By Barbara Lisicki (and a host of people who made the demonstration a legendary success).
‘They are brandishing banners
They are pissing on pity
And they celebrate difference
With pride.’
From the song ‘Tragic but Brave’ by Ian Stanton.
‘Today, this protest is the only place in the whole of Britain that you can feel proud of being a disabled person’
From a speech by Vic Finkelstein at the 1992 Block Telethon demo.
The Telethon was a 24-hour charity broadcast which raised money for disabled people — and patronised them in the process. The campaign to rid TV screens of ITV’s Telethon began in early summer 1990. The starting point was simple and visceral. We hated what we saw — a pity-fest, and were engulfed in rage and shame each time it was broadcast. Held bi-annually, the programme was peopled by ‘celebrities’ who wanted to make themselves feel good, regardless of the fact that the spotlight made us— disabled people — feel so bad.
Telethon was a grim little charade of unacceptability. Sitting in baths of baked beans, dressing up like fools and showing films of pathetically tragic disabled children whose lives could only have meaning if the great British public donated their loose change. This was ITV’s vision of television with a noble purpose. They had no idea what was about to come their way…
In 1990 something within us snapped. During a phone call with a disabled woman called Anna Thorpe, myself and my then partner, Alan Holdsworth (aka Johnny Crescendo) discovered just how fed up the young people Anna worked with had become. They couldn’t stand the Telethon — it was a televisual monstrosity.
What to do? Alan and I decided that there was just enough time to organise a protest outside the ITV studios where the live broadcast was happening. It was short notice, but through intensive work and spreading the message, (all pre-social media) we managed to mobilise around 300 people — and get significant press interest.
Block Telethon (BT) came into being four months before our demonstration in July ’92 and was a well-oiled machine. We started the publicity early, making a clarion call for disabled people from across the UK to come and join the demo on the day of the broadcast. I appeared in live televised debates. One personal favourite was being able to debate with Joe Simpson, the Chief Executive of the Telethon on the national news. And, I’m not going to be modest here — I eliminated the smug bastard! Afterwards, even the camera crew were congratulating me, explaining how they were press-ganged into working on the Telethon for free and how much they hated what it stood for.
Our Slogan — ‘BT — Don’t Phone’ was a riff on the film ET — Extra-Terrestrial, (big at the time and on international cinema release). It was also the moment in which the legendary ‘Piss on Pity’ became the catchphrase of the movement. There was a reason behind the slogan’s dominance: at a protest in 1990, the police had confiscated our single ‘Piss on Pity’ placard saying it was offensive. By 1992, we had 100 ‘Block Telethon’ Piss on Pity T-shirts made — shocking pink lettering on black, selling them in advance and on the day of the demonstration. At the start of the demo, while we were setting up the sound system and preparing the anticipated crowds of protestors, I was warned by a police officer to remove the offensive article of clothing. I replied calmly:
“Certainly Officer. I’m not wearing anything underneath but, if that’s what you want, I will comply with your request. By the way, there are another 99 of these, all being worn right here, today …”
I kept the T-shirt on.
I’ve called our ’92 protest a demo. But it was far more than that. It was a display of collective rage by disabled people, angry at the broadcast media for stealing our image and our dignity. And it was also a party, a celebration, a gathering of up to two thousand disabled people and our supporters showing that we were proud, angry and strong. We were the Ungrateful Disabled. A force to be reckoned with.
People gave speeches, sang, danced, performed comic monologues and poetry in sign language. We chanted and stormed the police barricades, harangued those involved in the Telethon — the people who would gloat, preen and patronise us in front of a studio audience. We harangued those who watched the programme at home. We blocked their Rolls Royces and their Bentleys and if they acquired a few dents and scratches — so what? The mood was buoyant and defiance sizzled in the heat of the day.
For hours we kept up the noise, the energy, the buzz and forced home the message that we would not tolerate this obsolete filth any longer.
It was our day. Without a doubt.
It was also the year of the last ever Telethon. I think we can call that a victory.
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Block Telethon represented the combined efforts of thousands of disabled people. I cannot write this piece without acknowledging the memories of the people who made the demonstration happen. I feel privileged to have shared these moments with them.
Please read below to discover the Block Telethon from the perspectives of my friends and allies.
Alison Smith
It was my first demonstration and I took 4 people from Hackney People First (I was a volunteer advocate for them). It was empowering for them and me, and was the first demo we had all been on. I remember the excitement at seeing the t-shirts saying ‘Piss on Pity’ and wanting one myself. One of the members went up to the mic and told everyone it was his birthday (it was) and it was the first time the whole group had travelled on public transport (we got the tube there). I collected them from their care home (the care home manager was totally in favour of everyone’s rights and ahead of his time). Looking back, it was an unique experience, like seeing the art work being destroyed as a symbolism of the whole Telethon event, seeing the police not know what to do with us all and hearing how they couldn’t arrest anyone because the police vans were inaccessible. One guy was communicating with the policeman using a pointer stick on his head and a wooden alphabet table and was being treated with total respect.
That demo changed everything. It empowered me and others. Hearing that some people had actually invaded the studio was brilliant. It wasn’t radical and new, but it was so empowering to know we weren’t going to take any more patronising shit, that we were ready to stand up for ourselves and get society to change their attitudes. It remains, of all the demos I’ve been on, one of the most life-affirming experiences.
Mike Oliver
Telethon was the worst of the worst for exploiting disabled people and that’s why more than 2000 of us turned up to protest.
Whatever anyone else tells you as to why Telethons finished in 1992, it was the collective power of disabled people on the streets that did it.
Jane Campbell
A demonstration fit for a Baroness. (I’m kidding. I — Barbara — made that up. Jane was there in all her finery and a stylish sunhat, but I’ve been unable to get a quote from her in time).
Alan Holdsworth
We had power and we took it and used it against our enemies. In the end it was ridiculous for Telethon to portray us as helpless cripples when the very same people were battling with police, barging into their studios and demonstrating in their thousands against the very notion. Disability Pride had truly arrived.
Pete Tattersall
I remember racing into the underground car park at the Southbank TV studios and the police closing the gates and stopping us getting out again. I still don’t know why we were down there, I just followed all the other demonstrators.
Agnes Fletcher
I covered the 1992 one for the New Statesman in an article called ‘Piss on pity’. I have a photocopy somewhere (so sad all of it was pre-social media!). It was about three pages with pictures. (NB Watch this space — to be featured in the next NDACA newsletter).
Aaron Williamson
I was there in 92. I remember Frank Bruno coming out to ask ‘what’s wrong with you people?’ Bruno apparently now identifies as disabled himself. . . I also remember a crowd of us dashing through the car park away from security and the Rolls Royces getting scratched by wheelchairs. . .
Liz Crow
I remember the police putting up interlocking barricades to stop us getting to the doors, and lots of us lining them up and rocking them to and fro till they toppled. No one — perhaps us too — imagined we’d have the strength to do such a thing.
A symbolic turning point for me of our collective power.
The buzz that went round when a couple of our lot had got into the studio. The police arriving with riot gear and bemusement (at that point, the last few of us were packing away the sound gear). The A4 sheet of paper blu-tacked onto a reflective pillar, with the words ‘Is this a cripple-free zone’…
I also remember meeting the brilliant Manchester contingent.
Kirsten Hearn
I was there both years. Vivid memories of doing some mad stand-up as a character called Hooray Henrietta — what was I thinking? Remembering also dancing around to Johnny Crescendo singing ‘Dance to a Different Drum’— a somewhat Springsteen-esque sound.
But the happiest memory was standing behind Tracy Booth (now Tracy Proudlock) as she ran over Chris Tarrant’s feet! Yay!
Maggie Hampton
I was there in ’92. The main thing I remember is the disbelief on the celebrities’ faces when it dawned on them why we were there. I think I bought my Piss on Pity T shirt that day.
Ann Rae
I was there — remember it was very sunny, and the horror of the gatekeepers in the attempted gatecrash. Listened to a radio show a couple of days later — Esther Rantzen talking to Gayle Hunniford. Rantzen spoke of her reaction about it, saying ‘they’ (meaning us, the disabled protestors), terrified me — they were frightening’. Hunniford -‘Don’t you think they had a point?’. End of topic.
Elspeth Morrison
What I remember most clearly are the faces of celeb types, such as Chris Tarrant, arriving in their limos. Their faces beaming generously to the grateful masses, then, when realising we weren’t the grateful masses, turning to bewilderment and possibly horror. What sort of PR disaster might this be? And was it Clare Rayner who came over to have a chat and to say she sided with us before shuffling on in?
Kev Towner
Sue Elsegood — I remember being there with you and Veronica Pakenham (amongst others). Didn’t you (or someone) “accidentally” ram Chris Ewbank’s Chelsea Tractor? LOL. Somebody got into the studio didn’t they?
Sue Elsegood
Yes we were blocking the celebs from entering and exiting the TV studio car park, not sure how or if Chris Ewbank’s Chelsea Tractor got scratched but I am really glad he didn’t’ suffer from’ road rage!?
I remember being at both Block Telethons along with many soon to be DANners. (Note the contacts list to mobilise for Block Telethon formed the basis of the Disabled People’s Direct Action Network: DAN)
I remember the speeches and alternative entertainment, Workhouse cabaret-style opposite the TV studios. We were claiming back our identities as being in control, pissing on pity and challenging, patronising charity portrayals of disabled people. I remember storming the doors and the underground car park. John Smith throwing a metal crash barrier out of the way which was met by cheers and was very symbolic of us breaking down barriers. Chris Tarrant’s foot got under my wheel as we (Veronica Pakenham, Katherine Araniello and myself ) attempted to block his entry to the ITV studio. We were holding a placard with the slogan ‘Don’t be infested by the bug’ (Telethon) . Mike Higgins leading the march in the wrong direction so it turned into a marathon! I remember blocking the road and stopping East Enders stars entering and leaving the studio. Kate Brown was there too, stopping Ricky and Diane of East enders whilst promoting disability pride. Also we were collecting a list of people willing to set up DAN.
Hundreds of disabled people travelled from all over the country to join the protest for rights not charity especially from the CIL network and BCODP groups.
It was a very empowering event in history.
Lois Thomas and Vanessa Tompsett from Muscle Power were there and Vicky Waddington and Alan Sutherland.
Memories of Telethon include your sharp Wanda Barbara comedy routine juxtaposed with the Tragedy being spewed out of the Telethon Studios. Political songs being made accessible via BSL interpreters. It was a celebration of defiance by protesters against what I described at the time ‘a modern day freak show’.
Rupa Sarkar
I was at school (you — ie Barbara Lisicki — came and did a little gig a couple of years later). I remember being at a couple of them. Particularly remember looking at a traffic bar across a side or rear entrance to the studio and thinking it would be fairly easy to wheel straight under it. About half an hour later several people did. Awesome!
I also remember the counter- jeering from suckers who were on their way in to be in the audience. They wanted the feelgood factor and resented the idea they were participating in hogwash. Hard to take in back then but it was a good lesson.
Ann Jones
I was there and still talk about it.
I vividly remember you addressing the crowd Barbara, it had such an impact on me. My memory of us all surging around the building so fast is like a cartoon by now, where we all speed up and fly round and round — oh, the power!
John Smith
Great memories of Block Telethon — must have been the second one in ’92. It was my first disabled people’s protest. I remember getting to the barrier, moving it, wheeling to the entrance, and feeling relieved to find Tony Culver at the entrance with me.
Other random bits: marching round the centre following Mike Higgins …. Staying late after and meeting Barbara Lisicki and Elspeth Morrison . That one event changed my life.
Martin Pagel
I was there being gobby and had my very own cop shadow.
I remember they corralled (kettled) all the walkies thinking we were the most likely to cause trouble. The look of utter disbelief when wheelies charged the doors was a sight to behold.
Bill Albert
It was at the demo where I first met bolshie crips and learned about who I was. No better models. I wrote a brief story in which 1992 figures as the real turning point for me. Have a look: http://media.wix.com/ugd/45dbdc_924927f593b94ba9a17cdfc56f036564.pdf
Gill Crawshaw
Minibus from Leeds with Mick Ward, Alden Chadwick, David Boyes, Susan Morrell, Colin Barnes and others. Abiding memories: the sheer numbers of disabled people and the utter confusion on celebs’ faces. They were trying to help us! Chris Tarrant particularly.
Brian Hilton
Time can often play tricks on your memory and you can find yourself questioning “were there that many of us at the Block Telethon demo in 1992?” Well, yes there were!
Sally Witcher
I remember talking to people queuing to get in to be in the audience, and trying to explain about why Telethon was unacceptable, about the discrimination we disabled people experience, and a young couple in the queue exchanged glances with each other and left.
Eddy Hardy
One of the first Demos I went on and met some people who became lifelong friends.
Barbara Lisicki
I remember one newspaper front page covering our demo with the headline ‘The Ungrateful Disabled’ — classic. Should get a t-shirt made with that writ large. Black and shocking pink, obviously.
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Dedications
I dedicate this article to Robin Chapman, an impressive, dedicated, flexi-limbed and adventurous disabled activist, who died earlier this week.
It is also dedicated to other brilliant activists who are no longer with us. Ian Stanton, Ken Davies, Lorraine Gradwell and Vic Finkelstein.
Their extraordinary legacy and fighting spirit live on in our hearts, our minds and in the continued campaigning and resistance to all that would try to crush us.
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This article was written by Barbara Lisicki for the National Disability Arts Collection and Archive (NDACA). The-ndaca.org, our learning wing at Bucks New University, oral history films, online catalogue and other tools all go live in June 2018.
