some people's eyes to what's going on for disabled people in the UK. There's a couple of extracts from my set in the Laugh Out London podcast.

I left Soho Square on such an adrenaline high. I'd taken a huge gamble in asking to do a set but it absolutely paid off. I would have skipped home if I could, you know, skip.

Then came the sadness. I love doing stand up so much. It's such an amazing feeling when you've got hundreds of people laughing at jokes you wrote, and Saturday was a reminder of just how thrilling it is. It's so painful that I'm not well enough to perform any more. I have good days and bad, Saturday was obviously a good day. But the sheer frequency of the bad days means that I can't book gigs more than 14 hours in advance because I can never guarantee that I'll be well enough to show up. It doesn't matter if you have a legitimate reason for not showing up to a gig, if you let a promoter down they're not going to book you again and will very possibly bad-mouth you to other promoters. I have this thing that I love doing, and Saturday reminded me that I'm actually reasonably good at it, but my health prevents me from pursuing it. And the government and tabloids really think I'd rather be stuck at home claiming benefits than out following my dreams?

The other element of sadness on Saturday night came from watching BBC News attributing the Black Bloc protesters smashing things up to UK Uncut. UK Uncut are a group of peaceful protesters who'd given me this wonderfully enjoyable afternoon of comedy in a park. And here these lovely people were being falsely accused of violence and vandalism. It was deeply disappointing.

Despite the day starting with access fail and ending in sadness I don't think I'll ever forget that chunk of a few hours in the middle where I had the best time I've had in years.

Cross-posted at Where's the Benefit?

If I were president of the world I'd insist on people-washes at bus stops.

They'd work on the same principal as car washes - go through, get clean.

I'm sick of stinky people on public transport. Literally. Yesterday on a 31 bus on my way to a gig I nearly threw up on someone because he smelled so awful.

And it's not like I can escape and move to a different seat - what with being confined to the wheelchair space and all.*

One of the other comics last night nearly shared with me the reason why men who smell of wee do so. But then he decided to go to Leeds instead. I feel all lurchy having been left here.

I'd also force Cadbury's to make Creme Eggs all year round - that way I wouldn't get fat around Easter from scoffing as many as I can before they disappear from stores.

Yes, I know they now do the Dairy Milk with Creme Egg all year round, but they're just wrong. The Creme filling to chocolate ratio is all wrong, and... wrongness!

*Yes, I know there's nothing "confining" about a wheelchair, it's a tool of mobility and enablement. Only being allowed to sit in one spot on the bus however does have something of a confined feel. Yes.

I've just finally gotten around to watching F*** Off I'm Fat.

Very near the start of the documentary, there's some footage of Ricky Grover doing some stand-up, and joking about being fat. I gigged with him once a while ago, and some skinny student started heckling him, and then disappeared for a piss.

So, Ricky got down off the stage, walked over to this kid's seat, and took the coat off the back of it. One of the issues explored in the documentary is how hard it is to buy clothes if you're fat. Needless to say, Ricky expected the coat to not fit, and look comical.

The kid came back in the room, and Ricky put on the coat. It fitted perfectly. Nothing could've been funnier as no-one in the room saw that coming.

The thing I found most interesting about the documentary was the parallels you can draw between fighting for fat rights, and fighting for disability rights. For instance, an issue that came up was the problem that restaurants try to cram as many seats into as small a space as possible. Which of course leaves little room for anyone oversized, whether that is because they are fat, or because they have a set of wheels that makes them take up more space than the interior designers ideal diner.

In fact, as an example of a restaurant that doesn't cater for fat people, they showed a shot of the Chinese/Thai/Vegetarian restaurant on Golders Green Road. A restaurant which I've felt slightly confused by in the past. This place has a really evil step to get in, another step down to the toilets, yet, once you've tackled those 2 steps, there's an "accessible" toilet. Someone didn't quite think that one through, did they?

Design issues were the focus of the documentary, and Ricky's appeal for inclusive design is something that most crips would be familiar with.

As part of the documentary, Ricky launched the UK's first "big loo." It featured a toilet tested to take the weight of someone up to a ton, and had a much larger than average seat, which everyone who used (even the skinnies) commented was far more comfortable than your bog standard (pardon the punning) loo seat.

Ricky appealed for more "big loos" around the UK, and summed up that segment of the show with the following quote:

Instead of segregating fat people, and having one big loo for them; why not make them all big loos, then you segregate no-one.

Slight flaw in that argument: Ricky had designed the "big loo" with 2 steps to get in, and a further step to mount the throne.

I'm feeling segregated by the "big loo" already...

Last Saturday I gigged in a venue that is currently undergoing refurbishment.

It was interesting. The compere offered a prize to any audience member that could find a health and safety violation that the venue wasn't at the time in breach of.

Performing underneath exposed wires is a bit of incentive to do well. If they hate you, they could just throw water at you and watch you sizzle.

Anyway, possibly the most distressing part of the evening was going to the toilet. They'd removed the ladies toilet doors. (Don't bother asking why I didn't use the crip bog - it was a comedy venue. Don't be as daft as to think there might be one).

To offer some privacy for the ladies peeing, they'd provided curtains. Except, they were so short that if you were seated on the throne, they covered your face - and nothing else.

This made for an interesting alternate game of "Guess Who?" during the intervals...

"Are they bald?"

"No."

"Do they have short hair?"

"Yes."

"Are they blonde?"

"No."

"Any piercings?"

"Yes."

"I think it's Gilly."

In the 2nd interval an audience member informed me that the toilets were full of women with their Sun-In dying their minges "because, well, you've got to with those curtains."

BADD

Today is BADD.

No, I haven't woken up with amnesia thinking I'm stuck in the 80's

And, no, today hasn't been really shit, necessitating the extra "D" for emphasis.

Today is Blogging Against Disablism Day (The brainchild of The Goldfish, inspired by Blogging Against Sexism Day, Blogging Against Racism Day, Blogging Against Heteronormativity
Day and others).

You may be thinking "Why does Lisy need to participate in a designated day? All she seems to do is winge about the discrimination she faces." And you'd be right. I asked myself the same question many times. But, in the end, faced with a shiny, exciting bandwagon - I just had to jump on (the bandwagon had working ramps, how could I resist?).

It comes at an apt time for me, as I'm suddenly in a state of heightened awareness about being disabled. Why? Because, for the last fortnight, I haven't been disabled.

Did my Osteogenesis Imperfecta vanish for the duration of my holiday? No. Of course not. But, for the two weeks I spent in America, I was not disabled. There was nothing I was stopped from doing because America (or at least the state of California) has almost entirely ridded itself of disabling barriers.

During my holiday I found myself able to go wherever I wanted to, whenever I wanted to. All buses, trains, underground trains, trams, etc... are accessible. Whereas here in London of course, I'm disabled. Not by my Osteogenesis Imperfecta, but by the stairs/escalators on the underground and at train stations, by buses with ramps that don't work, etc.

And it wasn't just in the arena of getting around that my disability was removed. I could go into any bar, I could eat in any restaurant (well, not *any* because Americans just don't seem to "get" vegetarianism, but my impairment proved no disability), I could visit any tourist attraction, safe in the knowledge that there would be access, and I wouldn't be disabled.

Now I'm back in the UK and, whilst my impairment is at exactly the same level as it was on the other side of the Atlantic. But now, I'm so severely disabled I can't even get into my local organic food store - because it's their steps disabling me, not my impairment.

I even did two gigs in San Francisco. Both clubs were fully accessible from the point of view of audience members (and so, *gasp*, on both nights there were actually crips in the audience) and one, with it's level performance area, was even accessible to wheelie comics. That's a 50% rate of full access. I must've played in over 50 comedy clubs in the UK. And how many of those were fully accessible to a performer? 3 (incase you're wondering, my criteria is: access to the entrance, an accessible toilet and either level access to the performance area or a ramp up to the stage). And only a handful more have access for audience members too. It seems that only time you're going to hear the word "access" in conjunction with the words "comedy club" here in the UK is if you happen to overhear a conversation between me and Liz.

Attitudes in America are completely different too. During my trip, two whole weeks, only one small child pointed and stared at me like I was a freak of nature. That was at Universal Studios, so I'm assuming that she too was a British tourist.

As I said in a previous post - in California, wheelchair users can get everywhere - so we are everywhere. Here I know far too many people (my parents included) who, due to disabling barriers, leave their own homes far less often than is healthy. I'm guessing British tourists going to America for the first time probably think there's been some kind of plague because there are so many crips about - shopping, socialising, taking the bus to work. (I guess technically there has been a kind of plague - war veterans who've become disabled due to the Bush family's tendency to pick fights with countries they don't like).

Of course, disablism isn't only about the barriers preventing us from getting to public places. Many of us face discrimination the second we get out of bed in the morning, before we've left the house. Laurence, in this article points out that there is an estimated shortfall of 300,000 wheelchair accessible homes in the UK. I live in an inaccessible flat. There's 3 steps to get in (fortunately each far enough apart from the others for me to bump my chair up and then regain my balance before tackling the next one) and my flat is far too small to move my chair around in.

You may be wondering why a feisty character like me would accept such sub-standard accommodation. Simply, when I was offered the flat it was more accessible than where I was living, and I knew it was going to be the best I was going to find for a long time.

But, why is there such a shortfall of accessible accommodation? You guessed it - disablism. If architects, builders, local councils, etc could just bear in mind that building accessible houses would not only eliminate the discrimination disabled people face, but, more importantly from their point of view, would bring in a profit - cos, guess what, crips pay rent and even buy houses! Shock, horror!

That is of course the other side of disablism. Not only do disabled people face inequality, but also, landlords, shop owners, restauranteurs, etc, etc lose profits by excluding crips. Sadly, maintaining inequality and an unjust society seems more important to these people than raking in the profits. Which seems like bizarre business sense to me. You'd never see a pub with a sign outside saying "No blacks!", so why are steps at the door acceptable? It's tantamount to the same thing.

And, at the end of the day, while all prejudices are wrong, disablism is the least rational, yet the most rampant (though white, I am a woman, and I am gay. I never experience sexism or homophobia, yet, as I pointed out, I encounter disablism before I've even left my flat of a morning). Tomorrow you could get hit by a bus. You wouldn't wake up suddenly gay, you wouldn't wake up suddenly black, you wouldn't wake up suddenly female, but, it's highly likely that you might wake up disabled. And if you're a pub landlord I bet you'd really find yourself wishing you could still kick yourself for not making the place accessible when you spent all that money on refurbishing last year.

A friend recently suggested meeting up in this pub. Notice the access comment: "Disabled access (access only, no accessible toilets)". So, an accessible drinking establishment, as long as you don't want to drink anything. That'll bring in the £80 billion crips collectively have to spend every year.

Though many crips do have money, disablism is also an economic construct. Using my holiday as an example: A non-disabled person carrying a suitcase would have no difficulty at all walking from my flat, down to Euston station to get the 205 bus to Paddington, so they could get the Heathrow Express, no difficulty in getting the case onto the bus, and off the bus. I can't. With a case, I have to get a taxi. That 205 bus in London costs £1.50. Taxi's cost considerably more. Mobility impaired London residents can get a Taxicard, and that reasonably short journey to Paddington, with a Taxicard cost me £1.50. The same as the bus would cost a non-crip. See how the Taxicard eliminates the financial penalty for having a mobility impairment? I recently heard someone argue that Taxicard should be abolished because "Why should disabled people be able to travel however they want, whenever they want? If disabled people can have a Taxicard, I should be able to take a limousene to work on my monthly travelcard!"

Yes. Let's bring back the financial penalties for being disabled just cos you're jealous that you have to take the tube. At least you can take the tube.

That's a very small scale example of economic discrimination. This woman claims that her £110,000 compensation doesn't cover the extra living costs of being disabled for life. Quite rightly so.

Someone I used to know received over £1 million in compensation from the hospital trust responsible for causing her Cerebral Palsy to cover her extra living costs for being disabled.

Both these people are eligible for Disability Living Allowance. A benefit which is supposed to cover the extra costs of being disabled.

From these amounts of compensation, we can ascertain that, during the course of the average disabled person's life, they are underpaid between £110,000 and £1 million in DLA. I fully agree that where there is blame for an impairment, the "victim" should be compensated for the trauma. But, to include living costs in the compensation calculation? That shouldn't be neccessary. Surely we should *all* have our extra living costs met. But, no. We're financially penalised and economically discriminated against.

And someone can begrudge me paying a taxi fare equal to the bus fare they would pay.

All over London there are these Chinese Herbal Clinics, with displays in their window offering treatments and pain relief for impairments such as arthritis. Obviously, I'm not one of these people that believes that alternative medicine can provide cures, but I do firmly believe that many can offer some degree of pain relief. So, these clinics are offering to help crips ease their pain - but have I ever seen just *one* that didn't have steps at the door? No. Not even one. You'd think that if they're targeting their services at people with chronic pain, that they wouldn't exclude most of their potential clients by renting inaccessible premises. "Oh, hi. Yes, we can treat you. As long as there's nothing "wrong" with you to begin with of course."

Duh.

Other places you'd think you wouldn't find disablism would be in services specifically for disabled people, right?

As I've mentioned before, my father went to a "special" college for disabled young men, when he was a disabled young man. The entry criteria? You had to be able to walk. I love all his old college photo's, full of people who should be wheelchair users, but were forced to prop themselves up with every walking aid going, just to get some semblance of an education (no-one taught my father to read until he was 21). When you look at the pictures you get to play "Guess who fell over just after the picture was taken!" I think it was Dad several times.

Sounds like something that wouldn't happen "in this day and age"? This evening I had a telephone conversation with an old school friend. He now lives in a segregated community specifically for disabled people (in a first floor flat with no lift up the stairs). He was saying that they're currently evicting all the residents who are *too* disabled and actually need any assistance with, anything.

It is now just before midnight, BADD is nearly over, and much like realising you've got three minutes left of your exam - I feel I should write a conclusion.

So, much like drugs, disablism is wrong. Just say no, kids.

There.

This public information post was brought to you by vast quantities of tea and the letter "Ouch my arse hurts from sitting still at the computer for too long."

I am officially a victim of crime.

Yesterday I went to the recording of It's Been A Bad Week with two friends, and then down the pub afterwards.

Someone managed to steal K's bag from under our table, despite the fact that we never left it unattended at all. My cashcard was in it, thus, not only is she I victim of a crime, I am too.

I don't feel violated, or even inconvenienced by it. But I think my new title "crime victim" warrants me some sympathy, just for the sake of it. I do however find a tremendous irony in the title of the radio show we'd just come from.

Despite the nice visit to Charing Cross police station, yesterday was a fun afternoon. Much alcohol was consumed, yet I have a ridiculously high alcohol tolerance so remained very sober. Meh.

Christmas is approaching too quickly. I've only just written the cards I need to post, and then realised I didn't have enough stamps. Oh well. Anyone who knows me should expect to receive a Christmas card from me sometime around new year.

I'm off to Clacton On Sea, which is apparently the sprout capital of England. This is possibly the last time I'll write anything this year as I'm volunteering at one of the Crisis shelters as soon as I get back for 3 days, and if it's anything like last year, I won't have the energy to switch on my computer between shifts.

Merry Crimbo!