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Standing Up For The BBC

The subject of my blog entry today is probably pretty obvious. I am a staunch supporter of the BBC, and naturally want to defend it when it comes under attack. Like the NHS, it is a world class organisation free at the point of use, which everyone has access to without fear of commercial influence or advertisement. It is normally unafraid to hold those in power to account, and I think we all need to stand up for it. The thing is, when you actually watch the Panorama edit of the footage which caused the current furore, there is no denying that it is misleading: it makes Trump seem to say – or at least imply – something which he did not.

On the other hand, I can’t help suspecting that there are more forces at play here. We all know that the political right do not like the Beeb. Not only does it run counter to the capitalist, commercial principles they so passionately believe in, it is also often unafraid to reveal truths they don’t like. Faced with an organisation unafraid to hold power to account, those in power often move to silence it. With essentially far right forces gaining more and more prominence, not only here in the UK but also in America and all over the world, is it any wonder that the most respected, objective news organisation in the world is coming under attack? Note too how Badenoch and the Tories have joined in the brazen chorus attacking the Beeb – those self-righteous arseholes have long wanted it out of their entitled way. Those on the right are obviously now seising on a mistake the BBC made a couple of years ago and using it to discredit the entire organisation. You only have to look at how this entire shitshow has been spurred on by the rancid spewings of the Torygraph to realise that.

This is all the more reason to stand up and defend it. We all know that the BBC isn’t perfect, but it is one of the best institutions we have. With it’s entire remit at steak, our mediascape risks becoming a commercialised, perverse, right-wing mess. If we want our journalism to remain first class and free from the influence of those who would use it to dictate their fucked up, reactionary, bigotry-soaked worldview to us, we have no choice but to now run to the BBC’s side.

We Should Be Very Worried Indeed

By rights, Nigel Farage should have lost every shred of credibility he ever had due to the unquestionable disaster that is Brexit; he should be a national laughing stock. Yet, an hour or so ago in Nationwide, I caught sight of him on the TV there, appearing on a stage in Birmingham, speaking to an audience like some great showman or statesman. As usual I found the very sight utterly repugnant: how anyone can be stupid enough to even listen to – let alone believe – the shyte that disgrace to human civilisation is beyond me. Yet the fact remains, there he was, the members of his party fawning over him like some great hero, Reform gaining more and more traction in the polls.

This is a trend I think we should all be very worried about indeed. I’m sure most people reading this will be aware of the resurgence in nationalism taking place across the country, with flags appearing on lamp posts and red crosses being painted on mini-roundabouts. It’s a symptom of a far bigger problem: a feeling of socioeconomic disenfranchisement felt by many people across the country, which Farage seems to be tapping into. He has reduced matters down to an ‘us and them’ paradigm, where ‘British people’ must square off against ‘foreigners’ or ‘asylum seekers’. In doing so, he has distorted an issue caused directly as a result of Brexit to suit his own sickeningly cynical purposes, presenting himself as some kind of saviour of the downtrodden. Where he should be an object of universal contempt for robbing us of our rights as members of the EU, Farage has managed to blame migrants for the problems he himself caused, essentially setting one group of people against the other and then positioning himself as a kind of saviour figure. The bastard doesn’t seem to care how much anger, hatred or fear he whips up in doing so, as long as he can bask in the adulation of these misguided fools.

The problem is, that anger now seems to be fast reaching boiling point. Communities are bitterly divided; thugs rampage the streets raising flags; tribalism is becoming almost visceral. Meanwhile their leader parades himself on TV, basking in misguided adulation. We have been here before, and we know what happened.

Kier Starmer Rapes Chipmunks

I was watching the breakfast news as usual earlier, when a quite unsettling item caught my attention, particularly as a blogger. According to the beeb, “The wife of a Conservative councillor who was jailed after she posted an online rant about migrants is due to have her appeal against the sentence heard on Thursday. [ie today]” Lucy Connolly had been jailed for 28 days after apparently tweeting that she thought a hotel housing asylum seekers should be burned down. If you ask me, of course, twenty-eight days in jail is nowhere near enough punishment for such a vile, disgusting xenophobe: being married to a Tory councillor, she obviously thought she had a right to voice such reactionary, inflammatory tosh with impunity. I find such arrogance sickening of course, and my gut reaction was that she had no right whatsoever to complain.

The obvious problem is, that raises all kinds of issues about the freedom of speech. I naturally believe that anyone should have the right to say whatever they want, online or off, no matter how disgusting or abhorrent other people may find it. Here on my blog, I’m sure I have written things plenty of people may disagree with over the years – does that mean I should go to jail? What would happen if one day I wrote an entry accusing Kier Starmer of raping chipmunks – does that constitute defamation? Thus as vile as any sensible, intelligent person will find what this woman tweeted, her right to voice her opinions must take priority. The moment we start censoring people, the moment we start putting people in jail just for voicing their opinions online, we all loose something extremely valuable.

Of course I am torn by this: I cannot deny that a large part of me thinks that what this repugnant woman tweeted has no place in modern public discourse. We see it more and more: such barely literate morons think it’s cool or trailblazing to go against the politically correct grain, resulting in a slide further and further to the reactionary right. It seems to be becoming fashionable to discriminate, belittle and bully, as people try to imitate so-called online ‘influencers’ like Andrew Tale. People are also feeling more and more pressure to attract attention online, resulting in ever more wild, distasteful things being spouted in an effort to stand out and get noticed. No doubt such factors were what was behind this woman’s vile tweet: I’m not sure she deserved punishing for them or not, but the fact that she has been clearly sets an unsettling precident.

People Still Don’t Understand Python

It looks like I have once again wandered into a quagmire, albeit an interesting one. Earlier on one of the Monty Python fan groups I keep an eye on, I came across a post essentially saying that comedians had a right to cause offence and it should have no taboos. I, of course, took umbrage at that, as it would mean people could justify discriminating against or offending whoever they wanted under the guise of comedy. That was manifestly not what Python was about: those guys wanted to expose the absurdities of British culture, among other things, not poke fun at or belittle those who could not fight back. As I think I’ve said here before, the fact that Monty Python is now increasingly being invoked as some sort of anti-woke, anti-PC bastion, and used to justify persecution and mockery, is to fundamentally misrepresent it.

However, one of the replies I got cited a film called Blazing Saddles. I had never seen it, so of course I looked it up. What I found was, at first glance, abhorrent: a trailer for some kind of 1970s western ‘comedy’, crammed with shockingly racist language. It looked appalling, so at that I went on my afternoon trundle. Coming back though, I naturally decided to dig a little deeper, and this time found something far more interesting. For example, this Guardian article from January argues that, far from being racist, Blazing Saddles is a satire on contemporary American culture. “Westerns were white American. Certainly, the earliest examples are propagandist. No other culture mythologises its own creation in such a cinematic way. One tried and tested western blueprint is the tale of the great white saviour bringing the savage land to heel. Blazing Saddles turns this formula on its head….What transpires is a torch shone on racist, sexist and bigoted attitudes which absolutely captures the mood and prejudice of the time. Those attitudes still exist.”

Thus, like Python, rather than defending bigotry, Blazing Saddles apparently reveals it’s idiocy. I obviously need to watch it before commenting on it further; yet the fact that it, like Monty Python, is now being invoked as a justification for discrimination still does not sit well with me. People now seem to think they can use whatever derogatory or discriminatory language they want under the guise of humour, and to speak against them is to just not get the joke. Not only does that completely misunderstand the nature of comedy, but it leads us down a very dark, dangerous rabbit hole in which persecution and bullying become acceptable. That is obviously not what the guys behind Python or any other great comedians wanted.

Yet perhaps what is most interesting is how such misunderstandings expose people’s underlying ignorance in a way they wouldn’t have intended. If Blazing Saddles was about shining a light on American racism, the way in which these people have so disgustingly misread it exposes them as the ignorant, barely literate racists they are.

VIVAs and VOCAs

I saw my big brother Mark yesterday, for the first time in quite a while. He’s over briefly from France to help conduct a PhD viva, staying at the old family house in Harlesden with my parents. Mum thought it would be nice if I went over so we could all have dinner together. Needless to say, it was a wonderful meal: I hadn’t seen Mark in such a long time it felt absolutely fantastic to catch up with him. My niece and nephew, Oliver and Elise, are apparently doing well at school, and Mark seemed as dazzlingly bright as he always has.

Mind you, all the talk of a PhD viva across the dinner table once again made me ruminate on whether I ever could have done one. Of course, my masters took me so long to write that I decided to call my academic career a day after I finally completed it. I’m still extremely proud of my MA, but the question remains: could I, as someone who uses a communication aid, have done a PhD Viva? A Viva is a sort of examination where the examiners ask the candidate questions about the thesis they have written directly, so there’s a lot of talking involved. That’s obviously usually verbal, but could it be done with a Voice Output Communication Aid? It would probably be a very slow process: having to type out an answer to any question put to me would have taken quite some time, especially if the answer required any detail or substance. I strongly suspect that, before long, I would have become very uncomfortable and needed a rest.

To tell the truth I don’t think I’ve come across a record of a person with my level of CP doing a PhD. My Australian friend Darryl has one, but he is able to speak normally. I’d be very interested to see if anyone who uses a communication aid has done a PhD. As for myself, my 40,000 word MA thesis still sits proudly on my shelf; yet that faint niggle of curiosity at what might have been and what I could have achieved is still there. Oh well, I suppose that, at the end of the day, I still have time.

When Patriotism Turns Dark

I just came across this especially interesting Girl Gone London video, in which she, a fairly young American woman who has lived in London for ten years, begins to outline the differences between nationalism and patriotism, and how the two differ depending on which side of the Atlantic you are on. What she says strikes me as increasingly relevant: in the States, kids are forced to recite the Oath of Allegiance every morning; a blind love of country is almost demanded, and any form of national criticism is deeply scorned.

I replied that I was born in the UK, in cheshire, but now live in South-East London. I think it’s fair to say that I love my country: I love things like cricket, british comedy and quaint little pubs. However, I also adore London as a city, the tube, the theatres, and what happened here in 2012 etc. I love that it’s so multicultural, inviting, and that you can meet people from all over the world here. I’m staunchly opposed to Brexit as I think working with our neighbours is the only way we can solve our problems. I don’t think these positions are incompatible: you can love your country and desire global unity at the same time. The problem is, in america, the notion of loving your country seems to mean rejecting all others; the blind belief in american exceptionalism. Patriotism there seems to have a far darker, sinister aspect to it. Frankly, particularly since last year, American patriotism has become particularly dangerous.

Whereas my love for the UK does not exclude an enthusiasm to experience and explore other other places and cultures, American patriotism seems to be becoming increasingly dogmatic and cult-like. The idea that one’s own culture supersedes all others again recalls the darkest chapters in history. This video is worth watching because it illuminates how perverse American patriotism is becoming, and especially since last year I think it is a real cause for concern.

Steve Shives’ obituary of David Lynch

I know I shouldn’t just direct everyone to videos I find on Youtube, but I really think it would be negligent of me if I didn’t direct everyone here. It’s Steve Shives’ quite wonderful obituary of David Lynch. What interests me about it is that it clearly and overtly straddles the threshold between cinephilia and fandom: listen to what Shives says, and it obviously demonstrates the kind of highly knowledgable adoration of film which cinephillia is said to constitute. His veneration of Lynch clearly recalls auteurism and the passion which the writers of the Cahiers du Cinema had for specific directors. Yet the piece is delivered with a sense of fun, passion and vigour which we find in online fandom. His delivery is very punchy and he obviously has a lot of enthusiasm for what he is saying; yet, in terms of content, the ideas he is discussing are quite complex and at least degree level. Thus I think this is another intriguing example of the way the two discourses are coming together. More to the point though, what Shives says about Lynch is genuinely interesting and well worth a watch.

Why Does Elon Musk Want to Kill Wikipedia?

I think I need to direct everyone to this Steve Shives vlog, in which he explores the reasons why Elon Musk is apparently trying to shut down Wikipedia. According to Shives, Musk says Wikipedia is now too woke and needs shutting down. It’s an obvious attack on free speech: Musk doesn’t like what the online encyclopaedia says about him and wants to stamp it out. More to the point, because it has so many contributors and editors, Wikipedia is much more likely to be accurate about any given subject; the more people can contribute to it, the more perspectives it has and the closer it is to ‘the truth’. But because that kind of system does not have one single overarching author, it is manifestly opposed to the way right-wing p’tahks think things should be. If he can’t buy it, control it and have it saying the things he wants it to, musk wants to destroy it.

You know, I didn’t know much about Elon Musk until recently; I hadn’t heard of him a year or so ago. Yet the more I learn about him, the more I think he’s a jumped up little wankstain. How did the p’tahk get so rich? Did he really earn so much power and authority, or is he, like Trump, just where he is through inheritance, arrogance, and through climbing over far better people.

Discovering The London Overground

I found something pretty cool out today. Believe it or not, I had never used the London overground before: I had always assumed it was too complicated, inaccessible and generally not as as advanced as the tube. Mind you, I had been intending to try it out for a while, just to establish whether it could be of any use to me after all. Today, though, I was out on my trundle again: I was up near Farringdon and it was about time to head home, so I thought I’d just hop on to the Elizabeth Line to Woolwich.

The problem was, at the station I was told that the Elizabeth Line wasn’t running today. When I heard that I automatically started to panic slightly – how the smeg was I going to get home? However the man then told me that I could take the overground instead, a suggestion which I found pretty interesting.

That, then, is what I did: it was a smooth, uneventful ride back to Woolwich, if somewhat slower than the Elizabeth Line. Mind you, I enjoyed some great views across South London on the way. More importantly though, I now know that the London overground is accessible, usable, and I’ll certainly try to use it more from now on. All I would need to do is make sure there is someone waiting for me with a ramp at wherever I’m going. Given that there’s an overground station not far away from me in Kidbrooke, this is potentially a very useful discovery for me indeed.

The World’s Greatest Charlatan on The World’s Biggest Stage

They may still be four years away, but I have recently started thinking about the Los Angeles 2028 Olympic Games. Believe it or not, I still have a wierd interest in the Olympics: it seems to me that they are the world’s single biggest sporting and cultural event, bringing the attention of the entire world onto one city for about two months every four years. There is no other cultural event, festival or phenomenon like it, or which holds so much power or impact.

The next games will, of course, be held in Los Angeles. Before now, I saw no problem with that, and was looking forward to them, and particularly the Olympic and Paralympic ceremonies. Last week, however, the United States took an extremely dark turn by re-electing Donald Trump, who will still presumably be in office in 2028. I am now wondering whether trump will try to hijack the games somehow. We all know what an egomaniac he is: might he attempt to make the games, or at least the ceremonies, about himself? Might he try to turn them into a festival of self-justification and aggrandisement? Given the opportunity of having the entire world’s attention drawn onto an American city, I wouldn’t put it past him.

Granted, by 2028 Trump will be 82, and may well not be around any more. But if he does try to commandeer the games and turn LA28 into his own personal ego trip, the results could only be hideous: Imagine Trump’s vile cult of personality writ large to epic proportions; abhorrent far-right vomit delivered on a platter covered with the star-spangled banner. The international Olympic committee will have handed the world’s biggest stage to the world’s greatest charlatan, which is why, frankly, I’m starting to favour reallocating the 2028 Olympics. If trump has his way, by then America will be something approaching a fascist dystopia, and surely anything would be preferable to seeing the Olympic Games, which for so long has been a festival of global unity, sportsmanship and tolerance, abused and distorted by such a fallen country and it’s megalomaniac leader.

Rocking Out in Trafalgar Square

Yesterday was yet another of those days which reminded me how awesome living in London is. To be honest I didn’t have much of a plan: I have a new anti-Trump hat which I thought I’d go try to show off in Parliament Square, but I fancied a bit of a trundle first. I caught the Elisabeth Line to Tottenham Court Road, and had a look round Soho. There wasn’t much going on there, so I headed towards Westminster.

On my way through Trafalgar Square, however, I got rather distracted. The square was swelling with people; people were selling food from vans. I encountered a street preacher who, naturally, I instantly started to tell to shut up. I then got into a debate with him about the nature of reality, which lasted about half an hour. But it was only when that ended that the fun really began.

Heading towards the entrance to Whitehall I started to hear music: cool, rock music of the kind I usually like. Some guys were playing in that end of the square, and people were starting to gather to listen. There were three or four of them: fairly young, and they looked rather funky. The young lady on the drums struck me as especially impressive. The crowd around them was growing, and starting to get into the swing of things.

Needless to say I joined them. I was rather hesitant at first, not wanting to cause any trouble, but pretty soon I was rocking about, flying around in my powerchair like a mad-thing! The band seemed to welcome it, and the funky-looking lead singer encouraged me. They were playing all kinds of cool things, including American Idiot by Greenday. That, of course, lead me to ask if they knew Basketcase, and when they started playing it, the buildings around the square echoing to the lyrics “Do you have the time, to listen to me whine…” I went into full rock mode. The afternoon had suddenly become awesome.

Between songs, the lead singer spoke to the crowd, introducing the band as The Vone. They were busking of course, and asking for donations. I instantly took a liking to this group of young people, and was especially taken by how the lead singer took the time to see what I was typing into my Ipad. Their gig lasted about an hour or so, after which I started talking to them. The lead singer, Marcello, thanked me for my dancing, and I apologised for stealing the show somewhat. As the band packed up their things, I asked if they fancied a beer, and Marcello told me that they were about to go to a nearby pub, inviting me along.

The rest of the evening was spent getting to know my new friends. Marcello turned out to be a fascinating guy: I had assumed he was American given his accent, but he was from brazil. He works as a musician for Cbeebees. He also told me that he lives in Woolwich, so there is a chance we could meet up again. London has this incredible ability to introduce you to fascinating people, so that every morning you never know who you’re going to meet or what you’ll encounter. Yesterday was another of those amazing days which suddenly morphed into something incredible. I have new friends and new memories – what more could I ask for?

I See Trees Of Green

Hold on, hold on. The sky may be grey and winter might be fast setting in; across the Atlantic, we may well have seen the return of fascism to world politics for the first time in eighty years; there may be dark, troubled times ahead. Yet this week we also saw something far more remarkable: something which I find more remarkable than James Bond, The Olympics, Star Trek, Monty Python or anything like that. This week we saw the greatest broadcaster ever return to our screens: Sir David Attenborough.

I was going to blog about this a few days ago, but left it. I find Sir David incredible. To think that he started broadcasting before either of my parents were born in 1952, and is still presenting such fascinating, beautiful nature documentaries is absolutely jaw-dropping. More to the point, he has made us more aware of the natural world than any other person, bringing it’s wonders into our living rooms and guiding us through it’s intricacies as nobody else could. Attenborough’s current series is about Asia, of course, but through him and only him we have grown to understand the entire world; and it is indeed wonderful.

As far as I am concerned, Attenborough stands head and shoulders above any other broadcaster, regardless of genre, nationality or anything else. The body of work behind him is incredible. His voice alone seems to have the ability to engross us, so that when we start watching his programmes the wider, more troubled world fades into the background, and for forty-five minutes or show we are captivated by what we are being shown. This can range from the sight of elephants tromping across the African savannah to earth-worms crawling through English gardens. To think he has been doing this for seven decades is incredible – Attenborough truly is a national treasure.

The world may be troubled right now: War is flaring in Eastern Europe and the Middle East; and the world’s most powerful nation has elected a fascistic charlatan as it’s president. The future, especially over the next few months and years, is unclear and uncertain. Yet I find great solace in the fact that there are still some constants in the world, upon which we can all depend. David Attenborough is one such constant; he seems to be above all the mirk and grime, cutting through it to show us the beauty of nature beneath. He is far, far greater than any of the charlatans, monsters or idiots of the political world, and no doubt will still be cherished long after they have faded into irrelevance.

The Buddha of Suburbia

Yesterday turned out to be one of the most culturally rich days I have enjoyed in a long time. Not only did I watch an interesting, if fairly repugnant, film yesterday morning, but in the evening John and I met at The Barbican to watch The Buddha of Suburbia. I must admit I hadn’t heard of the play before J suggested it, but it had been so long since I last went to a theatre – possibly before the pandemic – that I was fairly eager to take him up on the suggestion. It would certainly beat yet another Saturday night at home.

The Barbican is fast growing on me: I don’t know much about how that area of London came about, but it seems to be a vast complex of galleries, theatres and cinemas under my nose which I knew virtually nothing about. It hosts the type of avante-garde art which I often find fascinating, and thanks to the Elisabeth Line, I can get there in minutes.

Thus yesterday evening I met John outside the Barbican Theatres. Truth be told I hadn’t a clue what to expect, but had a feeling I was in for a treat. As we went into the space itself, I got the impression that this was something I had missed; something I hadn’t experienced for a long, long time. I seemed to have forgotten that theatre wasn’t just cinema rendered into 3d, but something completely different and far more visceral.

As luck would have it we got to our places just before the performance began. There was no curtain and the stage was open before us. Soon the action started. I don’t want to spoil anything in case anyone reading this intends to go, but The Buddha of Suburbia is about Indian Immigrants living in South London in the late seventies. I must admit that the plot itself seemed to drag slightly, especially towards the end; but what struck me the most last night was how the story was told. Apart from the intermission, there were no scene changes as such: The action took place in one long go, with the actors using the various spaces on the elaborate, three-dimensional set to represent the various places in the story. I found it utterly intoxicating: watching the cast members seamlessly weave throughout the set, performing their lines, interacting with one another, periodically breaking into dance routines, was intoxicating. I had missed this though I hadn’t realised it, but either way was suddenly very eager to see more.

As I rode the Elisabeth Line back to Woolwich last night, it struck me that I had just experienced what London was best at. It is a city of theatres, of art, of music, of performance. It is a melting pot of a thousand intertwined, fascinating cultures. Places like The Barbican are where London comes to life. The Buddha Of Suburbia brings part of it’s south eastern corner into it’s centre, and in doing so brings the entire sprawling metropolis to life on stage.

Cinema Screenings should have Subtitles

I omitted a rather important detail from my entry yesterday which I decided warrants it’s own post. When we went into the screening room, I noticed that the film had subtitles. At first this struck me as pretty strange: the film was in English, so there was no reason for them. I initially thought they would just be a distraction. But then my brain kicked in: The Barbican obviously wanted the film to be accessible to everyone, including Deaf and hard of hearing people. Why shouldn’t the film have subtitles? In fact, when I came to think about it, why shouldn’t film screenings in general have subtitles? After all, it’s pretty unfair on people who need subtitles to watch films to only be able to go to certain, very limited, screenings. If subtitles distract or bother the rest of us, then surely it would be up to us to get used to them; that would be preferable than continuing to exclude Deaf people from cinemas.

Welby’s Opinions are Irrelevant

I really wish Justin Welby and guys like him would keep their opinions to themselves, and stop trying to intrude into UK politics. I just heard that Welby has spoken out against the Assisted Dying Bill, saying that it was the beginning of a ‘slippery slope’ to something far darker. Now, I am more or less on the fence when it comes to assisted suicide: yes, people should have a right to choose what to do with their lives; but I also think such bills open up dangers and risks which need to be guarded against. That isn’t what has got me agitated this morning though. What I find offensive is that Welby thinks he has a right to interfere in UK politics, simply because he calls himself a reverend. I know I’ve written about this before, quite a few times, but it really angers me how some people think their religion awards them as much authority as elected politicians. Welby wasn’t elected by the public, he doesn’t have any relevant qualification which would make his views on the subject especially pertinent; he just thinks his religion gives him the right to tell the rest of us how to live our lives. I find that profoundly arrogant and insulting. Quite frankly, Welby should just be ignored, as we would ignore any other nutcase who claims he has an invisible imaginary friend telling them what to say.

Isn’t CP Obvious?

I heard something on the breakfast news earlier which has had me puzzling over it for most of the afternoon: apparently, increasing numbers of parents are having to wait longer and longer to get their children diagnosed with various medical conditions, including cerebral palsy. “Hundreds of thousands of children with suspected neurodevelopmental conditions in England, including autism and ADHD, face unacceptably long waits to be diagnosed, the Children’s Commissioner has warned.” What strikes me as strange is that, to my knowledge, having CP is fairly clear cut and unambiguous. You usually get it if your brain is starved of oxygen at birth; and it’s pretty obvious whether a child has it or not as it often drastically effects their ability to control their bodies.

The notion that parents would have to fight to have their kids diagnosed with it thus strikes me as pretty strange. Their child could, of course, have a relatively mild case of CP, where they are still able to control their bodies more or less normally. In such cases, however, I would have to ask, is it worth diagnosing the kid at all? What would be the point of essentially labelling them for life, setting them apart from their able-bodied peers, when they can integrate as well and as happily as any other child? Obviously, if a kid is going to need help and support throughout their life, such a diagnosis will be hugely beneficial; but if a condition they may or may not have does not clearly effect them, then what is the point?

But here’s the rub: all this adds to my growing impression that more and more parents actually want their children to have special needs. They want their kids to be diagnosed as having a condition, whether they actually have it or not, in order to access the various social and political advantages which comes with it. After all, as contemporary society becomes more and more competitive, who wouldn’t want their child to have a little extra help, or be seen as special? The problem is, where does that leave guys like me, whose condition didn’t need to be argued over? As I wrote here, with more and more people defining themselves as having some kind of disability, I can’t help feeling that the very notion of being disabled is becoming usurped, devalued and rendered almost meaningless.