I’m a huge nerd (surprise), and practically wet myself whenever a new Marvel or Star Wars film is released. 2018 alone should be enough to dehydrate me, and I’ll be spending so much time in dark rooms watching films that I’ll probably develop rickets to boot. I already use a wheelchair so it’s not like this matters exactly.
One of the best things about being disabled is that I can get a friend into the cinema for free as my carer. Then I receive a student discount on my ticket and I use my handbag to smuggle snacks into the cinema like the bad-ass gangster that I am, saving us even more money. I’ve often spent less than £10 going to see the latest blockbuster at peak times, making trips to the cinema with friends and family a frequent occurrence. The local cinema is highly accessible with modern lifts, smooth floors, open spaces, and spaces for my wheelchair in every room, rendering it a safe bet for a good night out, particularly when paired with a trip to the pub afterwards. It’s clean and warm, and laughing at the antics of Deadpool or Star Lord in the company of like-minded people is always a pleasure.
A couple of years ago the film about Stephen Hawking was released, and naturally I was interested in seeing the life of one of my roll models (sorry) depicted on the silver screen. I went to see it with my best friend and we both thoroughly enjoyed it. However I couldn’t help noticing that as the lights came on and people filed out of the cinema while the credits rolled, that the majority of them would give me sympathetic looks despite having spent two hours exploring patronising attitudes to disability. Sat in the pub afterwards holding a drink in my gloved hands this made for amusing conversation, and the irony of the situation was not lost on me.
I know I’ve mentioned the fact that being in a wheelchair means that I can go and see kids’ movies without judgement, and the same applies for arriving at the cinema draped in Star Wars paraphernalia and squeaking whenever BB-8 made an appearance. On the way out I can’t help zig-zagging from side to side while emitting “pew, pew, pew” noises pretending to be an X-wing as part of The Resistance, and not one other movie-goer batted an eyelid. I must also admit to occasionally using my walking stick (which is glittery because if you need to use a walking stick, you might as well make it a stylish one) as a light sabre around the flat, doing my best to imitate the infamous sounds while Jarred buries his head in his hands in despair. My father taught me well…
