I am a broken man.
This is entirely my own fault. Well, mine and a certain Mr J Daniels anyway. In fact, now that I think about it a Mr J Beam might have also had some say in the matter and... Oh who am I kidding, my current delicate state is down to me and me alone.
Last night you see, saw your friendly neighbourhood seated person overindulging at one of my oldest mate's stag party. (That's Bachelor party for those stateside.)
Now the usual rule is 'what goes on stag, stays on stag!'. Today I'm going to break that rule.
A Coat of Gloss
Before the men of the world get too nervous about me lifting the lid on this beloved bastion of pre-marriage maleness allow me to qualify that statement. Although I will indeed be telling you a little about my (mis)adventures. No names will be given in order to protect the, um, guilty; and certain details may well be... glossed over.
Shall we begin?
The day started with me supposedly meeting one particular friend, also a wheelchair user, for a pre-beerage burger before joining the main party, something made necessary by my working that morning and having what you might call a spot of telecommunication difficulties (I.e a busted phone). I say supposedly because the best laid plans did indeed go awry and I found myself somewhat stranded in the middle of Leeds city centre.
Undeterred I resolved to head out on a Stag hunt. I knew the route the extremely organised best man had planned out and, given the time that elapsed, I guessed that the boys would be in one of three particular establishments. I therefore braved the rain and headed to my best guess.
Remarkably Calm
As it happened it was in the third of the three pubs that a slightly sodden seated person caught up with the groom and the gang..
This particular pub is one of my favourites in the city centre and the site of many previous, slightly fuzzily remembered, exploits. I knew, therefore, that the place was equipped with a disabled loo, although this sometimes doubled as a general storeroom (see A Tale Of Three Toilets for more on that subject.) Now, as I had been trawling the towns taverns my bladder had started to become an issue, something that could only get worse as the drinking began in earnest.
Unfortunately, I was informed, as I enquired about the key for the loo from a sullen barman, the key in question had been lost. How then was I to avail myself of these facilities? No idea mate. Maybe try the pub round the corner.
I think I remained remarkably calm given the circumstances.
My displeasure voiced, and the loo in a local Pret-a-Manger visited, we finished our drinks and headed to the next hostelry on our crawl. Things didn't impove.
This pub is one of the oldest in Leeds and is a long narrow establishment. This makes it tricky to navigate at the best of times. When it's three deep at the bar, rain makes the outdoor area unusable (at least without seriously watering down ones drinks.) and a portion of the pub is closed to all but the non-existent diners by a threshold I was told off for crossing; well then it becomes something akin to the spatial awareness round of The Krypton factor, or possibly the least entertaining game of Tetris ever.
I tried dear readers, truly I did, but there's only so many times a person can get elbowed in the head, stood on, stepped over, and generally made to feel like an obstruction before claustrophobia leads that person to make a break for it and head out into the rain once more.
Luckily the rest of the party saw fit to not abandon me and we made our way to the next pub and, as day gave way to night I started to relax. Things from this point became much more manageable, and accessibility was finally able to be put to one side.
Until.
The Naked Truth
I'm sure I'm not telling anyone anything they don't already know when I say that Stag 'dos' have a traditional element, usually found towards the end of the night, which feature scantily clad ladies who, I'm reliably informed, will, for a certain sum of money, become even more scantily clad.
Well who were we to argue with tradition?
The place was upstairs, which wasn't a great start, it also didn't have a lift, which was worse. By this time my friend, who I was supposed to meet up with earlier, had arrived so there were two wheelchairs, one of which was electric, to contend with. A decision was called for, to leave the party, possibly ending the night there, or to somehow make it up the flight of stairs. This decision was somewhat taken away from me when two of the lads half dragged, half carried both of us up. The bouncer ensuring my wheelchair at least, followed.
via GIPHY
The Bare Mnimum
Now whatever your view on such establishments, whether you think them harmless fun, deeply exploitive, hugely sexist, or just a complete waste of money the fact remains that in this last stop before the kebab house, accessibility hadn't even been considered .It wasn't old like the narrow pub, it wasn't badly managed like the place with the rude barman and the missing key. No, this place had been built, specifically designed, with not even a passing thought being given to the fact that disabled people might like to visit it.
Wether this is due to a lack of planning, marginalization or, perhaps more concerningly, the de-sexualisation of disabled people I'm not sure. If pushed I'd probably plump for a large dose of the latter coupled with that marginalization. I don't think the owners, builders, designers or even the staff, ever thought about disabled people. Not once.
In the week before people with disabilities have their highest media presence of the year, it is, if you'll pardon the pun, a sobering thought.
Until next time...
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