Catch-all labels are apt to confuse. "Disabled" is one of them. Of the 150-strong Venezuelan team, for instance, just one is in a wheelchair, writes Kathy Sheridan.
These mighty Olympians are people with learning difficulties.
And they've taken our breath away. Eyes welling, emotionally pole-axed, we swear blind that we will never forget, will never betray those people currently storming our hearts and minds.
The betrayals that did occur were out of our hands, of course. And we'll fix that bloody Government crowd, soon as we get a minute
All we need to do now is stage the Paralympics. That way, the entire populace is bound to start swearing eternal fidelity to people like my friend Patricia. She was hit with a neurological condition while in her 30s. Still young and sharp as a tack, she is in a wheelchair now.
She was very taken by the tumultuous reception given to Muhammad Ali at Croke Park. Like her, Ali is mentally sharp but physically disabled. As we wept into our beer, cheered his grit, yearned to share the great man's burden, Patricia was wondering what would happen if Ali wanted a few days' holiday in, say, the south-west.
She is well-acquainted with some expensive but charming hotels that not only have astounding views but that crucial little sign featuring the wheelchair and the human figure. A gratifying number of them seem to have it. The sign indicates that they have one or more rooms that are wheelchair-accessible, and that once you bring help with you, you're at your auntie's.
So, with this embarrassment of riches, where to begin? Here's one hotel, legendary for its views and hospitality, and it has a room (just one, mind) that appears to be suitable. But Patricia has learned the hard way to view first. Twice she has asked to see it on visits to the area. Twice they said it wasn't available. Anyway, she asked about booking the room a few months ahead. Ah, that all depends on "availability", they said, and they would only know that a day or two before her arrival. Sorry, champ.
But here's another charming place that Patricia rang a few months ago. The disabled rooms were being renovated, they said apologetically. Now she's phoning again to ask how the renovations are coming along. A mystified pause from the other end: they don't have disabled rooms anymore, says the voice. It's a mystery, Ali.
Now here's one that sounds hopeful. They have one suitable room (again, one only), with the requisite, well-designed toilet space, grip bars where they should be and all the rest, to allow the great man his privacy and dignity. Super. It's on the third floor, and, naturally, accessible by lift only, but it seems ungrateful to ask what the icon should do if there's a fire. And too bad about him if he expects a view as well; the room is round the back, with a window so high that he'll have to stand on a chair to open it.
It's beyond parody. How high an IQ is needed to work out that someone with a physical disability is likely to spend more time in the bedroom than able-bodied folk? So Patricia tries a few places closer to home. Nothing commercial, mind, strictly up-market hotels, with nice rooms, suitable for lounging around. Ah, for wheelchair access, you'll require a "junior suite", says the first hotel. That will be €630 per head, per night, thanks. In the second, the "king-size deluxe room" is what she'll need. That will be €835. Patricia balks. It's not the price, it's the principle. How do you define exploitation?
Want to eat out, champ? You'll probably be parked in a gangway where people will knock into you all evening; or you'll be away in a corner, from which getting to the lavatory becomes a lonely, public humiliation. Patricia has lost count of the self-described "wheelchair-accessible" pubs and restaurants, where her money was welcome until she looked for the wheelchair-accessible toilet. Proprietors don't see the connection. Apparently.
In a well-designed centre like Liffey Valley, the disabled toilets can only be accessed on request. It's not the centre's fault; ordinary Joes and Josephines use them if left unlocked. Disabled parking spaces are often occupied by the well-abled, "just for a minute or two while I run to the bank". Forget a nice, leisurely hair-do; salons have no chair-free washbasins anymore, so Patricia can only have a dry cut. Last time she travelled by train, she had to sit in the dining car, with no toilet access. When she travelled by plane, the humiliation and distress were so complete, she vowed never to fly again.
She is quite stoical. It's her able-bodied sister who is torn between rage and grief at how we have reduced this fiercely independent woman to a supplicant, at how the hospitality and service industries categorise her as a "special facility", no more flesh-and-blood than a children's slide.
This is not just about Government negligence. It's about us.
Just who has the learning difficulties here?