Wrong Wrong Wrong

Far better and more politically astute bloggers will write (and have already written) about the silliness in government arguments surrounding reform of the DLA (Disability Living Allowance) benefit.  However, having woken up to yet another repetition of the silliness, I thought I better write down why the arguments are wrong, even if reform is important.

There are several points I'd like to answer in this BBC article  as briefly and clearly as I can (thereby proving why I could never have a career in politics)

"Mr Duncan Smith said the number of people claiming it had risen by 30% in recent years."

In recent years: don't you just love when a statistic is varified like that?  What are recent years?  Ask a ten year old and ask an eighty year old and the difference will be very great indeed.  And so, I will qualify my next statistic.  Between 1994 and 2011 there was a 34% increase in the number of cars on the road.  Now obviously we're all aware of this (apart from the ten year olds) and it's no big shock.  But if you say it about people who live lives which are often unseen by many, who you're insinuating are taking money unfairly, it's a shocking thing.  Mr Duncan Smith might further qualify by saying...

"It's been rising well ahead of any other gauge you might make about illness, sickness, disability or for that matter, general trends in society."

...but I don't believe him.  I mean, the general trend is less than the increase in cars on the road.  There are more people surviving dangerous illness and injury.  There is better care for people with mental health problems (even if it's still woeful).  Disabled children are kept alive longer.  And, of course, of the 34% increase in cars, there are now plenty made in such a way that you're less likely to die in an accident.  And how many of those 34% collide with pedestrians?  Nice soft bouncy bonnets can only do so much.

To suggest that there's something sinister in the increased numbers of DLA claimants is just weird.  I mean, between 2009 and 2011 there was a 100% increase in Prime Ministers who claimed DLA for a child.

So what does Mr Duncan Smith claim is the reason for the increase?

"A lot of that is down to the way the benefit was structured so that it was very loosely defined..."

If something is loosely defined to begin with, why would the number of successful applicants suddenly increase later on?  The only thing I can imagine is that 1.) he's suggesting that people have somehow worked out loopholes that allow them the benefit, or that 2.) we've developed disabilities in such a way as to fit the criteria, tricksy little things that we are.  This is so silly and strange I really can't work out how to argue against it other than saying it's wrong.

"Second thing was that in the assessment, lots of people weren't actually seen. They didn't get a health check or anything like that."

This really annoys me.  Every single flipping form I've filled in, I've had to go through paper-work / google in order to find out my GP surgery address.  I have to do this so that the people in the benefits office can contact my GP and ask if I'm lying.  Surely, rather than go to the cost (and it's cost we're arguing against) of sending someone to assess me (and let's not even get on to whether that person's qualified or even rewarded for failing you) it'd make more sense to trust a qualified doctor who knows at least a little about my life?

Also, there are some conditions which are quite 'obvious'.  If one of the 34% extra cars were to have had the exhaust fall off and you rang up the garage to tell them and they said 'yes, well, you're hardly qualified to say if the exhaust has fallen off and whether this actually necessitates a repair...' you'd be pretty upset.

Of course, condition is not impairment and we should remember this before we get too angry - there is a reason the form goes beyond diagnosis.  MS is a good example of a condition which can be highly variable.  But surely the need for greater face-to-face assessment is minimal if we remember that all forms sent back should have doctors details.

"Third problem was lifetime awards. Something like 70% had lifetime awards, [which] meant that once they got it you never looked at them again. They were just allowed to fester."

I love the use of the word 'fester'.  The gorgeous writer of Diary of a Goldfish, creator of all things magical and light of my life, has a pregnant sister.  Very soon this will make me an uncle.  Yes - I too could be Uncle Fester.

DLA is about not letting people fester.  It's about giving them the ability to pay for the expensive needs of their disability and so allow them to live as normal and equal a life as possible (allowing them to, say, pay for someone to take them out rather than just festering at home...).

Do I really have to point out the major weakness to this?  Do I really?  Does anyone fail to see the really really really silly really really really wrong wrong wrong thing here?

Disability can result from conditions and injuries which are permanent.

At school I had a friend called Nigel.  He had a condition which has, by now, killed him.  There was no way he would recover.  No way his care requirements would get less.  To burden his family with reapplying for benefits for a condition which eventually killed their son would be cruel.

There are people with mental impairments which will never go away and they will always need help.  There are degenerative nerve conditions, bone and joint problems, mental conditions, cancers and tumours and lions and tigers and bears.  There are so many awful things which DO NOT GO AWAY.

If another one of those 34% extra cars were to have its engine blow up in such a way that the entire front end was mangled beyond repair and, every few years you had to contact the DVLA to confirm it was still un-drivable, you'd get pretty fed-up.  And then, if you thought about the time and money it takes to administer that check, you'd be horrified.

So that's it really.  Most people agree that Disability Benefits need to be reformed.  There's wasted time and money in administration, disabled people are put in positions of fear and dependence, and it's all talked about as if it's a charity rather than a part of NATIONAL INSURANCE.  Those things should change.

Which brings me to my final point.  If one of those 34% extra cars was damaged by an accident and you'd paid your insurance premiums, would you be happy if someone then started droaning on about the high number of insurance claims and how much this was costing them, and how they were going to cut the number of people to whom they pay out?

Blogging Against Disablism Day 2012 - Clippity Cloppity Goat and the Troll

For an audio version, either stream using the player below, or click here for the MP3 file.




Clippity-Cloppity Goat and the Troll under the Bridge.

Clippity-Cloppity Goat was a young kid, and like young kids everywhere he was easily bored.  He liked going out and about, hoping he might find something exciting and different.  But given that he lived in a field, this was pretty difficult.  After all, one patch of grass looks much like the rest.  So one afternoon, with the sun high in the sky, Clippity Cloppity Goat let loose the gate and scampered out along the path.

He felt excited and free.  The sensation was intoxicating and he laughed.  He splashed in puddles, bleated at the goats he saw in other fields and butted trees to show them who's boss (and got a bit of a headache as a result).  But, being a young kid, he soon began to get bored.  And that's when he saw the bridge.

It wasn't a particularly special bridge.  The road above was paved and rutted.  But underneath in the dark, mingled with the burbling noise of the little river the bridge forded, Clippity Cloppity Goat could hear a deathly growl.

Now, it's fair to say that the goat was at least a little nervous.  What could possibly be there?  He'd heard all manner of stories about the weird creatures that lurk in the dark, never going out anywhere.  He'd heard that they were aggressive and hateful and were part of the reason that all the fields around here weren't as green as they used to be.  Wanting to be a big ram, Clippity decided he'd make a point and have a laugh at the same time.

So Clippity Cloppity lived up to his name.  He strutted up to the bridge and Clippity Cloppity-ed his way over top, stamping as hard as he could on the cobbles, whilst shouting in his loudest voice;

Trolls who live under bridges smell
They spend our hard earned cash
Claiming not to be very well

Trolls who live under bridges are bad
They never go to parties
And they never look glad

Trolls who live under bridges deserve to die
They're a waste of space and air
And everything they say's a lie

Of course, as with all people who show off, Clippity Cloppity hadn't actually been paying attention to what he'd been doing.  Somewhere around Verse Two he'd climbed up onto the edge of the bridge and, still stamping, had managed to dislodge one of the stones.  With the final line he gave a great stamp, which echoed.  But as the echo died, the noise was replaced with a scraping and the great block upon which Clippity was stood gave way and the young goat was thrown down into the cold water below!

He scrambled about in the river, choking and crying in fear.  You see, he'd grown up in a field all his life and he'd never had anything to do with water deeper than a puddle.  He couldn't swim!  He shouted out for help, not really expecting any reply, but he was desperate!  What could possibly save him?

It was then he heard it.  The growling noise had stopped, and in its place there was a calm and gentle voice talking to him.

"Relax little one." said the Troll, his voice deep and tired-sounding, "I know this river well - I've watched it every day for years - and you've fallen on the shallowest part.  If you relax and put your hooves down, you should be able to stand on the bottom."

Clippity Cloppity, gasping and thrashing, was almost too scared to take this in, but there was something about the calm, caring voice that made him trust it and he stuck his feet down, throwing his head up.  And the Troll was right - he could stand on the bottom!  And although the water was very cold and the current quite fast, he was able to walk towards the deep voice.  As he neared it, the water got shallower and shallower, until he was, at last, out of the river and shivering on the bank.

Blinking the water out of his long lashes, the goat looked around him.  His eyes were used to the bright sunshine on shiny grass, but under the bridge everything seemed shades of black and green.  Eventually, though, his eyes adapted and he could make out a large shape comfortably ensconced in an alcove.  The hard stone was padded with great blankets and pillows as big as a Ram.  The Troll himself looked very strange, having many features which were unlike those of any goat.  Clippity felt scared, but he was too tired and cold to just run away.

"Who are you?" Clippity stammered.

Looming out of the darkness, the Troll's face slowly became distinguishable.  It certainly wasn't the kind of face Clippity was used to seeing.  And being a young kid, he saw lots and lots of faces.  In fact, he thought the world was made entirely of the kind of faces he was used to seeing.  So he felt scared.  And yet, the face did not seem angry.  And the more he looked at it, the less scared he became.

"I'm Arnold" said the Troll.  And this surprised the little goat, as Arnold seemed like the least scary name he could imagine.  Arnolds should not live under dark bridges.

"What are you doing here?" asked the inquisitive little goat, his whiskers twitching in curiosity.

"I live here" breathed the troll, the growl of his voice distant like far off thunder.  "I am not able to leave the shade of this bridge because the sun hurts me.  I was born differently to you.  My limbs won't hold my weight.  So I stay here on my own."

"On your own!" exclaimed Clippity.  He had been away from his herd-mates only a few hours, and yet already he felt the distance between them and longed to return to his lush, green field and be surrounded by all the people who made him feel safe.  "It's weird not wanting to be around people." he declared, stamping a little hoof on the muddy bank, the damp little clop echoing in the dark spaces above him.

"But I do want to be around people.  I do talk to people."  The troll gestured to the water, one huge hand skidding across the silver surface.  "My friends all live along the river and we send messages in the water.  Just this morning, my good friend Emma wrote me a lovely letter on the back of an oak leaf.  I fished it out with this."  He produced a willow wand, at the end of which was a simply lashed hoop, criss-crossed with bind-weed.  "All of my friends are in the net."

And he was right.  Clippity watched open-mouthed as Arnold up-ended the net, letting leaves, bark and sticks rain out on to the floor.  Each one was inscribed and marked - some times with text, sometimes with pictures.  One particularly beautiful silver-birch twig was even decorated with multi-coloured flowers.

At this very moment, a sand martin swooped low over the water, its sharp, pointed wings skimming the surface.  It caught a fly, swallowed as it banked, and came around again, calling as it passed.

Arnold's face screwed up and he chuckled as only a troll could.  The hair on Clippity's neck stood on end.  Eventually Arnold explained "As well as the net, we have learnt to communicate through birds who send our messages.  In return, we keep the bridges clean and tidy for their nests and keep them safe from predators.  It's useful being able to 'tweet' a friend, especially if they live up-stream...."

"But it's not right being stuck in one place."  Clippity continued, feeling, though, that perhaps the things he'd heard might not be entirely true.  He was also intensely aware that for all his short life he'd been stuck in the same field.  It was only today that he'd finally broken free to see more of the world.  And he guessed that soon he'd have to get back.  It was hard to tell in the darkness under the bridge, but the sky outside seemed to be getting darker.  He would be able to find his way back in the dark, wouldn't he...?

"Stuck in one place?" Arnold said, with surprise in his heavy voice "As well as the messages I receive from my friends, I can watch the entire world go by on the river.  I can smell the mountain soil on the water after heavy rain has washed it down to the sea.  I can watch the cherry-blossom float on the surface when there's a strong April wind.  I hear the trout splashing on its journey between river-bed and sea-deep.  What am I missing?"

And Clippity could not answer.  Although not able to join in with the same games all the other goats enjoyed, Arnold clearly was the same as he.  They both enjoyed talking with their friends, watching all the creatures around them, and the smell of the world after rain.  And they were pretty important things.  But still...

"Why do people think you're so scary, then?" asked Clippity, sitting down in a comfy spot as he looked up at his new friend and listened, patiently.

"I have to sleep a lot during the day.  Whenever people come along, it's likely that I'll be snoring.  And when I snore, people go away, scared.  I can't help it.  If only they'd stop and wait, I'd wake up and they'd see I wasn't to be feared."

Clippity saw a big tear well in the dark eye of the troll.  With a small 'plink', the tear fell into the river.  Perhaps, Clippity thought, another troll might notice it and send a bird to check that everything was alright.  But just in case, Clippity nuzzled the great troll gently.

"I'm sorry," he said "I just didn't know."

The great Troll patted the little goat on his bristly head and said, gently, "It's alright, little one.  It is normal to be scared of the things we don't understand.  What isn't right is to ignore reality and truth when we see it.  It's not right to make up hateful stories.  But you have found the truth and understood it.  That is the meaning of all great quests."

Clippity felt a huge sense of pride, but whilst his heart was full and warm, he shivered against the cold wind which whistled under the bridge and, when he turned back, he was shocked to see that the world had turned dark behind him.

"Oh no!" he cried, "It's got late and dark and I don't know my way home!"

Clippity began to cry, far more scared now than he had been when he'd heard the snoring of a hidden troll.  How on earth would he find his way back to his family and friends?

But the troll patted the kid again and quickly reached for one of his stores of dried leaves and delicately wrote a note on it.  This was placed, gently, into the water where it was quickly taken away by the fast flow.  He then carefully tapped on two of the martin nests which were dug from the fragile bank of the stream.  In a strange language he spoke to the birds who had been resting, and, like bullets from a gun, they flew out into the air and disappeared in the blink of an eye.

But Clippity hardly noticed this.  His vision was clouded by tears and his body felt trapped - trapped under a water of despair and floundering as surely as he had when he fell into the river.  He shivered again.

He gasped with shock when a heavy weight of wool fell around him.  Arnold was making for him a bed of his own blankets and pillows.  Too upset to say anything, Clippity collapsed onto the soft space and, very soon, was snoring almost as loudly as the big troll who was now his friend.

--

Clippity awoke with a start.  He was scared because he didn't know where he was.  But soon he remembered and once again was overcome with remorse and upset.  At that moment, however, he heard a familiar sound.  It was the clank and clamour of a rough bell.  The bell he knew so well.  It was the bell that, for all his life, had been tied around the neck of his mother.  And here she was, appearing in the glow of the fire Arnold had built especially to keep little Clippity warm.

"There you are, you young rascal!" she called.  "If it wasn't for your new friend, we'd never have found you.  Thank you, sir," she said, bowing her head slightly with a rattle from the bell, "We'll never be able to repay you for keeping our little one safe."

The troll shrugged, "It wasn't really me, I just sent out a message.  My fellow trolls had heard young Clippity in the woods and, later, had heard your folk searching for him.  With the help of our birds, we were able to track you down and guide you."

And so, with a sleepy backward glance at his new friend, Clippity made his way back home under the watchful eye of his mother (who would later have many things to say about going off on your own and the real dangers of the wood which would make a troll look like a kitten).  But from then on Clippity knew that wherever he was, he was never alone.  Even in the dark places and where people seemed strange and different, there was always a good chance that there would be things shared and commonly valued.  He understood the difference between 'different' and 'bad'.  And he also knew that, whatever he did in the coming years, he would set out to find truth and understanding and never to give in to fear.  Because truth and trust would keep you safe even when the night falls.

Blogging Against Disablism Day 2012 - Intro

For an audio version, either stream using the player below, or click here for the MP3 file.



I've been thinking about trolls lately; those Scandinavian beasts of mythology.  Blame it on my recent viewing of the fabulous Troll Hunter, a sharp comedy which is very much worth watching.  But that's not quite what I want to write about on this, Blogging Against Disablism Day 2012.

I believe strongly that we live our lives through the rules of stories.  Fables, religious texts, soap operas - they all use story to teach us about events we may face through sometimes heavily veiled yet strongly appropriate examples.  As we grow, the stories continue.  We've seen in the last few years a massive increase in the number of newspaper headlines denigrating the disabled.  With them has come a number of set stories - the person claiming benefits who runs a marathon, the blue badge user who drives a Merc, the heroic military amputee overcoming injury...

This makes it very difficult to be a normal disabled person.  That might sound silly - obviously no disabled person has an easy life...I mean, they're disabled.  But, when you're new to it all, looking into this mass of negative stereotypes, how can you assume that identity with a good heart?  It'd be like an electrician watching 'When Cowboy Tradespeople Make Old Ladies Cry' only to exclaim after the first grief stricken segway into advert break 'I'm a tradesperson too!'.

There was a documentary last year - Katie and Her Beautiful Friends.  The documentary looked at people who had various disfigurements.  The idea was that Katie helped these people to grow and become confident and assume a position as ambassador to other people dealing with disfigurement.  There were some great people on there, but none who would (at least on screen) identify as disabled*.  How could they?  The position they were aiming to fill has nothing to do with the story of disability we currently see everywhere.  These people were going out, facing the world, working and achieving.  Admirable achievements, to be sure.  But it precludes them from the story of disability.

I recently had a reply to a letter I sent to a member of parliament.  I will keep it (and their name) private, but at the end of said letter, the MP said

In order to better public perceptions of disability, you need to get out and about and show the world how great you are.

I paraphrase to make it significantly less long winded.  But the message is clear.  Disability in the traditional storybook sense is not appropriate.  We hide away in the dark.  We are trolls - not human, not attractive, not worthwhile.  The only way we can be worthy of not being abused (which was the point I'd made in my letter) is to recreate who we are by flinging aside any impediment and parading through the streets, bursting into song and, preferably, saving small kittens from trees whilst climbing the nearest mountain.

I disagree.  Rather than change who we are (which is impossible...) we need to change the stories.  We need to rewrite the nursery rhymes.  They are the foundation block of all narrative we use today (including newspaper headlines, government statements, etc) and how we learn morality.  And all of this is, I believe, a moral issue.

So in my second post (I thought I should break them up to save you from overload) I will rewrite the Troll Fairytale.  I suggest you print out a copy for any passing parents you see.




*it's important to note, of course, that this might have nothing to do with the people involved.  It's entirely possible that this was done in editing.  It's also important to say how much good the people and the programme did.  It's just a shame that their positive story isn't really related to disability, even though some of the injuries are certainly physically disabling and, of course, that societal reactions to disfigurement are, and always has been, disabling.

Graduation - The Aftermath

Graduation, I am glad to say, is now well and truly over.  That makes it sound like it was bad in some way - far from it.  In fact, we even coped with the physical damage of the trip better than we expected.  Even so, the day went by in a black poly-cotton cloud of pain and movement.  Now, however, looking back and feeling less poorly, I'm able to enjoy the day more and more.

I do not, and never will, like London.  However, there was something of the adventure about getting into the capital, settling into a cheap hotel room and watching the best of a limited number of television channels.  We cobbled together a rather lovely meal from a collection of tubs from an M&S and, aside from some noisy characters disturbing our beauty sleep in the early morning, we had a relatively good night.  I got my first experience of a wet room and, had I bought my tools with me, I'd have pinched the bathroom tap (it was one of those bubbly water-saving jobs).

Arriving at the Barbican was trickier than expected thanks to some road closures, but we got to our reserved parking space (just a little way from the suspiciously heavy looking Range-Rover/Bentley Royal convoy - I'm sure the Citroen would have fitted in nicely) and very soon were in and rendezvous-ing with my sister.

My sister's ten year's older than I, and our relationship's developed in interesting ways in recent years.  I think really we have more mutual respect than most siblings without being necessarily 'close' in the ways most people would understand the term.  I was really pleased to have her there, and she certainly leant a strength to our little quartet.

A wheelchair always tends to throw people into a panic, and the graduation was no different even after a few emails confirming the situation before-hand.  The Barbican staff were great, though, and getting on and off the stage was a painless freight lift affair.  Although my 'I always said I'd go up in the world if I went to university' joke mid-lift fell somewhat flat...

Sitting on stage throughout proceedings was something I'd rather have done without.  My father sat with me and I was very glad for that.  I was half afraid if he sat in the audience he'd risk falling asleep and missing the cue to push me across the stage!  And he'd not be blamed for falling asleep - there were a huge number of people collecting degrees.

And I think that's one of the things I like the most about being a member of the International arm of London University, even if I am not actually International.  The sheer range of cultures, subjects, ages and styles were wonderful.  It was a real reminder of what a broad and special world we live in.  Even, as Deb pointed out, watching the different ways people walked across the stage - striding confidently, hurrying self-consciously or, as in my case, wheeling whilst looking like my hamster had just died.  One of the things I value about my degree is its all encompassing nature - art, architecture, literature, history, sociology...the whole shebang.  And it felt appropriate, sitting there, the only student in the afternoon session receiving a degree in Classics, surrounded by fellow students from the four corners who had studied science, law, english, history, computing etc.  The world doesn't change.  It is eternally varied.

We got home in surprisingly good time, and Deb and I thoroughly crashed.  But we're now over a week on and recovering well.  The memory of the pain fades and leaves a pride in being part of such a huge thing.  It's not something we're likely to replicate in the future.  It's something we'll always remember and treasure.

Graduation

Tomorrow I graduate.

And given how abstract the whole thing is at the moment, I almost feel like I'm suddenly going to fade off beautifully from head to toe rather than take part in any kind of ceremony.

Honestly, the whole thing's rather intimidating.  To get to this do (in the middle of London) we need to travel today and stay overnight.  Deb managed to find us an appropaite hotel (appropriate means relatively cheap in these circumstances) and then tomorrow morning we're off so that I can be wheeled in front of someone to recieve a bit of paper.

And yet there is a part of me which thinks these kind of dos are important and something I've not really had much of in the past.

It's a bit like birthday parties (likewise something I've not much experience of) - people gather to celebrate what you've achieved.  Because birthdays are less about a passage of time and more about what you've become or are becoming.

My degree is a funny thing.  Given my inability to work, there's a part of me which thinks of any formal education as a waste of money.  But this is obviously rubbish.  The extreme result of thinking like that is that any poorly kid should be excluded from school for money reasons (something which looks more and more likely given the way that the disabled as being treated in this country).

And yet the degree is one of the very best things I've ever done.  I worked very hard at it, felt that massive rush and excitement as I understood and even expanded upon the ideas of countless academics before me.

And the great thing is that with a classics degree, you're left with knowledge that can lead you through almost any situation.  Even a graduation.

The only problem is, I can't think of anyone at the moment other than Petronius who, when ordered to commit suicide by Nero did so by cutting his wrists.  But then promptly bound them up so that he could spend the evening partying and writing out a list of all Nero's perversions before letting the bandages loose.

So rather than anything quite so drastic, here's my way of getting through graduation.  Photographic proof that I have a brain.

Dan Simmons - Flashback (review)

Although it's sometimes a tricky process, I'll never say that writing a Christmas list is a hardship.  I feel there's something positive about listing dreams, and although there are times when I'm scared to name the big-picture, long-term, life-changing desires, I'm definitely at home to Mr Capitalist-Consumer.

So this year's Christmas list was an interesting mix of toys - from a kit to build your own camera right the way through to Ponyo on dvd(and just in case you're feeling generous - no one got them for me...).  It was a masterpiece of an Amazon wishlist...and being Amazon based (and being mine) it featured a fair number of books.  I ended up with several choice volumes - a work on Disaster Movies as a genre, Terry Pratchett's 'Snuff' and 'Flashback', a novel by Dan Simmons, author of the superb Ilium and Olympos, as well as the Hyperion and Endymion books.  This novel, however, sounded a bit different - still SF, but less far-reaching and potentially less strange.  I looked forward to any book brave enough to name its hero Nick Bottom.  A book about a drug allowing you to relive your past and how that might work in a Private Investigator-type story.  I pictured repeated investigations of memories and the subtleties of experience.  The questioning of reality.  And, this being a Dan Simmons novel, plenty of literary allusions.  And maybe a few literary illusions too.

I am utterly stunned having read it.  And not in a good way.  I almost feel bad writing this, but then having read 550 pages of hate-filled ranting and raving, I need to exorcise the experience by doing a bit of my own!

I had no idea about Dan Simmons' political ideology prior to reading this novel.  I think it's fair to say that none of his ponderings on modern life are a mystery to me now.  Whether it's national health care, Islam or modern architecture, no narrative was brave enough to get in the way of page after page of drivel describing how mad, bad and dangerous they all are.  Honestly at times it felt like sitting alone with an elderly relative, rendered aggressive by poorly chosen medication, listening to their spittle-barbed tirades against the world as they see it.

This was a detective story!  First and foremost it should be about interesting plot twists and a story that keeps you guessing.  And yet I would think that at least half of the book was taken up with unimportant discussions of politics which just left me shaking my head in horror.  In fact, the few errors I found in the story were so glaringly obvious in part because they stood out by not being a political message about Muslims or Socialism.  The 'I'm an evil madman mwahahaha!' speech at the end of the book is followed by the (and I use the word loosely) 'hero' saying that he couldn't help but agree with the gist of the rant.  That just doesn't work!  I know that good villains should be sympathetic.  But there's sympathy and there's...well...there's a scene when a self-proclaimed pacifist fantasises about hanging people from lamp-posts and nuking Muslims!

What's worse, while I've been getting more and more wound up by this book, so it's been eroding much of what I've enjoyed in his previous books.  I can now look back and rather than picking out the good, I end up thinking 'Oh yes, yet another 'nice' woman who is dead, an aggressively strong woman who is alive but not to be messed with, and...well...not many other women at all'.

This is my blog.  I'm allowed to witter on about whatever I like.  Because it's a blog.  If this were a novel, it'd be a pretty poor one.  But not as poor as Flashback.

Gay Marriage - an ex-choirboy's perspective

As an ex-choirboy I know everything there is to know about marriage.

Honestly, there's nothing that's a mystery to me.  From my point in the pews near the ceiling of the local church, I could look down upon the whole thing in much the same way one may look down on a football match from a (much more comfortable) box seat.  But while the bouncy ball of football fate may be fickle, the game of Wedding is much more easy to read.

Once, I and my be-cassocked brethren sang The Locomotion from our lofty position.  Complete with actions.  That marriage was going to do well.

Once, the bride collapsed into hysterics when asked 'Do you take this man...'.  That marriage...well...what do you think was going to happen?

But the most important thing, by far, was the way the bride and groom looked at one another.  If they looked with true love you knew that the marriage would be successful and joyful (for the most part) no matter how much Australian pop or inappropriate laughter was involved in their lives together.

So as an ex-choirboy who knows everything about marriage, it surprises me that some people think that gay marriage is wrong.  How can any marriage be wrong if it's about love?

But no, says Lord Carey, marriage is actually about these things;

Children and Tradition

OK, call me silly, but surely that means that any couples wanting to get married should first have a fertility test, right?  Only those capable of squeezing out at least five infants in the first ten years of life together should be allowed to marry, right?

Forgive my Classicist-Choirboy thought processes, but Musonius Rufus worked this out many many many many many years ago.  Marriage, he says, is not chiefly about the begetting of brats, because, you know, animals produce offspring without a ceremony and we're perfectly capable of it.  Marriage is about;

"...complete companionship and concern for each other..."

and it is destroyed when one party sets their mind entirely on what is outside of the marriage, rather than the wellbeing of their other half.

Even if it were about children, though, why should we stop infertile couples from marrying?  They could always adopt, right?  And if an infertile heterosexual couple can adopt, surely so can a gay couple?  And arguments against the ability of gay couples of raise children sort of went out of the window when this chap spoke.

So there's tradition.  Cool, I like tradition.  So which tradition do we follow?  Ancient Spartans staged a mock kidnap and shaved a woman's hair before dressing her in military attire.  I can see that going down well in the UK.  Just imagine all the enraged hair-dressers who'd be losing out on income?

Tradition's a funny argument.  For many many years in the UK there was no religious or ceremonial element to marriage and all people had to do was live together and consider themselves to belong to one another.  Traditions change.  And as any ex-choirboy knows, love trumps tradition.

And anyway, how was Kylie traditional, eh?

Then there's the argument that gay people can already become civil partners and that's as good as marriage.  OK, so if we define Lord Carey to no longer by human but just a bipedal life-form, that'll be ok then, right?  I mean it's just the same thing by another name.  He doesn't want to be human.  It's just a word.

Honestly, how anyone can make that argument without rolling their own eyes at themselves is beyond me.  Of course everyone wants to be married.  And of course using a separate terminology is going to make it second class.

Finally there's the argument that this is another of a long line of attacks on Christian values.  As a Christian I guess I should be very worried by gay marriage.  But I'm not.  I'll tell you why.

One of the examples given of previous attacks was the hotel argument.  Now, as a vaguely liberal sort, I should be appalled that someone should want to exclude certain people from their guesthouse.  I'm not, though.  I think that's fine.  What I do believe, though, is that there should be some consistency.

So you think being gay is wrong because it's "written in the bible".  Fine.  Firstly, make it plain and clear that that's what you believe.  After that point, you have a few more obligations.

There are seven deadly sins.  And this is how they relate to B&Bs.

1 - Wrath - No action films must be available on television lest the guest be allowed to get too worked up.  Likewise bills must be extremely reasonable.

2 - Greed - So no excessive luxury in the room, nothing aspirational or impressive.  We're talking monk-cell levels of accomodation.

3 - Sloth - Check-out times must be 4am or earlier and beds of nails must be rusty and barbed.

4 - Pride - The removal of mirrors, those free packets of shampoo and the little books of matches that you can pull out to say 'Oh, what these?  Oh yes, we just went away for a few days in October...it was such a lovely little place...'

5 - Lust - So you must make sure that any guests (of whatever sex) bring with them appropriate night-time attire to discourage lustful thoughts (I suggest one of these*).

6 - Envy - All rooms must be exactly equal.

7 - Gluttony - No full-english-breakfasts can be served.

Anyone not complying to all these points should be prosecuted for hypocrasy.  Which in my Britain is a capital offence.

Really it comes down to 'He who is without sin' coupled with a bit of 'love thy neighbour' and topped off with a liberal sprinkle of 'judge not lest ye be judged'.  And I feel that applies equally well to the marriage debate.

But most importantly, God is Love.  That's the strongest message in the bible and one that should be kept at the forefront of the mind.  If people love one another, then that union has of itself something of the divine.  That means that whenever a couple fall in love, Christianity is strengthened as there's more of a divine presence on earth.  To exclude certain couples on the merits of their sexuality is to exclude God.

So sayeth the choirboy.

*although in my case, I'd be left in a likely position to break sin no.1