brakefreeguy

Get down on it!

Tue, 31 Jan 2017 09:36:29 -0800

One of my most unrealised dreams is to be able to dance.

I love music, I DO have rhythm and I boast, let's be clear here, a very enviable torso, but no matter how hard I've tried, I've never been quite able to effortlessly blend these ingredients together.

Of course, like everyone, I've got drunk at weddings and discos - is there any difference? - and staggered onto the dance floor. And once, yes, I did dance WITH Riverdance but sadly to no avail.

I am, and always will be, the drunken enthusiast who, given a jug or two of prosecco, takes earnestly to the floor in the twisted knowledge that I am, indeed, Oxford's answer to Diversity (every single one of them).

Lately of course things have slightly changed.

I'm in a wheelchair and you might rightly have assumed that'd put an to my end to my crazy aspirations. But bizarrely it's only made me more determined.

Now clearly, I am not one of those people who believe that being in a wheelchair stops you from reaching for your dreams. Yet one has to be realistic, bear dignity in mind at all times and remember that wheelchair dancing is not for the faint-hearted (and I am of course referring to the audience here).

True, I was tempted a few months ago to hit the dance floor, wheelchair'n'all, but thankfully caught sight of myself in a mirror before committing.

So what I've tried to do recently is dance WITHOUT a wheelchair and against all odds, I think I may have pulled it off.

First however let us establish some ground rules; standing up unaided is not my forte while falling flat on my face most certainly is. It's trying to find the middle ground which has proved so challenging but thanks to my...Read More

By Hook or by Crook

Tue, 31 Jan 2017 09:32:12 -0800

When I was six I was introduced to my first hook.

Interestingly, it belonged to the headmistress of my infants school and yes it scared the crap out of everyone, pupils AND teachers alike.

You see, when you successfully read a book and could answer questions on it (Example: 'why did Jack and Jill go up the hill?'), you were sent to her office to receive a treat.

On this particular occasion it was a couple of Quality Street chocolates. I went with a girl called Sharon who had also read the same book and doubtless hoped I'd be her first boyfriend.

When we arrived outside the headmistress's door, we politely knocked and entered. Let's call her Miss Ratchet for the sake of argument, smiled, welcomed us in, and then having congratulated us on being so brainy, picked up the large, family tin, raised her right arm and with all the brutish strength of a seasoned slaughterhouse butcher, punctured a hole in its lid.

Tugging slightly to tear it open, she then allowed us to slide our hands through the torn and shiny

'wound' to retrieve our hard-earned reward.

I fancied her.

Not Sharon, but Miss Ratchet. And it was all because of her hook...

I saw a guy on the bus on the other day, and he had a rubber, prosthetic hand. And I don't mean one of those 21st Century, all digital, electronic marvels. I'm referring to what was simply a shop window dummy's hand, lying flat against his thigh, shiny, inert, dead.

God it gave me the creeps. And made me wonder too what it's purpose was? Surely far better to stick a modern-day, all-singing, all-dancing appliance to what was left of the forearm than something as lifeless and clammy as...Read More

We got ourselves a Convoy....!

Tue, 31 Jan 2017 08:38:29 -0800

Who'd have thought there'd be such as thing as wheelchair snobbery but there is.

It's petty, puerile, infantile and me. And I found myself expressing it only this week as 'Terry's Terror', complete with miniature RAC and AA standards, two large Oxford United stickers, an England flag, an assortment of streamers and a rather grotesque cartoon decal of a large-breasted woman swept past me in Sainsbury's.

Now obviously this ire was not targeted at the scooter itself, which has enabled many millions of people both here and abroad to maintain a level of independence and access that would not have been impossible 20 years ago. Rather it was aimed at its owner.

I suppose you could say I'm 'old skool'; someone who, despite only becoming disabled two years ago, has always held a high regard for the dignity of the wheelchair.

If you take a look, especially at its most contemporary evolution, it is an exquisite piece of design, a stirring example of industrial chic, right up there with the Eames Lounge Chair, the Brillie clock and the Singer stool.

It is elegant, delicately indestructible and exquisitely simple. In short, a perfect copulation of craftsmanship, engineering, design and passion. Now consider, reconsider, reevaluate, reassess and, if you're not careful, regurgitate the image you have in your mind of a mobility scooter. Is it not... lame?

Well yes it is, but despite its unholy homage to the Seventies school of excruciatingly awful, it does deserve respect for singlehandedly liberating the lives of those afflicted by old age and illness.

What I object to - and it does seem to have become something of a pandemic - is the increasingly garish, vulgar and brazen way owners are choosing to decorate and personalise these little...Read More

And he shall be called 'Petal'

Tue, 31 Jan 2017 05:51:05 -0800

I shall only say this once, but since becoming diabled my name has changed.

Until 18 months ago I was 'Jeremy' and during my year-long stay in hospital it lingered, but since returning to Oxford it has been all but superseded by the following monikers: Among men - mate, pal, buddy, sport, chief, skipper, friend; Among women - sweetheart, petal, pet and luv.

If I had any sense of political correctness I would stand on my soapbox (or roll onto it, more accurately) and, like Joseph Merrick cry "I am not an animal, I am a human being", but for right or wrong, I am more motivated by fitting in than standing out and thus actually appreciate the effort of complete strangers to demonstrate their empathy.

It's not belittling, demeaning or condescending but, dare I say it, actually endearing.

Not once in the last 14 months since moving back to Oxford have I detected anything but encouragement, cheer and guidance from the great British public.

In fact, the only time I've felt disheartened and despairing was in last April when, riding on a bus into town, I decided to give up my disabled space to another wheelchair user (and their carer) who otherwise would have had to continue waiting in the rain.

Since I was in no rush and younger than they were, I cheerfully surrendered my seat to wait for the next bus, but did they say 'thank you' or even show the slightest flicker of knee-jerk appreciation? No.

Equally, rolling out of a disabled toilet in Marks and Spencer in Queen Street, a limping middle-aged woman whose true disability seemed only to be a distinct lack of sartorial elegance, once shouted: "You took your time didn't you?"

Seated in my wheelchair like ET without the charm, I've...Read More