Not that I want to turn my blog into a confessional, but I suppose that, just as I record my adventures on here, I have a duty to record some of my misadventures. Unfortunately, I think the events of today fall into the latter category. It started well enough, I suppose: I got a call from my friend chopper, saying he wanted o introduce me to one of his best friends over in Greenwich. So we wet off on the bus together, heading to weatherspoons in the historic town, where we met Chopper’s friend Wooster and a few other guys. So far, so good.

I was immediately taken to Wooster; he seemed to me a top bloke. Thus, when chopper began to talk about coming decided it was too early. I temporarily forgot that

I have a wonderful fiance back here, spending time with whom is better than any night out. Chopper and agreed that, while he would return to Charlton, I’d stay in Greenwich for one or two more beers.

Looking back, I should have come home, rather than go out on a pub crawl with a bunch of virtual strangers. They were trustworthy enough – chopper had vouched for them – but they didn’t know me. More specifically, they didn’t know the difference between me and me drunk. Thus,, once I had a beer or two in me, and the night was only just warming up, my new friends began to worry that I’d had enough. I told them I was fine, but it didn’t work, and, to my great embarrassment, Chopper was called to pick me up like a father collecting an overtired son. Okay, I’d began to request that the karaoke guy play some bond themes – he did a great rendition of Live and Let Die – but I could definitely have got myself home. As it was, I was driven home by our friend John, as if in shame.

I guess it shows that I have people around here who are looking out for me, which can only be a good thing. Yet I do feel embarrassed by it, and embarrassed for Lyn too. She puts up with so many of my antics. Chopper is a good friend, but if such things happen too often I fear he’ll soon tire of me. Oh well, I guess I’m still learning: I’m so grateful to Lyn for bringing me in to a world where such mad things can happen, into this maelstrom of a city where you never know what will happen, but I can be quite sure I’ll get home safe. And when I get there, the best part of the adventure is being able to recount it to the most wonderful woman in all the world.

I am still trying to work out how fate, providence or whatever you want to call it conspired to let this happen, but I am personally bloody amused by it. On Wednesday evening, chopper and I were in the pub, talking about this and that. We were talking about Halloween, and suddenly Chopper says that he and his sons were getting a type of suit which went over the whole body. My ears pricked up at this, and I decided to probe a bit more. It turns out they were buying morphsuits, also known as zentai suits – the very thing which I discovered on the internet about three or four years ago, had bough from sheer curiosity, and which had amused me just as greatly when Charlie asked to borrow it. Now, coincidence of coincidences, my mega-masculine friend and his sons are buying the kinkiest things in my wardrobe! How did that happen? Chopper has seen pictures of me in mine once or twice, but I didn’t talk about it to him much. I realise this is only something minor, but it amused me too much not to note.

They’re going up to London to get them this morning, and I will go with them. Well, I couldn’t let chopper and the guys get suits without getting a new one for myself, could I?

I cannot help but wonder whether David Attenborough will ever retire, or whether he will go on forever, like the Duracell Bunny of natural history TV. I had honestly thought he had retired, or at least cut back to just doing voice overs from the safety and warmth of a studio; but no! In last night’s Frozen Planet, we saw the great man talking to camera in the arctic, just as he always has done. He must be pushing 90: I’m just in awe of the man. And, as with every other programme he has presented in his sixty year career, it was fascinating. What impresses me most, other than the brilliance of the presenter, is the sheer goddamn beauty of the camerawork. Some of the shots they got took my breath away. I know that is largely down to the magnificence of the scenery – and, just as when I watch a Michael Palin programme, I feel my feet itch – but most of those shots were framed perfectly.

Such programmes almost single-handedly justify TV as a medium. Back at university, I remember ”Life in the undergrowth” airing on Wednesday nights. Rather than going to the weekly Brandies disco, while it was on I used to catch a lift round to Steve and Chris’ to watch it – Steve also being a fan of Attenborough. I loved those discos, but to me Attenborough took priority: such things were too good to be missed. You see, then, how much sway these programmes hold over me – they are television history, and I warren will become the stuff of legend. There are other presenters, but I can’t help thinking that, culturally, sir David Attenborough is something very special, for he has brought so much wonder and beauty to so many people for longer than most of us an remember.

I wrote this, inspired by the joy of a good night…

—

Feeling nice and warm and snug

My arm around you in a hug

Our heads on one pillow, my nose in your sweet hair

I must be the luckiest man alive to be there;

With you, sleeping sweetly

Breathing slowly yet deeply

As tender as a child

Embracing you, so noble, brave yet mild.

And I thank my lucky stars I’m lying there, so warm and snug,

My arm around you, Lyn, in a hug.

I typed out the following this morning, but decided to post it on here too in order to give you guys some insight into the attitudes I often encounter locally. I can’t just dismiss them, but think they need engaging with; this might sound patronising, but I think such attitudes show the socioeconomic conditions here too.

Dear chopper. Sorry dude, but I just could not let you get away with what saying last night, as it goes against everything I believe. I really like you, and of course our disagreement on such a trivial matter won’t effect our relationship, but I can’t let you get away with what you were saying abot Africans.

I understand you say you aren’t racist, and I don’t think you are. Racism implies that you adhere to the long-discredited notion that humanity is divided up into types or ‘races’ of people, along the lines of skin colour. I don’t think you believe this – you treat black people as you treat white people. Rather, you just claim to hate ‘Africans’ – people coming directly from Africa. I must admit this interests me, as it seems to throw up a lot of interesting questions and contradictions which one could write at length about, and which I must deal with here.

First off, how do you define an African without resorting to race? You can only do this on a cultural basis, by saying that African culture is different to European culture. This is the only way you could have such a divide: genetically and biologically, the two groups of people are identical. Study after study shows there is no significant difference in IQ, brain size or an other objective measure of intelligence. The only difference is cultural.

If, then, you hate African culture, what is it about African culture that you hate? Given that mankind evolved on the plains of Ethiopia, we cn all be said to be

African, and so human culture – bipedalism, tool use etc – is, in a way, African. More pertinently, though, African culture is a broad church, ranging from Frenchinfluenced North Africa, the ancient civilisations of Mali, ancient Egyptian civilisation, the pastoral communities of the Great Plains, down to modern, westernised South Africa. It is hugely diverse, and it has long fascinated me, to be honest.

The type of African culture you seem to object to is not a specific one, but, I think, a caricature African culture composed of many negative stereotypes. That is not to say people do not behave in the way you describe: I have encountered quite a few people locally, who probably do hail from central Africa, with some very negative attitudes towards me as a wheelchair-user, but this should be viewed on a personal rather than a cultural or ethnic level. There are two things I can say about this: firstly, I have also encountered similar attitudes from Europeans, and indeed brits. A few months ago, a woman called Claire Khaw phoned a chat show on radio 5 and told the country hat she thought severely disabled children should be killed. Khaw was, at one time, the London mayoral candidate for the bnp. Secondly, there are reasons why such attitudes arise in some cultures. Much of Africa is poor. It shouldn’t be, as there are vast swathes of land which, if cultivated, could make it rich. It’s poverty is a legacy of nineteenth century European colonialism; it’s people were repressed. As a result, people could not afford to have unproductive, disabled babies, which is why most were probably killed and why people like myself aren’t as well accepted in such cultures. Thus there are good, socioeconomic why we may encounter such attitudes in people from Africa, and possibly why they still have them. That is not to say I excuse it, but I can understand it more coming from a nonwesterner than I do coming from someone like Khaw.

What I’m trying to say is, there are reasons why people behave as they do, and indeed not everyone from the same geographical area behaves in the same way. On a cultural level, people may share certain attitudes and behaviors – I have even observed this locally, as the people of Charlton have their own specific behavioral patterns – but that is no reason to say they are all the same. It is certainly no reason to hate the people of an entire continent.

Anyway, I love you dude, but I needed to tell you my opinion.

Matt

I’m sorry, I know I mustn’t keep just directing you to television programes I’ve watched, but today I feel duty bound to direct you here. The final part of Fry’s Planet Word is a corker, in part because it has a segment about Tolkien including an interview with Peter Jackson, but mostly because it is a celebration of literature and story-telling. There is a pat of me that, like Fry, revels in language; While I must admit I have not sat down to read a book in ages – although I know I need to get back into the habit – writing has always been my first love (apart from the ever-patient and understanding miss Levett, who rather acerbically comments ”ooh, that will look good on the shelf” every time I bring another book home). Indeed, it is partly wh I keep writing blog entries, as writing s my main form of artistic expression. Anyway, I advise you to stop reading my inane wittering and go and watch a fascinating programme.

I’m pretty pissed off that I missed this march. Apparently, thousands of disabled people today marched in protest against the cuts, but neither I nor Lyn knew anything about it. It’s a shame, because I think the time has come to forcefully demonstrate our objection to what the government is doing. Oh wel, unfortunately I think there will be many, many more such protests I can go to. I guess I’ll have to be more observant if I’m going to be the activist I want to be.

I was chatting to James over the possibly of an EU referendum yesterday. Before now, I had simply dismissed the prospect of one as merely pandering to xenophobes, and a large part of me still thinks that is what the desire for one is born of, but James made the very astute point that were we to have one, all the crackpots in UKIP and the BNP would be silenced thereafter. The worst that could happen is that the UK would have to renegotiate with Europe, which, given the existing treaty is about forty years old, might not be such a bad thing. I am, of course, pro-Europe; I see it as an example of humanity working together, breaking down arbitrary national barriers, which must happen if we are to survive as a species. Yet the question is, in the current climate, can we continue to support our European neighbours? Indeed, by the same token, can we afford not to? Isolating ourselves from the union might be counterproductive in the long term, even if it is a basket case right now. A large part of me agrees with James that putting it t the vote would get all such questions out in the open, and then out of the way; but then, perhaps a further question is can we afford such a distraction right now? And what if the short-sightedness of the xenophobes prevails, and we end up isolated? A no vote would make ukip irrelevant, but a yes vote would give goits like Nigel Farage more credibility than they ever deserved I find myself pondering such issues; like the killing of Gadaffi and the news from Dale Farm, I am troubled by affairs I don’t feel I have been told enough about. It seems to me that all three raise questions that I don’t know the answers to.

I don’t have time to review it as much as it deserves,, but I believe this to be one of the best films I’ve see in a long time. It’s a self-referential account of the controversy surrounding Life of Brian. While it is very funny, it should be read as a straight piece: yes, there are some anarchic, pythonesque bits, but it is cuttingly serious as well. It is also a beautifully tender portrait of Michael Palin and his relationship with is wife Helen (even though she is played by a guy). Anyway, I urge you to go watch this fine, fascinating film.

I suppose I was in a bit of a bad mood not so long ago. I’m not sure why, but sometimes you just feel grumpy for a bit. School wanted me to go in to help them. They were having a day based around communication and the ways in which people communicate, so I was probably an obvious person to ask along. The thing is, they don’t actually ask me to do much, just be there and act as a role model, leaving my mind free to wonder and ruminate over my unfinished thesis. That always depresses me. I was in the school assembly, something which, back when I was a student at school, I tried to avoid. This one didn’t appear to be much different to those of my childhood, until the band started to play. Suddenly, my ears pricked up and my back straightened in my chair: put simply, those guys rled. They literally rocked! There was one lad with quite severe autism I’ll just call P – by the FSM, can he handle an electric guitar! I thought: ”we so have to teach these guys Hendrix or nirvana or something”. That thought, the thought of such an awesome juxtaposition, was enough to brighten my day, and all was cool again. Now to see that it comes to pass.

After my trip up into the city yesterday, I can’t help feeling that the so-called occupation movement lacks focus and direction. I went to find the truth for myself. It is a lot of people demonstrating against something, but nobody there seems quite sure what. Or perhaps very few: I met a few very clever people up there, having debates about world governments and other such ideals, but it all seemed so pie in the sky, so wishy-washy, that I can’t help thinking that, to paraphrase shakespeare, it is just a load of sound and fury, essentially signifying nothing. They talk about the end of capitalism, and a new world order, but even though I am as aware as anyone of the vulgarities and the depravities of the capitalist system, I doubt these people outside st Pauls (a place which they have amusingly renamed Tahrir Square) have any more idea what to replace it with, or how to bring about it’s demise, than their forebears in the sixties. I’d gone up there with hope, but left feeling rather more cynical. I’ll probably go back up there again soon, to check on progress, but I can’t help thinking that such an action is always going to be futile.

Our living room looks wonderful. We finally finished it last night by putting the newly repainted shelves up. It is now a mixture of gold, silver and burgundy, a combination which I had slight reservations about at first, but now it’s up on the walls I think it looks truly beautiful. Lyn certainly as good taste, I’ll give her that. To celebrate this momentous event, we sort of had a small party: okay, we drank a large bottle of wine left over from the original painting party last week. This was, however, rank, godawful stuff, so Domonic proposed we mix it with coke. He said the Spaniards do it, although it sounded a pretty odd combination to me. As with the walls, however, it really did work; as a matter of fact it surprised me. It’s no daiquiri or martini in the cocktail stakes, but Carimucho, as Domonic called it, is definitely worth a try. The best part is, you don’t seem to get a hangover with it – now that’s what I call a combination.

I was watching ‘Sunday Morning Live’ earlier today. There was a woman on there trying to argue that sex education was harmful to young teens and shouldn’t be taught in schools, something which would naturally strike a lot of people as somewhat closed-minded and bigoted. However, when one of her fellow panellists put this to her, she accused him of being intolerant. This is something I’ve noticed a lot recently in my dealings with right-wingers online: they seek to deny other people their rights to freedom of expression, but when someone tells them to shut up and stop being intolerant, they exclaim that they are being denied their freedom of speech. It is totally hypocritical, an really gets me wound up. What’s more, for me it just goes to show how juvenile right-wing and especially far-right-wing politics is: it spews all this hatred and intolerance onto others, yet demands others tolerate their hatred. I know there is a paradox at the heart of liberalism which says one should tolerate all but intolerance, and that part of being a liberal is to be conscious of and to meditate on that paradox, but as I once wrote here and probably in other entries too, what is in the left a paradox is in the right a blatant, arrogant hypocrisy. It demands tolerance but denies it to others, which I think must be a sign it hasn’t been thought through philosophically.

I think my outing last night did the trick I needed it to do. Taking defiant, my older, slightly more robust chair, I headed up into Soho at about seven. We had really gone to town, if you’ll forgive the pun: I was in a red dress I recently bought in a charity shop, and Marta had made me up so I was more passable than I had ever been before. As I once wrote here, I seem to have a feminine side which practically demands to be let out every now and again; and it was certainly let out last night. Needless to say, I had great fun, and attracted a lot of attention if you get my meaning. I had almost all my rinks bought for me too, so it was a cheap night. However,

I must say it was quite stressful too at times: negotiating central London in a chair on a Friday night is not always fun, which is why I don’t do it that often. Next time, I think, I’ll take someone with me. I’d love to go with Lyn, although, having told chopper about my outing earlier, he says he would be up for going with me on my next ‘Becky’ night out. That would certainly be…interesting

We have just been picking out clothes for me to change into this evening. I have kind of been stressed out this week, as you can probably tell from my last few blog entries, so I think I need a bit of escapism. It has also been ages since I went anywhere en femme – I suppose having a friend as masculine as chopper gets in the way. But part of me still loves to dress up and go out; for her part, I think Lyn likes me to express that side of my persona from time to time. However, it occurred to me a few days ago that Charlie might be the one to credit for all this: back at university, she used to sometimes positively encourage me to dress up of a Wednesday evening. Even when I wasn’t so keen, I remember her gently cajoling me into something girly, although I rarely took much persuading. I know I credit her with a lot of things, but it was charlotte, and then Jen, who helped me dress to go to discos, discos at which pictures were taken which would later gain the attention of a certain Miss Levett. Thus, in a way, Charlie may be partly to thank for the life I now live. Mind you, something tells me Lyn and I were always going to find each other.

Anyway, time to start getting ready.

I’m just posting a quick note to say everything went well this morning. I got really quite worried earlier – what if the doctor prescribed anti-epileptic drugs, or said I couldn’t go out on my own? It could have been really quite disastrous. In the event, however, we agreed that, given my little absence are so infrequent and mild, it isn’t worth doing much. At least I know now what they are, and that they are harmless I was quite relieved with the outcome, and now fel ten times better than when I woke up. I just had a good hug with Lyn, and my main chair should be returned to me shortly, so now I think some of this is in order.

A couple of hours ago I was rather pissed off. I was still fretting about my thesis; I had just watched PMQs, in which CaMoron’s arrogance made me want to kill him; and, online,, people like Claire Khaw were churning out their usual hateful moronics. Such things were getting to me, so much so that I was seriously contemplating catching the 52 up to Westminster and demanding that the government stand down ad the Tory party be disbanded. On top of that, I have a doctors appointment tomorrow about my absences.

However, instead of going to try to cause a revolution, I decided to just go for a walk. It was rather grey and gloomy, but I just needed fresh air. Brooding as I went, mentally spitting venom at everyone I passed, I started to mull stuff over. CaMoron had to go – his deficit reduction scheme clearly isn’t working, everyone can see that, but the way he was continuing with it even when everyone can see it is the wrong course to take. His arrogance makes him unfit to be prime minister. As for Khaw, how could she say such thing and call herself intelligent. One day, I am going to have to sit down and explain to her why all she says is intellectually moot.

By then, I was heading through the park, thinking about taking a trip to Woolwich. I’m currently skint, but a bit of flaneurie is always good for the soul. When that thought occurred to me, I began to reprimand myself for not being at my computer working on my thesis, as I often do when I go walkabout (the flaneur being a major figure in film and cultural theory). But this was countered by three simultaneous thoughts: that this morning I’d emailed it to James for him to look at; that I probably needed a break from it for at least three or four weeks; and that, yesterday afternoon, I got the most touching email from mum and dad basically saying I shouldn’t fret so much and that ” Your mum and me do not wonder what you are ‘fucking about at’ – we know you are finding your place and your direction…” With such thoughts rising to my consciousness, I realised the sun was coming out.

However, there was still the thought of tomorrow’s appointment to fret over. The situation is very stupid: I know what the problem is, and what the scan will how- I’m just going in to see if the doctor can tell me things I didn’t know, like whether anyone else has ‘absences’ like mine. But the danger is, what if he prescribes drugs which effect my personality? That is a scary thought, because I don’t want to change from being me. Well, I then thought, I’ll just tell him thanks, but no thanks. I’m fine as I am. But what if he insists? Now You’re being silly. This whole situation is silly – look, we’re almost in Woolwich.

My internal dialogue was put on hold as I threaded my way through the crowd. I had a look in a few shops, but I mostly watched the people, listening to the stall holders cry out their prices as if they had one so for hundreds of years. It was fascinating, and as curiosity set in my gloom lifted – I could actually feel myself cheer up, brightened by he multicultural society about me. I began to think in sentences, and about how I would describe the scene were I to blog about it. I passed the spot where, last week, I fell out of my chair and pressed on towards the river, funk lifting as I went. As patches of blue began to appear in the sky, it occurred to me that I had been fretting over nothing: there was not much I could do about CaMoron; Khaw is just some nutty woman who seems to spend all her time on Facebook; I might be stuck with my thesis,, but I will got there in he end; and as for tomorrow well, I think I know how to handle it.

With that, I decided to head home. I would stop by at chopper’s en route to see what he is up to, and maybe this evening I’ll ask Laura for a glass of that wine left over from Saturday. Just one glass, mind – I do have an appointment tomorrow. It had been quite a good walk, and it really had cheered me up: ”hey” I thought ”maybe that’s something I could blog about.”

Every now and then I start feeling quite low about my thesis. I started it four years ago; it was only supposed to take me a year to complete and it’s still not finished. The truth is, I don’t know what to do about it. Then I look at my brothers, both highly successful academics, Mark just having started working at world-famous Cern, and I feel like such a failure. Part of me thinks that people like my parents and my old university friends are looking at me and thinking ‘what the fuck’s he fucking about at?’ Part of me agrees with them, that I should stop gadding about, get my head down and get the damn thing finished. But another part of me says that I have other priorities, and that even if I’m not the academic I once wanted to be I still have reason to be proud of myself. Life with Lyn is going well; I’m now pretty independent. I get out and about; I volunteer at a local special school. I constantly experience new things: the event I went to last night may have been unconnected to either film or writing, but it may well lead to things which I can apply my specialist knowledge to, and anyway satisfied my interest in art generally. Most importantly of all, I’m the partner of a wonderful person, and that’s more important to me than any damn certificate.

I guess I’m not an academic like my brothers, or the student type I was three or four years ago. Yet part of me still misses it, a part which surfaces every now and then, such as when I chat to James or hear Mark Kermode talk. I miss reading, writing and talking about ideas, and having conversations with people who reference writers like Marx, Lacan and Zizeck as casually as the fellows down at the royal oak talk about football, weed or women. When I feel such pangs, I know it’s time to get back to my studio, take my books from where I left hem, open my thesis and start work. I may not have finished it, but I will one day.

I think it is fair to say that this has been one of the most bizarre, amazing and beautiful evenings of my life. This morning I gathered through the all-knowing, allseeing book of face that there was some kind of even at the Amersham Arms in new cross by a group called tan a Deptford. Truth be told, I didn’t know much about it, but in the description it said something about getting to wear all kinds of costumes so I thought it might be worth a look. More importantly, a couple of my old uni mates, Jodie and hollie, have connections with that group and I thought it might be a good chance to catch up with them.

At seven this evening, then, I made my way over there, normal clothes over a pink leotard, just in case the occasion called for it – from the photos on Facebook I thought this might be the perfect opportunity to don one in public again. I did not quite know what to expect however, and now I have come to describe it, I’m not sure I can. I find they do a kind of physical theatre: everyone who wishes to participate moves to the music, using props and taking costumes on and off to create tableau or small dances. It apparently comes from brazil; I found it captivating and was almost instantly drawn in, Jodie very kindly helping me off with my boy stuff.

I know I probably should not have imposed hat upon her, but she said she was happy to help.*

It went on for over an hour, the four main performers constantly changing and creating scene after scene, dance after dance. I was really getting into it by the end, but I kept thinking about how much Lyn would have liked it. I’m not a dancer or a musician, but Lyn has been and is both. I really think she might love it, especially if she could do the music – the DJ being the person who controls the rhythm of the whole piece. After the performance had stopped, all those who had participated sat down to talk, and I learned that tonight was the first of four such events, happening every two week. I certainly intend to go to the next time, hopefully with Lyn and our PA but probably without the leotard. We have been looking for some type of hobby we could do together – I think this might be one of the solutions to that problem. It was an amazing evening, and an experience I’d loe to repeat with lyn: rather bizarre, yet intriguing.

*Sadly, Hollie was not there

We are currently in the middle of redecorating our front room. We started it yesterday; the plan was to have it finished by the end of the day, but this morning only one wall is done. Lyn had he brilliant idea of having a ‘painting party’, where we invited everyone to come join in, listen to some music, have a dink or three and do some painting. James came along, and it was great to have a chance to catch up with him, even if we did not do much painting ourselves. It was Lyn too who chose the colours. At first it passed my mind that I should be slightly offended that she didn’t ask my opinion, but then I thought, ”I’d only have replied that I was up to her anyway, so she was probably right just to go ahead and choose”. As it is, she has made an excellent choice: the one wall which was finished yesterday is now a warm, homely shade of purple. With any luck thee other three will be finished either today or tomorrow, so I’ll let you know how we get on.

I am writing this on a Mac. There was a point, I must admit, that I thought I would never use apple stuff: I was always a PC kind of guy. I think I got this from my brothers, who were always tinkering around with computers, opening them up to install new hardware and so on. You can’t really tinker with a Mac. That, and the fact that you were virtually dictated to by Apple over what you could and could not do with the machines, lead me to believe that Macs were for numpties.

That was, of course, before I had started to use any apple products. Lyn swears by them – so much so that you could say that she is a member of the so-called ‘Cult of Apple’. When I moved in with her, I brought my PC down, but that recently gave up the goose so Lyn gave me the Mac we recovered from the thieves. It was like a revolution: no more crashing, no more waiting an hour for it to boot; just a sleek, stable computer. I’m still getting used to it, of course, and I still don’t know what half the buttons on my desktop do, but I love not having to worry about my computer or whether it will suddenly hang. I now think that it is what I needed all along: I’m converted! Mind you, I seem to recall my brother Luke using an apple laptop last Christmas, so even my brothers aren’t immune to their lure.

For Lyn, however, the case is slightly different. Apple was the company that gave her her freedom and independence. Using her Ipad, watching her face light up, brings her so much joy that I sometimes worry that she loves it more than she loves me. To think that the man who gave her that, who created so much wonderful inspiring technology, is no longer with us is very sad indeed. I don’t know much about Steve Jobs other than what Lyn has told me; I know he was a visionary and a maverick, and despite the fact tat he insisted on retaining too much control over his computers, I know the world has lost a great man.

I know it’s not purrfect, but it seemed to me that this was just begging to be made.

I wrote the following email to my dad yesterday afternoon. I think it tells quite a cool tale, so I thought I’ddd re-post it here:

Dear dad. I think I better tell you this because I know you will want to be told. On Monday going up Charlton church lane – a steep hill not far from here – my chair broke. The link between the chassis (purple bit) and the box with the motors and batteries had worn away: under the seat there is a purple tube that goes across, and is connected to the motor at two points. These had apparently rusted so that the front of the battery box was now much lower than it should have been and my chair was tilted forward. However, this afternoon chopper and I managed to get it fixed: believe it or not Charlton still has a village forge, and the guy there happily re-welded the broken connections. Its not perfect but it will hold.

I’ll try to be on skype later if you want to talk

Love matt xx

The forge was awesome, an must have been there centuries. The guy kindly did it there and then, and, once I had chance to get down on the floor to look at his work, I realised the welds were much stronger than I first thought —- that thing won’t break again in a month of sundays. He refused to let us pay him anything, too, so I bought him a small bottle of JD. God I love this crazy little village within a city. However, I must apologise to my parents for not getting on to skype last night: something else came up, and Chopper needed my help, but I’ll leave that for another entry.

I know I should write something about Teresa May’s speech today, as that was the thing that agitated the most. If I knew where to begin it would be a fine thing, but, you know what? I can’t be bothered. I can’t be bothered to go through that speech, explaining how almost everything she said amounted to the ratings of a moronic bigot. Of course, it would be the simplest thing in the world to do so, but I suspect anyone reading this blog entry would have already seen the many flaws in he arguments. The vast majority of people in this country will be able to tell that her speech was a load of xenophobic, dangerous and ill-thought-through nonsense, which makes May’s own belief that she is on the side of the majority so laughable. At least, I certainly hope she’s not on the side of the majority, as if she isn’t then I have greatly overestimated the intelligence of the general population. It’s obvious that her schpeal about immigration putting a strain on infrastructure is an attempt to varnish her basic xenophobic impulses with a quazi-intelectual argument; just as obvious is the contradiction in her statements that the riots were simply caused by criminals, yet were also caused by a breakdown in society. God forbid she admit to their real cause: discontent with a Tory government. How the smeg did we end up with such blatant morons in power?

As the second episode Fry’s Planet word aired last night (and if you missed it, you can see it here) I think I’ll direct you to this short film, illustrating clearly how language is so important, and the profound problems one encounters when access to language and the ability to comunicate is denied. Appropriately enough, fry’s program is about identity (despite no even mentioning Lacan once!) but I do think he has missed a trick by not covering the aspects of the subject connected to AAC.

We are just having a lazy Sunday; Lyn is out in the garden enjoying the sun, and I think I’ll go join her soon. This morning, before she got up, iii put on ‘On Her Majesty’s Secret Service’ as I felt like some good old 007. To be honest, my reaction was mixed: there is not much plot, and what plot there is is rather long and drawn out. I’m also not sure I like George Lazenby as bond either. Having said that, there were some brilliant touches: for example, there is a art where bond thinks he has resigned from MI6 and is going through the stuff in his office, and we hear snippets from the theme tunes from previous bond films. What struck me the most about OHMSS, though, was the way in which it differs from other Bond films. It is more romantic, and we see a more tender, softer Bond. That contrasted greatly with the bond of the last one I saw, which was You only Live Twice.

This made me think a bit: only in a franchise as huge as bond can we see such hug variations in plot and character. So far, six actors have played 007, and they all play him differently*. I think the case could be made that the Bond franchise is itself a genre. I’m sure this will have been suggested elsewhere before, and I don’t think the allusion is a perfect one, but if we expand the definition of genre slightly, I think the Bond franchise has genre-like qualities. It can’t e called a series, as that implies a sequence of films which follow on from one another, a la, say, star trek. Nor can it be called a saga, a la Star Wars or The Lord of the Rings**. With a few exceptions, the individual films in the series pays no heed to the others, while having common motifs and adversaries; they are also timeless – that is, they are always set in the period in which they were made. With the exception of Q, the dramatis personae do not age. Thus I think the bond Franchise has become too big to become anything other than it’s own genre.

Anyway, while it feels good to blog about film again, and there is much more I could explore on the subject, there is an Indian summer outside I don’t want to miss, so I’ll just send you here while I go hunt down a nice, cold martini.

*my favourite is still Daniel Craig, btw.

**Although LOTR might better be termed a trilogy.

I just thought I’d share this picture, taken yesterday in the glorious sunshine in Charlton park.

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(I was trying to smile, btw)

How the smeg can the government afford to spend umpteen million pounds on bringing back weekly rubbish collections, and yet continue to cut other services so drastically? This seems to me quite a good question, as it betrays a certain bias of the Tories. Naturally, we all need our bins emptied, but given a choice between having them emptied every week and cutting other services versus having them collected every two weeks so that other services can be maintained too, I think I know which one most of us will opt for. The thing is, the Tories are not like ‘most of us’. People who vote Tory are usually pretty independently-minded and wealthy; they don’t usually need care homes and busses. They are, however, the type of person to get upset about having to wait just that bit longer to have their bins collected. It is an utterly selfish, small-minded attitude, and the fact that CaMoron’s government would make sure such people’s petty needs are met before those who really need help, I find sickening. They are obviously selfishly prioritising the needs of their own votership. Do we really want these selfish bastards in power?