The Man Outside's blog

First, I must set the scene. Imagine the camera panning. The duvet cover in shades of the sea, ruffled and strewn with umpteen pillows. A fleece blanket curled up like a dead cat. My mobile phone, black and reassuringly unfashionable, nestled in the corpse-cat-blanket. The sun filtered through clouds, trees and curtains melting over the fabric, plastic, metal and flesh like slightly thin honey. (it's going quite well so far, don't you think?)

Now notice the books. Quite a few of them, aren't there? That's because as I type I should, ideally, be revising. My first exam of the year is in less than four days. See the gulp, slow and deliberate. But for the next hour I will set aside my educational worries. Plato can go play with Alcibiades. The Parthenon can moan on about it's missing frieze. Pompeii...well, it lay buried under a hundred million tons of volcanic debris for more than a thousand years – another hour will not hurt it.

I am here to talk about DISABLISM. I will, however, use this as an opportunity to test my philosophical brain. I will start by analysing the term. Disablism. I think it is accepted by those most learned to be a form of discrimination against those with disabilities. So we have two more words to address – discrimination and disability. Discriminate is a loaded term. A definite .45 calibre word. Do you feel lucky? Well do you? Not particularly...but lets give it a go. Firstly, it comes from the Latin – discriminatus. Doesn't help us much really, though, does it? Other than giving us a sense of distance. Imagine the Italian bloke in his toga. Laurel wreath. Gladius. Discriminatus. So this Latin derived word means 'to differentiate'. Divide a series of items. This. That. One. Two. But there is no need to separate with a vengeance, as it were.

How, then, has this mathematical term come to represent such an evil? A discriminating chap is no longer someone who can tell you where to get the very best sherry or cigar. A discriminating soul is one who decides what is right and good and proper and what is not. But more than that, to attack and destroy that which is judged to be an aberration. We're good at this, us humans. I remember as a kid being picked on because of my glasses. Makes sense, really, if you think about it. I was inferior (in sight, at least) to those 20/20 children. If survival depended upon being able to read the bottom line of a chart, then they'd have stood more of a chance (if they had the intelligence to read, which is never a given in kids like that...).

But there was also a kid a couple of years older who was teased for being much taller than everyone else. I never understood this. Why was he inferior? As an aside, I must point out that a few years later the teasing got to a point and the particularly tall child picked up the bully by his collar and gave him a proper beating. Far be it from me to applaud violence...but...

So discrimination has not only become the differentiation and attack, it isn't even very good at deciding what is and is not good.

But am I going wrong here? Is there a difference between teasing a child and discriminating. There must be. As I see it, when I was teased at the sixth form college I attended a couple of hours a week, the girls were making fun of me because I looked odd, sitting there in a wheelchair. I was different, and they differentiated. This might be the definition of the word 'discriminate', but only in the mathematical sense. They made fun of me to increase their feeling of belonging. They were the fully able, social and vibrant (read 'skanky') people and I was the odd one. The other. They might as well have been laughing at my glasses, my height or my haircut. Not pleasant, but I don't think they were discriminating as such.

Perhaps to be sure, though, we should check the term 'disability'. The Merriam-Webster dictionary specifically links the term to education and employment. I find this a little odd, I must say. But far be it from me to argue. So we discriminate against those who, through illness, mental or physical, are unable to take part in education or employment normally.

In which case, the girls were definitely not disabalist. Just not very pleasant.

At this point I would like to make a quick point – doesn't Goldfrapp's Slippage so

und somewhat like robot porn?

 Slightly off the topic, perhaps, but there are some things that just can't be ignored...

 

I've been out of society in many ways for quite a long time now. It's difficult for me to go out. The process can be painful at best. And the best use of my energy tends to come by staying inside. Therefore there's very little exposure to disablist attitudes. And I've avoided being in a position where they may be shown me. For example – I used to prop my walking stick behind the door when opening the door to postmen, supporting myself on the doorframe. This was, in part, vanity. But I was also genuinely concerned that these men would think me pathetic because of the stick.

At this point the camera may well pan to the stick propped in the corner. The black paint's battered. I've replaced both the foam handle and the rubber ferrule. They will need replacing again soon, as well. In many ways it is a part of me now. I have a tendency to always place myself in the action of any story, whether on page or television screen. And you wouldn't believe how often I think to myself 'Woops...they've left their stick behind'. Watching House was a relief, I can tell you.

So does this make me disablist? I was, after all, scared of presenting myself as disabled because of the consequences. People hide who they are to fit in and so become as bigoted as the rest. In my case, though, I don't think this is so. The real reason may be even worse.

I am an ableist.

That's right – I am quick to judge able-bodied people as heartless, judgemental idiots, when the truth is that I've only experienced true disablism in a handful of situations. At school (a hospital school), my friends and I would comment how we, the ill, were actually by far superior to the well. We had greater understanding. We were sensitive in ways most people couldn't hope to achieve. We were, despite the ideas of the world, extraordinarily cool.

People who get to know me tend to like me. I'm an intelligent and charming fellow. I am sensitive to people's needs and desires. I am polite, caring and generally nice.

So why am I so judgemental? Terrible isn't it?

And so the camera pans away. The sound of water heralds a shower. Soon will come lunch and Neighbours. And I will try to get over my discriminations. The able-bodied are capable of as much sensitivity, care and understanding as I.

Just so long as they're white, male and English, of course*

*please note, my body may be pretty rubbish, but that was an example of my fully functioning sarcasm

 

To read more Blogging Against Disablism Day posts, pease visit http://blobolobolob.blogspot.com/2009/04/blogging-against-disablism-day-will-be.html

As I type this, my dog is being put down.

Almost exactly a year ago, my grandmother's body was cremated.

Up to this point I have not had that much experience of the death of those with whom I am close.  This is perhaps a fortunate thing, but it also makes a mockery of the grief I felt over a dead catfish.  I dreamt of fish last night.  Old gourami...their flesh was wrinkled and dull and they only had one functioning eye between the pair of them.  The skeletons of older, dead fish littered the aquarium bed and the water was cloudly with a soup of decay.

Old dreams.  My old fears.  Trapped...rotting...empty darkness.

And my dog will have a needle placed underneath her skin where liquid death will be pumped.

I agreed to her death.  Her body was breaking...her mind going.  But she was mine.  Flash of claws and teeth...that old animal possession.  MINE.  And she was such a good girl.  My Bullitt.  Though the name always confused people.  First thought was of the ammunition...which is why she was named in the animal shelter.  Small and fast, I presume.  Not to mention deadly if she bit you.  But my sister renamed her after the film.  Steve McQueen.  King of Cool.  I really should have taken her to San Francisco.

I remember her smile.  Never seen anything quite like it.  Terrified umpteen people...but always warmed my heart.

Or the mad look in her eyes...all intent fixation.  All it took was a rubber ring.  I remember one winter taking her to the local park with a frisbee.  It was an interesting journey in and of itself (racing mobility scooters on ice should really be a sport)...but the look on her face when the frisbee was thrown...only for it to disappear under the snow...was absolutely priceless.  That is until my numb fingers managed to throw it over a fence.  She went around the entire park trying to work out where it was burried.

But mostly I'll remember her when she was sleeping.  Curled up with my father...the two of them snoring together.  Or wedged between my legs under a duvet in Wales.

Flipping mortality.  Must do something about that.

(PS - my absence will continue...blame Plato.  Everyone should.  For everything.)

Strictly Come Dancing has been on the front page of many newspapers this week, and as work has meant that I've had to let this blog slide somewhat, I have not been keeping up in my own reporting.  That said, this is far too important to leave alone.  Especially as it deals with my dear John.

In recent weeks John Sergeant has been in the bottom place constantly.  The judges have told him that he is a disaster, that he cannot dance and that, when other dancers have left rather than him, that it is wrong.  This led to quite the rumpus...especially last week when Cherie left after a dance off between her and Lisa.  A couple of days ago the news broke - John had decided to leave the programme as he now feared that he might win the competition and that this would be a joke too far.

There are several things I would like to comment on.  Firstly - the nature of the programme.  John had always said that he felt the judges should more carefully study the rules of the show and try to realise that the audience has a 50% share of the vote.  This democracy kept him in because people enjoyed watching him.  This is true.  I enjoyed watching him.  Far more than, say, Lisa.  Lisa might be a technically better dancer...but then she's half his age.  But John is far more appealing and entertaining.  And when invited to vote, you are asked to vote 'for your favourite', *not* for the best dancer.

The judges say that it is unfair...wrong, in a dance contest, for a better dancer to go before a worse one.  Well, excuse me, but it's no less fair John staying in than it was Lisa when her general dance talent was less than Cherie, but it just happened that the pressure scuppered Cherie's last dance.  How is that fair?  It's not.  Also, I wonder if the judges are doing them a disservice.  It might surprise you to know that I am not a classically trained dancer.  I'm afraid I have trouble rising gracefully from a chair and, were it not for my walking stick, it'd be painful seeing me try to move anywhere.  I wouldn't know if someone had danced a fleckle correctly unless they somehow tripped and did a forward roll into Arlene's lap.  Even then I'd think it were some brave new jazz-pump correography.  So, my point is, how am I meant to judge the dancing in the same way the professional judges do?  Are they so uneducated that I can judge dancing on the same level as they?  No, I have to use my own criteriors.  First and foremost will be what I enjoy.  Secondly, often, is when I feel someone who was good as woefully undermarked.  I'm afraid in recent weeks I have not voted for John...but I have voted for Jodie and Christine, both of whom are consistently undermarked by Craig.  Their dancing is truly wonderful and all the more impressive coming as it does from slightly humbler origins.  But I'm clearly not voting for the best dancer.  Just the one that makes me happiest.  How is that wrong?  How can a professional judge be angry with me for voting for what I can understand when they vote for what they understand?  If I was able to understand dance in the same way as they, they'd be out of a job.

My next point is how the judges treat the contestants.  They have their favourites.  I know that they would deny this, but it is the empiracle truth.  They also let their preconceptions rule their votes.  This is near criminal.  What is worse, however, is their tendency, when a dance is 'bad' to simply say it was awful and offer no suggestions for improvement.  Arlene simply calling Christine's legs 'deadwood' for example.  Thankfully she was able to find a way to improve them...but come on.  If I said 'you've all the personality of an irritable, but half drugged chihauhau', but without suggesting any ways she might improve herself, Arlene might be slightly peeved.  AND THEN THE PUBLIC WOULD VOTE FOR HER.  Idiots.  It's their own fault.  They create martyrs for people to support.

And while we're on the subject of judges - I've always had a certain amount of respect for Craig.  He will stick to what he believes and isn't rude to the other judges by interupting (I hate interuption).  BUT.  On It Takes Two, when discussing what had happened with John, he said he was surprised that John hadn't shown the courage to continue.  It is very rare for me to be angry full stop.  I live my life in a state of zen-like calm (heh...yeah right).  No...in all seriousness, I might get upset by things...sad at times.  But not angry.  I dislike my temper, which can be violent at best.  So I breathe and try to move on.  But calling John a coward when he's bowing out to try to save other people from getting angry??  Cowardice??  I could have flipping spit.  Craig is very definitely off my christmas card list.

Arlene is almost as bad.  When asked if John should leave she suddenly backtracked and said 'oh no, that would be terrible...and it's really all his decision'.  So in other words she doesn't want to say he should leave, but she doesn't think he should be there.  Therefore the public should just do the right thing and vote in the same way as she.  I'm sorry, I don't have the affrontary to suggest that the entire British public should share the same opinion as I.  If I did, I would shout at passing drivers for not burbling along in a Smart Fortwo.  No one would be seen vomitting in the street unless suffering from a nasty virus.  There would be no crime.  Life would be respected and cherished.  And I would be treated like the living god I am.  But no, the british public has their own idea of what is right, and I respect that.

So there we go...John has left.  I am very sad to see him go as I appreciated all the work he put into his routine each week.  I enjoyed his relationship with Christina (I think it might have been spelt with a K and if so, I appologise oh Queen of Siberia).  I adored his witticisms and insight...his kindness.  AND I believe he could dance.  Yes, he was never going to be a Latin master (vini vidi vici?) but he certainly danced better than I could.  And he made me happy.  Which Lisa never does, despite being technically a better dancer.

So the competition is now on?  Rubbish.  The competition has become less interesting, as a beautiful dancer has been removed through everyone's inability to appreciate the wonderful thing that is dance.  You know, I'd love to see if the judges appreciated even the lowliest dance more if they couldn't walk properly.  I'm fed up with the lot of them...except for Len when doing his dance masterclass.  Claudia flailing her legs about and flinging her head left right and centre before saying 'The last time I did this I got pregnant' and Len's dignified 'well you don't have to worry about that with me' will live with me for a long time.

So there we have it.  Rant over.  My fingers are about to drop off and it's all because of a flipping dance programme.  Would you believe it?

"Oh, but it's cold outside!" It's a fact of life that the economic climate is a bit chilly this holiday season. Is that affecting how you're doing your holiday shopping?
Sponsored by Best Buy.

You know, the advantage of being a tight person is that you're used to always having to find the most economical gifts...so it's more like the world is just beginning to catch up with me.  I have been out in the workshop slowly making gifts for a while now.  And those which I don't make will be bargain-hunted down to the cheapest possible price.   Oh how I heart internet shopping.

That said, the one thing I cannot find cheaply anywhere is an extra month or two in which to get it all done...

Whilst taking a photo of my new gloves, I thought I'd try to simplify my existence somewhat.  You see, of late I have felt life would be easier if it wasn't for my own idiocy that leads me to make everything just that little bit more complicated.  It's been difficult to find things I can actually adjust, but one occured to me the other day.  I have never, ever been able to answer the question 'what colour are your eyes?' without the equivilent of a philosophical discourse.  Are they green?  Despite a girl once wearing a green eye necklace because 'you have green eyes', I think there's a bit too much blue in there for a true green.  What about blue, then?  Well, there are yellow flecks, and really, it's not that strong a blue.  Grey?  Well, maybe...but there's such a range of colours in there...

So please - HELP ME!  Just think...by being able to answer one question with a simple one or two words, I might well be starting on a journey that will simplify my life to such an extent that I attain a form of zennish-nirvanarism.  Come on people...I need enlightenment!

 

A photo post, but don't worry, I'm not taking my kit off (unlike some people, not looking at anyone in particular BILLIE)...I ordered a pair of leather driving gloves from ebay and they have just arrived.  I am so pleased with them I might well keep them on all day.  Typing might be challenging, and I  am sure anyone watching would think me insane...but anything for a bit of fun.

Anyway;

# If love isn't forever/ and it's not the weather/ HAND ME MY LEATHER!

 

The Cure sing “It’s Friday I’m in Love.” What are you “in” on this particular fall Friday?

I am afraid that, this Friday night, I am in a lot of pain.  My legs in particular are burning with an icy fire which is making it difficult to relax at all.  And because other muscles are tense, the pain is increasing exponentially.  But that's an ex rather than an in.  So I suppose I must now try my best to be in-clined to sleep, having spent 45 minutes 'in' Twin Peaks.  Night night all.

Some people just grab whatever's clean and throw it on in the morning. Other people take a more thoughtful approach to the art of getting dressed. Show us in which piece of clothing you take the most pride.
Submitted by The Man Outside.

Just in case I'm the only one to answer my own question...

 

This was my first hoodie and, like pretty much anything even half fashionable I own, was bought me by my sister.  She knows my love of the colour brown and that I'd appreciate the design.  It fits into my ideal whereby any piece of clothing should be practical in times of urban warfare.  Plus the sentiments (the logo on the front reads NO FEAR) have made it a firm favourite come exam time.

"O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay"

I am famous.  Feel free to worship me and write articles about my love life in Heat magazine.  For my question has been chosen for today's Vox Hunt Challenge!

 

What would you attempt to do if you knew you wouldn't fail?
Submitted by Beautifully Broken

Ahh...simple.  I would try to arrange to take all my exams for both this and next year.  I would contact Lampeter Uni and beg a position in a PhD programme in Ancient Narrative.  I would put together a few screenplays for Hollywood productions of classical myth (but decent stuff...no Troy or Alexander) and post them off.  I'd take my driving test, buy a lottery ticket, start to learn Latin, ancient Greek and Russian, bake a cake and go for a run.

Quite a lot for one day, perhaps, but if you're not going to fail, why limit yourself?