Let’s get rid of steps already

Steps and stairways. Who needs them? What are they good for? Nothing. Stairways are just ramps for wimps, the type of people who choose a golf cart over using their legs. Do we really want such people inside our buildings? Say overnight we paved over every public stairway in the country. People would moan for a bit but the majority would get on with it. Can’t manage a 90 degree ramp? Buy better-grip shoes. Better yet, just give up on life already. So long as wheelchairs have access to buildings, that’s all that matters.

This is meant to hint at how it feels to discover that a club or place you really want to go to doesn’t have appropriate access for your wheelchair. You email the company and they go, ‘We’re fixing the lift.’ Three months later you get the same reply. On top of this the club has started booking some of your favourite acts on a regular basis, and every time you pass the place you see another poster that stirs your interests.

You know they’ll never fix the available lift. Why? Because only you and a handful of others need it. Supply and demand, baby. What’s the point of building or fixing a revolving door when you know 95% of your customers are prone to traumatic dizzy spells? Fuck the 5%.

And this is in the UK where it’s law that all public buildings have to have good access for wheelchair users. It’s still a bigger risk for struggling companies to spend money on building a lift or ramp than to do nothing, apparently.

I no longer care about the building in question. I got over it a while back. You can ignore the posters, and if your love for a musician is that big you’ll have no problem traveling further to see them in action. It just blows my mind how many nibbling issues like this still exist, and you either learn to accept them or spend your twenties and latter years bitching and moaning, and I don’t want to spend my twenties bitching about first-world disability issues that I lack the energy to change (he says, on a blog in which he can’t think of anything positive to discuss).

Ooh look, all the disabled spaces are filled with sports cars with fraudulent disabled badges. Good. Fuck it.

The toilets are upstairs in this liftless pub? No problem, I’ll just have to piss into a sock again.

You have to remember that thirty years ago disabled people were so feared that they were hidden or sent away to secretive centres. Be thankful and all that. Seriously, my timing and location of birth was pretty flawless. I could’ve been born in medieval times only to be dumped into a river minutes into life (probably). Or I could’ve been born right now in ISIS territory, where disability equals terrible sin and you can guess the rest.

From lifts to ISIS in under 500 words. You’re welcome.

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