Talking of the olympic opening ceremony..

We love our national health service; CaMoron and his party does not – after all, they can afford to go private.

I suppose it is fair to say that, despite Boris’ wistful musings that London could host the Olympic games again within twenty years, we won’t be seeing a summer like the one of 2012 for quite some time. That is not to say we couldn’t: after this summer and the run up to it, it would be the simplest thing in the world to get everything going again, and I bet it would be even more awesome than the last. It’s just that London has already hosted the games three times – more than any other city. There are plenty of other cities for the Olympic party to go to – cities in countries which have never hosted the games. That means, of course, that I better come to terms with the fact we probably wont get to see the queen making any more grand entrances, with double oh seven or anyone else.

I’m still obsessed with that bit of film, sorry. As I mused last week, I hope Rio does it’s own reply. I’m intrigued by it’s postmodern juxtaposition of fictional and nonfictional characters: it blends reality and fantasy in a new way, which brings me to wonder what other weird and wonderful combinations I can come up with. Now we have had the queen meet James bond, anything else is possible, nothing else is unthinkable, no person too big or too important, no scenario too far fetched. She may not have realized it, but when she uttered the words ”Good evening, Mr. Bond”, her majesty opened up an exciting new world of postmodern possibilities. Although she may never utter them or their equivalent again, what might they have spawned?

The mind boggles: there are so many fictional characters and so many possible scenarios, it’s hard to know where to begin. What if president Obama was shown talking to superman? What if the mayor of New York was shown talking to Batman about crime in the city? Such stunts could be put to good use, and help deliver important messages. I have been trying to think of ones which are vaguely realistic all day though, and it is harder than you might think. James Bond was the obvious choice for introducing the queen as the stunt did not really need much setting up in terms of pretext. If he were indeed real, as a government agent her majesty would already know him, which is why she could just greet him with a simple ‘good evening’; indeed, the way in which she has 007 wait a few seconds while she finishes her writing subtly demonstrates that the queen is familiar with her agent – had she not known him, surely she would have turned around as soon as he entered the room. Bonds grin and slight pause before he replies underscores this sentiment. yet, as she then rises and walks towards the door, bond looks straight ahead, maintaining a formality and verisimilitude. If Bond had turned his head as her majesty passed him, it would have looked odd – even disrespectful. Thus the pause is not bemusement or impetuousness, but 007 being a professional royal servant, which I think adds to the sense of reality vital in such stunts.

As for the question of why the queen used such an unusual way to get to the ceremony, given that her majesty didn’t actually parachute in to the stadium but landed outside of it and entered as she ordinarily would, how do we know that this is not her usual way of getting places? In other words, whereas if anyone tried to do a similar stunt with some other fictional character they would need to establish a pretextual justification for it, because Bond is a (fictional) government agent, the film makers did not need to explain why this character could appear with the queen. If professor Dumbledore had been used in the olympic ceremony sequence instead of Bond, for example, it’s makers would have had to explain why he had taken a break from his duties at Hogwarts; with 007, a government agent who for all we know does such things with the queen frequently, no such contextualization was necessary. That’s why other examples may be harder to find, as they would need a greater degree of preamble. I’ll continue to mull it over, and try to come up with one as good as bond and the queen. Please put your suggestions in the comments.

It is quite an interesting day for us observers of media. I’ll try to write something in-depth and intelligent soon, I promise, but as the dust is yet to settle, I can just direct you here.

These dark London nights seem somehow unlike the winter nights of Cheshire. They feel darker and colder, more alien, as if people seem more distant. Everyone is, of course, in a hurry to get back home to the warmth and the light, as they would be all over the country. Countryside, town or city, a winter’s night is a winter’s night. Yet here in the capital, that urgency is more pronounced: cars zoom by, and people seem to walk a bit faster.

I was just out with Lyn. We went to the coffee shop around the corner: we have a new personal assistant to train up, and that is a good place to start. My dad had came to visit this morning; it was good to see him, as ever, and after he had left we felt some coffee and cake was in order. It was quite dark when we got home, but, despite that, I felt like a short walk, just for some fresh air.

And so I went, through the parks, along paths I now know quite well. It was cold, though, and before long I decided to head home,, but before I did I decided to take a look at the view I once described here. London may seem alien and cold sometimes,, especially on a dark winter’s night, yet it is also beautiful. Canary Warf, lit up at dusk like a thousand photos of Manhattan, looks magical. It is an image powerful enough to chase away the coldness in an instant, and with that I turned for home, thinking of my father, my family, but most of all the wonderful woman waiting for me.

I find it more than a little bit awesome that almost precisely a year ago today I wrote this entry. In it I record how proud I am of Lyn after seeing her play in her first Paraorchestra performance. I go on to wonder what might be in store for them: I knew they were going to be fairly successful, but, to be honest, I would not have dared to dream that they would hit the heights they have this year. It has frankly amazed me: first, going to Orchestra in a Field, and then watching them close the Paralympics. Moreover, although I’m not at liberty to say what, there are a few very big things in the pipeline. Lyn and I have some very busy days ahead.

Or rather, Lyn does: I’m not a member of the orchestra – I don’t play an instrument. I have thus started to feel guilty about glorying in a success which I have not contributed to. I feel rather like a groupie, a hanger-on. I suspect I just get in the way. I want to help somehow, though – I want to contribute in a more meaningful way; I suppose I want to be a proper part of this groundbreaking, increasingly important organisation. The question is, what can I do?

This story caught my eye today. Scientists in the middle east have had quite a brilliant idea: several nations in the region, from both sides of the arab/Israeli conflict, have decided to come together to create their own particle accelerator. They have decided to put their nations differences aside for the sake of science. If you ask me, this is profoundly brilliant news, as it shows – does it not – how superficial our petty conflicts are, and that, when we choose to, we can put them aside and work together as one people, one species. I found it so glorious that I just had to flag it up on here. Mind you, I must admit that, when I first saw this story on the lunchtime news, the grim thought occurred to me: ”I wonder how long it is until this place is attacked by a group like Al Qa’ida.’

One of the best things about living in London, or any large city I suppose, is the abundance of reasonably nice walks. In stark contrast to other parts of the country, it’s a beautiful day here, and not that cold for the time of year, so I just went out in my chair. As I wrote here, I have always liked going out for strolls, but the problem was, back up north, there weren’t that many circular routes. Of course, there were lots of good walks, but these were along roads and paths leading further and further away from home, so at some point you would have to double back on yourself. I prefer paths which lead you in circles, so you never have to see the same bit of road twice: that is why I loved the walk to Swettenham.

The problem was, that walk was rather long. Here in south London, however, there is an abundance of circular walks, long, medium or short, so I never get tired or bored. The one I took this morning was short to medium: through the parks down to shooters hill road, along to blakheath stopping in M&S Food for some supplies, and from there home. Not very long, but long enough to get my cognitive juices flowing. Part of it was on a stretch of road I had never been down before, too: another advantage of living in a metropolis is that there are always new paved, accessible roads to go down – new places to explore in my chair. There were all kinds of people about, going to and from church, doing their weekly shopping, playing in a football tournament in the park, or, like me, just out for a stroll. It was the perfect start to a lazy Sunday, after what has turned out to be one of our busiest weeks ever.

I’m sorry, but I just have to flag this up – it’s just too funny not to. According to an article in the Guardian, MI6 has posted a presumably fake job advert on the direct.gov website, looking for ‘target elimination specialists’ who ‘will receive all necessary equipment, including passports, special watches, jet packs, mini submarines and a Walther PPK.” Needless to say, I’m considering applying, but I may need to forgo some of those martinis, as much as I like them.

Thanks to John white for sharing that with me!

A couple of days ago, I had an idea, or rather I had an idea which I hope people in brazil have. Given that one of the most memorable parts of the London Olympic opening ceremony was a short film in which James bond escorts the queen to the stadium, how might the Brazilians develop that meme? If you think about it, it is quite an interesting question: that film brought together two British icons, one fictional, one non-fictional, capturing the moment in the most brilliant, surprising and awesome way. After all, who would have ever expected to hear her majesty utter the immortal line ”Good evening, Mr Bond.”? How, then, could brazil respond to that? It occurs to me that they have to – London threw down the gauntlet when it made this film, creating something emphatically British yet playing with British icons, in so doing telling a joke that the whole world would get. The question, then, is how can rio reply?

I was pondering this on Monday: I have a couple of brazillian cousins, so I thought I would ask them whether brazil has it’s equivalent of 007. Alex suggested a guy called Capitao Nascimento who seems to fit the bill, although I daresay no other character from any country occupies Bond’s unique niche. Nascimento comes from Brazilian hit film ”Elite Force”, and, according to alex, has a couple of cool catchphrases, like ”your not man enough to use the black uniform” – he would do nicely. The question is who would jump out of the helicopter with him, if indeed there is going to be a helicopter at all. As I wrote here, ‘Happy and Glorious’ is a rereading of power structures – power structures which are uniquely British. Only we have this benign maternal figure, slightly anachronistic, slightly absurd but which still has our respect and admiration; only we have a martini-drinking spy who is the central character of the biggest, longest running film franchise ever. Both icons have unique places on not just British but worldwide culture: it will be intriguing to see whether the joke is taken up by Rio, and the meme evolves Brazilian style. I love the way an event like the Olympics affords us an opportunity to play with such concepts, and I really hope London has started a tradition continued in rio and beyond.

Apparently, more and more people are being forced to skip meals – sometimes for two days or more – because they cannot afford any food, a study said today. If true, this is very disturbing news indeed. Surely this cannot be the type of britain david CaMoron wants.

It’s been a while since I posted a Quote Of The Day (assuming I have ever posted one) but I just came across a good one from frankie Boyle* I thought I’d share, short of much else I can write about: ”With no job vacancies, withdrawing benefits to encourage people into work is like withdrawing medicine to encourage them to become immoral.”

*I do not condone his comments on down syndrome, or agree with him on many other things

It has been another long day, and it’s only half past four. Trust me, guys: all will be revealed quite soon. We just came home, rather tired and very hungry, and I found this link in my inbox. It concerns the subject of prams on busses, and whether they should move if a wheelchair user needs the wheelchair space. This is, of course, one of my major bugbears: although we have mercifully been using taxis for the last few days, kindly supplied to the paraorchestra free of charge by Radio taxis, I have lost count of the times I haven’t been able to get on a bus because the space was taken by a pram or two. The sign clearly states they should move, yet the mothers blatantly refuse to take their babies into their arms, fold the pram and allow me on. It makes me furious, and it looks like I’m not the only one. However, judging from the comments in reply to the article, some people are prepared to defend such selfishness. As one reply to such a comment states, though, prams can be folded, but I can’t fold my wheelchair.

(Thanks to Johnboy and matt for the link)

L and I are having a busy week, one which promises to get even busier. As I wrote yesterday, though, I can’t really tell you much about what is going on, save that, as with the Paralympic closing ceremony, you guys have a big surprise in store. However, I can tell you that our activity has involved a lot of to-ing and fro-ing in taxis.

Thus it was that, on our way home tonight, I had my first encounter with London talk radio. Never have I heard such repugnant, ill-informed bullshit in my life. Alright, the host sounded level headed half the time, and made some valid points; but at other times he struck me as a total loon. For example, he referred to climate change as ‘so called climate change’, as it was some far-fetched concept, made up to exploit people. This is both scientifically wrong and totally irresponsible: climate change is real – man is causing the earth to warm. The effects of this could be catastrophic, so we need to do something about it. What we do not need is numpties like Peter Hitchins in the tabloids, and on popular talk radio, trying to deny it’s reality. I have no problem with people sharing their views, but to be worthy of broadcasting those views must be bedded in some sense of reality (something which would probably bar ninety nine percent of British conservatives and one hundred percent of American republicans from the airwaves), especially on such serious issues. If their views lack that foundation but they still want to express themselves, then I suggest they just write a blog!

I am afraid it is another of those awesome days which, despite wanting to, I cant tell you too much about what we are up to. Too many games would be given away. Needless to say, it involves the paraorchestra, currently rehearsing in a north London church, and the melodies coming through my ears are magnificent.

It’s strange: by rights I should probably be at home. After all, what boyfriiend follows his fianc to work? I should be at home getting on with my thesis? And yet, how could I turn down the opportunity to be privy to this? How can I stay home while lyn is away making the most sublime music with a group of such amazing musicians? I just can’t; and so here I sit, in the corner of this drafty church, the book I brought to read unread, listening to music, history and beauty being created before me.

I think I’ll just send you here today, to a blog post about what Lyn and I were up to on tuesday. It’s written by Nikki Gomez, who organized the whole thing, and very kindly included a link to my site. I can’t wait to see the finished film: I think we are going to it’s screening the week after next – I hope I get to meet professor hawking!

Does this make me an actor?

I hope I have made it clear on here over the years how much I support the BBC. To me, the beeb is the finest broadcasting organisation in the world: it’s news is less biased than most, it’s documentaries are of a very high standard, it’s drama…well, that can be hit and miss. Over the years it has supplied us with some of the cornerstones of British culture, such as David Attenborough (who, by the way, had another fascinating how on TV last night) and Monty Python. It has also just covered a magnificent home Olympics.

I could cite more examples of the beeb’s greatness, but there is one thing it does which I do not like: Children In Need. We watched ten minutes of it last night, then had to turn the godawful patronising pap off. As Lyn sagely put it: ‘It’s that time of year again where the BBC stereo type disabled people as charity cases.’ She was right: such ‘charity’ does steriotype us; it represses us; makes us dependent on ‘good will’ and thus second class citizens. Little more than beggars on the street.

We crips need help – that is unavoidable. But that help should and must come from the state. We are members of a society of which the state is an extension, and therefore in any truly civilised society our care must be paid for through tax. To me, anyone who denies this and demands the care of disabled people is funded through charity, as I have heard some Americans argue, has no right to call themselves civilised. Charity is just a conscious-salving mechanism for those who hate paying tax, loathe the welfare state and ultimately don’t give a flying fuck about people like me and Lyn, or anyone other than themselves for that matter. A diverse society benefits us all, so it is in everyone’s interest to help those who need it. Feeding us though goodwill renders us untermensch. We would be expected to feel grateful to charities in whose interests it would be to keep us dependant, and to the oh-so good men and women who chose to put a few pennies in a pot, telling themselves they are doing something good on their way home to their large, warm houses.

I would rather die than live like that. That’s why I find it odd that the bbc, a company funded through the license fee for the good of all, and which is usually so enlightened, would stoop to such detritis, using that big yellow bear-whore Pudsey to try to make us forget we are contributing to little more than a form of oppression disguised as kindness.

I know it is lazy blogging, and that I should be commenting on things like the middle east or attacking the patronizing farce that is tonight’s ‘Children in Need’, but I can’t resist sending you here. Entitled ‘James Bond Was Wrong – Don’t shake Your Martini’, its a fairly serious look at the mixology and politics of the famous drink. Surely this is proof that everything in film, and indeed all art, must be semiotically analyzed with the utmost seriousness. I must admit that I find it oddly fascinating. Then again, as the article says, ‘Deconstructing what a fictional book and film character drinks is slightly absurd, but so is taking drinking advice from a fictional character’. Indeed, my tipple of choice is usually beer, something fleming sneered at, and I’m trying to keep off alcohol these days anyway, but the rarified, precise, elitist culture this article tries to evoke strikes me as curious.

Last night saw the concluding part of Michael Palin’s series, Brazil. I thoroughly enjoyed all four episodes, and it was great to see Palin back on our screens. Programmes like his certainly make a change from the usual superficial dross broadcast these days, and at least we get to see parts of the world we otherwise might not. After last night’s program, all I wanted to do was get out there and explore – to go see the wonders of the world for myself.

The problem is, I discovered yesterday that I have very poor navigational skills. I needed to go to a dentist in Kidbrooke, which, on the map, doesn’t look too far away. The sun was out, so I decided to just go in my chair. I knew roughly where I was going, and had a map and an Ipad, but could I find the damn place? Could I heck! I ended up having to ask about five people for directions, and in the end one woman had to lead me to the place. In my defence, though, the place was rather hidden away under a car park. It was a good thing I didn’t have a proper appointment but just needed to go in and check something, as I would have been very late.

Getting home was not much easier, though: I ended up halfway across Bexley heath before I realised I was going in entirely the wrong direction. I got back well after dark, knackered, pretty teed off, and wondering if Michael palin’s next series should be set in south London. He never seems to have these navigational problems: mind you, this could have something to do with having a camera crew following him everywhere.

For once I feel sorry for Teresa May. I usually loathe the worthless Tory bitch, but over the Abu Hamza deportation fiasco, I have to side with her and her predecessors. I am a firm supporter of immigration, which I see as enriching our society, but however you look at it, Hamza is a nut. He is a religious loon apparently intent on blowing us all to kingdom come: the further he is from us, the better. The danger, of course, is that this plays straight into the hands of the far right, who will now use this to tar every Muslim immigrant, and indeed all immigrants, with the same narrow-minded brush. Moreover, I do also agree that human rights must be sacrosanct – even those of religious nutters. The moment we start to ignore human rights, we lose something very important indeed. Thus, hamza may be a dangerous loon whose presence here puts us all at risk, but I understand why the decision was made yesterday to allow him to stay. I just hope we don’t all come to regret it.

Yesterday turned out to be quite a cool day. A week or two ago, Lyn and I were invited to be in a short film which is going to be shown at conferences about disability and technology. It was only a small piece: the only problem was that it was on the other side of town. So at about one yesterday, off we went: it’s easy to forget just how big London is, and hard to get one’s head around. We spent well over three hours getting to the place in Acton town, by which time we were both fairly cranky.

In the end, though, it turned out ok: Lyn and I did what they asked us to – I’ll post a link to the finished film when I get it – and the producers very kindly paid for a taxi home. The three hours on public transport I think we had all been dreading turned into a nice, comfortable one hour taxi ride. It kind of made me reflect, though: there must be an easier way for two cripples to get around town. I thought back to our trip to Australia, and it occurred to me that what we really need is a helicopter. One of those babies certainly would speed up getting across London: I worked out that we could have gone from Charlton to Acton within twenty minutes. It certainly makes sense when you factor in the trouble we have getting on and off busses and in and out of tube stations, not to mention the delays we crips sometimes cause. Mind you, I rather doubt Lyn and I could afford one on the mobility component of our DDA.

Joking aside, while it is true that public transport in London for disabled people has come on a lot recently, there is still vast room for improvement. Yesterday, for instance, an out of order lift added about half an hour to our journey on the tube, and it was a good thing it was in my manual chair as about half the stations marked as accessible are not. Getting around London is not as easy as it could or should be, and there is still a long way to go, especially when you have, er, a long way to go.

The question for Boris, then, is which is cheaper: giving everybody with a mobility disability a helicopter, or making the entire London rail network completely accessible.

While I am a little wary of poppy wearing as I fear it feeds into right-wing jingoism, I just thought I’d share this with you

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This entry will really be two entries in one, touching on two unrelated topics. The only thing they have in common is that they both occurred this weekend. Firstly, I should have mentioned in yesterday’s entry that it was great to see Sir David Attenborough return to our TV screens on Friday night. The bbc does not seem to be getting much right of late, but one of it’s better moves was to decide to screen a season of films celebrating Attenborough’s sixty years in the business. In today’s fickle world of internet memes where a YouTube video can propel someone to worldwide stardom for a week or so, after which they are forgotten about (Warhol, it seems, was only slightly off) it’s good to see that one or two of the old guard are still around, doing their thing and fascinating the country as they have always done. Indeed, Attenborough was introducing us to the wonders of the natural world before my parents were born, and is still going strong; that too fills me with awe and admiration.

Attenborough seems to have been everywhere, but one of the wildernesses I don’t recall him ever visiting is the wilds of south-east London. Intrepid explorers that we are, Lyn and I were out and about yesterday. We went over to Deptford to see the market. By the time we got there, though, it was starting to wind down, so Dominik kindly invited us to his place nearby for a cup of coffee, and then we set out to find some dinner. Of course, I had a pub in mind, and some good old stodgy pub grub, but what we eventually found was something far more unusual: a bus! Believe it or not, in Deptford there is an old red routemaster bus which has been converted into a bar and restaurant, called, appropriately enough, The Big Red Bus. It is, to be honest, kind of weird: half the place is an old parked bus and the other half is essentially a courtyard covered with a makeshift roof where the bar and a few extra tables were. Most people ate on the bus, but we sat outside as it has steps. I honestly think it was one of the most unique eating experiences of my life, and could well be included on my list of favourite meals. The pizza I had was top notch, and the IPA was well above average. I was an intriguing, fascinating place, if a little cold at that time of day and this time of year, and I suspect we’ll be going there again.

In all, then, quite an interesting weekend thusfar, at the end of quite a cool week. Next week, though, promises to be even cooler, but I can’t go into that just now.

I was going to flag this up a few days ago, but somehow other things got in the way. I’m quite sure that I have described on here before how, when I was growing up, it was a family tradition of ours to drink tea and eat chocolate in my parent’s bedroom every weekend morning. I remember those times with great fondness and warmth. When my brothers and I were small, T ad C time was a matter of playing of course, but when we got a bit older, on Sunday mornings Dad used to put on Letter From America for us to listen to. That is how I was introduced to the late, great Alistair Cooke: I loved listening to him – he was always so well informed, at once invoking an American world which seemed so similar yet so different.

I remembered those Sunday mornings when I came across this last week. The beeb have put an archive of cook’s letters on their website, presumably to coincide with the American election. What Cooke, the most unflappable and level-headed of commentators, would have made of Obama and Romney and the current deep divisions in American society I cannot say, but I would have loved to hear his thoughts on it.

As it is, though, this archive stands as a record of a man’s reflections of American life spanning over fifty years: Mr cook recorded them every week from 1946 until his death in 2004. That in itself fills me with awe. It occurs to me that Cooke’s letters aren’t all that dissimilar from blog entries, causing me to reflect on my own activity as a blogger: on Wednesday Steve told me how he always tried to read my entries. I was flattered, of course, and his words spurred me on to keep writing. I do try to keep it up, write regularly and vary my subjects, just as, I suppose, Alistair Cooke did. I suppose I just ramble on about whatever I find interesting on any given day, but if I have but a fraction of his ability to captivate people I would be a very happy man. Mind you, I also find myself wondering if I will be able to keep my blog going for fifty-eight years: if Mr. Cooke could do it I can certainly give it a go!

If you want to see something cringe-enducingly stupid yet hilariously funny, or you just want to laugh at american republicans overreacting to Obama’s Re-election, go here. Interesting how fast these things spring up.

My friend steve came to visit yesterday. He was in the capital visiting his brother and popped by for the afternoon. It was great to see him, and I’m pleased to report he and Jenny are doing well. They now live in Aberdeen, but steve says that, because of his work, he should be coming to the capital quite often. He’s now a social worker, having taken a second degree, but I didn’t have the heart to go into all the politics of how, for us crips, social workers are dangerous and evil.

Anyway, we had a great afternoon together: I just took him to a couple of the local pubs, and we just talked. I had forgotten how astute Steve can be: I always remember the steve who was forever climbing on things at university and being generally vulgar, but not the astute, highly intelligent steve with whom it is fascinating to hold a conversation. I was with the latter yesterday, and our discussions ranged from Scottish independence to bond films. It was a great couple of hours, and ended all too soon. Once I got back, I realised that it had never occurred to me how much of a good man steve is, and how much I value his friendship. Of course, I keep writing about my friendship with charlotte on here, but forget to say that my friendship with steve is of a similar nature. They are both kind, warm people with whom I have had a great many adventures. After all, it was through steve, if memory serves, that I got into that large group of mostly drama-student friends in the first place; and it was with steve that I went to Paris on a film studies trip with, upon which we both got absolutely drunk on Leffe! I realised this last night, once I got home having just seen Steve start the journey back to his brother’s, and really hoped I would see my fine old Yorkshire friend again soon.

I got up relatively early today to check the outcome of the American election. I had considered staying up last night to watch the results as they came in, but I chickened out and went to bed: the suspense was killing me – it would be better, I reasoned, to turn in and get the results in one go in the morning. I turned in, but Lyn stayed up, and it was she who told me the amazing news when I kissed her good morning.

When she did, I couldn’t quite believe it. When you factor in the economic situation in America, Obama should not have stood a chance. Under any other circumstances, he would have been wiped out; yet, when I turned on the TV, I found out that the amazing had indeed occurred. Obama had won, and convincingly enough for Romney to concede. I’m not quite sure what this means though. Did Obama’s ethnicity play a part? Did people give him a second chance because of his skin colour, or was he elected because the people could see the folly in Romney’s economic plan? Either way, what is clear is that the so-called tea-party movement the biggest collection of idiots the world has ever seen – has lost. It was decisively rejected last night, demonstrated to be powerless. It cannot be said to reflect mainstream American opinion in the way it says it does. That is quite a relief. Of course, it would be naive to think that it will now start to fade, but the world can see it has no power and does not reflect American values. They, and the republican party they so mindlessly support, must be feeling pretty bitter this morning. As for myself, however, it feels as if my faith in America and in humanity has been renewed.

And so we wait. We wait for a country to make a decision for the world; we wait for a people we have increasingly less trust in to decide the fate of us all. We hold our breaths, hoping that the redemption, the miracle, we saw four years ago will hold true, fearing our friends might slip back into darkness, and the simplistic politics of selfishness, jingoism and intellectual binaries will return. The world’s many are powerless to Americas few, knowing that a republican government would doom us all but lacking any power to intervene. We cannot dictate to our American friends – we cannot tell them how to vote; we can only sit and wait, fearing that they will abandon hope to greed and lies, and elect a madman who will doom us all. And so, tonight, we wait.

As I mentioned yesterday, Lyn had a gig last night. It was just another of the small, intimate open mic sessions organised by Gus. They are quite cool little events: they happen every month in a small local restaurant, and are the type of gig where everyone who wants to can get up and contribute. What is impressive, though, is the sheer variety of the music: contributions range from Lyn’s Ipad-based electronica to dom’s didgeridoo to someone reciting ancient ballads to sixties rock. It really is an eclectic mix, something quite wonderful for such a small event. There were people from all over the world there; that, to me, is one of the best aspects of life in modern London.

Turning on the tv to find Nigel Farage spewing his idiotic bile is not a good way to start the day. Perhaps it has something to do with my cerebral palsy, but whenever I see him or someone of his worthless ilk appear on the screen, I cannot help but fly into a rage. What he says is so blatantly wrong, so bereft of any intellectual foundation, that it even pisses me off that he is even allowed on the box, as it gives him a credibility he does not deserve. When you look at what the man actually says, despite his attempts to pretend otherwise, his views merely boil down to xenophobia: his arguments about renegotiating britain’s international trade deals on our own terms simply do not hold water, for a Britain outside of the EU would be bypassed and ignored by America, India and china. The real reason why this moron wants to quit the European union is he does not like the level of immigration coming from Europe: pure, unthinking xenophobia, ultimately leading to the isolation and the ruin of the UK.

All this went through my mind as I drank my first coffee this morning. I had got up late and, ironically, had been in quite a good mood. Lyn has a gig tonight at a local bar which I am looking forward to, and last night I headed to bed having just found out that David Attenborough’s next TV Program, Attenborough: 60 Years in the Wild will be broadcast on bbc two on November the sixteenth. There is nothing like knowing an ever-present source of benign authority and comfort in one’s life is about to return to put one’s mind at ease. I’m sure I’m not alone in this: for most of us, Attenborough has been on our TV sets all our lives, and he seems to hold a unique position in our culture. We can depend on him for the facts, rely on him as a sort of universal father or grandfather figure.

It strikes me that such a concept juxtaposes quite starkly with events elsewhere. Attenborough, rather like the queen, I suppose, or even James Bond, is kind of cultural constant amid uncertainty and discord. America goes to the polls on Tuesday, and I’m frankly shit scared of Romney becoming elected. The last thing the world needs is another george bush; the last thing America needs is for the progress obama made towards a fairer society to be undone. In a way, Romney and farage are the same: they both share the same far-right politics; they both share the same kind of selfish stupidity which more and more people, on both sides of the Atlantic, are becoming infected with. Such people ignore reality, distort the statistics; and when the truth is pointed out to them, they accuse their opponents of bias and distortion (this is exactly what happened in the Farage interview, and it had me shouting abuse at the telly). How such bigots an think they have any right to hold office is beyond me, yet they seem to think they do, and that their ignorant rantings represent a truth the rest of us are too stupid to see. It is their arrogance I cannot abide; their belief in the automatic superiority of their views, their culture. Having such people in power is the last thing we need, yet increasing numbers of people are allowing themselves to be conned by them.

I suppose, given the current economic situation, this has to be expected, and yet I despair at how people can abandon liberal tolerant values for the selfish circular logic of the right. How can people be fooled by the dissembling of people like farage, Romney, and indeed CaMoron? Given their hatred for the wealthfare state it is clear that such men don’t give a damn whether we disabled people live or die, as long as they can lower taxes. They see legislation to lower carbon emissions as inconvenient to their interests and therefore try to deny the reality of climate change. They have utterly simplistic views on crime and punishment. They are afraid of any other kind of people, be they gay, disabled, black, transsexual or whatever. Were we to encounter such an ignoramus in any other walk of life, we would either ignore or pity them, so why are their views becoming mainstream? Why are fools like farage regularly getting airtime when he spews such baseless hate? I find it all very frightening, and it is no wonder that I find comfort in such ever-present figures as Michael palin and David Attenborough if, when I change the TV channel, I find bigots like Farage spewing such hatred, denying almost everything I hold dear, and indeed trying to threaten my future with my fiancee because he does not like paying taxes toward the wealthfare state. I suppose some could call such retreats childish, and I agree: trying to ignore reality by watching television is no answer.

But at least it serves to remind me that there is still truth and beauty in the world, even if the lies of the political right are becoming scarily poular.

Mind you, I suppose the best thing is simply to turn the tv off altogether and go hug Lyn!

Although I think there may be one or two mismatched shots in it, and disagree with some of the outcomes of the matches, today I would just like to send you here, to another fine bit of bond-related editing. My brother Mark sent it to me yesterday, and it was waiting for me in my inbox when we got home last night, so I have not had chance to look at it in any great detail. However, at first glance the editing looks superb, and it’s great to see all the Bonds duke it out.

Lyn and I were just at a Paraorchestra meeting. While Lyn and the guys do their thing, I usually make myself busy by helping however I can, reading a book, using my Ipad and so on. Today they were recording and thus needed silence, so I took myself into a back room. There, I got chatting to one of the other helpers about love: I said I wasn’t sure what love was because I couldn’t describe it. As a writer I like to find words for everything, or else how can one be sure it exists. She replied that love is one of those things beyond words, beyond the Lacanian Symbolic: nobody can describe love but we are all sure it exists.

I thought about this for a while. Love must indeed exist, I’m sure of it. Later, when we had gone back into the main hall or lunch, I looked at Lyn and the following came to me: ”Love is waking up at three a.m and, seeing Lyn sleeping peacefully beside me, rolling over to hug her.” I might not be able to define love, but I know what it is – perhaps that’s the point of it.

I know I have mentioned this before, quite recently, but it’s worth repeating that the British Paraorchestra, in which Lyn plays, is now looking for new members. I can’t go into detail, but it has one or two fairly enormous things in the pipeline. It will soon be holding auditions, so if you’re a musician with a disability aged eighteen or over, go Here or head to their Facebook page