I spoke to my parents on Skype earlier. They’re fine, of course. They mentioned, though, that the queen’s baton passes through my old home town, congleton, today. Proceedings can be monitored here. Of course, this is hardly worth mentioning, except for personal nostalgia purposes: it has been ages since I visited the old place, so it is good to see it flagged up. Mind you, I am a bit puzzled over why Congleton gets special mention; it isn’t that notable a town, yet the beeb headline is ‘Queen’s Baton Relay England: Manchester and Congleton’. Why not Crewe or Macclesfield. How curious.

A considerable part of my master’s thesis focusses on a scene from Star Trek First contact: I write at some length about my relationship to this scene, my attraction to it, and about how I read my own emotions on the face of Patrick Stewart. Thus I’ve had this scene in my mind for quite some time, and I’ve grown incredibly attached to it. Now that my master’s is over, a small silly part of me would rather like Mr. Stewart to read my thesis. Of course, I”m not sure what it would achieve, and smeg knows why he would want to read it in the first place, but I think part of me wants his approval. I want to show him how much the scene matters to me, and, perhaps, to say thanks. If I’m going to act on this whim, the question is, how to contact the great man. Any ideas?

Assuming a wheelchair-accessible version is made, google’s idea of a car that drives itself may be just up mine and Lyn’s street. Conceivably, all we would need to do is tell it where to take us – perhaps via our ipads – and we’d be off. From what I have seen of it, the technology in this car is impressive, and I’m sure it would b fully tested to make sure it is safe, so it could be just the thing we need for full independence. No more busses! I can’t wait. Mind you, a small, childish part of me is itching to see what Jeremy Clarkson says about it.

The glorious thing about being me, Knowing I’m not what people see, knowing the irony of their presumption that there’s more to me than their assumption I’m not as dull as they take me to be that’s the irony of being me how I love quietly knowing that there’s more to me than might be showing.

It seems we now have to put up with the obnoxious, utterly objectionable sight of Nigel Farage hailing his ‘victory’ in the european elections. It is almost too much for me to stomach: I still contend that, if people actually thought about what he and his party advocate, they would not touch it with a barge pole. But then, the average ukip supporter seems unable to think for his or herself. Regardless, we now have a major problem: a xenophobic, homophobic party has now lied it’s way into mainstream british politics: one that seeks to abandon european cooperation; one that denies climate change; one that would abolish independent living for disabled people; one that thinks men should have the right to beat their wives. For goodness sake we have to do something. Farage and his band of morons must be countered. In Scotland they have the snp, whom I’m slowly warming to: should Scotland become independent,, I’m seriously considering suggesting to Lyn that we move north at least they’re leftist. Without Scottish support, Labour might never be elected again, leaving the u.k to permanent tory rule. Here in England things are drifting more and more to the right, and now have a pseudofascist free to espouse his hateful views. Surely we most act: with the three main parties doing nothing, we must fight together against this bigot, before he has us all sleepwalking into somewhere dark.

I might have been assuming more than I should, but yesterday afternoon got a touch uncomfortable at times. I was out on one of my usual Saturday afternoon saunters: the local cricket match had been rained off, so I thought I would go see if anything was happening in Woolwich. There was…

On the way back from the shops, I thought I’d pop into the Kings Arms for a crafty pint. It is now run by an Afro-Caribbean fellow who seems to like me. When I go in there, the place is usually half empty, but yesterday it was packed. The brutal killing of Lee Rigby was commemorated yesterday, so the pub, just a stones throw from the scene, was serving as a convergence point for those attending. While I think any murder is sickening, I must admit I’m not that agitated about the subject; however, what both scared and interested me was the type of people in there. Without wanting to stereotype, the group struck me as largely male, fairly young to middle aged, and loud. Overhearing them talk, many were uttering the type of opinion I usually loath – they seemed like people who vote ukip or bnp. Frankly, some looked scary, and part of me wanted to speed home. Yet I was also intrigued: by staying, I might learn something.

It occurred to me, though, that this was evidence of something slightly worrying. Lee Rigby’s death is being used by the far right: he was killed by two angry, unbalanced men, but the fact that they were Muslims and cited the war on terror as their motive is fuel to the far right’s fire. Their savage actions last year have been seized upon, and have become totemic for the far right. That worries me very much indeed: on one level, yesterday’s events struck me as a rally for xenophobes, o that there had been an attempt by some to turn it into one.

In the end, however, I was never in much danger. The crowd was largely peaceful, and one guy even bought me a beer. An hour or so after I went into the pub, it suddenly emptied. I went on my way after finishing my drink, reflecting on what I had just seen. I may have been wrong about the crowd – after all, I may have bee making judgmental generalisations. Yet the bad taste in my mouth remained: the killing of Lee Rigby is being used to stir up intercultural hatred, as a totemic vent for the far right, and that seems very wrong indeed.

It seems to me that any sensible, thinking, educated person should be very worried indeed this morning. Granted, the Tories may have got the thwacking they deserve – although no thwacking would be hard enough, in my opinion, given the pain they are inflicting on some of the most disadvantaged people in society – but it appears UKIP have made very real and substantial gains. This should send a shudder down our collective back: while you could comfort yourself by dismissing it as a protest vote, the fact remains that this pseudofascist group now has a real presence in this country. I mean what I say when I use that term: look at any ukip policy, from education to immigration, and it reveals a draconian, intolerant, outdated mindset; look at anything a ukip member says, and you will find racist, sexist views. Their protests that they are not against immigration, but just want the ability to chose ‘the right kinds of immigrant’ reeks of self-deception. Surely anyone can see through that placatory sham to the xenophobia beneath. And while their stance towards disability seems vague, and indeed keeps changing, their anti-inclusion, anti-independence attitude would reduce us crips third class citizens; one of their members apparently recently called for the automatic abortion of foetuses with Downs Syndrome.

The question, of course, is why: why are people voting for this party? Why are people listening to it’s outdated, draconian pronouncements? I look at their views, their arrogance, their intolerance, and wonder how anyone could still think like them. Some commentators put it down to a protest vote; others point to the appeal of Farage, presenting himself as a no-nonsense, everyday guy. I look at Farage and see a con-man, thirsty for power hateful of difference, greedy and arrogant. Ho can people fall for him? how can people blind themselves to the hatred at the core of ukip? How can they not realise ukip is the cause of, not the solution to, the growing xenophobia in the uk? How can people listen to his lies and fool themselves into thinking ukip stands for them, and is not the intolerant sham it is? I do not know, but the fact that they do, and have, fills me with absolute fear and dread.

I forgot to wish my dad a happy birthday yesterday. I did intend o, but forgot, and now I feel bad about it. Truth be told, I realise I may not be the cooperative of sons. We argue sometimes. Yet whenever we do, it always feels like something is wrong with the world, as if something is amiss that needs urgently to be put right. My father is one of the kindest, most decent men I know, and I love him as much now as I always have.

Today is Lyn’s birthday. It has been a busy sort of day so far, so we have not had time to do much celebrating. Yet the evening is still young, and it won’t take long for Lyn to get one of her awesome mixes going. Time, then, to relax, put my fears and worries aside, Skype dad, and go chill out with the birthday girl.

Lyn and I got back from paris late yesterday evening, my love for the city greater than ever, yet slightly tempered. We had a wonderful trip, which included quite an epic walk along the Seine on sunday afternoon, and, of course, meeting my nephew Oliver on saturday. I have never seen a cuter, happier baby; mark and kat obviously adore him. I am really looking forward to watching him grow up – judging from his parents, he’ll be very bright indeed. He was as good as gold on saturday night, when we all met in the hotel restaurant for a huge family meal. Looking around the table on saturday, I could not have felt happier. It was then, too, that Mum and Dad presented me with a bound hardback copy of my Master’s thesis, sleek and black – it made me feel very proud of myself.

Although it was a family occasion, Lyn and I had most of the weekend to ourselves, allowing us to explore the city. We had our PAs, Dominik and Paul with us; they were excellent this weekend, pushing us endlessly through the beautiful, winding streets. As with my last Parisienne adventure I’m not going to even try to give a full step by step account, as something essential would be lost in the rendition. I must note, though, that the people there struck me as slightly ruder this time: I’m not sure what it was, but they seemed very arrogant and abrasive, walking into your path as you were walking down the pavement, giving you dirty looks, pushing past you. Also, Paris didn’t strike me as very wheelchair friendly this time: now that I’ve lived in London for a while, I have something to compare it wit. London is far from perfect, but at last the public transport is over halfway accessible, and you can always find a drop-curb when you need to wheel off a pavement.

That aside, I still love the city: there is something about paris which is so evocative and romantic. I was thrilled to be there with Lyn, eating out with her, listening t live music with her. It has been a wonderful weekend, and it was over too quickly. Three days is not enough time to explore such a great city. It is not that hard to get to, though, so I definitely would like to go back soon, especially now I have my little nephew to visit there.

Back again from a lovely weekend,

Through the crowds to home we wend

Through the crowds as the sky goes black

Good to have gone, great to be back

To paris we went, to meet my nephew

It was lovely to be there, particularly with you.

There as a family, whole as one

Dad and brothers, baby and mum.

So as we push on, homeward bound

I think back to what I found

Getting to see Paris with the one I adore,

Meeting the nephew I’d not met before.

There are some things too special for a blog entry, too unique to shsre, too personal to be made public. I’ll try to fill you in about this incredible weekend when I can, but for now, I can just record tha I have never been prouder, happier or more content than I am now.

This morning I woke in a large comfortable bed in a Paris hotel room. Lyn was lying beside me, asleep. In that moment of bliss, I recalled how, yesterday, we had travelled here on Eurostar. It had been a long day: I had been constantly worried that I would forget something or slip up somehow. It had been quite a relief, then, to roll up to the hotel yesterday evening to see dad standing there. He greeted us, and helped us out of the cramped taxi.

My mind then moved on to the day to come: how my entire family is here, and how I will shortly meet my new nephew for the very first time. I could.not wait, but that is still yet to come, this evening. I will shortly see both my brothers for the first time since attaining my masters. No doubt they will point out that I am but a master where they are doctors, but that is all part of being a member of this wonderous family of mine.

So there I was this morning, lying in bed in the city I love the most, about to snuggle up close to the woman I love the most, looking forward to a truly memorable day. And as Lyn put her arm around me, I thought, life can’t get much better than this.

Today I just want to direct everyone here, to a video Lyn made explaining how she uses Caustic 3, a music making app for the Ipad. You know, L is a born teacher; in fact she used to teach when she lived in Cardiff. I think she should seriously consider going back to it, she does it so naturally. Anyway, enjoy the vid, and learn from a pro!

I just endured the stomach-churning spectacle of david CaMoron and his fellow tory shits patting their selves on the back at PMQs at recent growth figures. Granted, the economy might indeed at last be recovering, but on monday I saw precisely what that recovery is built upon. Many people, especially those with disabilities, are suffering: they are being pushed to the limit and over it; many have taken their own lives. Lyn still wonders why I get so agitated watching it every wednesday, but how can anyone not be? How can anyone, with even a shred of humanity, bear the sight of this unelected Etonian fucker stand up in westminster abbey and pretend what he is doing is right? Knowing what I know, it is almost too much for me to stomach. It would not be so bad if we had a charismatic Labour leader who stood up to him, but we have ed: I’m afraid to say I still can’t see him ever becoming PM, which is a truly depressing thought. Then again, at least Milliband is a decent human being, which is more than can be said of CaMoron or any tory.

I just set off home after attending a protest at the Department of work and Pensions against the closure of the Independent Living fund. Wile I do not get the ILF personally, I feel solidarity is vital. After all, unlike a Tory, I don’t just care about myself. It was a good, well organised and well attended event, with over fifty people with various disabilities there. There were some good speeches, and some good songs; there was even a running gag about getting the disabilities minister to come out for a cup of tea.

Whether such protests achieve anything, of course, is debatable. After al, the government has already simply ignored a high court ruling saying the closure of the ILF was illegal. It seems the Condems don’t care who they hurt, or how many laws they break, or how many they kill as long as they cut the state and lower taxes for their rich pals.

I suppose my entry yesterday was pretty misguided, and indeed stupid. Trying to equate the two situations was a mistake, and I made myself look pretty silly. The situation in nigeria is, of course, very serious indeed: my heart goes out to those girls and their families. I’ve just been reading a bit about Boku Haram, and they seem a particularly vile group. While I feel strongly about access to education in this country, I made myself look idiotic yesterday; my apologies for any offence caused.

It strikes me as odd that, while the world is rightly up in arms over a group of religious bigots kidnapping two hundred girls because they oppose their education, people are being denied an education here in the uk due to their disability. I am sill furious about what happened to nadia this week. Granted, linking the two stories might be overegging the pudding slightly, but in both cases people are being denied the chance to forfill their potential by oppressive, ideologically driven forces. Why should one gain our attention and not the other? I’d argue that what happened to my comrade this week is, in it’s own way, no less perverse and no less sad than what has happened in Nigeria; I know the to cases are very different, but I’m just drawing your attention to this quite sad parallel.

Just to touch upon one of my former favourite subjects, namely whether London could host the olympics again in the foreseeable future, I just came across this Torygraph article: IOC chiefs have apparently made a secret plea to use London 2012 venues as Rio 2016 Olympic Games fall worryingly behind schedule. An informal approach has been made by IOC chiefs to ascertain whether enough of the London 2012 Olympic venues could be brought back into use. If rio isn’t ready, the tried and tested London would be a logical back-up plan, I suppose, although as the article points out converting the venues back to games readiness would be a headache. It might even prove unfeasible, and rio might make the deadlines, although having another olympic games here might be cool. Either way, it does give you an interesting glimpse of how worried the guys at the IOC are about the state Rio is in and how ready thy are.

007 better start getting his parachute ready, just in case.

Simply to follow up on my entry yesterday, I’d just like to direct you here, to Nadia’s open letter to bedford uni concerning her experience. She, quite understandably, seems both furious and heartbroken. I’ve been thinking about the subject a lot today: maybe there’s something I could do to help, someone, perhaps at MMU, I can contact, but I’m not sure. I hope they fight on – both Nadia and her mother are tenacious people, and I’m absolutely sure they will get there in the end.

I came across this last night, on my last computer session before bed. I could have posted it on here then, but I left it: It upset me, and I hoped that leaving it for the clear light of day might help me focus my thoughts. But I cannot. It concerns Nadia, whom I know from onevoice. In this article, her mum writes how Nadia was planning to go to university; about how, slowly, they were getting everything ready for Nadia to study Disability Studies at Bedford. Then she writes how, due o government cuts, the complex care package nadia would need is no longer available, and how the uni could no longer offer what nadia needs:

[quote=”Katie”]After dinner we went upstairs and she pointed at her mind maps and posters around the walls and told me to take them down. She burst into tears. Her tears were not for her she said, but were for the next generation of young disabled children who are growing up into a different world. A world of cuts, savings and poor excuses.

[/quote]

I keep thinking of the riches university brought me: of the education, the inspiration it gave me; of the life long friendships with steve, chris, Charlie and the rest; how it made me truly proud of myself. Had I not been to MMU I would not be down here with lyn, free to roam south London, a Master’s under my belt and a twinkle in my eye. I have been incredibly lucky. Nadia will be denied what I had, as will, I fear, many like her, and all due to the tories and their selfish, malicious cuts. My heart breaks, but blood fucking boils.

It has been a cool couple of days. Dom was rather late here on Monday, but when he finally arrived he had a rather awesome proposal. A party was being planned at his place, and Lyn and I were invited. We seldom turn down such offers, so without much ado we set off for Lewisham. Dominic lives in a very cool place: it’s sort of an artist’s commune based in a truly labyrinthine building. Getting to the party itself didn’t prove that easy, given that it was on the rooftop terrace up some winding stairs (Dominik gave Lyn a piggyback), but once we were there it soon became clear that we had a top-notch night ahead. Lyn’s Ipad was plugged in to the speakers and it was not long before she had a mix going; one fellow was blowing huge, beautiful bubbles using a stick, rope and water mixed with washing up liquid; there was plenty to eat and drink. It lasted to around midnight, and we slept at dom’s apartment, which had a vertical neon lamp in it, giving rise to Lyn and I making this:

[img description=”undefined image” align=”centre”]/images/light saber.jpg[/img]

We walked back yesterday afternoon after a late breakfast. It had been totally unexpected, but incredible; the sort of spontaneous event that I love. I love where dominik lives, full of artistic, creative people from all over the world. Such a diverse, vibrant place, I couldn’t help but reflect to myself on Monday night, wouldn’t exist if bigots like farage got their way. Anyway, I really hope he invites us back – something tells me that there’s a lot of cool, creative stuff happening there that I should look into. It looked, the stairs aside, the type of place I’d love. Perhaps I can use my new jedi mind-tricks to suggest another party soon.

Watching bubbles float away from a South London rooftop,

We’re at a party. Lyn mixes as people chat

Playing funky melodies as people dance

It’s getting nippy, but that’s cool

I just reflect on a great day, a glorious empass

And, more to the point

How we are going to get back down those stairs?

I have just come in from a lovely long walk, down to the river, east through that fascinating historical naval landscape, and back via Woolwich. It’s a route often take, made especially pretty today in the bright sunshine. On my way through the square there though, I stumbled upon something curious: two ladies with ornate hairstyles were making some kind of film. One was filming, and the other was talking to camera, saying ”We’re here in Woolwich today, asking people whether they feel british or African”. This gained my interest, and I stopped to watch. It struck me as an odd thing to ask: why ask people in the heart of south-east London such a question? Why would people here, irrespective of skin colour, see themselves as africans? Aren’t we all, as human, africans? Was this some kind of political statement? Was it about fostering identity and unity among certain ethnic groups? I tried asking the women, pointing out that I see myself only as a human, but they seemed busy so I did not press the issue. They did, however, give me their card, which directed me to a website focussing on fashion for black people. I rode on, curious about what I had just encountered, and what it might imply.

Yesterday was another top-notch day: it was my first day at the Rix centre, part of east London University specialising in multimedia advocacy. They create a lot of cool stuff, from ipad apps to films, advocating for people with disabilities, their rights and needs. Working there is right up my street, although it is a huge departure from the subject of my thesis, so now I need to refocus and get up to speed quickly. That shouldn’t be too hard, and I’m eager to get stuck in. I’ll probably go over there quite frequently in the next few weeks, just to get acquainted with the people, their methods and so on. This is an awesome opportunity, and I can’t believe my luck that it came my way.

I just stumbled over this story while using twitter: Nigel Farage has been hit by an egg thrown by a protester. As harsh as this may sound, but frankly I think it is a pity it was not anything harder or sharper. I’m clearly not lone in my loathing of that smarmy little bigot: there is a growing wave of revulsion against him and his party of xenophobes; I’m shocked that anyone can be stupid enough to vote for him. Indeed, one of my friends responded to receiving a ukip leaflet with the following: ”I wouldn’t even wipe my arse with this leaflet, Nigel, never mind put it in my window. Stop shoving pictures of your ugly, racist face through my door.” Well put!