Results tagged “media” from Looking Up

To those who may have access to the UK's print media, a notification:

The Times tomorrow will contain a piece I have written about my day spent with the fantastic HEMS air ambulance team, including a reunion with the good people who scraped me off a garage roof in Muswell Hill five years ago.

To those who are outside the range of The Times in print:

Unfortunately, I will be unable to direct you to a URL of the piece unless you have opted to sign up for the paid online content that is now the only way of accessing The Times online. In case you have not, then just take my word for it...the piece is a fantastic example of really great writing. It has tremendous emotional depth, atmospheric characterisation and side splitting humorous asides. All delivered in my usual modest, self-deprecatory style.

Honest.

A while ago, I contributed to a small film for the NHS choices website. The film deals with living with a disability. Obviously, the Choices bit of the website seems a little rich as I don't remember being offered many choices, but I suppose how I cope with my life since my accident represents a series of choices.


It's a strange watch for me, especially as I still don't think of myself as 'disabled', even though I clearly am. This is probably indicative of my perceptions of disability from my 'old life', some of which I'm sure a are still knocking around in my head still.

My problem with being defined as disabled is one of my strengths. If it was a choice not to take on such a mantle, it was a good one. My expectations about how I am treated, what is made available to me along with everyone else and what I should expect from life are all based on being just like everybody else. All people should be treated like everybody else, but sadly this is often not the case.

In some ways, having a few 'arsey so-and-so's with high expectations like me out there may at least help to keep people on their toes. I'm always happy to get on people's toes, myself.

I hope that what has changed is that I am now more likely to treat everyone as 'normal'. I don't think I did too badly before my accident, but I must confess to feeling a little uncomfortable sometimes.

On the other hand, there are people who seem to have embraced the disability label so comprehensively that they seem content to disadvantage themselves.

At the supermarket yesterday, I watched a man drive past several empty unrestricted parking bays directly outside the doors only to park in a disabled bay further away, even though he didn't need the wider space. I would love to see some supermarkets provide wider bays further away from the doors to prevent people from being tempted to park in them out of laziness.

I stumbled upon this film that I contributed to about a year ago.
It reminded me of the value of talking to other people with spinal cord injury. There is a certain emotional battery recharge that comes from knowing that the other person has an understanding of what you've been through.

Apologies. The last dispatch was titled with possibly the worst pun ever conceived. Well, certainly since a Cardiff resident decided to call his take-away emporium 'Abra-Kebabra'.

Anyways. What's the word on the street? Well, Google Street-view, it would seem. The people in the village of Broughton have said 'no'. Having spotted the car with the camera coming down the street, they stopped it and sent them packing. Fair play. But the best part of the story for me was when one of the residents explained his objections.
"A map is one thing, but when they want to show all the intimate details of the front of your house, then it's an invasion of privacy."
What are the intimate details of the front of a house? Lacy curtains? Push-up shutters? Thigh-high damp-proof course? I am wondering if we should be planting a more modest hedge, perhaps.

Our locality continues to change as the Olympic work continues. The funny thing is, I'm aware that it's happening, and when I drive past the actual site, it's clear that the development is moving apace. But we're also in this strange period when the full implications and impact have not become fully apparent, and we still have our favourite places on Hackney Marshes to ourselves for the most part. Especially when the weather's not great, but those are often my favourite times.

Karma.
We were driving through Islington the day before yesterday, when Penny spotted a purse on the pavement. We stopped the car and picked it up. Inside, among the credit cars and house keys, was the business card of the owner. We rang her, and found that she had only just realised that she had dropped her purse, so we waited for her to walk back down the road and we gave it back to her.

Then yesterday I was in Sainsbury's when I realised the usually reliable mobile phone case on my wheelchair was open, and my phone was missing. I went home hoping that I had left it there, but it was nowhere to be seen. There was a message on the landline, however, from a man who had found my phone in the supermarket carpark. I immediateky called him back and went to meet him, wherupon he apologised for not having got around to taking the phone to the Police station.

I like to think that most people are still basically honest and decent. It's just that they aren't usually the ones that find things when you lose them. But it's very reassuring when they do.

On another note, my latest Times column went live today. Sorry to those who were looking online for my piece last week. Technical problems meant that it didn't see the virtual light of day. If it goes get posted anytime soon, I'll let you know.

Here's a link to the Wheelchair tennis yearbook from Take Two Magazine. There's a piece from me on page ten, all about my experience of taking up tennis as a wheelchair sport...

The latest installment of my column for The Times came out today.

Writing about parenting is an interesting process, as it makes me think about everyday things from a different perspective (can you think from a different perspective?). Writing for a broad audience who might not have any direct experience of disability means no longer assuming a level of familiarity with much of the day to day stuff.

That said, even the most seasoned disability veteran will be ecstatic when they see what I have found. I know we've all done it. All those times when we struggle to get pasta into the socks of a loved one. Those moments when you think, "There must be an easier way to do this."

Well now there is. Courtesy of a 'daily living aids' website in Australia. I present the Pasta-Stocking-Stuffer.

The excerpt below is a translation into and back from Korean. Reading this has made me realise just how much better my book would have been if I had followed this simple process...

Where to begin? So, it is easy. I'm at the bottom of the client's garden on the roof of an old garage is a fake. I browse the basin under the tree, and just at what is happening is confused.

  A few moments ago, I was a tree, 6 meters in 45 minutes and cut the rope and harness ready to unload it by the top was working.  I can feel my legs and my back is now.

  I, my wife, Penny, also calling me to see me trying to get through the shrubbery in the garden of tangling with jilhohanda out to the gardener.

She is five months pregnant. She just to listen to my voice, low-cost report, to fall, I had assumed that. April 1, 2005, I am 36 years old.

What is weird here, now "it, but somehow I can not remember the pain I remember is that the words" that sick.

I think that's going to get sick, I also like barking like a fairy remember remembered that....

Penny out of fear of losing consciousness, so that a certain line of the conversation to keep her empty.  She called in 20 minutes, we are combined by paramedics.

I could go on, but I fear it will taking something away from the rather pedestrian original version.

Thank you for all the positive feedback after the Times article. I'm really pleased with the way it came out. Thankfully no-one seemed to notice the huge piles of chaos over our shoulders in the picture. This is because:
a) We have a small child.
b) We hoard stuff.
c) We work from home (sort of).
d) Instead of throwing stuff away, we keep going to Ikea and buying even more boxes and other 'storage solutions' in the naive hope that this is all we need to to transform our flat into some kind of minimalist living space worthy of any Sunday supplement.

My latest piece for the BBC is now up on the OUCH website.
Those of you who have shared my football exploits as a spectator will no doubt be familiar with some of the challenges I have faced.

Those of you who once shared my football exploits as a player will no doubt be familiar with some of the challenges my opponents have faced.

To all of you I offer my sincerest apologies for any boredom or pain caused.

It might be timely to toss this image into the mix.



The team is Perfidious Albion, named after Napoleon's scathing "Perfide Albion," his description of the untrustworthy British.

 It's the only picture that I'm aware of showing me in my footballing prime, all stubbly chin and bouffant (Back row, second from left). Hard but fair was my motto. In other words, a glancing contact on the ball before you kick the opponent up in the air. Not with any malice aforethought, but through a subtle combination of a lack of pace and poor timing. 'Tis all the more ironic that I spend so much time bleating about attractive football and Corinthian spirit.

My article on parenting is in today's Times, and also on their website, if you want to read it online.

A really nice pic, too.

Well, hopefully. I've got a piece running in the Times2 family section of Tuesday's Times. It's going to be a busy day, with meetings at the hospital (Stoke Mandeville), where I sit on the Service User's committee. See? I can do proper grown-up stuff sometimes.

Actually, it's something that I am very happy to be involved with, as the National Spinal Injuries Centre are serious about patient involvement, and as ex-patients remain outpatients of the spinal unit for life, the input they give is invaluable. This is one of the things that I found very supportive when I was first admitted. The idea that the centre is concerned with providing treatment and support for the rest of my life, not just to get me through the rehabilitation process.

While we're praising, I would like to make another (yet another) mention of the International Tennis Federation, The LTA and the integration within the sport. I play fairly regularly at Roehampton, and some of the other wheelchair players train there frequently, often on court next to the likes of Andrew Murray. Actually it has been fairly unbearable playing there of late, as players have been acclimatising for Florida and the Australian Open, which has meant that the heating has been set on Australian high summer.

Which leads me, and quite neatly I thought, to more adventures. In February, we are heading Darn Sarf as we cheeky London chappies are wont to utter. But in this case, dear reader, it is not the wilds of Peckham that we are headed for. Instead we are settling for Australia.

The plan is for three weeks of family catchup fun in Sydney, followed by a week in Perth. We haven't been to Perth before, although people assure me that Perth in February is not dissimilar to the inside of a preheated oven. Obviously they don't actually say that. And certainly not from inside our oven. That'd be weird. Although thinking about the whole acclimatisation thing, it could work...

We are due to arrive in Sydney halfway through the biggest wheelchair tournament in Australia, which I intend to report on. The trouble is, jetlag does all kinds of strangeness to my short term memory, so I could end up writing about anything from the car-park to the inside of my eyelids.

It will most likely end up being some babbling incoherence about the staggering coincidence of so many wheelchair users from around the world all being in the same place at the same time. And all with tennis raquets. What was I saying? Oh look , there's a guy in a wheelchair. And he's got a tennis raquet..etc.

So, a new year begins, with war, financial meltdown, an hilarious bus advertising campaign and of course, the departure of the demented chimpanzee who has been 'in charge of the free world' for a very long time... No? Here's another clue. A quote:
"Free societies are hopeful societies. And free societies will be allies against these hateful few who have no conscience, who kill at the whim of a hat."

You've got to watch those hats. There are many, many more. Worth a look.

As for our start, well, I have managed to shift most of my persisting ills by making an appointment to see my g.p. Is that a placebo of sorts? I'm not sure, but it's certainly effective.  All I have to do now is get over the eating disorder I have developed over the festive period. It's called gluttony, I believe. Time to get out on the tennis courts, methinks. Meanwhile P still has sore ribs from coughing, not helped by R's enthusiastic climbing on her poor mum whenever any opportunity arrises. Sometimes I'd swear she lies in wait, ninja-style, ready to leap outand connect with whatever body part of either of us happens to be injured in some way.

Meanwhile, I have been busy writing various bits and pieces for various publications, some of which are now in print. I seem to have been mostly writing about tennis, but I have also been working on a more parenting based piece for one of the national dailies, of which more nearer the time. Call it superstition if you will, but I'm keeping shtum until I know it's running.

I have also been gradually drawing back the veil of three years on Amitryptyline after my magical sleigh ride kind of put me off in a big way. I'm now down to a lower dose than I have been on for the last three years, and so far without any negative effects. No doubt I'll be wheeling up and down the street with a lampshade on my head, singing 'bring me sunshine' while trying to eat my shoes by the end of the week. But that'll probably be down to the cold weather.

It is intriguing the way that medicine is prescribed sometimes. "Try X. No good? Try more X. Still no good? Try Y. No, keep taking X and Y. If all else fails, we'll throw in a few Zs." And before you know it, you're taking the entire contents of the scrabble set, and you can't remember what you're taking for which, and you have to take one because you're taking another, and your pharmacist starts going on ever more exotic holidays, and you can't remember what your name is anyymore...

What was I talking about? Where's my lampshade? 2...3...BRING ME SUNSHINE, THROUGH THE YEARS...you know the words, missus..etc.

It's now up on Ouch, the BBC disability website. It still feels strange for me to be writing for a disability website, because I still find it strange to call myself disabled. As if I'm some kind of outsider, the new kid in school.

I know, silly really. I mean, surely the wheelchair stands as pretty incontrovertible evidence. But here's the thing: I am a complete novice at interacting with the world in such a different way. I still look at shelves and light switches, stairs and ladders, and I instinctively reach for, climb up, generally react in the way I used to before my accident.

That's not to say that I spend my time flopping hopelessly on the floor as I try to put one foot in front of the other, but more that I do these things in my head. I see things as easy to get to when they are nigh on impossible without assistance. And that's just in our home. It's even worse in the big bad world.

But on some level, I like it that way. My miscalculations and misguided optimism at overcoming obstacles links me to my old life, the way I was. The way I still am in my head.  Denial? Perhaps... but I'd never admit it. (Geddit?)

That's why I like pictures like the one below. Sure, there's a wheelchair in it, but me? I'm just sitting on the grass...

...so last night, my cold (oh, stop being such a blokey wuss, etc.) turned ugly. My temperature crept up. This I knew before reaching for the thermometer, as my inbuilt system for telling me when something is wrong kicked into action. And I mean kicked. Like a donkey. Suddenly I felt as if I was being trampled by several donkeys in fact, with twinges and belts of pain up and down my legs and all through my lower back. This is not good. Knowing when something isn't right with my health? That's good. But surely a more subtle and user friendly system could be installed? One where perhaps my index finger glows orange and flashes intermittently, or the spasm in my toes taps out a message in morse code. "What is it, little piggy? Is Tim in trouble?"

Pain is, without doubt, the most difficult facet of my disability. It's ever present, usually in the background, but often demanding attention, and lurking in the back of my mind should I ever attempt to make plans of any kind. Occasionally, when it gets really bad, I knock myself out, and that can sometimes reset the clock.

So, this morning, having rested through a combination of my normal meds, a sleeper and a decent single malt, I found myself under water, wafting at the day ahead, and still showing a slight fever. Paracetamol helped to get things back to snotty status, but I do still possess an unnaturally low voice.

Still, while I have been doing the brave soldier routine, P has been rushing hither and yon with R in tow.

 And she has much more to deal with, especially after the advance copies of a certain women's weekly magazine arrived. We did an interview for them, and they have put us front cover. Only thing is, as well as the cheesy strap line, they have photoshopped P beyond all recognition.

It wasn't the only disappointment with this particular encounter with the meeja. Despite and agreement that they would read the copy through over the phone before it went to print, some kind of holiday/voicemail/missing note scenario caused this particular aspect to be overlooked. And the end result is a quattro formaggi of a telling. It's not use of invented conversations that grates, so much as the nature of those conversations. I for one feel that our story is 'dramatic' and 'moving' enough, without having to sound like an episode of Dr. Kildare.

On other, more positive subjects, we are having another open studio event in a couple of weeks. Only trouble is, I haven't done any work yet... Still, there's nothing like a deadlineto hone the creative process. I hope.

Well, folks. It's up. My first contribution as a columnist on Ouch! the BBC disability website. I hope that I'm not attacked by a gang of irate medal contenders who feel that my attitude is, well, that of someone who knows that they are destined to always be mediocre in any sport undertaken. With this in mind, I feel obliged to offer a clarification, especially as I will no doubt fall under a hail of disabled rock climbers abseiling down on my ass.

Not only do I have no problem with people who achieve such a high level of expertise in their chosen field, but I too find them inspiring. My point is merely, some might say trivially, that we can't all be the best. It's just not possible. A pyramid, by definition has a pointy top, and that's where the best Paralympic athletes reside. They have to be the best, as anyone who's attempted to push a wheelchair up a pyramid will tell you.

Just as you don't have a 100 meters for people who are a bit crap at running, there has to be canon fodder in every sport.  But there are occasions where, unbeknown to the elite, the canon fodder get together and enjoy pretending that they're actually pretty good. And if they hadn't had that knee injury or tennis elbow or gone to college or work or prison, they could have made it into serious competition.

It is this level of sporting competition that I miss. But hopefully tennis will provide me with that thrill. The local park, way too much kit and the complete deterioration in the standard of play as soon as anyone's watching. Ah, you should have seen my last shot...

Monday was a long day... The trip to the BBC in the morning, where I was shown to a small studio with a microphone and a pair of headphones. Headphones on, a voice comes over the line, saying, "We'll be putting you through to the studio in one minute." With no clue as to the format of the interview, or how long it will be. First up was a one to one with a presenter, which went OK, but I didn't know how long it would be going on for, and just as I hit my stride, the interview came to an end...

Second one. Over the headphones, I heard a phone-in discussion about experimenting on animals, where a contributor is told to ,"Stay on the line, because in a strange sort of way the next story links to what you've just said, so I know you'll be interested."
The caller had been talking about decompression testing on goats, so I was rather confused and concerned as to how I was going to make my story 'link'.

Thankfully, it didn't really, but instead I spoke for a few minutes, only to hear a neurology consultant come on the line who sounded much more uncomfortable than me. He'd probably been expecting to talk about exploding goats, only to hear about some guy who'd fallen out of a tree, which probably doesn't really count as decompression. It worked out OK in the end, and he did give the book a really positive plug.

The last one turned out to be a pre-record for later in the week, which made me feel much more relaxed, and by this stage I'm a seasoned professional (media whore).

Interviews over, I waited for my car (oh lah-de-dah!), sitting next to Paul Morley. I took a moment to tell him,
"I just wanted to say that I really enjoy your writing."
"Oh, right. Thanks."
Awkward silence, during which I should have mentioned that I've got a book out. You know, the 'I'm a writer too' conversation, but I didn't , and so we sat and stared straight ahead, while The Wombats got picked up from reception for a live slot on BBC 6Music. I'm guessing that's who it was, unless it was a bunch of fashionably dressed young men clutching guitar cases that, according to the description stenciled on them, actually contained wombats.

Home again, in time for the morning coffee to fully wear off, and by late afternoon, I was feeling pretty shattered. I managed to start work on a piece I'm writing (more nearer the time), and tried and stay awake, but it was a struggle. The old pain was really kicking in by the evening, and so I had a small glass (or two) of Shiraz flavoured  complimentary medicine, which didn't help on the button-bright alertness front.

Finally, at about 11.15pm, I had and extended interview with Radio New Zealand which I'm just listening to now, as I have no idea what I babbled about. Maybe it's better if I don't...

I did have a bit of a dummy spit, didn't I? You know, all that stuff about Amazon reviews. It wasn't me, it was the drugs talking. OK, so the medication in question was a sleeping tablet, rather than a 'get the hump because no-one's reviewed your book' tablet, but there's not alot in it, I assure you.

This week I was measured up for my new tennis wheelchair, which will undoubtedly make me a fantastic tennis player. Next week I hope to be measured up for a new 'get filthy rich' wheelchair, or maybe even a 'don't need a wheelchair anymore because I can walk again' wheelchair.

Tomorrow morning I'm off to the BBC for a series of interviews for BBC local radio, starting with BBC Radio Leeds at 10.30. Could be interesting, especially as (now then, now then, guys and gals) Leeds is of course the home to Stoke Mandeville's own Sir Jimmy Savile, so I'm sure he'll come up in conversation, or 'chat', as I'm sure it's known in local radio argot.

Next up is BBC Southern Counties Radio at 11.30. Could be interesting, especially as the Southern Counties are the home of, well, Surrey and, er... Sussex.

Then, at midday I'm doing BBC Radio Bristol.
Obviously, I'm doing all of these interviews from BBC studios in London, rather than actually traveling to the regions. See, I've got all the lingo. I also have a horrible feeling that the wonders of digital radio could mean that it's possible to listen to local radio, even when you're not local. Now I'm sweating.

But before tomorrow comes tonight, and another bout of pain (yawn!), but this time rather than Spike, it's just the usual assortment of twinges that seem to come in whenever there's damp weather. All that "feel it in me bones" stuff seems to be true, bizarrely. Something about low pressure? I dunno, really. All I do know is that if all else fails, I could have a career as a weather man. By which I mean I could be kept in the garden, and wheeled in to see what the weather's like. If I'm wincing and swearing, then there's low pressure coming in, if I'm wet, it's raining, etc. These are the kind of helpful ideas that the Government could employ to get people off incapacity benefit.

Right, I'm off for some dinner, and then hurl this sorry carcass into the sack, so that I am in some kind of shape to dazzle on the airwaves, where I can shine. Remember:
 "Many a scarecrow serves as a roost for the enlightened crow."
I'm not really sure either, but it sounds good, no?

"Than to be overlooked." Mae West.
Quoth? I'm not Quoth, just a little quonthused.
Bad puns over with, I had my latest round of meeja contact this week, with a questionnaire on the BBC's disability website Ouch!  It is my first real contact with disability oriented media, and over all I think it went well, with a tiny caveat. I said that some people were expecting the book to be a bit 'Jokey Blokey' (c) E.F.L. but that they were surprised when they found the book to be more personal and emotionally open, etc. Unfortunately, this made it into the interview as me having written a Jokey Blokey (hopefully I won't hear that expression again. Ever.) book.

The encounter was also interesting because it brings me into contact with a community of which I am a part, but very much a novice, when compared to people who have been disabled all their lives. It reminds me how I somehow manage to get the nature and date of my accident into the conversation within 5 minutes of meeting someone for the first time. As if I'm saying, "I'm not normally like this, you know."

And then, when I talk to other disabled people, I just feel a bit rubbish, as if I am falling between two stools.

So, the other plug for the book came in a newsletter for Back Up. It's good to get a mention for the book and obviously the blog. (Enough links, already)

Other news... More pain. It's been a bad couple of weeks in this regard, having been reduced to tears on one occasion. I think it's progress from being reduced to whisky, and hopefully will prevent me from being reduced to a jus. The tricky decision to wrestle with is whether to have further surgery, in the form of a cordectomy (complete severing of the spinal cord). The reason for this is that my L1 vertebra wasn't fully re-aligned after my accident, and is therefore trapping my spinal cord, causing it to stretch when I bend, which could be a contributory factor as far as pain is concerned. The compressed cord also increases my risk of developing a syrinx which could in time affect nerve bundles further up the spine, and increase my paralysis. Scary thought. The thing is, as with all of this stuff, there are no guarantees. No guarantee that I will or won't develop a spinal cyst, or that my pain will be improved or worsened. Why are these things never clear cut (bad pun)? Another 'we like to think' moment, I know, but we do think of our bodies as machines and our doctors as mechanics, mainly because the whole messy, organic, inconsistent way that our bodies work is rather too frightening to contemplate.

We have landed in the family section of The Guardian this morning. A good article, though it seems to suggest that my book is something of a 'bonkbuster'. I didn't think it was that, erm... salacious, but if it helps to shift a few copies... Over all, we're really pleased with the piece. 

The Mail have done an amazing job of editing the excerpts to give me a clipped, Wing Commander style. Broke back. Dashed bad luck. Went to hospital. Had child. Mustn't grumble.

And so it begins... The title perhaps overstating things a tad, but The Daily Mail are printing excerpts from the book tomorrow, and it will be interesting to see what the response is like. The whole politics of who gets the interview is bewildering, if a) runs it then b) won't, but if c) decides to come in then it's probably just to run a spoiler etc. etc.  There may be interviews in The Express, the Guardian and of course SHE magazine. Or there may be nothing in any of them. You never can tell.