We can all appreciate how wonderful the internet is for keeping in touch. Every morning the first thing I do is check my email, then Facebook. I love how easily I can keep track of old school and university friends. Yesterday afternoon, for example, I was exchanging messages with lee donnelly, a good friend whom I have known since we were both ten. Doing so is important to me, given that the number of my classmates is now fast dwindling.

I was messaging lee, though, from my iPad as I was going about my business in lower Charlton. I popped in to say hi to a guard I know at a factory down there. It transpired during the conversation that he has a son with a severe disability – a kind of severe PMLD. On my way home, I suddenly thought about Kirsty again. I have mentioned her on here before, a long time ago. I wonder how she is, and what became of her. I can’t think of a way of finding out as she probably can’t access the internet. It occurred to me that she, too, may have passed on. A gloomy thought, especially in the festive season; yet I tend to wonder. These days we are used to being able to google a name and find someone, but what about people to leave no trace, shut away in special schools, and now probably in an institution.

Coming back up the hill yesterday evening, returning to the home and woman I love, I thought about a girl I knew once, hoping she could communicate and was thriving. For all I know, she might even be reading this blog. If she is, I wish her my best, and ask her to email me.

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Hamburg, 1936; during the celebration for the launch of a ship. In the crowd, one person refused to raise his arm to give the Nazi salute. The man was August Landmesser. He had already been in trouble with the authorities, sentenced to two years hard labor for marrying a Jewish woman. (text and image from facebook)

Feeling like a fun afternoon packed pub and crowded street

Football match around the corner

Who knows who I’ll meet

***

Cold, but sunny and dry building up a thirst for a beer a sense of excitement in the air building with every cheer

***

A roll around south london Through streets I now know well past every bar and every pub and every old man with a tale to tell

***

So here’s to life in charlton the chaos and the strife full of madness it might be

But also full of life.

As I was with my review of the first instalment, there is not much I can say about the second part of The Hobbit. I just got home from seeing it at Bexleyheath, and all I can really say is found it stretched out and altogether quite unnecessary. It has no beginning, and absolutely no end; there is quite a lot of backstory, and quite a lot of fighting, but on the whole did not move the overall plot on much. I got the impression that Jackson could easily have stuck to his original pan of just making two films,, but stretched it into three to make more money. Thus I must say I was disappointed, but nevertheless I am now really looking forward to chapter three

I rewatched Midnight In Paris last night, and must say I was much more taken with it this time. A film all about nostalgia, in a way it could be seen as Woody Allen’s love letter to paris, or a romanticised vision of the past which he admits to romanticising. I found it fascinating as well as beautiful: ever since I heard about Hemingway – or, rater, the myth of Hemingway – I too have yearned to go back to that period, to see those guys for myself. I loved how they were depicted in the film: the level-headedness of Gertrude Stien, the lunacy of zelda fitzgerald, the directness of Hemingway. I found myself falling in love with that myth all over again.

As soon as it was over I ran into the living room and asked Lyn if we could move to Paris. Needless to say, she did not seem impressed with the idea. I was of course enacting the very thing the film shows to be folly – there is little point to nostalgia, for there were no golden ages. The more I think about that film, the more taken I am by it. I think I’ll definitely have to watch it again soon; it makes some fairly subtle points about art, history, and even film. I think I also need to engage with Hemingway again, as the film showed me things about the old bastard I’d missed. I’m now pretty sure he would loathe the waffling, verbose prose I churn out, Yet I’m fascinated by his attempt to cut writing down to the essential, the very essence of what you are trying to express. Everything else, I’m sure he would say, is bullshit.

This film made me think about such things again, and I can’t now get it out of my head. That, of course, is the mark of a good film – I loved it.

More on this soon, I’m sure.

It is quite a cold day here, but I thought I would take advantage of the dry weather and go for a stroll. The roads are chaos out there – there has been some kind of accident up by the river, so everything is snarled up. Sometimes there are advantages to using pavements. Anyway, somewhere around woolwich I had yet another of my random ideas: would it be possible to set up a real disability-themed night-club?* Could such a place actually work? And could I myself do it, perhaps with Lyn’s help. Certainly there are plenty of disused buildings here in south London we could make use of; and certainly it would help raise the profile of people with disabilities.

I suppose the first question you have to ask is whether such a place is necessary. There are plenty of night clubs around, although not all of them are accessible; why shouldn’t we just party alongside everyone else rather than building or own establishment? On the other hand, it could be useful to have a permanent space in which to show off crip culture, where disabled people can meet and socialize. The paralympics last year began the work of showing the world what a great, vibrant culture disabled people have – could that now be translated into bricks and mortar. I know that other sites are springing up in which all kinds of artists with disabilities show off their work, but none of them has the unique vibrancy of a night-club, so such a place would be unique. It would be a place where disabled and non-disabled people could meet, drink, talk and party; there would be disabled musicians, DJs, comedians and performers; the decor would be disability themed. The ultimate aim would be to have disability fade into the background, so it becomes normal.

Of course, I know nothing about running a night-club, let alone setting one up, so this is probably just a fanciful daydream. I don’t have the capital anyway. Nevertheless I do think this is a good idea, and that there is a need for such a place; this could be worth exploring.

*I know something similar apparently ‘exists’ in online game Secondlife, but given that nobody takes such online phenomena seriously, what I have in mind is far more concrete an would have a much more profound message.

Today we mark the coming of the Green Man, an ancient deity connected with fertility and/or death. The figure, usually that of a man with a large beard, was adopted into judeo-christian mythology: the midwinter festival most of us are celebrating today has very little to do with jesus of Nazareth. Indeed, as far as I can make out, most contemporary accounts place his birth sometime in spring. Thus this festival is all about the green man, whose green suit was turned red by a certain soft drinks company and who now gives out gifts. Just some random information really, but it strikes me as funny, as we tick into our turkey and guzzle down port, how such things come about. We aren’t celebrating the festival we think.

I still haven’t finished my book. I probably should have read it by now, given I got it last week. But it is theory, and I would prefer to give it my undivided attention for long periods, and I haven’t had chance recently. However, today I would like to make a note of a strange coincidence which occurred to me recently at school. I noticed how children with quite severe autism tended to like short clips of film: they seemed to prefer moments of action rather than extended sequences. We were in class, just going through a few YouTube clips, so I might have just imagined this liking given such clips are usually short. Yet it raised a question in my head. Could it be that people with autism are drawn towards cinephiliac moments by default, albeit via some other mechanism? Of course, the two phenomena are worlds apart: the cinephiliac moment is a moment in film upon which a viewer fixates, often writing about it, describing it. Much has been written about it, and the reasons behind such fixations are incredibly complex. Yet cinephiles describe how they are drawn to moments in film, replaying them over and over again; to see these kids at school echoing the activity of cinephiles struck me as odd.

At first I just dismissed it as coincidence. Film theory and autism are worlds apart, and I was linking two unrelated things similar only on the most superficial level. But am I grasping at straws, or is there something to this? After all, these moments are often based upon contingent or peripheral detail, and we know that people with autism fixate on small minutiae others often dismiss. I know next to nothing about autism, so this might be just another of my wild, baseless ideas, but I think it could be worth looking into, if just to rule it out.

I stumbled over Wholock a couple of weeks ago, and automatically assumed it was the beeb playing around with two of it’s major series in aid of children in need or something. But according to this Metro piece, it was made by a fan. My initial reaction was: ‘that’s not possible’. Watch the film – surely the beeb jus got benedict cumberbatch and matt smith together for a couple of days and filmed it; I was totally convinced. Yet apparently not: it was a fan-made, sewn together mash up. If that is so — and part of me still refuses to believe it – it is the greatest bit of fan-editing ever, and a jaw-dropping example of just how advanced the skills of fan-artists have become.

Today I just want to congratulate my friends Matt (aka Switch) and Nicky on getting married today. I know them from university, where they met and formed a relationship. I daresay they make a great couple – both are highly intelligent, creative, and just a tad geeky. Here’s hoping that they have a great day, followed by many great years together. I really must hook up with them soon.

Cold concrete, warm within.

My wheels whir as I ‘walk’ Through the streets, crowded, yet also desolate, as only the streets of a metropolis

Can be.

For where but in a city can you pass the cite of such a murder and see people drive by as they always had?

***

It’s bitter out there;

But in here, dry and warm.

My love as I left her

She shelters me from the contradictions of the city: Her affection a fire – a glowing blaze banishing the dark, the solitude, the endemic mistrust of the metropolis.

***

The cold rain falls

blurring the street lights. They are oddly pretty just as the city has it’s odd beauty:

vibrant and warm but an illusion in the cold rain

Their light barely hides the dark of the city.

Further to my entry about her work as a channel four introducer last week, this evening I’d just like to direct you here, to Kate’s own account of her experiences. I don’t want to say much about it – Kate is perfectly able to speak for herself – but I think it is well worth a read, and raises some very good points about the issues we communication aid users face.

Call me a sore looser if you wish, but I am seriously considering lodging an official protest concerning the Australian cricket team and the outcome of the ashes this season. Given the appalling behaviour of the Australians, both on and off the field of play, I believe the season should be rendered void and the urn kept by England. Outclassed and outplayed though they may have been, the English conducted themselves with far more respect and dignity; in contrast, the australians were hostile and aggressive, conducting themselves in the lowest manner. In short, Australia did not deserve to win. Therefore I demand the outcome of this ashes series should be rendered void and the urn retained by England.

I love books, or rather I claim I do. I have plenty, yet I must confess I rarely sit down to read them – I always seem to get distracted. However, the last two days have been different, for yesterday I bought my first ebook, and was instantly converted. No more struggling to turn pages, no more worrying about dribbling; I can just read and read and read. Moreover, it is a book highly relevant to my studies.

In his appraisal of my thesis, one of my examiners noted the lack of a named film theory-based model of identification. This was not a major problem, but struck him as a slightly strange omission given the focus of my work. The truth is I’m slightly rusty on that side of things, so I thought I better brush up. I did some googling, and yesterday found an ebook which fitted the bill exactly. It is An Introduction to film theory through the senses, and as such for me constitutes partly revision,but also offers me a bridge between the theory we covered in my last year as an undergrad and my own work on cinephilia. Crucially, though, it covers concepts such as spectators physically entering into texts, as well as kicking myself for not reading it four years ago, but deals from them at a different angle then my work. Two chapters in, I’m finding it fascinating, but I’m also wondering how to incorporate this theory with it’s rich history with my own work. I think I should at least reference it, but the question is how and to what extent. Mind you, I suppose I better finish the book first.

Tonight, just let me get one thing of my chest which has been bugging me for months: The dragon’s name is pronounced ‘Smorg’ not ‘Smawg’. My dad was right, peter jackson is wrong.

That is all.

It has been a long day: a couple of hours’ work at school, then bexleyheath for money and groceries. Yet it seems I missed a bit of action up at westminster. I just came across this report of something of a victory for the alliance for inclusive education (ALLFIE). By effectively occupying the offices, Campaigners have finally secured a meeting with an education minister, after occupying Department for Education (DfE) offices in protest at the government’s attack on inclusive education.

The tories are turning back the clock on inclusive education, in effect reverting to the segregation of disabled and able bodied students. Now, we all know this is a very complex issue: there are kids with some very complex and profound needs out there. One of the reasons I volunteer at Charlton park is to get a better handle on the issue, and my experience taught me that there is no room for dogma. Nobody would disagree that kids must be included in mainstream schools where at all possible, but the problem is some cases is finding ways to make that possible. Inclusion is a fine principal, but until a way is found to include all kids, until a way is found to adapt mainstream schools so they are accessible to all, some kids must remain separate.

We were progressing, albeit slowly, towards that goal. In the last twenty years, more children than ever were included. To let the tories turn the clock back is utter folly. Growing up, I saw the worst of it:we were effectively taught not to try; perfectly able kids left to waste. We were not pushed. And every now and then, you got into class of a morning to be told that yet another of your mates had snuffed it. We cannot let that return, and that’s why the alliance is so angry: the tories want to reverse the trend towards inclusion; the legislation they are passing will weaken the SEN framework that has traditionally supported disabled children and young people in mainstream education. For the sake of all children, disabled or not, they must be stopped.

Good luck ALLFIE!

The episode of Simpsons on channel four was good tonight. I had fallen out of the habit of watching it, preferring to catch up with the news, but tonight I made an exception. I found the person announcing the episode especially interesting, as it was none other than the Pink lady herself, my friend Katie! Channel four have began a season where people who use different types of communication, and whose voices are not often heard, announce their programs. If you ask me it’s absolutely brilliant; after it hosted the Paralympic games last year, c4 seems to have become a champion of crip culture. I sincerely hope it keeps it up: we need more voices like Kate’s on the tv.

Yesterday was quite an awesome day. Knowing I had an interest-cum-obsession with last year’s olympics and paralympics, and especially with their associated ceremonies, my friend James offered to take me to a talk by the director of the paralympic opening ceremony. Jenny Seeley, it turned out, would be giving a talk at his work up in London.

It was a fascinating presentation: Seeley spoke about her background as a Deaf performer and director, as well a going into detail about h the ceremony had come to be. As James had requested,, I was on my best behaviour but I had to raise a grateful fist when she mentioned the inclusion of I’m Spasticus by Ian Dury. That moment in the ceremony was very special for me: the moment wen I realised it was the disability community talking rather than being talked about. Thus, I realised last night, I was listening to one of my heroes.

It was a great evening. Basically the company james works for(a big firm in central london) is exploring how more people with disabilities can be employed. That is a good thing, of course, although I didn’t really want to go into the ins and outs of it last night. After the presentations, we talked abit over canapes and drinks. At one point, I asked one guy how such a company could employ someone like myself, not realising I had just inadvertently asked quite a senior exec for a job. However, I would now like to help more: while I still see the tory-led destruction of the welfare state as pure evil, surely efforts by big companies to employ more disabled people must be welcomed.

Inept fool that I am, I completely forgot to flag up the Paraorchestra’s new website. It looks wonderful, and can be found here. On it, you can find profiles of all the paraorchestra musicians, including one about Lyn, as well as links to last years documentary and videos of the performances. Great stuff indeed.

I took a roll up to London yesterday, to Trafalgar square. Lyn was having a bath, and on such occasions I often go out. I felt I needed to go, to see the crowds which had apparently gathered outside South Africa house. What I found up there, in central London on a cold but bright december afternoon, both humbled and amazed me: A group of South African women, chanting and dancing in a circle, a small group gathered around them. It felt kid of eerie, sort of magical and mesmerising, yet happy. I do not quite know how to describe it: it was as if a piece of some lush land far to the south had been transported into the sprawling concrete metropolis in order to honour a great man. I found it incredible.

I sat there a while listening to the rhythmic words I did not know the meaning of, and then, after popping in to Waterstone’s, headed back along whitehall. Passing the entrance to Downing Street, I gave my usual two-fingered-salute to the current occupant. I put even more venom into it than usual yesterday, furious at the hypocrisy of a Prime Minister now lamenting the death of a ‘great man’ who he had once advocated executing. The sheer gall of the right, now hailing Mandela as a secular saint when when they had once vilified him as a terrorist is sickening, but I digress.

I then headed to the statue of Mandela in Parliament Square, wryly noting to myself how his statue and Churchill’s had been placed at opposite corners as if to keep the two from arguing – somehow I don’t think those two would have got on. There, too, a crowd had gathered, and again I sat a while to listen to the singing. But it was getting dark, and before long I decided it was time to head home. On my way back to the tube station, however, I decided on such a night going back by boat might be more fun.

At that I caught the clipper. Getting aboard wasn’t that hard, but I did not think it would take so long to get to north Greenwich. I got home at least an hour later than I would have done, tired, hungry, and fancying a beer. Yet it had been another cool day, one upon which I had seen the magical sight of a par of Africa being brought to London in order to honour one of that continent’s, and the world’s, greatest heroes.

I should, perhaps, have written this yesterday, but what can you say when such a great man leaves us? As he did with many of us, Nelson Mandella inspired me: I took strength from his story. If disabled people are oppressed – and I believe they are, although not as overtly and to the same degree as black people were in south africa – then mandella shows us the way forward. I may rant on my blog sometimes, writing bileful poems, but I know that ultimately hatred leads only to more hatred; forgiveness and peace are the only solution. We have people like Nelson Mandella to thank for such lessons, which is why he will be so greatly missed by the world. Rest in peace, Mr. Mandella.

Events this evening make my previous blog entry utterly misplaced. Of course, I do not believe that anyone should die because of their political beliefs; my intention was to give vent to my anger at the tories. Through such art we can make people think. Although I may write about it, violence never solved anything. The greatest lesson people like nelson mandella teach us is forgiveness, after all.

May the whore that spawned you burn

May the people upon you turn

Osborne grinning with glee, CaMoron sat beside

Showing a sheer arrogance I can no longer abide

May you feel the hate

Of all those you bait.

You deserve to feel the pain

Of the benefit claimants you try to blame

Grinning from those green benches

Your worthless bodies will be flung into trenches

You arrogant shits deserve to die

For all those you murder from on high

Lying you are helping others

You help yourselves. Single mothers The poor, the disabled, are left to die.

You don’t give a fuck if they cry.

You only care about those rich pals of yours

Every one of them, crooks, thieves and whores.

So, Tory scum, I curse you all

You will pay for the pain YOU caused us all

Yesterday I noticed how the alleged killed of Lee Rigby was heard to say ”an eye for an eye” after he had committed the awful deed. When I saw the footage, I had an idea: I thought it would be nice to respond by making sign quoting the words of Gandhi: ”An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind” and placing it at the scene. It took a while to make; I was lucky Dominik found spare wood and paint in the shed, and he went to quite a lot of effort with it. Getting it to Woolwich was not an easy task either, but I felt I just had to respond to this abominable act with words of wisdom. I don’t know if it’s still there – I might check later. Part of me is simply interested to see what happens to it, and whether anyone notice it at all.

Tom Dailey apparently came out today. Frankly I don’t care an nor should anyone else. Why is it in the news? What concern of ours is it whether Dailey is gay, straight, bi or whatever as long as he is happy and can still swim fast. If you ask me, we need to escape these labels altogether; we need to go beyond categorising people. We need to forget about words like ‘gay’ ‘straight’ ‘black’ and ‘white’ and even to an extent ‘man’ and ‘woman’. These words do not signify categories but create semiotic devisions, and devisions create prejudices and equalities. Remember your Lacan: it is language that structures thought rather than the other way around. Above all we are all human and the rest is language. In short we need to get beyond categorisation and just let people be themselves.

In my own case, I love lyn, a pre-op transwoman. Does hat make me gay, straight or bi? Legally Lyn is a woman, so ours is a straight relationship, but others might see it differently. At the end of the day, however, does it matter? How does what you call it in any way effect our love? I have a Lyn, and she has a Matt, and we love each other. End of debate. In the same way, Tom Dailey is still Tom Dailey, and all other concerns are just a matter of labelling.

Although when monty python’s on-stage revival was first announced I felt a hint of caution was necessary, the time has come to lose myself in unmitigated glee. Despite the fact that tickets were apparently selling like spam sandwiches, today I thought I might as well go see if there were any left. There probably weren’t, but the walk up to the dome is a pleasant one.

I was, however, wrong, and I’m sitting here with a receipt for four tickets to see Monty Python Live (mostly) on the 20th of july 2014. Rarely have I felt this ecstatic, so giddy with glee, so pleased. The fact that the pythons are reuniting is remarkable in itself,, but the fact that I am going to see these men who made me laugh so uncontrollably as a child in the flesh is beyond incredible.

Words escape me – I don’t think it has even sunk in yet.