On the fringes?

The mainstream media gives disabled people precious little coverage

Disability is regarded by many commentators as being a fringe concern and we receive precious little coverage in the mainstream media, in comparison with many other sections of society.

On the one hand, disabled people would not welcome the obsessive treatment that is given to Islam by the national press, but it would be nice for our existence to be at least acknowledged once in a while.

This neglect is compounded by the attitude of many employers and service providers, who resent making changes to their business practices for what they see as a tiny minority of the population.

In many cases, the only time that we are discussed is to ask the question, ‘Have disability rights gone too far?’ It is surely premature for the backlash to begin before widespread acceptance has yet been achieved.

It is a truism that there are far more disabled people than most people expect and there is an oft-quoted statistic that one in five of the UK population qualify for protection under the Disability Discrimination Act.

However, this figure is easily dismissed by assuming that most of these people have impairments which are regarded as relatively minor, such as back problems, dyslexia or depression.

Such a view is highly patronising and seriously underestimates the extent of exclusion faced by members of these groups. In any case, even if we grudgingly ignore them, the ‘disability problem’ stubbornly fails to disappear.

For example, 3% of British people have visual impairments that cannot be remedied with glasses, 2% use wheelchairs, and 1% will be diagnosed with schizophrenia in their lives.

We are not hiding. These numbers seem surprising because very few organisations have workforces even remotely reflecting these proportions, and most high street shops cannot be accessed by a lot of disabled people.

Even if there was a reason to visit the city centre, many people are completely unable to get there by public transport. Meanwhile, the total collapse of community cohesion combined with a general inability to cope with unusual behaviour causes many people with mental health difficulties to become socially isolated.

Although the encounters that we have on a day-to-day basis can sometimes be a reliable indicator of the composition of society, in this case they produce a dangerously distorted picture. I have given up any hope that TV with ever do enough to correct this perception.

When it is argued, to choose one example, that websites need not be made accessible to blind people, because not many of them use the internet, this is a clear case of putting the cart before the horse.

To quote a sentimental Kevin Costner film, ‘If you build it they will come.’ Being located in a deep pit, the Eden Project did not find it easy to provide access, but it has been rewarded with thousands of extra visitors, and the number of wheelchairs on show is a striking contrast to other tourist attractions. To someone who is not used to it, they seem to be everywhere.

It will only be possible to get a realistic perspective of the size of the disabled population when the same can be said of every single building in the country. Just one inaccessible shop does more to create segregation than a million veils.

As a child, I was very successful in my schoolwork but found it difficult to make friends. I went to Cambridge University but dropped out after a year due to severe depression and spent most of the next year in a therapeutic community, before returning to Cambridge to complete my degree. I first identified myself as autistic in 1999 while I was studying psychology in London but I was not officially diagnosed until 2004 because of a year travelling in Australia and a great deal of NHS bureaucracy. I spent four years working for the BBC as a question writer for the Weakest Link but I am now studying law with the intention of training to be a solicitor. My hobbies include online poker and korfball, and I will be running the London Marathon in 2007. I now have many friends and I am rarely depressed but I remain single.
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The Tinder dating app isn't just about sex – it's about friendship, too. And sex

The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, as I found out quickly while using the app.

The first time I met someone using Tinder, the free dating app that requires users to swipe left for “no” and right for “yes” before enabling new “matches” to chat, it was an unqualified success. I should probably qualify that. I was newly single after five years in a committed relationship and wasn’t looking for anything more than fun, friendship and, well, who knows. A few weeks earlier I had tried to give my number to a girl in a cinema café in Brixton. I wrote it on a postcard I’d been using as a bookmark. She said she had a boyfriend, but wanted to keep the postcard. I had no date and I lost my page.

My Tinder date was a master’s student from Valencia called Anna (her name wasn’t really Anna, of course, I’m not a sociopath). When I arrived at the appointed meeting place, she told me I was far more handsome IRL (“in real life”) than my pictures suggested. I was flattered and full of praise for the directness of continental Europeans but also thought sadly to myself: “If only the same could be said about you.”

Anna and I became friends, at least for a while. The date wasn’t a success in the traditional sense of leading us into a contract based on exclusivity, an accumulating cache of resentments and a mortgage, but it had put me back in the game (an appropriate metaphor – people speak regularly of “playing” with the app).

According to Sean Rad, the co-founder who launched Tinder in late 2012, the service was invented for people like me. “It was really a way to overcome my own problems,” he told the editor of Cosmopolitan at an event in London last month. “It was weird to me, to start a conversation [with a stranger]. Once I had an introduction I was fine, but it’s that first step. It’s difficult for a lot of people.” After just one outing, I’d learned two fundamental lessons about the world of online dating: pretty much everyone has at least one decent picture of themselves, and meeting women using a so-called hook-up app is seldom straightforwardly about sex.

Although sometimes it is. My second Tinder date took place in Vienna. I met Louisa (ditto, name) outside some notable church or other one evening while visiting on holiday (Tinder tourism being, in my view, a far more compelling way to get to know a place than a cumbersome Lonely Planet guide). We drank cocktails by the Danube and rambled across the city before making the romantic decision to stay awake all night, as she had to leave early the next day to go hiking with friends. It was just like the Richard Linklater movie Before Sunrise – something I said out loud more than a few times as the Aperol Spritzes took their toll.

When we met up in London a few months later, Louisa and I decided to skip the second part of Linklater’s beautiful triptych and fast-track our relationship straight to the third, Before Midnight, which takes place 18 years after the protagonists’ first meet in Vienna, and have begun to discover that they hate each others’ guts.

Which is one of the many hazards of the swiping life: unlike with older, web-based platforms such as Match.com or OkCupid, which require a substantial written profile, Tinder users know relatively little about their prospective mates. All that’s necessary is a Facebook account and a single photograph. University, occupation, a short bio and mutual Facebook “likes” are optional (my bio is made up entirely of emojis: the pizza slice, the dancing lady, the stack of books).

Worse still, you will see people you know on Tinder – that includes colleagues, neighbours and exes – and they will see you. Far more people swipe out of boredom or curiosity than are ever likely to want to meet up, in part because swiping is so brain-corrosively addictive.

While the company is cagey about its user data, we know that Tinder has been downloaded over 100 million times and has produced upwards of 11 billion matches – though the number of people who have made contact will be far lower. It may sound like a lot but the Tinder user-base remains stuck at around the 50 million mark: a self-selecting coterie of mainly urban, reasonably affluent, generally white men and women, mostly aged between 18 and 34.

A new generation of apps – such as Hey! Vina and Skout – is seeking to capitalise on Tinder’s reputation as a portal for sleaze, a charge Sean Rad was keen to deny at the London event. Tinder is working on a new iteration, Tinder Social, for groups of friends who want to hang out with other groups on a night out, rather than dating. This makes sense for a relatively fresh business determined to keep on growing: more people are in relationships than out of them, after all.

After two years of using Tinder, off and on, last weekend I deleted the app. I had been visiting a friend in Sweden, and took it pretty badly when a Tinder date invited me to a terrible nightclub, only to take a few looks at me and bolt without even bothering to fabricate an excuse. But on the plane back to London the next day, a strange thing happened. Before takeoff, the woman sitting beside me started crying. I assumed something bad had happened but she explained that she was terrified of flying. Almost as terrified, it turned out, as I am. We wound up holding hands through a horrific patch of mid-air turbulence, exchanged anecdotes to distract ourselves and even, when we were safely in sight of the ground, a kiss.

She’s in my phone, but as a contact on Facebook rather than an avatar on a dating app. I’ll probably never see her again but who knows. People connect in strange new ways all the time. The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, but you can be sure that if you look closely at the lines, you’ll almost certainly notice the pixels.

Philip Maughan is Assistant Editor at the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 26 May 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The Brexit odd squad