once my dad famously got drunk while watching eurovision, and decided the irish were elvish. if thats true, then this is one fucked up elf. i mean, what the smeg?

I cant wait till tomorrow. Its old boys, so everyone is coming back. All my friends from the last three and a half years are going to be here for a weekend of partying and mayhem. I can’t wait to see them: Emma is already here, and I saw her briefly on Tuesday, but we need a good catch up. Charlotte of course, the prospect of whose arrival has me squealing in anticipation. The inimitable Steve, harbinger of jollity, thief of leftovers. Becs, scott, and ness. Chris, who I really ought to catch up with. Oh, there are too many people I cant wait to see. It feels like Christmas eve – I just hope I can get to sleep okay, as I’m going to need my energy.

Now that my patents are home, and no burglar is going to read this and infer that the Goodsell family house is empty, I can freely admit I’ve now been at uni for my longest stretch ever. Its been five or six weeks since I’ve been home, and that was just for one night, making it just one night at home since Christmas. I’m quite proud of myself. The boy who once cried at the prospect of staying one night in resi seems long gone.

Mind you, I did feel a few pangs of homesickness last week, but I think that was stress more than anything. My thesis is, by and large, going well: I think I have about 24000 out of 30000 words, so I need to get on with my conclusion. Thing is, I sit down to write and no conclusion comes. It’s frustrating. I’m also waiting for feedback on the last 6500 I did, which makes me nervous. Thus, having worked hard all term, I think I better let my thesis rest a bit. Given that it’s old boys this weekend, I’ll let my thesis rest till Monday, by which time I should have the feedback I need.

There’s something happening here this weekend and the one after. I’m looking forward to both old boys and my birthday bash. Yet I must admit I’m beginning to long for the simple life back at my parents.

I’m not posting a long blog tonight for there’s a poetry slam on in the bar. Last night they had a jazz concert there so we’re currently being spoiled. Before heading out, I’ll just welcome my parents home from their trip to south America. I hadn’t mentioned they were away before for fear of posing a security threat. Sounds like they had a great time.

Also, today marks my little brother’s twenty-second birthday. Happy birthday Luke. Hope you have a great night.

Now for the poetry.

Sometime in about 1975 a young man called Simon – if memory serves – was attending university in Southampton. At that time, he was sharing a house with a young, impressionable student called Mary. Mary was a good cook, but it was Simon who taught Mary a rather unusual recipe for spaghetti bolognaise. She adopted it, and would later cook it for her husband, whom she also met in Southampton, and later her sons. In time, they would all cook it their selves, and thus the recipe would live on.

All save the middlemost, for whom cooking, let us say, would be a highly dangerous activity. Yet, thirty two years after it’s creation, roughly the same recipe was cooked at a university, by another Mary. For the middlemost son was cunning at instruction: he remembered his mother’s recipe, and, unable to cook it himself for fear of fire, calamity and explosion, he was able to instruct his friend about making the recipe. And thus it was, in the early spring of 2008. that same spaghetti bolognaise was made anew, and eaten again in halls, just as it was upon it’s creation.

Last night definitely needed to happen, I think. I’ve been at university solidly now for about four or five weeks, and I’m getting fed up of canteen food and ready meals,. It’s not that I’m a culinary snob: I just like good food which isn’t covered in grease once in a while. So, on Friday I asked jen if we could go to the plough; she agreed – I think she was as bored as I am with Wes food. She said she was skint, but I said I’d pay for her and Maria to eat on my card. It’s worth it – trust me.

In the end, five of us went. Stephen, from the states, and Jen’s boyfriend, Chris, tagged along too. The more the merrier I say. I think we all had a good time: I ordered the steak and ale pie, and got a Cabernet Sauvignon to share.. both were, I think, good choices – Maria seemed to like the wine, and became even more talkative than usual.

We spent the evening chatting. After we’d finished, we went to meet rosie in the Mere, where they serve real ale. Needless to say, I’m glad I was being pushed in my manial chair. Jen helped me get to bed at about eleven, tired, but happy.

My trip back from Crewe to alsager in my chair last January is rather famous around here. Charlotte regularly refers to it, for example, when she wants to remind me how stupid I can be at times. Yes, looking back, it was stupid – and fucking scary. But that 6 miles is nothing, it seems, compared with the trip one 24 year old plans: Jeffrey Preston is determined to ride his electric wheelchair from London, Canada, to Ottawa in 40 days this spring. He’s making the 650-km trek to raise awareness of the inadequate conditions of Ontario’s transportation systems for disabled people. its rather cool, if you ask me. Mind you, I must say I’m too busy (and scared of big lorries) to make any such trips.

link

According to the ouch messageboards, there are to be a series of shorts from aardman called creature discomforts, featuring disabled characters. I viewed them online last night – nothing special, just a set of monologues by pieces of plasticine. Frankly, I feel pretty low today, so this is sort of more my cup of tea atm.

I came across this last night while I was getting ready to go out. It is, you must admit, very cute. I better not say anything about it because I’d like you all to get the revelatory bit at the end. Mind you, I must say it’s like watching two little hyperactive daleks. I think it’s very cool indeed

Its been another good day. Okay, so I haven’t written anything towards my thesis, but this morning, pretty much on a whim, I decided to go see Alan. I’d sent him some stuff on Friday and I wanted his feedback. Alan was in his office when I got there, just finishing talking to another student. Although he hadn’t read the stuff I’d sent him, he was very encouraging. I have about 24000 words of a 30000 word thesis, suggesting my first draft should be finished soon. Then editing. Alan’s encouraging words were: ‘piece of piss’. I hope so.

After that, being in Crewe, I scooted over to south Cheshire college, popped in on Jane etc. to a certain extent, jenny Harris and Jane Higgins started all this: they were the ones who first mooted the idea of me going to university: before Jane posed the question ‘ why haven’t you gone to university yet?’ I hadn’t even thought it a possibility. They started me along that path. Indeed, they were the ones who introduced me to Esther, who is now one of my best friends and most valued comrades. I therefore decided to ask them out to lunch or dinner – I know a top notch Indian restaurant in the village me and Charlie went to once. Shouldn’t be too hard to arrange.

Being in a good mood, I headed into town to look for films and clothes, found nothing, and came home. I got back here about three, watched a film, and then went to meet jen in the wes for dinner. And to top it off, I kind of just saw a lunar eclipse. All in all, a top day.

As I’m sure you’ve all heard, Castro has announced his retirement today. I’ve been interested in that little island since I became interested in Hemingway. It amuses me that the yanks were never able to budge their closest enemy. Mind you, they haven’t tried since the bay of pigs.

For all his faults, Cuba apparently has one of the best health services in the world, which one could argue makes it a good place for us cripples. Well, maybe. Either way, Castro or no Castro, I still aspire to drink a daiquiri in Havana one day. Mind you, I wonder if the island will once again become America’s playground now.

Today I started to read Skallagrigg by William Horwood. A friend of mine recommended it to me, warning me that I’d hate the world for a week after reading it though. So, today I got it from the library, and began to read, first in the canteen then back here, in my room. I sat down to read ‘just till lunch’ at about eleven, but when I next looked at the clock it had just turned four and I’d read 100 pages.

It is, in all honesty, quite disturbing. Part of the story concerns a boy, Arthur, who, having cp, is institutionalised in about 1925. he is intelligent, but nobody sees it. He is treated brutally. The way he longs even to see the sun makes me appreciate being born when I was; also, it makes me want to remind everyone that I can think, that I am conscious.

Its also quite an odd book thus far, mixing tenses, and going from first, third and un one passage second person. What strikes me as odd in particular, though, is it’s portrayal of cerebral palsy. The book seems to suggest we have our own type off language, or at least us spazzers can understand each other clearly. This book seems to suggest, too, that we have our own faith or mythology concerning a being called Skallagrigg; if we do, this is the first I’ve heard of it. This Skallagrigg also seems to have the ability to, in a way, cure us: in this, of course, the book implies that we want to be ‘cured’. I certainly don’t, leading me to infer that Horwood, although thoroughly researched, does not have cp.

Nevertheless, it is a very interesting, powerful book, which offers insight into disability history and, through reception theory, how disability is perceived.

Paradoxically, I think my friend was both wrong and right: yes, it describes a truly evil world – the hell of an institution. But I then look up from the page, at my own world, and find great joy in seeing how far we have come. Books like this make me appreciate the ability to order coffee.

Now here’s a turn up for the books. Not that I am particularly interested in such things, but its quite funny. The show I went to with Esther on Friday was called ‘that’ll be the day’. Its by a touring company, one of whose main singers was none other than Katy Setterfield, who last night won ‘the one and only’ on bbc1. I told you they were good, didn’t i?

I just got back in. its been a good 28 hours – surprisingly good, actually. I went home with Est yesterday afternoon; the Everett’s are very nice people. like the joneses, they’re incredibly warm and generous. Having worked with Esther for 5 years almost, she’s become a steadfast friend, yet we barely do anything together socially. Last night, I think, was the first step towards putting that right.

After dinner at her place, I set off with Esther’s family to the Crewe lyceum. Est had told me abit about the show,: basically a series of tribute acts interspersed with comedy. At first I thought this sounded dubious, but still wanted to go. However, I was wrong: in short: last night’s show ruled! The performance were all very good. From my chair, I must have had the best seat in the house: centre isle, four or five rows back but with the added height of my manual chair. Because of this, I really got into the show. It was full of witty asides, double entendre, raunchy gags and rock and role. My god those guys could play! There’s something about live music witch engages you; especially if its rock. There was one guy with a guitar capable of the most sublime solos. There were also these natty videos, projected onto a screen at the back of the screen, giving the thing an added dimension. I was pushed back to Esther’s smiling.

This morning was fairly relaxed. I sat in the kitchen and drank coffee while Est cooked lunch. Then, after doing a bit of shopping on route to the bus stop, me, Est and Mrs Everett came home. It was great fun, and, apart from me being too long for the sofa, a great two days.

I have a busy day today. Going to the theatre with Esther later this evening. It’s about time we did something socially together, if you ask me. Therefore I’ll just link to this video, which is kinda the very epitome of inclusion. Inclusion distilled into a cinephiliac moment.

As I’ve said many times before, mmu Cheshire is on two campuses, one in Crewe and one in alsager, with a bus ferrying students between them. This bus is, naturally, governed by a timetable. As there are two types of busses – wheelchair accessible and double decker – the busses I can get in are marked on the timetable. This isn’t ideal, I know, but it’ll do. However, what gets me annoyed is when a bus which is marked as accessible on the timetable turns out to be a double decker! It happened not once, but twice today, and it made me late for my lecture.

I’ll be seeing the appropriate people about it first thing tomorrow. It isn’t on.

I read yesterday evening of the apology issued by the Australian government to aboriginal members of the stolen generation, who I mentioned on Monday as a parallel for the disabled community. There hasn’t been too much said about it here, and it isn’t without controversy. It’s true that the removal of aboriginal people from there parents was wrong. Very few people would disagree with that, save perhaps for this berk, who I link to for the sake of fairness. But it does raise certain questions, such as, why should modern Australians have to feel guilty for the actions of their forebears? Why now? Will the Americans be apologising to the native Americans? To be sure, I think it’s a great move – if it helps to reconcile the two communities, then its fantastic! It’s a great step forward.

I must say, however, that I don’t think the same applies to the disabled community. If Mr brown or Mr rudd or anyone – for discrimination against disabled people is worldwide – suddenly decided to apologise to ‘the disabled’, such a gesture would be pointless. Discrimination against us has been happening for aeons, and we are also such a nebulous group as to raise the question of who you’d apologise too. Anyway, I don’t want anyone to apologise to me, for what would they apologise for? I’m very comfortable. Its quite difficult; I guess you can only go so far in drawing parallels.

Rarely do my two prime interests – film and disability – merge, and when they do it’s seldom good. Look at lars von trier’s Das Idioten, for instance. But now comes ‘The last American freak show’, about some self-confessed freaks touring America performing ‘acts’. Now, I have no problem with this – if they want to degrade themselves by performing like animals its their choice. Just keep the fire-pissing-hobbit away from me!

link

You know, it’s hard not to feel cynical sometimes; its hard not to feel angry; its hard not to feel persecuted. Not that I feel such things, personally. For the most part I am happy. around campus people respect me, often bending over backwards to help me, when asked. I have a first class degree, the equipment I need to do my masters, a good set of Pas. What more could a cripple ask for.

Yet, looking at disability politics and issues as a whole, its hard not to feel bitter. I feel bitter about the special school system, as you know. But there’s other stuff too:

yesterday I read how a girl with cp in the states, prone to choking fits, was sent to school with a DNR sign attached to her chair. I mean – this is a living, thinking, communicating seven year old. And, as if that wasn’t enough, the newspaper which first published the article got back comments like ” She’s a detriment to others.”, ” A tube! I don’t want my kids to watch her eat!” and probably the worst ” If a machine has to breathe life into her lungs, Is she really worthy of this air?”

How the fucking hell can people be so cruel as to question a child’s right to air? Moreover, I was chatting to a guy in Australia earlier who grew up in institutions. He pointed out that he and other disabled people like him could draw parallels with the now famous ‘stolen generation’. In the twenties and thirties, aboriginal children were taken, often by force, from their parents and raised in ‘white’ families, often as servants. This barbarity was described as being ‘for their own good’. Similarly, in the fifties and sixties, parents of disabled children were encourage to institutionalise their kids, ‘for their own good’. Hence history repeated itself, and kids like Anne

MacDonald paid the price,

Looking across the board, at segregation, institutionalisation, murder – indeed across the whole of disability history – it’s hard not to feel hated. Not personally – I have many friends who love me, as I do them – but as a type. As a disabled man, member of the disabled community, I feel victimised. We are subject to discrimination, from the big things I outlined above, to the small things: patronising people in shops, steps into buildings, cars parked on the path so I have to go on the road to get by. I try not to feel bitter – I now enjoy more freedom than ever before, and my uni years have been the best of my life – and yet, sometimes the urge to rail against the world, and the paranoid idea that some think you have the i.q of a turd, or should have been killed at birth, gets too much.

link to article on katy jones.

blog of said australiian.

anne macdonald.

reason for paranoia

I find it rather ironic that Christopher whittaker now has a PhD. Don’t get me wrong, its brilliant. Its marvellous, and I don’t begrudge him it for a millisecond. Chris went to Hebden, but of memory serves he was mainstreamed after nursery school. He’s my age, and has cp, but of a milder kind than mine. The amusing part is, his mum is the deputy head of Hebden. Imagine that: her own school too bad for her son. She saw that he was properly educated, didn’t she? I’m sorry, but its hard not to be cynical. when I think of what most of my fellow ex-hebdonians are doing (Which, you’ll understand, I’d rather not go into for confidentiality reasons) it’s enough to make you sick.

link

I know that one of the cornerstones of liberal democracy is that you respect the rights of others to believe anything they want, but its hard not to look at the front pages and laugh. I profoundly disagree with dr Williams, of course: correct me if I’m wrong, but he seems to be advocating that some people be exempt from certain laws based on their faith; that, to some people, sharia law should apply. While we live in a multicultural society – which is a good thing – if democracy is going to work all laws must apply to everyone equally. It is absurd to have laws based on faith, or else someone could, in a murder case, claim that his religion dictated he kill. The idea that everyone is equal in the eyes of the law would fly out the window.

Quite what the archbishop of Canterbury was thinking when he said these things I don’t know. It just deepens my belief that religion and religious leaders should be kept well away from politics.

Nothing to do with disability, but I honestly believe this is a work of genius. It’s a film about itself; it admits ita s film about itself yet remains internally coherent. Just…bloody hell. What will Alan make of it? Its like, schizophrenia in film form.

Btw, the ‘trumpet shot’ was, I think, created by Hitchcock.

In stark contrast to being called a spastic a few weeks ago, I was trundling along the road today, carrying my dinner, when I passed some boys, one of whom I heard say ‘I like your style’. No doubt this was due to the fact that I had a pizza on my lap – my meal card ran out, and since I hadn’t had one all week, and jen didn’t have her phone, I thought I’d go get some junk food. Best part is, they don’t charge me; the guys in the pizzeria refuse to take my money.

I guess a cripple with a pizza on his lap, zooming along the pavement in a powerchair, lights ablaze, is a pretty funky sight.

Lately I have been necessarily miserable, I agree, so tonight I’ll send you to somewhere more amusingly obscene. I must say I agree with the disability bitch, but the one and only time I tried high heels it hurt hell. Mind u, I like the idea of a sedan chair…

link

Its been a year since I found out about rich. I tiold you all how I feel yesterday. not much has changed; I feel just as pissed off.. I dont really want to recall that day to you, or describe my feelings, or even rant. Jusst want to ask whoever reads this tto do me a favour: ttake a moment to think about all your friends, old and new, and perhaps tonight to raise a glass to them…but raise it not with sadness, but with joy. I will be. I love you all

Look. I am not happy. tomorrow marks a year since I went looking for my friend rich, only to be told he was dead. This fact brought the emotion of that time back. I’m not happy. I’m sad, but this sadness is like an anger. Nothing on this poxy goddamn planet will bring rich,, Dave, foxy, or any other of my school friends back. I counted yesterday: there have been five. I no longer direct my anger at god, for, ironically if he exists at all it means maybe they’re still about. To hunt god is to hunt the white whale – pointless and self destructive.

Rather, I point my bows at the special school system. The scheme which compacted us together, forcing us and those like me to watch as classmate after classmate, friend after friend, wilted and died. Such schools I truly hate; they are concentration camps, day care centres. If inclusion was in place, I know my friends would still have died, but maybe the grief would be spread thinner, shared more evenly, making the burden lighter. Maybe others would have seen, learned from my friends. Instead they were tucked away at school, away from the mainstream. I’m proud to have known them, and remember them with fondness, but they didn’t deserve to be shut away from their able-bodied peers, to die knowing only what it is like to be segregated, to be different.

Thus I channel my hatred at such schools. I blame them, for I can blame nothing else. By extension, I blame CaMoron’s conservative party, who seek to maintain such schools, to build more and therefore to segregate more. This means that more kids will have to mourn their friends, to be taken en mass to funeral parlours; even after leaving school, this means that every time they wonder how their chums are doing, they risk being turned away with sadness, to the extent that they become afraid to go looking. At one stage last year it got to a point where I feared they all might have gone, as two have MD, and I don’t know about Mayer or Liam. I became afraid to look for them, fearing the worst, petrified that history would repeat itself.

Do you not see what special schools do? They force us to go through such things. I will not countenance a return to that system. Despite their bright walls, they are places I will forever associate with suffering, of horror. And if that dick CaMoron wants to halt the progress we’re making towards inclusion, and reinstitute segregation, then, by whatever means I can muster, I will make him regret it.

this is just too cool not to blog. apparently, they’re designing a ‘hypersonic’ passenger jet, capable of getting people to australia in five hours. holy pigcrap thats damn fast. probably fun too. wonder what would happen if I could go that fast in my chair…

david attenborough returns tonight! Yay! thee first part of his ‘life in cold blood’ airs tonight on bbc. I’d almost forgotten about it. nothing like a bit of sir david to warm the cockles of the soul. its odd how he has that effect: his voice is so calming, so learned, so generous. he’s a bit like everyones favourite grandad.

link

I had a good long chat over msn last night with Emma. It feels like we go back a long way, although in reality it’s been three or four years. I think its fair to say that Emma has been through quite a bit, and sometimes she just needs someone to talk to, as we all do. I intend to be there for her, if and when she does – it’s the least I can do for so good a friend.

Anyway, in the course of last night, I showed her my blog. it became apparent that she was looking through my entries over the last three or four years, and she asked how to get her own blog. I told her, then sent her to livejournal. To be honest, em will be the perfect blogger, since she seems to be able to talk for England. Thus, it’s with great pleasure that I link to The thoughts of a Woman Starting Her Life.

Although nobody should ever trust the daily telegraph, as it is written by morons who support CaMoron, it has reported that Fewer than a third of the 2.7 million or so people claiming incapacity benefit are legitimate claimants. This is substantiated by the DWP. Now, there are bound to be a few false claimants, but what worries me is that this is an obvious dividing tactic played against the disabled community. It is as if the conservatives want to make people who claim benefit into bogeymen who are just being lazy. In turn, this may cause the disabled community to turn in on itself in a case of ‘I’m alright jack.’ That is to say, we’ll fight among ourselves over who is the more worthy claimant. As a person with moderate to severe athetoid cerebral palsy, I know my claim is secure, but as I read this article I started to think in terms of myself vs other claimants. We, the disabled community, cannot afford to do this; we cannot afford to enter into arguments over who is more of a cripple, for, as they say, united we stand, divided we fall.

The most noble and useful defiant has been returned to me. God, how I’ve missed my electric wheelchair. Now I can get about in comfort – it has been a bugger having to walk everywhere when I have had to carry stuff like a bag and my lightwriter I’ve had to push my manual chair like a shopping trolley. It’s surprising how much Mum depends on certain things emotionally as well as physically. In my chair with my lightwriter I feel I could do anything. Mind you, it was this spirit of exploration which led me to take on the kind of adventure in which I crashed my chair. I think I’d better sty close to home, t lest for a while, perhaps just heading to Alsager when I start to get steer crazy with this Star Trek reading I have to do. What fun.