A little while ago a person I follow on Twitter posted this:
Now I’m going to be honest with you; from time to time I do wonder if that particular account is a parody or not. I’ve asked cleverer Twitter users than me (i.e. women) and they think she’s a legit account, and I’m happy to take their word for it.
Re-branding idiots as “neuroatypical” may seem strange – “arguing with morons” is after all pretty much Twitter’s business plan – but when I was a lad men who dressed in ladies’ clothes did so furtively, were called transvestites and we laughed at them, now they do it openly, we call them women and say they’re “brave”…so these things do change.
This subject got me thinking about my own disability, which I rarely mention. You see, I was born without a sense of rhythm. I’m not saying that this is a proper disability. It’s not life-threatening (if, like me, you’re from a Catholic family, it could be said to be quite the opposite), but if we’re handing out badges that protect people from cruel laughter and name calling then I want in on that before the idiots and morons ruin the gig for everyone.
Let’s put my disability into context; given something like Queen’s “We will rock you” I can clap along if I really concentrate. Anything more rhythmically complex is beyond me. The main upshot of this is that people laugh at me, like I was some kind of neuroatypical! They don’t just laugh, of course, they go out of their way to set up myself and fellow arhythmics for laughs. You wouldn’t dream of, say, organising clay-pigeon shooting and then encourage your blind mate to come along and fall about laughing as he blasts the living shit out of anything you point him at. If, however, there’s a chance to take somebody who couldn’t find a beat in a health-food store along to a karaoke evening then that’s fine and fucking dandy.
My fellow sufferers have known many bad times. Remember that for a lot of history your ability to attract a mate was directly linked to your ability to dance, for the arhythmics this rock to woo and the eugenics of the discos could have been the end of us!
The matter of appropriate reparations for these slights will, in my opinion, be settled to the satisfaction of all with an Olympic games for those with crap disabilities. We don’t want to be part of the Paralympics – the ‘para-‘ prefix denoting that the participates rise above and beyond serious impairments to compete at an incredible level. For us, the crappily disabled, the “sub-” prefix seems more appropriate.
I really want to see this, from the glorious opening ceremony – where Danny Boyle, dishevelled and hallucinating after 8 weeks of work with only 80 hours of sleep – weeps at the sight of 1,000 arhythmics dancing to the same tune, with approximately 800 different beats right through to the proud moment that our afflicted hurdlers stand on the podium, the blood proudly streaming from their shattered noses.
I’m not just advocating the sublympics for those who lack musical talent. Won’t we all feel our hearts swell when a British sublympian breaks through the 4-day record in the marathon for people with no sense of direction? Imagine being in the stadium as it shakes and creaks during the 100 meters for the morbidly obese! The synchronised-swimming for the humourless can safely take place in the pool as the final contestant from the high-diving for acrophobics is coaxed down from the board.
And let’s not forget the “neuroatypical”. I suggest we enter them for the javelin and archery events.
Let’s see who’s laughing then.