My friend May is in a band. I’d never heard her sing live so when I found out she had a gig I thought I’d try to go.
Music venues are not the most disabled friendly but this venue actually said “disabled access” on their website. They didn’t answer their phone even though I left a couple of messages, but my optimistic mate Filiz who would drive us there said: ”Let’s give it a go – you don’t go out much!”
Like many disabled people I know, it’s easier to stay at home, watch Netflix, socialise on zoom etc instead of risking an unknown location. The outside world often seems risky. Probably because it is!
So off we go. Got there with loads of time to spare, met May on the way in, delighted I’d made the effort to see one of her gigs at last.
But trouble ensued…..
Inside there was a lift to two of the floors in a tall, narrow, building, full of iron railings.
Cheerful chap says: “I’ve just got it working again, try it!”. The accessible loo was downstairs so it was a case of try it or go home!
It’s a lift which just about holds a wheelchair. You have to keep holding down a button to the floor you want or it won’t move. It moved! Hurray! It stopped. Also Hurray.
I pushed the door, it didn’t move. First panic! Woman on the other side fiddles with the handle and gets it open. And there’s the loo – and it’s accessible. Another hurray.
Back in the lift. Press button for performance area. Nothing happens. Press the door to shout for help and already making plans to try to climb the stairs – and go home as I was very upset by now.
But the door won’t open again and no one outside can open it.
I press the alarm button and it makes what sounds to me like a feeble tinkle. Press harder and the whole building explodes into noise. I’d somehow triggered every alarm available and people from miles around must have thought there was a bombing raid.
Man appears who knows what to do and gets the door open again. Friendly venue worker gets in with me and promises to get me two floors up to the performance area.
The lift moves. I’ve stopped celebrating by now and deep misery has taken over. So I’m not surprised when the door won’t open again. I’m in the right place but stuck in a box!
Fortunately it will move downwards, back to the entrance. Helpful man gets the door open and I look at steep steps up to the performance area.
Give it a go before you despair, says my optimistic self. There’s a handrail and people to catch you if you slip, don’t be a sissy! I probably should have listened to the other me saying : Go home, you need a lie down after all that panic!
I climb. I’m in! There’s the stage!
The chairs seem microscopically small but I’ve brought cushions, and I don’t have to stand like a lot of people at music gigs. Filiz brings me a glass of water. The bar of course is way out of reach….
The music is fine – you’re great May! But by half time I’m not prepared to get in the lift again, and I can’t face the steep stairs to the “accessible” loo. So we go home.
From my disabled friends I hear mine is not a unique experience. Venues are not obliged to say what they mean by accessible. Loads of wheel-users have been stuck in unsuitable lifts, given chairs they can’t sit on or been ignored in bars where only giants can get served etc etc.
I’m still agonising about how I feel about venues that I can’t get into. Seems resentful to say: “Well if I can’t do it I don’t see why you should be able to!”
But I’d prefer a venue be honest – and apologetic – about their inaccessibility, rather than lure us in with promises of access.
But most of all I want everywhere to be accessible to everyone.
Christine Tongue is a founder member of disability campaign group Access Thanet
Very frustrating. These venues need to do better!
So the venue was WHERE or is it wrong to name and shame. ?
They were trying their best and struggling to keep open. But it’s such a common experience all over the country that I thought it was important to highlight the issue of advertised access which isn’t quite true.
It would’ve been good to hear their side of the story.