I know I shouldn’t make too light of drinking, but this just seemed too apt  for me not to nick

(not that I now see myself as an old woman…)

As a tribute to the great Neil Inness, the so-called seventh member of Monty Python who passed away yesterday, and who wrote so many brilliantly witty songs, I’d just like to direct everyone here.

Dad just left to return to my Grandmother’s place in Harlesden after dropping me off here in Eltham. Suffice to say, the journey back too the capital was far easier than the train trip up to cheshire.  I’ve had a  lovely few days with my parents, and have two new franchises to get into: the Orville, Seth  MacFarlane’s comedic tribute to Star Trek, and Gavin And Stacey,  both of which my parents and I binge watched over christmas. Having got back to my computer, however, I can see from my Facebook feed that all the problems which were there before christmas haven’t gone away; in fact they’re worse than ever. The queen’s speech obviously did nothing to soothe the social divisions  opened up by Brexit; what concerns me is that, the way things are going, public discourse will hit an all time low in the new year. Of course we  should never stop resisting Brexit as vigorously as possible, yet with so much rage and hate about, you have to wonder where all  this is going.

Fao Iain Duncan-Smith

I just had a haircut. To be honest I needed it, as it had been months since my last trim. The weird thing was, though, it was like stepping back in time: dad and I just had another walk down into congleton and we were passing John’s barbers, the same barber shop my brothers and I always went to when we were growing up. Dad suggested going in, and I said yes. It looked different, so I at first assumed it had changed owners, but no: going in, it was just as it always had been. The uncanny thing was, though, I was recognised by the same guy who used to cut my hair. For a moment it was like the last ten years had never happened: Lyn, London, all the incredible things I’ve seen and done over the last decade. I wanted to tell his about my new metropolitan life, but there was no time so I just let it be. But it seemed strange to step back briefly into a life I thought I’d left behind long ago.

Only a complete moron could have missed the irony in the queen’s speech this afternoon. As many had predicted, the theme this year was reconciliation between old enemies, but one of the examples she used was the reconciliation of European nations after the Second World War. That’s literally claiming to promote peace between two groups, one of whom wants to destroy the very institution designed to ensure peace. I’m sorry to say that, for all the queen’s nice platitudes, those of us who oppose Brexit cannot be reconciled to it by a few nice words.

It’s Christmas Eve and I’m afraid to say I have a cold. I haven’t had one in months, even years, but I’m currently all snotted up. I must say, though, I don’t feel that bad for it: my nose may be running, but I have all the warmth and comfort of the house I grew up in. This will be my first Christmas here in nine or ten, and although I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss lyn, something about being here feels right. Mums downstairs in the kitchen, just as she always used to be; dad’s doing various things around the house. Apart from my brothers not being here, it’s rather like the Christmases of my childhood. After a year of so much change, cold or no cold, this is probably exactly what I needed.

When I moved in with Lyn, I started using her plastic tubing for straws. She had been using hard plastic pipes to drink through for years, but until then I had used conventional disposable drinking straws. After that, of course, I was converted and have been using washable reusable straws ever since. They were durable and reusable so I could carry them with me in case I wanted a drink while I was out and about, but much kinder on the mouth than the metal straws apparently now given to people who have Parkinson’s.

Well, yesterday marked a bit of a straw related milestone. When I came up to visit my parents I forgot to pack my straws, so I simply asked mum to order a roll online. They arrived yesterday, so I suppose I am now fully converted. Just another small way life with Lyn has changed me forever.

Dad and I took a walk down Into congleton town centre this morning. As I said yesterday, I couldn’t bring my powerchair up, so Dad pushed me in my manual. I don’t think I had been into congleton town centre for over ten years, since moving to London, and I must say it was quite a trip down memory lane. At one and the same time,  it was pretty much as I remembered it from my childhood, yet also very different.  The street layout is much the same, of course, but the place is slowly losing its life. For example I remember the town market being a bustling, vibrant place, especially on a Saturday morning, yet today it seemed half empty. I couldn’t resist mentally comparing it to what I’m now used to down in London: you can hardly move for people in, say, woolwich or Stratford markets at that time on a Saturday.

Sometimes there is only one remedy for getting more and more frustrated with the way things are going in the world, and that’s to pay a visit to the house you grew up in. I’m up visiting my parents for a few days. I came up by train yesterday, but suffice to say it was quite an arduous trip. Let’s put it this way: that’s the last time I rely on TFL staff to push me, in my manual chair, between tube and train.  Mind you I’m now quite relieved I did it yesterday as, judging by the new, the trip would have been even more difficult today. At least I’m here now, although I think I have to avoid watching the news on the big family tv. I’ve only been here half a day and I think my parents are already starting to worry about how furious I get whenever I see anything about Brexit.

I think I’ve written on here before about how much I’m looking forward to Star Trek Picard hitting the ether: in february 2012 I was full of anticipatory glee when I got wind that James Bond would appear in the London olympic opening ceremony; and equally excited when I heard, in 2014, that the Monty Python guys were reuniting to perform again. The return of my favourite Starfleet captain, however, probably has me even more excited. This is Jean-Luc Picard, after all: probably my favourite character in all fiction; the character I wrote so much about in my Masters, and who we all assumed Patrick Stewart had long since put to rest. As awesome as Happy And Glorious and Monty Python Live 2014 both were, I think Star Trek Picard trumps both in the anticipation stakes.

Yet it occurs to me that there are differences in the circumstances this time. For starters, the olympic opening ceremony and Monty Python Live were both stand alone, one-off events: both lasted two or three hours, and were then over. They were singular events, whereas Picard will be a series of multiple episodes. This gives it a phenomenological difference. We could predict that Monty Python live would be a re-performing of the old classic sketches, and that Bond’s meeting with the queen would likely be a brief film which wouldn’t have much of a relationship to the Bond franchise proper. Both were a matter of an evening. In the case of picard, however, instead of a single event there is an entire series of programs to look forward to; possibly several seasons which we’ll be able to watch multiple times: a hell of a lot more to get into, go over and analyse.

That also means, of course, that there is much more room for something to go wrong. The possibility that Picard could fail to live up to our expectations is what worries me, and my eagerness is tinged with concern. While I was slightly cautious about getting overexcited upon hearing about the previous two, this time I can’t help but fret that disappointment is almost inevitable. Star Trek The Next Generation will always be a part of my childhood; I’ll forever associate it with Wednesday nights and lovie.

The problem is, from the look of the trailers, the new series will be very different: the Captain, no longer a captain but an admiral, has apparently left Starfleet and seems to be set to appear as some kind of renegade. Now, if Star Trek Picard was a single, two hour film, they could get away with it. Films are stand alone in nature, so fans could more easily forgive any veering from the character we grew up with. It would be a singular event like Monty Python Live. A series, however, unfolds over several episodes and possibly seasons, making it more prone to criticism and error. Thus as much as I liken my enthusiasm to watch Star Trek Picard to my anticipation for the olympic opening ceremony and Monty Python Live, this time I also feel much more skeptical.

I’ve had quite a day: first to welling for a new powerchair charger, then to Peckham to meet J for a spot of culture and then dinner. I spent several hours on busses, switching between this one and that. Getting around this city requires time, yet a kind of intricate specialist knowledge one only acquires after a few years living here. A unique form of knowledge concerning not just which busses and trains go where, but which paths to walk down and where to by what; a knowledge that can’t be expressed in words. After a while it starts to feel like the world is the city, and the city is the entire world. It makes me wonder, are other cities like this? Are other cities this intricate and labyrinthine? Do other cities require that form of special knowledge, or is London itself special?

Given the vast majority of people under 45 apparently voted Labour, I’m sure this echoes the feelings of young people up and  down the country.

With a  Second Scottish independence referendum now firmly  back on the cards and an Irish Unity referendum seemingly gaining traction,  it seems we are witnessing the end of the UK, brought about by Brexit. What an apt legacy that would be for the tories: Their lies, stupidity and arrogance have destroyed the country. They claim to be nationalists and patriots, but have treated the uk and  it’s people with utter, utter contempt. Surely these scumbags shouldn’t be anywhere near government.  Mind you, the fact that so many people voted for the SNP in Scotland when they might have voted for Labour probably helped to hand the Tories victory, so they share the responsibility for putting the whole country in this mess.

I just got to my computer and saw the election result. I was very apprehensive: I didn’t blog yesterday because I was so nervous, despite  watching a very interesting Korean film, Parasite, at the Barbican on Wednesday, However, now I’ve seen the  result I am absolutely furious. How can the people of this country be so fucking stupid? Do they not see the Tories for the bunch of selfish, self-centred arrogant scumbags they are? Or that we can now kiss goodbye to the  NHS, which they’ll now flog to the americans? The last decade has demonstrated beyond doubt how inept and heartless the tories  are; surely something has to be done before these insults to humanity are allowed to govern for five more years.

This is my first christmas living in my own place, and part of me keeps thinking I should put a tree and decorations up. But another, more grumpy part of me says that would be hypocritical: if religion is just a form of social control, wouldn’t decorating my new place just be  submitting to that unearned authority? On the one hand, the place looks  sparse and unfestive; on the other, I don’t  see the point of celebrating an ancient Pagan fertility festival commandeered by christianity and used to authorise, among other things, sexism, homophobia and racism. If I really  believe we should be outgrowing religion why should I decorate? And isn’t the feeling of melancholy  I get at that thought   not exactly what the clergy would want me to feel?

The intolerant xenophobic arseholes clearly exposed in  this Channel Four news story  last night surely have no place anywhere near the uk parliament. It staggers me how we, as a nation, can even be contemplating electing such vile people into our government. It staggers me even further that Nigel Farage has the audacity to then try to tell the  country that the bunch of violent criminals he calls his political party is open and tolerant, and not the breeding ground of xenophobia it was just shown to be. Yet here we are: in two days’ time these uneducated hatemongers have a chance of being elected and getting  their judgemental views enacted, all to appease the ego of a lying insult  to humanity. Farage apparently thinks himself superior  and born to rule, when in fact he is as qualified to govern as a housebrick and ought to be rotting in jail; he is a snakeoil salesman who would have the most sickening form of bigotry-tinged capitalism imposed upon this country. What scares me is the fact that  we have reached this dire point in the first place: why don’t we just ignore these people as the bigots they are? Surely as a nation we are better than such  vile, base politics.

Boris Johnson didn’t want anyone to see this picture

Let’s hope he and all tories sees it here, and feels the shame the bastards ought to at bringing the NHS to this point.

Yesterday was another interesting saturday. A couple of days before, my old Onevoice friend Jemima invited me up to Together 2012 in stratford, a film festival about disability. Eager to do some networking, I went. Jemima Hughes is an animator whose short animations are certainly worth checking out. I met Jemima and her mum/PA on the way in to Stratford Town Hall, and, after a short wait, was treated to a fascinating montage of short films. The first series was themed around the sea, before it broadened out:  most were fairly postmodern. Jemima was then presented with an award for her fabulous short film about AAC. I didn’t stay for the whole afternoon as I was eager to get back to Eltham before it got too late, but what I saw was a clear demonstration that disability film – films made by people with disabilities about disability – is flourishing. More to the point, it made me eager to make a film to enter next  year’s festival.

I should probably try to comment on last night’s  tv election  debate today, but I don’t think I can say much about it. While you can read a proper analysis of it here, all I  can really say about is that it was hideous. The amount of utter bullshit Johnson spouted made me shout at my computer so much that I almost gave myself a heart attack. What he  said  was so obviously untrue, repeating jingoistic nonsense ad nausiem, that it baffles me how the country can  even be contemplating electing this embarrassment to humanity or his party. Unfortunately I don’t think Corbyn did anywhere  near enough to call him up on it.

And if he really thinks that  getting Brexit done will  somehow heal the social divisions of the last three years, then he has lost all  grasp of reality. That’s the line which infuriates me most. He pretends he cares how angry people have got, yet tries to  tell us that carrying out the very thing we are pissed off about, which just happens to be  what he has wanted  all along, would somehow make us less angry. Just how stupid does this man think we are?

I don’t mind recording that I’ve already voted: I  posted my ballot paper yesterday. I find voting  by post far easier than going to a polling station, and it’s also good to get it over and done  with. This means I no longer have to pay any attention to  anything any politician says; not that it would have made much difference anyway, as my mind was made up anyway. Mind you, political junkie that I am, I’ll probably still watch the news, and inevitably start shouting at the screen whenever a scumbag like Farage, Johnson  or  Gove starts lying their worthless heads off. At least  now I don’t have to worry  about somehow failing to do my bit to stop them and their sickening, evil schemes.

While  I’m sure there will already be millions of fanboys across the internet reading every last clue  they can into it, I think I’ll simply direct everyone here, to the long awaited  trailer for the twenty-fifth Bond film, No Time To Die.  I still suspect that, as Craig’s final outing as 007, there will be no real incentive to do a good job  with this film, especially given all the trouble there was during it’s production; but I suppose we’ll have to wait till April to see if I’m right. Never judge a film by it’s trailer, after all.

We’ve heard things like this before, coming out of the BBC: as part of the international day for people with disabilities, it is now promising to increase it’s on-screen representation  of people with disabilities. To be fair, while I have noticed a few more disabled people  on the box, it is still nowhere near enough: a few more wheelchair users here and there, but  sill no real portrayals of what life is like for people like me. Where are the communication aid users? Where are the guys with Muscular Dystrophy?

As the article points out, one in five people have a disability, yet we get nowhere near that level of representation on television, or indeed across the media. I’ve been saying this for years, since I first started blogging: increased media representation, as well as accurate portrayal of people with disabilities is one of the most effective ways of breaking down the barriers ‘we’ face. Being disabled, having a disability of whatever kind, still has a social stigma associated with it; equal  and accurate portrayal in the media is one of the chief ways of breaking that stigma down. Thus, while this announcement from the BBC is to be welcomed, given we’ve heard such announcements before yet seen so little actual progress, it’s a case of “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

I might have gone back to drinking the occasional beer, but I know I need to be sensible,  which includes staying well clear of the drinking game described here. ”Thousands of British have been admitted to hospital with alcohol poisoning after playing a popular drinking game about Boris Johnson. The game, entitled ‘Drink When Boris Lies‘ has been sweeping the nation in the last few months, and it’s taken its toll on even the alcohol-obsessed Brits.’ That sounds a very dangerous game indeed, especially given virtually every sentence coming out of the scumbag’s mouth has been proven to be a lie. I think it’s best not to play it; or, better yet, just don’t listen to Johnson speak.

Yesterday was another long, fascinating day with John. He messaged me at about noon, quite out of the  blue, proposing we  go up to  a  Palestinian film festival at SOAS. I said ‘why not’, and he suggested we meet at Waterloo  bridge at two. I headed up there (I’m now getting more and more confident about whizzing around the capital on my  own) but,  due to J not specifying which side of  the bridge we were going to meet on, it wasn’t until about three that we actually found one another.

Nonetheless, what followed was a fascinating afternoon, first popping in on a Masonry exhibition (the society, not the profession), before going up to the University of London, near Russel Square.  The event was a series of short films, played back  to back, about what life is like in Palestine.  As you can imagine most were very powerful indeed, but one which especially caught my  eye and which I now seriously want to watch  again was about a group of Palestinian wheelchair racers in training for the Paralympic games: the problems they were shown to face really put my life into perspective.

It was dark when the film screenings ended, but the day was far from over. John and I then caught a bus to Brick Lane: what a fantastic, funky area that is, full of clothes shops and music. We met a group of J’s skateboarding friends, and spent the evening talking, eating and exploring the area. I certainly want to go up there again soon, perhaps to explore it by  myself; yet the films I had just seen were still in my mind. Here I was in this vibrant, cosmopolitain metropolis, full of the rich variety of human life, while in other parts of the world people rather like myself were dodging bullets struggling to survive. Here, such realities are shown as arthouse films in university lecture theatres on Saturday afternoons, but there they are inescapable.