Something is now in the offing which could turn out to be very awesome indeed. A few weeks ago, I was trying to come up with ideas for the film festival. I told you about the idea I settled upon a few days ago. Before that, though, I had been mulling the idea of somehow putting on another exhibition, but with a film focus. You may remember, ten years ago, I put on an exhibition at university about my life as a disabled student. We took over the campus gallery and filled it with my writing and photos.

A few weeks ago I began to think about doing something similar here in charlton for the film festival. If I could somehow recapture the awesomeness of my original, it could be amazing. The problem was, how to organise it? For starters I would need a space to put it.

It was then that I thought about asking school. Being a special school, they could have both the remit and facilities to host something like this. I drafted a simple proposal and sent it to them. A few days later, I got my answer: they thought it was a fantastic idea. Instead of doing it for the film festival, though, they suggested making it part of Communication Works, their event focussing on AAC. I agreed, it might be a much better idea. After all, I now want to do something about 1000 Londoners for the film festival.

I am now very excited: I have another exhibition to organise. I don’t want it to just be about me this time, though – surely I’m not that egotistical. Yet there’s so much I can do with this, so much I can put in, that I barely know where to start.

Yesterday was my brother Luke’s thirty-first birthday. I tried to skype him, but he and Yan must have been out. The problem is, they’re so busy these days that I never know when to call, so I rarely speak to him. The same goes for my older brother Mark. They both live hectic lives, going to conferences here there and everywhere, either unravelling the deep, stringy mysteries of the universe or designing cyborgs. It seems a lifetime ago that we all sat round that kitchen table together and ate dinner together. Oh well. I hope Luke had a good birthday anyway, and that he knows I’m thinking about him.

I wouldn’t be able to call myself a cinephile if I didn’t flag this up today. Jean Luc Godard’s very first short film, Une Femme Coquette, is now available to watch online. As the adjoining article says, it was long thought to be lost, and is thus one of the world’s rarest films. It’s quite a Sunday morning treat, then, to be able to watch the very film which began the career of one of the world’s greatest directors.

I’m still very much a trekkie, of course, and I’ve recently been eagerly absorbing all the news I can find about Discovery. The sixth incarnation of Star Trek is due to premiere later this year. Truth be told, it’s been so long since we’ve had any proper Star Trek, I can’t wait. Mind you, I’m wise enough now not to get my hopes up too high: Enterprise was a bit of a dud, and like most Star Trek fans I was very disappointed indeed with the reboots. Nonetheless, if we can have just aglimpse of the epic, spellbinding heights Trek reached during my childhood, I’ll be happy.

I’ve recently been thinking about Andrew Fox again, too. It has now been sixteen years since he passed away. He was a huge trek fan, and I keep wondering what he’d make of these new incarnations of his favourite programme. We always used to discuss it back at school. I keep wondering about his family, too: they became sort of familiar to the class, as they came with us to Glasgow etc. So much time has passed since I last saw them; so much has happened. I would like to know how his mum and grandparents are doing. I’d love to update them on new life here in London. The thing is, I only have a limited amount of info to go on, and there’s only so much you can do with Google. I’ll keep trying, though – it would be good to get back in touch. Andy was a good guy. It’s funny how the coming of something new sometimes makes you want to reestablish links with the past.

At last! A bit of, if not exactly good, then better news. I was dreading reading the headlines this morning; dreading yet another of those mind-numbingly stupid days like the two last year. If that utter scumbag Nuttall had won up in Stoke, it for me would be another step on the journey into fascism we began last year. I don’t think I would have been able to bear the sight of that embarrassment to humanity in the Palace of Westminster. Thankyou stoke for not taking us all further down that road. As it is, the tories got in, which I suppose is bad enough in normal times; but these aren’t normal times, and those of us currently despairing at the way things are going must cling on to such small mercies.

I have already written over a thousand words today, the first time I’ve done so in quite some time. I was at an organisation meeting for this year’s Charlton and Woolwich Film Festival. Preparations for it are now going well. The thing is, while it’s not until September, I was becoming increasingly conscious that I didn’t have much prepared for it.

At the last meeting back in December, I’d rather foolishly blurted out an idea, just off the top of my head, about doing something about my relationship to the Bond films. Bond is able-bodied, the master of his surroundings, whereas I am the antithesis of that. It was quite a cool idea for a presentation, but I promptly forgot all about it amid the Londoners project. I began to think about doing a presentation on the latter instead.

When I was asked last night how my bond presentation was going, then, I replied the idea had changed completely. Everyone was cool with that – there is still six months to go, after all. Yet, when I came to think about it again, my first idea still seemed a good one. The Londoners idea was still the one I’d probably go with, but…well, you know me and 007.

I decided to just flesh it out, get something down about it before turning to my later idea. That’s what I did this morning: I trotted out a thousand words on why bond might appeal to someone with a physical disability. It’s not much, and it is quite rough, but there’s the core of an argument there, ready for me to return to if need be. It felt good to get back into that type of writing again, too: blogging is okay, but my entries are usually quite short an superficial. I wanted to sink my teeth into something for once. It’s only a thousand words I know, but at least I got my eye back in.

It’s shaping up to be one of those ‘here, there and everywhere’ days, and it’s barely halfway through. On days like today, I could really do with one of these. To be honest I was wondering how long it would be until someone scaled up a drone and built a full scale quadcopter. Mind you, I just hope they’ll be easier to look after than a pair of powerchairs.

A couple of years ago, if I had written a script describing how a reality tv star became president of america, then started accusing the media of fakery, to the extent that his supporters are now saying the media are covering up an attack in Sweden which never happened but which he referred to, you’d have told me to write something more sensible. I know that Trump was referring to a report on immigration that he’d seen on Fox news the night before (where else would such a reactionary halfwit get his information?) rather than the terrorist attack everyone took him to mean, but we’ve reached a point beyond absurd. I couldn’t believe my ears: certain people were/are maintaining there was an attack in Sweden, simply because Trump alluded to one, and then went about saying the mainstream media were covering it up just to get at Trump. This is one of those things I hope I’ve misunderstood, because if there are such people so fanatically pro trump that they believe everything he says is automatically correct, then it implies humanity has taken another big step towards utter insanity.

My day – my entire week – has just been made. I’m up a bit earlier than usual, as I couldn’t sleep for some reason. I was just checking the beeb’s arts and entertainment page for news of anything cool, and found something phenomenal. You’d think that a man of his age and standing would have retired with the grateful consent of the country long ago, but I just read that Sir David Attenborough has announced he’s making Blue Planet II. The sequel to 2001’s Blue Planet obviously, it will explore ”the underwater worlds which cover most of our planet, yet are still its least known.” The first was truly breathtaking, so I’m really looking forward to watching this new addition later this year. Yet simply to see Attenborough, the greatest of tv presenters, still making programs is quite, quite incredible.

I was looking at old photos of myself on Facebook yesterday. I was horrified to note how many of them depicted me drunk: I suddenly realised I was sozzled in quite a few. I used to think it was a sign that I was having fun and something to be proud of, but yesterday, looking at these photos, I thought ”You utter prat!” Those pictures show how much of a dick I was: they aren’t a sign of me having fun, but of me getting so ratassed that I had to be put to bed early. Well, I’m glad that’s over: that stage of my life is finished with. No more pictures of me fast asleep in a chair in the garden; just sensible ones of the new, sensible me.

Tony Blair can never be forgiven for dragging the UK into an illegal war in Iraq, and I’m sure I’m not alone in thinking that, but his recent comments on Europe are spot on. Brexit must be fought. We are told we must ”respect the result”, but that result was achieved by the narrowest of margins and based on a series of lies. We were conned, and our human rights and liberal values are at risk because of it. Of course brexit must be fought; it must be fought at all costs, tooth and nail. I don’t want to see British society transformed into a capitalist hell, where the rich walk all over the poor and the strong are free to dominate the weak. So I’m with Blair on this one; he has my full backing. At least someone is standing up against the coming tide of bigotry and persecution.

My mum and dad gave me a lot of Marvel films for christmas, in response to me saying that I wanted to find something new to get into. I keep intending to bung them in my dvd drive and start watching. I was about to do so a few days ago, but I thought I’d do some Googling first. What I found was intriguing: a plethora of new characters and narratives, captured not in good old prose or film, but in a visual language I’d never considered before. Like most people, I suppose, I’d always dismissed comics/graphic novels as being for children; but if you think about it, it’s an artform unto itself – a completely unique way of telling stories. The images are static, yet combine to form a narrative. The images incorporate text, but text is only one component of the form. Thus comic strip exist somewhere between prose and film. My initial searches were only cursory, but what I wonder now is, is there any kind of theory or analysis associated with this artform, as there is with literature and film? Just how seriously can one take it?

Although it’s conclusions might be a bit too pessimistic, even for me, I think this brexit related New York Times article is worth flagging up. It points out quite correctly that the Brexiteer’s plans for post-eu britain are based entirely on fantasy; a nostalgia for a global, imperial britain which is long dead. The outists keep telling us how we’ll trade with the world, asif we were still somehow a superpower. The reality, of course, is far far different; the true prognosis far bleaker. The article forecasts we’ll turn in on ourselves, cut off from the world, and become some sort of authoritarian state with an economy based on exporting jam, biscuits and cheese: ”Britain, it seems, is in danger of becoming the world’s largest church fete.” That might be pushing it a bit far, but it’s certainly true that we’ll soon be ruing the day when we chose to believe the outists’ lies. Things might be okay for now, but that won’t last. I only hope we see sense and turn back before it’s too late.

I can be a cheeky sod sometimes. Yesterday we were down in Woolwich, filming. I’m very pleased to report that the short we’re making for lifeline is going really well. Shooting started yesterday, and it was my first time working with a proper, professional actor. It felt so cool to hear him speak lines I had written.

One of the locations we wanted to use was General Gordon Square – a large public square near the famous market. We were just setting up to shoot, deciding on the specifics etc, when one of the community wardens came over. She asked us what we were doing, so we told her. She then asked whether we had permission to film. We didn’t, so everyone then began to pack up and start looking for somewhere else.

I, however, had an idea: I decided to try to play the cripple card. I wheeled up to the warden and typed into my Ipad how I wanted to make a film for my mum, and about how it was important we did it there. The warden was, however, having none of it; she gave me one of those Saccharin, patronising smiles I usually loathe, and totally ignored me.

I suppose you could say it was highly hypocritical for me to do that. After all, I often rail against being infantilised, so perhaps for me to invite it in such a way was a bit rich. It seemed worth a try, though – one must surely use all the weapons available to you. If she had bought it and let us stay and film, it would have got us out of a bind. By that point, though, the guys were already packing up ready to move on, so I leet it drop. As I see it, though, there must be some advantages of looking like me.

How do you solve a problem like 2024? How can the IOC choose between Paris and Los Angeles when it has to decide who gets to host the 2024 olympics this September? The question still intrigues me, as it seems to me there is a hell of a lot of national pride riding on this decision. Both cities have lost out numerous times; but they are both places their respective countries are extremely proud of. I think Paris is still bitter after losing out to London in 2005, and LA equally thinks it’s their turn to host. Whoever the committee go with, then, the other city and their respective country will feel slighted. The problem is, the IOC cannot afford to create such losers; they don’t want to piss either the USA or france off, as there is a good chance they would give up and stop bidding altogether. After all, even bidding isn’t cheap. So what do they do?

Easy: award them both games: one city can have the ’24 games, and the other ’28. According to this, that’s exactly what they’re planning to do. I must admit, I’m a little disappointed, as I was quite looking forward to one of those tense, highly emotional moments when one of the world’s greatest cities is chosen over another. Were they to go with Paris and one gets to behold the americans in a strop. Go with LA and it would be 2005 all over again. And we Londoners would just get to sit here and watch the fireworks, knowing that we beat them both, our olympics already being done and dusted.

This solution, however, means we miss out on that moment of schadenfreude, but I must admit it is sensible. The IOC seriously does not want to piss either country off. The question remains, though: who goes first? Who gets 2024 and who gets 2028? Well, that’s easy. The same way you decide who bats first in cricket, and who gets to kick off in football: toss a coin!

Mind you, you have to feel sorry for the third city bidding: poor old Budapest!

Not that I’ve been into a pub for a beer in over six months, a fact of which I’m rather proud, but I can’t help feeling rather sad. I just came across the following image, posted by one of my friends on facebook. The alsager arms was a pub where me and my friends once won the weekly pub quiz two weeks in a row. It was a great place. To see it now so dilapidated is very sad indeed. This image simply does not square with the merry little place I remember, yet I know they are one and the same.

This is probably due to MMU closing alsager campus; they would have lost all the revenue from the students. On top of that, I learned the other day that they have now decided to pull the plug on the Cheshire campus completely: both crewe and alsager are going. The place I owe so much to, the place I made so many friends and happy memories, the place where I became who I am today, is a thing of history. That makes me very sad indeed.

I have just come across this, Ted Shires’ rather astute reaction to some tory p’tahk accusing leftists of having no sense of humour. It arose out of the criticism piled upon some tory boy after he burned a twenty quid note in front of a homeless guy to taunt him. Apparently we were supposed to laugh at that, and the fact we didn’t shows the left have no sense of humour, and that irony and satire are now the preserve of the right. I find that staggering: how can anyone be so crass, so arrogant, so ignorant? Taunting the destitute is funny, is it? This came from a tory mp, someone supposedly running the country. Well, I have news for this scumbag: the reason comedy has always had a leftist slant is because it requires pathos, sympathy and empathy, attributes those on the right seem to totally lack. The left can laugh at the right because they know what they are talking about. When those on the right try to make fun of the left, it quickly descends into childish mockery and name calling, as perfectly demonstrated by the burning of the twenty pound note. That which conservatives call humour is actually vindictiveness; there is no wit to it, only the arrogant parading of their perceived superiority. I must say, I find it truly, truly sickening – who in their right mind could laugh at that.

It’s good to see people still have their senses of humour these days. I think this is worth linking to today, if just for the reason that I think the Trump-as-Mister-Man metaphor really hits the spot. He is an ultimately two dimensional figure: unsophisticated, predictable; he would be comic if he wasn’t so dangerous. He’s also a childish caricature – a grotesque with something cartoonish about him, his villainy and inane arrogance blown out of all sensible proportion. Thus this bit of satire puts him where he belongs – in an infant’s book.

I suppose I have a bit of a problem in that I work myself into such a state that things seem either totally good or totally bad, with nothing in between. I’ve heard this from a couple of people recently: I seem to see the world as black and right, rather than as many shades of grey. Thus, to me, the EU is a truly noble establishment which can do no wrong, and Trump and Farage are embarrassments to humanity with absolutely no redeeming features. Of course, deep down I know this isn’t the case, and that I shouldn’t be so one sided. Things are far less absolute. The EU had many faults, and – who knows? – leaving it could even be a boon. As for Farage and Trump, for the record I do not want them, or anyone else, dead. I’m sure deep down they have some redeeming qualities – maybe Farage likes cricket or something. They just wind me up, and come across as very, very arrogant. Yet I know I should not get so angry with them, and I shouldn’t be so one sided. After all, such absolutism is one of the very reasons I oppose such people in the first place.

It occurs to me that the way we communicate these days may be effecting the way we think. Complex, elaborate ideas often need large chunks of text to explain them, but these days we often try to get ideas across in 140 characters or less. Might this be having an effect on the way we understand the world? Are abstracted, simplified ideas giving rise to the current surge in reactionary politics? It’s perhaps telling that Trump communicates to us most via twitter; his micro-rants are almost designed to provoke maximum controversy. When Marx explained his thinking on capitalism, he did it over several long volumes: it takes time to explain why one reaches the conclusions one does. Today, however, we are just given ‘the bottom line” as it were – no explanation, no reasoning; just a sentence or headline.

The result is a lot of misunderstanding, a lot of anger. People don’t understand the complexities of the world; they don’t even bother to try to understand it. They just get fleeting summaries, and are asked to form opinions on precious little background. Is it any wonder that we understand the world so poorly, and are getting so angry? My theory is – based only on a few observations, mind you – is that Twitter etc is actually affecting the way we think. We know that the form of a message effects how one perceives it’s content, so this might explain quite a bit. Twitter maximises impact while minimising understanding, bringing about a state of affairs where we all react through our guts. It effects the way we think: thought becomes a matter of quickly-made gut reactions rather than reasoned responses come upon through thorough reflection, so we now jump to conclusions, deciding on a position without considering the alternatives.

If more time was taken to read around a subject, I doubt we would be in the mess we currently find ourselves in. Take the referendum, for instance: if we had all taken the time to learn about the EU, the benefits it gave us, the rights it ensured, I have no doubt we would have voted Remain by a landslide. Instead, the decision was made based on reactionary tabloid headlines, tweets, and a bullshit slogan on the side of a bus. The result is the outists won. If people had been given more information, they would no doubt have seen through the lies. But they didn’t: they just went by the short, staccato sentences one finds in the Sun or Daily Mail, and now we’re all screwed.

I might not be right. This is, after all, only a fleeting observation. Yet it seems to me that there could be a lot of truth to it. In these rushed days, it seems like nobody has any time to understand anything, so we just go by punchlines and short sentences. Unfortunately, this makes us all the more easy to manipulate.

You may have noticed me using phrases like ”insults to humanity” and ”embarrassments to human civilisation” when referring to people like Farage or Trump, and I just want to elaborate a bit on what I mean by that. I honestly believe those men embarrass and insult human civilisation. They seem to me to run counter to everything I value in humanity: things like kindness, tolerance and selflessness, which make the world worth living on. These men intend to reverse the progress humanity has made over the last seventy years: they would turn us all into greedy nationalists; blind, unthinking patriots who place our own wants and needs over those of others; and who unthinkingly accept the dogma that one’s own country is somehow innately superior to another. They would have us all thinking  that ”foreigners” are to be viewed as competitors or not trusted altogether, when the only way we can solve the problems of the world is if we work together, putting individual and national differences aside – albeit still valuing that which makes us unique – and work together in equality. To advocate the opposite, to ferment division and contempt between peoples as Trump and Farage do, to value competition and hierarchy over collaboration and equality, is an insult to civilisation itself.

I firmly believe these two men embarrass us all, and bring us all down. They blight us. Just think of what we are capable of: spaceflight; the world wide web. But such awesomeness only comes about when humanity puts our petty differences aside and work as one. Yet Trump and farage would have us all thinking in terms of ”me! Me! Me!” They don’t want humanity to work together; they don’t want us to care about anyone but ourselves. They want greed alone to drive us, and seek to achieve their goals through the most cynical, disgusting forms of lying and manipulation.

We should all be embarrassed that such vile, shortsighted men have risen to such prominence. We’re better than that – better than the hatred they spew or the greed and intolerance they stand for. Human civilisation is something noble, but Trump and Farage would drag it back into the gutter. That’s what I mean when I call such men ”embarrassments” or ”insults to human civilisation”, for, as loathe as I am to presume to speak for all humanity, they stand for things we, as a species, should all be ashamed of.

Today marks ten years since the events I record here happened. I still remember it so vividly: the spur of the moment decision; catching the bus to Crewe; the roll down the lane to Weston; and then those men telling me one of my best friends had gone. It cut me up quite a bit. It just seemed so unfair that Rich would not enjoy the long, full life he deserved. For days after, I didn’t know what to do or think. It still feels wrong, it still upsets me, ten years on. I think this is, in part, what occasioned my reflections a couple of days ago. But what can you do? Life goes on. I think it’s important to mark the occasion, but I better not get too down about it Simmo wouldn’t have wanted that. I’ll be thinking of him today though, and wondering what he’d make of my life here in London.

I decided to stay up slightly later last night to watch a bit of the super bowl; I wanted to get another taste of American football. Needless to say, though, it wasn’t long before I turned the tv off and headed to bed. That sport is so stop-start it quickly gets very irritating.

One thing occurred to me, though. When they started to sing the American national anthem, I inwardly sneered. I usually feel at least some respect, but last night, when the words ”Oh say can you see…” hit my ears, I felt nothing but ridicule. They sang it with such solemnity and seriousness, but to me they seemed like children blurting a particularly cheesy pop song out, to the irritation of the adults around them. How can I respect that country now? How can anyone? It has elected a jackass as a leader; a total joke from reality tv who issues decrees on twitter. The situation is a total farce, and the only thing one can do until the United States sorts itself out is laugh at it. That song now represents a joke; an absurd bunch of morons who have let a reality tv star become their leader. Trump is a man with no idea how the world works or the problems his moronic views will cause; someone so self-important that, when the judiciary try to stop him imposing a clearly illegal and foolish ban on muslims entering the country, he launches into a tirade of abuse. Sorry, America, I no longer respect you, and your anthem and flag are now objects of ridicule for me.

I read this morning that rock legends Black Sabbath played their last ever gig in Birmingham last night. While I won’t pretend to be a Sabbath fan, surely this must be regarded as the end of an era…or is it? So many groups have these final shows these days, only to announce a year or two later, often to great fanfare, that they’re having a reunion or comeback tour, that I can’t help wondering whether they mean it. Does gone really mean gone these days? Have we really seen Ozzy Osbourne sing his last song?

Of course, that does not just apply to Black Sabbath but any group which has been around awhile. Nostalgia, it seems, is good for business. The Comeback tour is now a phenomenon. It revolves around an affinity for the past, and the desire to relive what was thought to have gone. That’s why tickets for the Monty Python reunion sold out so quickly in 2013: people ceased the opportunity to see this legendary comedy group which we all thought was long, long gone.

The question I’m mulling over now is, who’s next? Black Sabbath will probably take it’s time, but they’ll be back – mark my words. In the meantime, which band or group will be next to reunite? Genesis announced their reunion yesterday. The second Python reunion I speculated about a couple of years ago never came about, sadly: cool though it might well have been, I daresay Terry Jones’ dementia puts a final end to any prospect of that happening. Yet their 2014 reunion is proof that any such band or group can get back together – there just has to be an appetite for it. My question now is, which band, comedy group or whatever, would you next like to see reunite? Answers in comments please.

The passage of time has been on my mind quite a bit of late. I find myself reflecting internally on the never-ceasing drum-beat of hours, minutes, days and weeks. I think it began the other day when, to my utter surprise, it turned out that the Daniel I mentioned on here a couple of days ago had in fact been to my school. He was a few years below me, but he knew many of the teachers I did. I thought his name rang a bell. All of a sudden, it felt like my old life had caught up with my new one: places and names I had left up in cheshire sixteen years ago were once again relevant, here in the metropolis. Dan knew the people and seen the sights I had seen; what once seemed distant was suddenly close again.

All this went through my mind this afternoon at powerchair football practice. I’m happy to report I seem to be slowly getting better at it. The chairs they use, specially adapted for ramming big balls around a sports hall, are as powerful as anything. Part of me wants to get one, although I daresay they would be ill suited for the long walks around the concrete suburbs I like to take. Whizzing around that sports hall, though, I felt enormous power at my fingertips, and for a couple of hours I was engrossed. My mind wandered back to school, and then university – after all, some of the drills we did were based on drills I remember watching the first team practice back in my second year.

And then it was time for home. I got back just as Lyn was heading out for a walk, so together we set off for a slow ride to Greenwich. Following my fiancee as we made our way through the darkening streets, I thought about my day, about school, about the life I had left there. About how it had seemed so distant, but had on a happenchance had become relevant again. After all, what are the chances of me meeting a fellow hebden green student down here?

Lyn lead on, up into Greenwich park. Dusk had turned to night, and there, on the very hill where time starts and ends, we beheld one of the most beautiful sights I have ever seen. The city lights spread out below us, stretching to the horizon; the river seemed dark and brooding, like a black ribbon snaking through the lights. Time seemed in that moment to stop. The day had been about the past, but here and now was the present. The woman I love, as beautiful as the sight before me, sat beside me. It was she who drew me out of my old world up north and into this brave new one; to this wondrous place where so many incredible things have happened these last seven years. I felt so lucky to be there next to her, looking out over our home as sun set upon the greatest city on earth.

For I am lucky. Dan and I are among the lucky few who get through a special school unscathed. We both left many more behind who were taught not to push theirselves, who were taught to just accept their supposed limitations; or who, dammit, just never lived to see adulthood. That is who I was thinking of this afternoon.

Meeting Daniel had reminded me of them – the guys who never got beyond the school gate, who would never see such beautiful sights or experience the love of a beautiful woman.

I have stopped watching question time on Thursdays – it was just making me too angry. Earlier, though, I got wind of something too nauseatingly ridiculous to ignore. Last night, a woman in the QT audience told the country how, on referendum day last year, she was all set to vote Remain, but changed her mind at the last moment because she decided she objected to EU rules governing the shape of bananas. When I heard that, I threw my arms into the air in disbelief: due to such foolishness, my rights are now under threat; due to such foolishness, this country now stands to become a hell of unregulated capitalist greed, where the privileged few are free to walk all over people like me. So what if our bananas had to be straight? Such standardisation was necessary to ensure fairness and equality. Those who complained about such rules exaggerated the problem, and did so to mislead people. They wanted to cast the EU as an overbearing bogeyman with all it’s silly rules, the better to manipulate people into voting to leave. Fewer rules means fewer consumer rights. It obviously worked. People fell for such crap, and we’ll all soon be suffering because of it.

I just have a couple of pieces of crip-related linkage today. First this by Chris. It’s a nice, short piece reflecting on the process of being stared at. I’ve written about it before, although not for some time: as disabled people, we seem to attract long, curious stares from others, usually people who aren’t used to being around guys like me. As Chris says, it’s an odd, slightly disquieting feeling. You feel insulted and indignant, yet you also know people are just curious. He raises one or two points on the subject I hadn’t considered, such as a parallel with rubbernecking, so it’s worth a read.

Second, on saturday at the powerchair football, I met Daniel. A great fellow, he’s training for the bar. I received an email from him this morning, and he directed me to his website. I thought it, too, was well worth directing your attention to, especially his piece on Magna Carta and legal aid. I may only have met him saturday, but I really look forward to getting to know dan and picking his brains on all kinds of legal matters.

We just got in from one of those lovely little afternoons of coffee and chat. On saturday, Sharon asked me at the wheelchair football if I wanted to meet today in the park. Naturally I accepted her invitation. That place has now very much become my first port of call for my social life: If I want to meet my friends somewhere, the cafe in the park is the first place I suggest. Today I spent a veery pleasant couple of hours there, alone at first, but then joined by Sharon, and then Lyn.

It was good to see her, and I think she was as appreciative of the brew as I was. We seem to share political views, so it was good to get her perspective on this and that. She seems to be as pessimistic (read: objective) as most reasonably well-informed people these days. We agreed that the outlook for the world right now seems rather bleak. Nevertheless, it was quite a cheerful chat, full of laughter and friendship.

When it was over, Lyn and I, both in our powerchairs, went to do a bit of shopping and then rolled back through the park. The city seemed at peace. I am so lucky to live the life I do, full of so many good friends and wonderful people. Afternoons like this make me feel warm and secure. Politics might be screwy right now, but it’s nothing that a good chat over a cup of coffee can’t put right.