For some time now I have found myself getting rather annoyed at people who call their livejournals Blogs. I’m not sure why, but it irritates me: is rather cliquey (to use the word of my writing tutor) and most users are attention-whores. MOST. Livejournals are not blogs, but livejournals.

Perhaps I’m too snobbish about having my own domain. After all, I’ve been recently writing lj-ish entries, but I keep intending to write a proper article or two. The essential motive behind Blogging is the same motive as keeping a livejournal, so the only reason to differentiate between the two is pure electronic snobbishness.

On then other hand, the two are quite different. Livejournals are one site – a network of pages which no one contributor owns. However, a blog is owned by the sole writer, who can do anything with it. To don my pseudy hat for a moment, the reader is entering into the domain -pun intended – of the blogger, and thus has to show deference to the writer. it is he who has power over a blog, after all. Therefore blogs are separate entities unto themselves, rather than being a mass of often poorly written junk. Hence, even though there not be much different in content, there are subtle differences between the two, and it is indeed fair to differentiate between the two.

hope for me yet

I’m currently watching Johnny Vagas arse about with all the zeal of a campaigning politician on his own show. I’m dispairing at the state of brittish t v;. well, if a fat slob can get his own show, then so can a crippled slob. theres hope for me yet. wish michael palin will go traveling again. I’m looking forward to the next david attenborough series, life in the undergrowth, out 2006.

up early tomorrow. goodnight.

Walking through storms

Avryl LaVigne – complicated has just started to play on my mp3 player, instantly taking me back to new York, and breakfast with mark and Luke. This morning, despite a pair of sore knees, I feel better than I have in a couple of days. Of course, this is entirely due to last night, and the match wherein Liverpool made the comeback of all time! I was watching it in the bar: at half time, I naturally thought it was all over, but obviously the fat lady didn’t feel like singing.

I was thinking about not going last night – in the swell of the disco, I had very little chance of communicating with anyone sans lightwriter, but I decided to go as it was the last disco, and I felt like getting blotto. I felt lazy, so I stayed in my chair all evening, except when Liverpool scored that third glorious goal. When I simply had to get up and dance! My dance – a weird, spastic twirl – went well the first time but at the end of the evening, after another pint or two, I tried it again, fell, and promptly cracked my knees. Luckily, I was surrounded by friends, who helped me back into my chair.

Its funny, even without the means to communicate, my friends – just about everyone on campus – still seem to adore me. They seem to think I’m clever, probably due to the hawking “Crippled genius” effect. Either way, I am truly happy, hurt knees or not.

Two nights ago, I was feeling down. Quite desperate in fact. Lying In bed on Tuesday night, some words came to me, a half remembered song: “When you walk, through the storm, hold your head up high, and don’t be afraid f the dark.”

An omen?

making films

Not much time to blog now, having been to the football part to end all football parties (yay Liverpool!). In sum, i have been working on videos using windows movie maker, whichh is fun, but tiring. Will write more on this soon. nite all.

ode to a lightwriter

It’s interesting to note that communication aids have not only a physical advantage, but a psychological one, and that the loss of ones communication aid can have a profound effect. My reading o n the internet tells me that, time after time without access to communication aids people have been condemned as having severe learning difficulties; my fear is, without my lightwriter, which broke over the weekend, people will think less of me. With it, I can make the entire football team laugh, take morning coffee with my tutors, tell rude jokes, but without it, I am stuck with a monosyllabic “hi” to friends, lacking the confidence to do much else.

Of course, this is not always the case – I have a letter chart and the stubbornness requisite to make myself understood, and I know peoples opinions of me will not diminish just because I can’t communicate. Trish and Dave still welcome me at their table, but the footballers may be a problem. Either way, I’ll get by, often with help from Esther who is now as accustomed to my speech as anyone.

With that in mind, I’m off to speak to my friends.

Contemporary just means wierd

I was getting ready 4 breakfast this morning, my home helper putting my socks on, when the subject of this weekends theatre came up, “how was it?” she asked.

“Ok,” I said, “Very contemporary.”

It was true, the plays I had seen were very modern, quite unlike ones usual expectation of theatre.

“what?” she said, obviously not understanding my utterance “contemporary”. I tried again.


I gave up. “Weird.”


high drama

Living at a university which focuses on things like sport and drama means tat I have a chance to see a lot of stuff which I wouldn’t ordinarily see. This weekend I’m at university rather than going home, and so far today I have seen no less than two performances, a third I saw last night. The good thing is they’re absolutely free to get into, so when my friends say “We’re off to see a performance, coming matt?” I usually go.

However, before you get mental images of me going to some kind of theatre a la RNCM operas, I better explain these are not full plays. They are much shorter, lasting perhaps half an hour, and take place in cramped performance spaces which reminded me of the comedy clubs of the Edinburgh fringe. Thee pieces themselves are also often highly experimental, sometimes confusing and a little weird. Last night’s piece was about wife abuse, the only characters being female, so at one stage one actress rubbed her own face in her fictional husband’s supper. I think she’ll get an Oscar one day.

The piece I saw this morning was an extract from Hamlet. It was exceptionally well performed, making me reflect upon how much I miss the beautiful language of Shakespeare. It was performed in modern dress, and again had an all-female cast which made he fight scenes interesting.

This afternoon I saw a piece about three dead people in hell. Their hell, rather than being that of fire and brimstone, is to be trapped in a room together. Each person loves one but hates the other, so it is hellish for all concerned, but also rather funny.

There are apparently no more plays today but a few tomorrow. I look forward to it.

Pipers at the gates of dusk

Heaven itself is comparable to tonight. I love to travel – the very act of moving allows me to ponder. Tonight, bill and I walked along the bank of a canal, two miles between the Broughton arms and the romping donkey. Cheshire is a nexus of canals and waterways, bounded on both sides by green fields filled with cattle. It was blissful – soon we were miles away from anywhere, not a person around, we sang under the sunset on the way home. I feel great, at last free. University has opened an endless horizon for me.


It seems wednesday discos are getting passe – seen one, seen em all. anyway, I caame home to update you all on how i’m getting fed tea. In short, bill has said he’ll do ll four evenings, which suits me and julia too, it seems. told you the answer would be simple! I really shouldnn’t worry so much time for bed