Simon Stevens is still at it, I see. I came across his latest article in the Huffington Post last night, followed by the usual mixture of appalled, bemused and puzzled comments, flagged up by a friend of mine on facebook. I took a look, and it was the usual nonsensical mess of misunderstood concepts purporting to be analysis. I know, given how much he has worked me up in the past, that perhaps I should just ignore the guy; yet there are a few things about Stevens’ latest article which reveal quite a bit about him, and which I want to point out.

Stevens’ latest article is about ‘Post-Truth politics’, and how it may apply to disability politics. As I understand it, post-truth politics is where politicians, writers or speakers appeal to emotions rather than hard, demonstrable facts. As Wikipedia has it, ” Post-truth politics (also called post-factual politics) is a political culture in which debate is framed largely by appeals to emotion disconnected from the details of policy, and by the repeated assertion of talking points to which factual rebuttals are ignored.” Thus, unable to back up their arguments, we are seeing jokes like Trump and farage appeal to emotions and feelings such as nostalgia more and more they invoke romanticised notions of a past which never existed.

After giving this definition, though, Stevens attempts to apply it to disability. He says that accounts of damage done by welfare cuts to disabled people now fall under ‘post-truth’: ”In terms of people with impairments, the anti-cuts movement has been an expert in using post-truth to win hearts over minds. Sadly these post-truths have now been repeated in so many articles and even accepted by the United Nations, it is going to be almost impossible to undo the damage to people with impairments’ place in society caused by the mythological environment people now accept.” This is, of course, utter nonsense; it’s complete non-sequitur. It is as if Stevens is trying to take a buzz-word much in use at the moment, but which he does not really understand, and shoe-horn it into his grievances with the disability community. To stray into post-truth is not to lie or to state something someone else disagrees with; it is to stray into the subjective. It is a rhetorical concept describing quite a worrying phenomenon in modern political debate, but Stevens uses it as an accusation with which to lambast those he disagrees with. In short he does not understand the concept he is trying to discuss.

We know this guy has grievances with the disability community. He seems to begrudge the fact that he is an outsider, and not as central or important as he would like to be. Thus he sneers ” As someone motivated by real facts and evidence, I find post-truth hard to swallow as I can see how it enables so many individual voices to be lost, especially the voices of many people with impairments.” For ”lost voices”, read his own – this man does not care about anyone but himself. He then goes on to try to claim that the use of precise, statistical evidence somehow also now qualifies as post-truth, writing ” what we have ended up with is a generation of activists on all sides who can only work within the realm of soundbites and popularised headlines. ‘x% of people with label a are not getting solution k’ attempts to justify posttruth because it simplifies and reduces the argument to cause an emotional reaction.” Again that is non-sequitur: producing such definite statistics, as disability rights activists often do, manifestly does not reduce argument to emotion; precisely the opposite, in fact. Yet for some reason Stevens tries to claim statistics are postfactual.

The way he brands the use of such statistical information as regurgitating soundbites, moreover, suggests he has cottoned on to the current fashion among social commentators to use that term and tried to apply it here, where it clearly does not fit – a statistic is not a soundbite. He obviously thinks this makes him sound knowledgable when in fact, it betrays Stevens’ severe lack of understanding. He seems to be trying to attack activists standing up to government cuts, adopting the tone of an expert and employing buzz words and catchphrases he does not understand. He seems to want to carve out a niche for himself as a disability consultant and commentator by expressing views which run counter to those of most activists, claiming that he alone relies on evidence where everyone else resorts to emotion. This quite baseless claim is clearly an attempt to award himself credibility and authority, inviting people to listen to him rather than others. He seems to crave attention, blurting any old nonsense out, trying to sound like the consultant he thinks he is. Yet he clearly does not understand what he is trying to talk about, or the consequences of what he says.

This nonsense goes on. His article reads like a set of poorly understood phrases and concepts tacked together in order to try to sound like an intelligent disability commentator demanding to be taken seriously. Yet any analysis would demonstrate this man’s writing to be the self-serving tripe it is. He seems to want to attack mainstream disability rights advocates, as if he wants to be seen as more important than others. He seems to think his voice should matter more than it does, when in fact it is rightly shunned by most. We can read his attacks on other activists as quite a childish reaction to that very shunning. His misuse of language and concepts seems to me to imply he thinks he belongs in a league he clearly does not. This wouldn’t matter, save for the fact that this man is writing in a major online newspaper, and he appears to champion right-wing views. In attacking people who cry foul, he basically seeks to attack those of us currently standing up to the tories. In the huffington post, this might not be seen by others as the tripe it is.

I love it how things work out sometimes. It has been quite a cool afternoon: Lyn and I just got back from Greenwich, where we were introduced to the sport of Boccia. Last week I bumped into Susan, the woman who runs the wheelchair football, at the cafe in the park. In passing, she mentioned she also runs a boccia group. That sent alarm bells ringing because, not long ago, Lyn said she would rather like to have a go at the sport. Once home I emailed Susan, who invited us both to the next session at The Forum in Greenwich.

For those of you who may be unfamiliar with it, Boccia is like bowls or patonc, played indoors with soft balls. Players take it in turns to roll either a blue or red ball, trying to get theirs closest to a white jack. (Click here to see a video explanation). Lyn used a ramp whereas I found it easier to get out of my chair and roll the ball. We had great fun, playing several games with the players already there. By the end, I had got quite into it, and I think L was too. I think we will be going back next week. That’s just as well, as, Judging by some of my shots today, I think I could do with the practice.

Between this and powerchair football, I seem to be suddenly becoming rather sporty.

I saw yesterday that a couple of papers were reporting that Farage ‘fears for his life’ after the brexit vote, and that he’s getting so much abuse these days that he is now scared to leave the house. My initial reaction was ‘Good! That scumbag deserves every gobful of saliva hurled at him.’ But then I realised that that was exactly how he wanted people like me to react: He wants to cast himself in the victim role, up against all these intolerant, abusive ‘Remoaners’. As the persecution of ethnic minorities skyrockets, largely thanks to him and his moronic supporters, he is trying to make out that it goes both ways, that the outists are facing intolerance too.

This is a sneaky move. If we react how he expects us to react, by saying that he deserves it for all the trouble he has caused and the hatred he has stirred up, we prove his point. He wants us to stoop to his level; he’s bating us, drawing us in in order that he can cast us as the aggressors. He knows we won’t be able to resist challenging such a hypocritical, self-pitying statement, coming from a man who has made the lives of so many a misery. But if we say anything, we fall into his trap and allow him to take the moral high ground. If on the other hand we condemn these attacks, we automatically invalidate any criticism of him, giving Farage the legitimacy he craves: we help him cast his attackers, justifiably angry at the problems this man has caused and the xenophobia he stands for, as being in the wrong. It’s staggeringly manipulative. The only solution for us is to point out what he is trying to do; rather than get angry and start hurling the insults he expects and wants, we must show we can see through it.

I just want to make one thing clear, and get it down in black and white: I will never, ever subscribe to the notion of race or racial difference in biological terms. As far as I am concerned, humanity is a single race, a single species. I know that will seem obvious to most people reading this, at least at present; but the way things are going, I fear this self-evident idea will soon be questioned more and more. Certain people will start trying to shift the consensus; we are already starting to see it happen in the states. With the so-called alt-right on the rise, theories of race which should have been consigned to history are returning. I fear they will soon be seen as an acceptable part of social discourse – the idiots championing such ideas will counter demands they shut up with hypocritical pleas for tolerance, and slowly racism will become accepted more and more. It will become acceptable to judge people and to make assumptions about things like intelligence based purely on the colour of their skin; where such abhorrent ideas were once shunned, they will start becoming accepted as valid opinion, and then I fear as fact. I refuse to let that happen. I will never accept or tolerate such a rancid idea: humanity, for all it’s wonderful diversity, is one race, and all it’s members are of equal worth.

I suppose I better note this, miserable news though it is. Yesterday I got wind that MMU’s Cheshire campus is being considered for complete closure. That means that, now they’ve sold the campus at Alsager, they might sell the one at crewe too. If so, that would mean the end of MMU Cheshire.

In a way I find this heartbreaking. At uni I spent most of my time at Alsager campus. I didn’t really like crewe campus, probably because it was a bus ride away and meant getting up early. Yet it is where I did my Masters; I remember going there for my meetings with Alan. The closure of the entire Cheshire campus would, though, mean that the place I owe so much to, the place where I made so many good friends, the place which essentially made me who I am, is no more. It may now be three hundred kilometres away, and I might never have gone there again, but to hear that place is now being tossed aside like it didn’t matter, when it once mattered so much to me and my friends, is very sad news indeed.

Lyn and I were just making our way home after an afternoon out and about. We were coming through maryon-wilson park again, when I suddenly felt a moment of peace. The sky was blue, the air clear and calm: suddenly it was twenty or twenty-five years ago, and I was being driven home from school through the fields of cheshire. It was a timeless moment: all frets and worries faded as I rolled through that small piece of woodland, the woman I love beside me. All at once I was here, bound for home after a day at school, or here, heading towards Swettenham in my powerchair. Happy memories flooded into my brain: comforting thoughts of family and friendship; youth, and peace.

I felt the past, and pondered the future. That moment made me think about the homeward journeys of twenty years ago; but in turn that made me ponder the future:

what will life be like twenty years hence? What secrets and surprises does time hold? Who knows. What time do we have, but all the time in the world?

What can I do? Every time I read the headlines or watch the news these days, I fly into a rage. I fill with feelings of absolute hate and anger, comparable only to Ahab. Every time I see Farage’s smug little face, I want to put a brick through it: for a moment I fancy I begrudge him every breath he draws – he steals oxygen which might be better used somewhere else. The same goes for Trump. And then the moment passes; I browse on, or the news moves on to another story, and I calm down. Yet, frankly, what I feel in those few moments scares me: I honestly want to kill someone.

I’ve always been hot tempered. Unihock sessions back at school often saw me get worked up into uncontrollable, adrenaline-fuelled rages. I knew it was just a game, butI couldn’t stand to lose. I knew it was just a game, but I often got violent. These days, it’s the same with politics: the team I wanted to win lost, and I suddenly feel absolute hatred for the winners. I know it’s immature; I know I should respect democracy and the will of the people etc, but part of me cannot. Part of me rails that neither Brexit nor the election of trump should be allowed to stand.

But what can I do. Part of that rage stems from the fact I know I am powerless. For a moment I feel the urge to go find farage and rip his worthless head off, but I know that’s impossible. Even if I could what would it achieve? one should debate with the voices you disagree with, not silence them completely. And isn’t such absolute intolerance to opposition one of the hallmarks of the very ideology I am so furious with? Yet, for a few moments, a feeling of absolute fury courses through my veins, and all I want to do is rip this mans beating heart from his chest for all the suffering he has caused.

The world is going entirely the wrong way, and I’m powerless to stop it. All I can do is sit here, have my rages, wait for them to pass, and then get on with life.

I have just got in from a very cool meeting over at the Forum in Greenwich. A couple of weeks ago, the guys there invited me to attend a presentation by people from

Digital Greenwich who are developing an app ”that will map the accessible features in the borough such as where dropped kerbs are, pelican crossings etc.” Although I use my Ipad pretty much daily, I’m still not much of an app person, but I went anyway just out of curiosity. I’m now very glad I did, as I think those guys have hit upon an excellent idea. What they propose will map out all the steps and obstacles we wheelchair users face when trying to get around, including stairs and things like where cafe tables spread across pavements. They were also talking about marking where benches are, so older people can see where they can have a rest. Such an app would be very, very helpful, not just for guys like me but many others. This meeting was about starting thee process of establishing exactly what features the app would need. They plan to start here in South-east London, then roll it out further afield. I am so happy to have been asked to help in it’s development – this really is a good idea.

What must people in this country have felt in the thirties when, looking south across the channel, they saw Germany descending into fascism? Can we now feel something similar when we look to the west across the Atlantic? Hyperbole aside, I’m beginning to fear we can. Then as now, we are watching a neighbour descend into intolerance and reactionism, headed by a charismatic but very dangerous leader. The difference is, whereas Germany was then still recovering from the great depression, America is the most powerful nation on earth. A complete racist nutter, surrounded genuine by neo-nazis, has control of the world’s biggest army and it’s most important economy. I know I can write silly things on here; I know I can get melodramatic and exaggerate; but this danger is real, and I am now very, very scared.

I keep yearning for sheets of paper these days. If only I had a pack of A4, I’d give a sheet to Phillip hammond to draft his resignation on. He somehow thinks it’s more important to cut tax for high earners than to give poor and vulnerable people the means to live. He says the uk must be ‘competitive’, but we all know that’s a smarmy little justification for the greed-based views of the right – the rich grow ever richer while others are left to starve.

I’d also give a sheet to Nigel Farage for him to write his apology on. The dirtbag owes the nation an apology: because of him, we had the referendum; because of him, the country is screwed. The pound is weak, unemployment up; xenophobia and bigotry are rocketing. This all started when farage and dirtbags like him sought to impose their antiquated views on us. He owes us a grovelling apology for the damage he has done and the trouble he has caused.

A sheet would also be handed to Donald trump. Assuming he can even write, I’d force him to draft his resignation. Enough is enough, a joke’s a joke; it’s time for him to stand aside and let someone more qualified and suited for the job take over. The guy is a reality tv show host – for all his bravado, it’s patently obvious Trump does not belong in the white house. He has no idea what he is doing, and the way he has appointed all these fascist shit-heads to prominent positions should have us all very, very worried.

And how about a sheet for Mrs May. Perhaps then she could write down some sort of coherent strategy for Brexit negotiations. It’s quite clear that neither she nor anyone in the government know what they are doing. They say they are going to make all these demands of europe, but the eu doesn’t want us to go – it’s in their best interest to make this process as hard as possible. Better yet, May could use the piece of paper to nullify the referendum: she could point out it was only advisory, put the breaks on the whole damn nightmare and reset the whole issue.

Every time I turn on the news I yearn for this pad of paper. In my mind, it has come a metaphor: I long to present these people with a4 sheets. There are probably more. Who would you give a piece of paper to, and what would you have them write?

I think I need to flag this Guardian article up today, purely out of anger and frustration at my countrymen. It is quite a thorough assessment of the damage done by Brexit from more of a european perspective, explaining why it will have no choice other than to take a hard line in brexit negotiations. There is a lot of frustration and bewilderment currently being directed towards us from the continent; by believing the lies of xenophobes, we have placed at steak things which go far beyond our borders. Europe wasn’t the evil empire certain people made it out to be; it was about community and cooperation. In voting to leave, we may have unleasheda set of forces which could take europe back to somewhere truly dark. As much as I know the peoples’ democratic will has to be respected, anyone who understands the situation must be yearning for the referendum result to be nullified.

I have just come in from an absolutely awesome afternoon. Two or three nights ago, I saw an article on the local tv news about a powerchair football team training in Woolwich. It pricked my interest. I had never heard of the sport before, but it looked like great fun. The players looked about my age or slightly younger, so at first the thought occurred to me to go try out. But then the filmmaker in me kicked in – making a film about them, perhaps on the same lines as my Thousand Londoners film, would be much more up my street.

I got on to Google, found the team’s contact information, and emailed the woman in charge. She promptly replied, and we got into an email exchange. She seemed quite keen on my idea, and invited me down to their Saturday afternoon training session.

I felt fairly apprehensive as I made my way to Woolwich earlier. I’d contacted the guys at Chocolate Films, who told me they had their hands full until well into the new year, so I was not sure what, if anything, could come of this trip. Yet I thought it worth going anyway, just to get the ball rolling. Besides, I was curious – what I’d seen on that news report had looked like fun. Mind you, as I drew near to the waterfront leisure centre this afternoon, I still thought that actually participating in the training would be totally out of the question: I still had in my mind dad’s rather alarmed reaction when I told him of my plans via skype; he knows how I treat my powerchairs, and how quickly I get through them. To be honest, I had to agree.

We need not have worried. When I got to the leisure centre, I met Sharon, the woman I had been emailing. She escorted me to a sports hall, where two or three lads were already knocking large balls about with their powerchairs. I made my way to the edge, trying to start to think about possible shooting strategies.

It was then that Sharon asked me if I wanted to join in. I explained that I didn’t want to damage my chair.

”Don’t be silly,” she replied. ”We use special chairs. Can you transfer?” And so it was that, a short while later, I was in a highly powerful, highly manoeuvrable electric wheelchair with a special guard over the footrest, perfect for knocking the large balls around. All thoughts of film making flew from my brain as I fell instantly in love. There was so much power in that chair; I could feel it at my fingertips. Here was another skill to master, another sport to get into. I was going to enjoy this.

I spent the next hour or so getting to know the sport. Everyone there was very welcoming and friendly. Rather than take it too seriously, as I remember the football training sessions I watched back at university were, this was mostly about fun. They started me on simple driving skills, before seeing how well I could control the ball. This proved far harder than it looked, and it took me a while to get the knack of it; but by the end of the session, I think I had made some progress.

I left wanting more. I had had a great deal of fun: adrenaline had kicked in, and I felt the urge to master a new skill. Perhaps more importantly though, I feel I made a few more friends this afternoon. Thus this is something I can see myself getting into. I have not forgotten about my initial idea though – I still have every intention of making a film about this sport, and think it could be great. It’s just that, filmmaking often being a slow, painstaking process, it seems I now have something to keep me occupied in the interim.

I suppose everyone will be expecting me to say something about Children in Need being on tv tonight. I should, I suppose, tow the disability activists’ line and launch into a rant about how patronising Children in need is; how it traps people with disabilities into reliance on charity. Don’t get me wrong: no doubt CIN does exactly that. Yet you don’t need to hear another rant about it; you don’t need to read me going through the motions, railing against ‘the system’ all over again. These days, too many people attack the bbc, from both sides of the political spectrum. What we need to be doing is attacking a government whose ideologically-based cuts have forced so many kids into positions where they need to rely on charities like children in need. That’s who we need to be railing against. To do anything else, I fear, is to distract ourselves from focussing on the real causes of the problems we currently face.

I was able to fit another piece of the jigsaw regarding my absences into place yesterday. I’ve known they’re basically a mild form of epilepsy for a while now, but I kept noticing that, even though the seizures themselves only last four of five seconds, they were often followed by gaps in my memory. That is to say, fifteen minutes or so later, I would kind of come to, not being able to remember the last quarter of an hour. I’d be fully conscious in that time, but unable to remember it. Yesterday, for example, I know I had one just after leaving Co-Op, but the next thing I recall eating my lunch at home.

That puzzled me, so I thought I’d try to reassure myself by looking it up. I also asked my mum and neuroscientist cousin Cyril about it. And sure enough, what I now know is called postictal amnesia is a real phenomenon. From what I read, the brain just takes a while to get itself back into order, like a crashed computer taking a few minutes to reboot. Knowing that helps; it means I fret less. Indeed, as I reflected here, since I found out what those damn things are it has been a great boon: I can tell myself not to worry, and that they cannot be helped. This new information adds to that feeling; it also explains why I frequently can’t remember adding to the absence record my parents asked me to keep, as well as meaning I don’t have to worry about my more long term memories fading.

I had been concerned that my memory was being effected by these siesures in some vague way. After all, how does one know you have forgotten something if you have forgotten it? Now I know they do, but in a specific, scientifically-established way, I am not so worried about long-term, important things I want to remember being deleted from my memory. I now know it’s less a case of memories being somehow erased, more a case of new memories being prevented or disrupted from being laid down in the period immediately after the absence. And even if I was somehow losing my long term memory, it wouldn’t necessarily be anything to do with my absences anyway – how could you logically tell there was a connection? It’s funny, but even writing this entry helps, as it shows such things are real and can be documented, that others have had such experiences, and that I am not alone.

I remember screaming at my computer screen when I first checked the headlines a week ago today. News of a Trump predidency was almost too hideous to comprehend. The world had finally gone utterly insane: the most powerful person in the world was a crackpot reality tv star. A week later, I feel little different, save that I have the embryonic hope that, when reality sinks in and Donald Trump realises he has now somehow become the head of a nation, he drops the act, starts to think and swerves to the left. We are already seeing him begin to temper his macho talk and rethink his stance on things like healthcare. It’s a small hope I know, but a week in, what else can we do?

I can’t help feeling a little down regarding my blog today. Something went wrong with it yesterday, and when it came back online, Sunday’s entry was gone. I know it doesn’t really matter – it was only a short, minor entry speculating about a Michael Palin travelogue based on David Attenborough’s career- but the fact it broke what I call my chain annoys me. Before then, I had blogged every day for about eighteen months; I was trying to post an entry for a solid calendar year. I now have a gap: my archive for 2016 will show no entry for the thirteenth of October. I know in the grand scheme of things it hardly matters. After all, there can’t be many people who blog so religiously as I do. Yet it was one of those little goals I had set myself. It was going so well, and now I have to start the chain from scratch. Oh well, never mind!

I’m pleased to announce that I can now use hashtags! I was never able to use them before, as my extended keyboard didn’t have a hashtag key. But yesterday I worked out that by pressing the button with the square and three circles and ‘3’, I can print a hashtag. This is important because hashtags are becoming ever more useful these days – how else can one tag something or someone on Twitter? I’m therefore now rather pleased, and I’m off to tag things to my heart’s content.

Last night, just before going to bed, I caught the end of the Graham Norton show. On it, Norton was interviewing Lord Lloyd-Webber. I don’t usually have much time for him, but Lloyd-Webber was talking about his new musical based on Jack Black’s film, School Of Rock. That gave me an idea: what about a musical based on or about the Paraorchestra? I think I mooted the idea of a film about them a while ago (that predictably got nowhere), but it occurs to me that a musical might work better. After all, it would be about a group of people with disabilities who find the means to express themselves through music. It could chart their formation, rise, and participation in the paralympics. Not only that, but it would presumably give some much needed jobs to disabled stage actors. Perhaps Lloyd-webber himself could write the score.

Just one of my silly little ideas, and as usual I have no idea where to go with it, but I thought it worth noting on here.

Let the river rove and roam,

Let the water wend it’s way home.

Let it drift down to the sea shore

Returning to this place nevermore.

Let the sun drop from the sky,

Into the west, as the birds fly.

As the sky turns a dark, dark blue;

Night draws near, sat here with you.

Amid all this doom and gloom, sometimes a coffee at your favourite cafe on a bright, sunny autumn day is all you need… [img description=”undefined image” align=”centre”]/images/at the cafe.jpg[/img]

(that and the woman you love, of course).

I know this might sound awfully negative but, all in all, 2016 is shaping up to be a pretty crap year. Compared to the awesomeness of 2012 (olympics) and 2014 (graduating my MA, watching Monty Python and meeting Patrick Stewart), things seem to have become decidedly bleaker. We are now leaving europe, and the most powerful nation on earth now has a complete nutter for a president. I can’t help reading analysis like this and thinking things for the world in general are about to get far, far bleaker. Parallels with the 1930s seem inescapable. And yet, just as humanity survived that crisis, as well as every crisis before and since, I know we’ll pull through it. As Ned Stark is so fond of saying, ”Winter is coming”. Yet winter is always followed by spring; and however crappy things become – and frankly, that’s looking less and less like hyperbole by the day – I know we’ll pull through it. After all, Star Trek predicts we’ll soon go through a catastrophic third world war before we become the space-faring civilisation we are destined to be. We just need to sit tight, hunker down and wait things out. In all seriousness, things are starting to look rather bleak.

I currently feel the same mixture of anger, disbelief, incredulity and faint amusement that I felt the morning after the EU referendum. I overslept slightly today, so I got up late. When I got to my computer and saw the news, I couldn’t believe my eyes. How could America elect this neofascist ignoramus? Just as we brits had fallen for outist lies in June, America had fallen for the lies of a man wholly unfit for office. Trump will wreak havoc not just in America but upon the world at large, and I am very, very worried indeed.

I think we can see a pattern emerging. People are being lured by those they see as alternatives or outsiders. The outists won the referendum because they presented themselves as an alternative – as a break with ‘the establishment’. They fooled people into thinking that a vote for them would be a form of rebellion against the big, bad European Union, with all it’s nasty rules. The ironyis, the eu was protecting people from oppression: it’s rules ensured big businesses couldn’t rule the roost or exploit people, which is why capitalist assholes like Farage wanted us to get out of it. Thus, fooled into thinking they were rebelling, people voted for their own captivity.

We see something similar in trump. He, too, presents himself as an alternative; as someone outside of what he caricatures as ‘the elites’. He says he is outside of normal politics. This means people see his buffoonery, arrogance and gross unsuitability to be anywhere near the white house as assets. By portraying things like political correctness as oppressive rather than the liberating, enlightened thing we who think know it to be, he gives himself carte blanche to say what he wants and get away with it. The same goes with Farage. In fooling people into thinking that they represent a chance to rebel agains aa norm – a norm which, let’s face it, is currently pretty grueling – both men have achieved their goals. These bigots are fit only to be ignored, but both have now had their backwards views foisted upon us. And all we can do is despair.

I’m not sure what to say on here today. Whatever I write, it probably won’t make an iota of difference to what happens in America tonight. Like everyone else, I can only draw my breath; I can only wait to see whether America chooses an experienced, sensible woman, or a right-wing buffoon, fooling people by presenting himself as an anti-establishment figure. I’d like to be optimistic and trust Americans to choose the sensible, sane path; yet the referendum shows us how easily people can be lead down the path of folly. I cannot be sure, so like many people the world over, I draw my breath.

Can one be patriotic but not xenophobic, or are they two sides of the same coin? I was wondering about this yesterday: in saying ”I love my country”, does one automatically imply that one likes the other countries less? I love Britain: it’s fields, hills and streams; it’s mighty capital, literature and culture. Yet I love other places too; I love to travel, to meet new people and to experience new things. Do these two loves contradict, or do they complement each other? By saying ”I love the uk”, am I implying that I think it is superior to all other places? That’s what worries me about the current wave of patriotism – yes, we have a great country, but other countries are just as great. I would sing the praises of the uk more if I thought it didn’t carry overtones of xenophobia – increasingly so since Brexit. By the same token, what makes other countries special are the differences between them, so perhaps to prefer one country over another is to appreciate those differences. After all, there are some very bleak places in the world, so one cannot possibly love everywhere. Moreover, how can one love everywhere without having been everywhere. What worries me about patriotism is that people seem to think it means independence, refusing to work with other countries and shunning other cultures. I on the other hand think it means wanting your country to flourish as part of a community of nations; appreciating one’s country and culture, but still being hungry to experience those of other nations. I do not object to british culture being influenced or changing, as I know all cultures change over time as people mix. Thus, for all it’s faults, I think I can say I love the uk, although that is not to imply I think any less of anywhere else.

Last night saw me and Lyn at the annual firework display in Blackheath. It isn’t far, so we just went in our powerchairs, leaving Paul at home. It was the first time Lyn had gone to the event unaided: she is going out without a PA more and more these days, and it’s absolutely fantastic to see her sense of independence blooming. Of course, when we know we’ll need the help of an able-bodied person, such as when food is involved, we’ll take a personal assistant; but on trips like the one last night, which are pretty straightforward there-and-back-again matters, it’s good to go as just the two of us.

The display itself was amazing. It started a tad late, but when it began it took my breath away. It reminded me of the displays in Congleton Park, and how, every year growing up, my parents, brothers and I used to go to see the enormous bonfire and fireworks display there. That too was an impressive show, full of loud bangs and glittering, beautiful lights. The difference was, this time, instead of being pushed up what we in our family called Siemen’s Hill, we walked home, just the two of us, along the pavements of south London. To have gone there by ourselves; to be able to hold lyn’s hand, alone with her, as we looked up at the rockets and heart-shaped bursts and the stars overhead, and then to wend our way home down the city streets, felt wonderful. It was an excellent evening, made all the more special by the fact it was just me and Lyn sharing the moment. Beautiful fireworks with a beautiful woman – what more can a man ask for?

I realise it’s slightly random, but I just found this on the BBC website and thought it worth flagging up. Creator of the Watchmen series Alan Moore thinks he can point to the precise location where capitalism began – under a dirty looking bridge. It seems a rather dubious claim to me, yet nevertheless I think it’s worth listening to what he has to say on capitalism, free market economics and it’s history.

Things, it would seem, have suddenly become interesting. Yesterday, those of us who voted to remain in the EU were offered a glimmer of hope. It’s only a small glimmer, but there’s hope nevertheless. Three unbiassed, impartial judges determined that, because EU law was now so interwoven with ours, any decision to leave the EU must go through parliament. In my view that is absolutely correct: parliament is sovereign, and for the tories to think they had a right to bypass it with a referendum was rather arrogant. After all, parliament consists of our elected representatives.

Now, though, things have got complicated. For brexit to go through parliament might take years: there’s a lot to talk about and resolve – and remember, most MPs were against brexit in the first place. Yet that doesn’t change the inescapable fact that a majority of people, however small, voted to leave the EU; so how can the two be squared? It seems to me that the only fair way to resolve this would be through another referendum. If the judgement holds against the government’s appeal, I’m told this issue might take five or six years to go through parliament. By that time, people’s views might have changed; and by that time we should be able to see two much more concrete options to choose from. Thus a second referendum might now be inevitable.

By then, of course, a lot will have changed: people too young to vote this time will have come of age; and by then the lies of the outists will have been well and truly exploded. It all points to a better result for remain. The thing is, while I’m no conspiracy nut, and as optimistic I am about Europe, I can’t help thinking this smells a bit fishy. In certain lights, it kind of appears as if everything is geared towards us staying in the EU whether we like it or not. Then again, if the EU is as corrupt and nefarious as certain people would have us believe, surely it would have just rigged the result in the first place, and we would all have been none the wiser. And besides, that is just the type of piffle the outist ultra-nationalists would have us believe.

Thus this is, at last, something I’m happy about. Brexit may not be dead, but at least there is a glimmer of hope. A second referendum now seems essential: if brexit is going to have to go through parliament, the people should get the final say on what they decide. Otherwise, what would be the point? Why have the first referendum if parliament decides against it; and if we leave europe whatever parliament say, what would be the point of parliament? At least by the time of a second referendum the facts will all be on the table by then, the lies will have been exposed, and the people will be able to make a more informed decision.

I suppose sometimes you just have to throw your hands up into the air and say ”Fine, world. I give up. Your stupidity is beyond me. You baffle me, but okay, do what the smeg you like.” It happened with the referendum: as foolish, harmful and illogical as leaving the EU is, I have no choice but to stand back, sigh and say ”fine!” And it will happen again next week if Trump is elected in America.

I just came across this New York Times article reflecting exactly the sense of incredulity and disbelief I feel. When any rational, moderately educated person looks at the situation, it seems unthinkable that this egotistical, misogynistic, racist buffoon now has a realistic and growing chance of becoming president. Yet he nevertheless does, and that is a scary thought. If brexit has taught us anything, it is that the unthinkably foolish is now quite possible. Mass disenfranchisement with mainstream politics has been harnessed by right-wing bigots like trump and Farage, allowing them to present themselves as some kind of alternative, antiestablishment figure, even though, when you look at what both men stand for, it runs counter to the modern, sensible, tolerant views which should now be the norm. Yet they present themselves in such away that their inherent repulsiveness is hidden, and people just see a way to rebel – an alternative to what they are told is ”the norm”. Thus, when the writer of this article looks at his countrymen and asks ”America, are you kidding me?” We pro-EU brits must pat him sagely on the back and answer ”No mate, they aren’t.”

Looking across the frosty field where, in summer, cricket is played.

Drinking hot cappuccino in the cold, pondering the future.

Warm liquid hits my throat as a chill wind hits my cheek.

Does brightness betray bleakness, or will bleak become bright?

The field before me, once abuzz with play, now lies empty

Save for crows, scavenging like Poe’s ravens.

Will it thrive once more, or have we now lost the crucial match?

We were at the cafe in the park yesterday, when it suddenly occurred to me that it reminded me of somewhere – somewhere I’ve been before, but not for a long, long time. I go there quite frequently now, Lyn often with me. It’s just around the corner, and since we’ve stopped drinking caffeinated coffee at home, I go to get a fix. There’s a nice, friendly vibe there, with the same people frequently showing up, so it becomes like a community. There’s a woman with a large black Labrador coincidentally enough called Brandy, a lady who pushes her dogs round in a pram, and all kinds of other local characters who help make Charlton the place it is.

Yet yesterday it made me think of somewhere I hadn’t been for almost ten years. Back at university, the place where everyone got their food on campus was the Wesley Centre, or the wes. It was a large, square building with an arboretum in the middle and four quite discreet areas around each side, three of which were set out with tables and chairs for people to eat at. I remember, as a first year, the looks of puzzlement and intrigue I saw in peoples eyes when they spotted my Neater-Eater, set up at a table close to the kitchen, ready for my breakfasts and dinners.

One side of the wes was what I called the ‘cool area’. This was before the smoking ban, so people used to meet there for a fag and a chat. There was a small extra kitchen there where you could buy nicer stuff, like paninis, there. They also did slightly better coffee there, which may have been why, yesterday, I found myself thinking back to that place. I went there to meet my friends and have a chat. It was in there that I got to know people like Charlie and emma – people not on my course, but with whom I became steadfast friends. We used to talk about all sorts of bollocks in there; the conversation was often quite obscene. I used to go there to find the guys when I needed a break from work. It was there that my Lightwriter first became known as Colin.

Yesterday I realised I was in a similar place: here, at the cafe, was the same vibe I felt in the wes; the same feeling of community; the same type of free, often obscene, often hilarious conversation. The way that the same people nearly always showed up made the two places alike for me. As in the Wes, in the cafe in the park you never quite know where the conversation will lead or what is going to happen. They now know me there, as they once knew me at the wes. I find the parallel pleasing, and, in a way, comforting. The two places are alike, and, just as I found some of my best friendships in the Wes, I suspect I’ll be meeting some firm friends for a coffee in the park for years to come.