It occurred to me recently that I still don’t really know London. Of course, having been trundling around the Borough of Greenwich for over a decade, I now know it quite well; I also go up to Stratford fairly often, so I know that area too. Yet as for London proper – the centre of this dense, sprawling microcosm – that is still as unfamiliar to me as some distant, far away land. Looking at the map though, it seems so enticing: names like Paddington, Marble Arch and Baker Street seem to evoke a place which I feel I should know by now. I am, after all, a Londoner, so in a way I want to know my way around it as well as other Londoners do.

The problem is, it’s just so vast, where can I even begin to explore it? It’s not as simple as hopping on the Tube, heading up into the centre of town and having a look around: how would I get home, for one? And what if I got lost, or ran out of powerchair battery? The city is so big, there will always be more of it to explore, so I can never know it entirely anyway.

Even so, London is still a place which fascinates me. I have fallen in love with it, and it entices me to follow all of it’s streets and paths to see what I might find. If London is indeed a microcosm – a cosmos made small, a world brought into one spot – then who could ever resist going and exploring it?

I think I broadly agree with what this guy has to say about John Cleese’s upcoming documentary series on so-called cancel culture. Those who are now so critical of what until recently was called political correctness do so out of a reluctance to accept change and difference: they’re not defending everyone’s right to free speech as much as their personal right to be intolerant. Mind you, I think it would be a good idea to watch Cleese’s programs first, before casting too much judgement.

Far be it for me to make fun of someone’s death, but if you want a new definition of irony, just read this. ”A prominent anti-mask leader in Texas has died from complications caused by Covid-19….Mr Wallace had created the San Angelo Freedom Defenders, a group who sought to end what it labelled “Covid-19 tyranny,” according to a YouTube video.” I defy anyone not to at least chuckle, or raise an ironic eyebrow, at that.

I hate Sky. BskyB strikes me as a disgustingly cynical, manipulative broadcaster, charging it’s customers an extortionate amount for every moment of it’s second or third-rate airtime while still forcing adverts upon them every quarter of an hour. The irony is, when I was nine or ten, I practically begged my parents to get a subscription so I could watch American Wrestling, but these days I think I’d rather get a lobotomy.

The fact remains, though, that the only way you can watch the cricket is via Sky. The third England vs. India test match was really getting interesting yesterday, so yesterday afternoon I decided to see if I could go out and catch a bit of it. First I tried the big screen in Woolwich’s General Gordon Square, with no luck – there was another event happening there. Then I tried in two or three of the pubs around Woolwich to see whether any of them were screening it, again with no luck. I eventually had to go all the way to Charlton to find the test being shown at the Royal Oak – a nice little place I used to visit quite frequently, seven or eight years ago. I stayed there for an hour or so, becoming increasingly frustrated at the lack of wickets, before getting the bus home.

Today, however, I had a much better idea: blackheath cricket club has a wonderful ground on Charlton Road with a nice, well equipped pavilion. I’ve been there a few times. Reasoning that there would be a good chance they’d be screening the test match, I trundled over there this morning after breakfast. I was greeted with quite a splendid sight: there was a live match being played on the 130-year-old pitch. Heading into the pavilion though, I finally found what I was looking for; and, more to the point, England had started to take the wickets they should have taken yesterday afternoon.

It didn’t take long for the match to end. I was barely there an hour, watching England get the last four wickets they needed to beat India by an innings. It was a great morning, but I felt guilty about watching blackheath cricket club’s televisions without paying them anything – I’d already had plenty of coffee, and it was much too early for anything harder. Yet the fact remains international sport like this test should be on terrestrial tv where everyone can watch it; I shouldn’t need to go on such hunts. We shouldn’t have to put up with Sky exploiting it’s viewers, making them pay ridiculous amounts for what struck me earlier as a mediocre service interrupted by adverts every few minutes.

I was just watching the evening news, and the BBC is now admitting that shops across the country are now facing significant food shortages, caused at least in part by Brexit. While I haven’t noticed any lack of food in my local shops here in London, I’ve been coming across such reports online for a while. Now the UK has left the EU, we are facing a huge shortage of lorry drivers: goods simply aren’t getting where they need to go. What concerns me is, as the consequences of leaving the EU become clearer and clearer, this will just be the tip of the iceberg.

I think I better clarify, as it has now been brought up a couple of times, that I don’t think anybody should be allowed to drown. To be honest I thought up the title of yesterday’s blog entry on the spur of the moment: I was struggling to decide what to call it, and thought it sounded suitably rock and roll and Nirvana-esque to call it what I did. Obviously letting babies actually drown is unthinkable, but so is refusing to put out roofs which have caught fire.

Apparently, some wanker in America is now trying to exploit the fact that the image of him as an unclothed baby was used on the cover of one of the most iconic albums in music history to make a quick fortune. The beeb reports, “Spencer Elden, the man who was photographed as a baby on the album cover for Nirvana’s Nevermind, is suing the band alleging sexual exploitation.” Sorry, but this kind of thing irritates me: it strikes me as opportunistic and cynical. Elden has obviously realised that Nevermind was one of the most successful albums in history and is trying to claim some of the monetary credit for himself, despite having made no real contribution to it. He claims to have somehow been exploited sexually, and that he “has suffered and will continue to suffer lifelong damages”, but I find that absurd. For one, how can any thirty year old man be recognised from a photo of themselves as a baby, and an underwater one at that? Moreover, given this tosser has previously repeatedly referenced this image for his own art, attempting to recreate it as an older man (but obviously not having received the attention he wanted) it was clearly not that hurtful. It was only through a stroke of pure luck that that image was used, so if anything Elden should be grateful to have been a part of such a major piece of cultural history, not trying to exploit it by suing all the remaining Nirvana band members for $150,000 each. Sorry, but it irritates me when opportunistic wankers like this try to make such a fuss about things they have no right to.

To be honest I’m at a bit of a loss about what to say about the Tokyo Paralympic Opening Ceremony. While there were one or two details which caught my eye and which I now want to find out more about, such as the Japanese Para-Ensemble (I’ve forgotten their actual title, but it was basically a Japanese paraorchestra) there wasn’t that much to get my teeth into. As with Tokyo’s olympic opening ceremony, it was very paired down and low key. To be honest I didn’t really get all that stuff about the aeroplane with one wing: I found it childish, saccharine and predictable. The inclusion of so many actors and musicians with disabilities, some obviously fairly profound, was probably the most noteworthy, praiseworthy aspect, but apart from that, there isn’t that much I feel I want to say about it. Mind you, I’m more enthusiastic to see how Beth Moulam, a young woman who I know from 1Voice, does in the Boccia tournament. Let’s wish her luck.

Absolutely nothing happened yesterday, I don’t have anything to report. I did not go for a nice, long exploratory walk up to Stratford; I did not start to explore the narrow back streets north of the olympic park. I didn’t begin to hear some very loud dance music, and following my ears, happen upon a street party of about twenty young people. I did not watch for a while before giving in to temptation and introducing myself. I did not then decide to go buy a few beers at a nearby off license, before spending the rest of the afternoon dancing and making friends (while being careful with my wallet etc.) I did not then get a taxi back at around six, my new mates having kindly payed the fare, very tired yet thrilled at having spent a wonderful afternoon letting my hair down.

No, no, no, that didn’t happen at all. These days it would have been silly if it did. Perish the thought! No need for my parents or anyone else to worry…

I realise this is hardly blogworthy, but today I heard that the next Bond film, No Time To Die, will at last premiere on 28th September. I’ve been waiting so long to watch this film that I had almost given up on it, but hopefully now I’ll be able to see it sometime this autumn. Mind you, I still expect it to suck: as Daniel Craig’s final film in the role, there simply isn’t the motivation to do a good job that there was with films like Casino Royale and Skyfall. Rather, the producers will already be looking ahead to casting a new actor and giving the franchise a fresh start. There is, of course, already a huge amount of speculation online about who will play 007 next. That aside, I’m still really looking forward to watching No Time To Die – good or bad, I think we could all do with a bit of James Bond escapism right now.

Three or four times over the last few months, I’ve had some trouble from some local school kids: two or three boys, who can’t be more than fifteen, see me coming along the road and think it’s funny to try to wind me up. They call me names and mock me, which inevitably gets me going. I know I should try to ignore it, and that responding in any way will only encourage them, but it pisses me off that these snot-nosed kids think they have a right to make fun of me after all I have achieved. As I once wrote here, I feel very proud of myself and my disabled friends, and don’t see why I should be the object of some child’s mockery. What frustrates me even more, though, is that when I start to turn on my communication aid to try to talk to the boys civilly, they refuse to listen.

As I said, this has happened a few times from the same set of kids; the last time was a couple of weeks ago. Today, however, I was just heading up to Eltham when I saw a set of boys coming the other way, and I noticed myself automatically tense up and prepare for trouble. I wasn’t sure they were the same boys I got the flack from, but it was as if some switch inside me had been flipped: I felt my adrenalin start to flow and I started to feel angry.

In the end, of course, the boys just passed me without a word – they obviously weren’t the ones who had given me trouble. Thinking about it afterwards, though, it struck me as odd: why should just the sight of these young men have caused such a reaction in me? Why do I let it get to me like that, or why should I have reached a point where the sight of three boys caused such a reaction? Why did I assume I’d have trouble from a set of lads who, in the end, proved harmless?

For the first time in quite a while, I have a ‘what I did last night’ entry to write. Yesterday evening saw the first physical Charlton and Woolwich Free Film Festival meeting in well over two years. During the pandemic, we had been meeting over zoom of course, but last night was the first time the organisation comittee had actually got together in ages. The festival was cancelled last year, of course, so it felt great to meet up with those guys again. We met in the Bugle Horn in Charlton at about half seven, so I caught the bus there after dinner. Until now, plans for this year’s festival had taken place over email or zoom, so last night was just about finalising the arrangements for the screenings in September. My contribution this year will be a showing of Crip Camp, and I’m pleased to report that preparations for it seem to be going nicely. I’m pleased to report too that, despite the meeting taking place in a pub, I managed to stay off the booze, and was able to have a nice stroll home in my chair, getting in just after ten, having had a much overdue taste of normality.

This morning I went for a walk. It was just one of my usual little trundles over to Charlton, where I was hoping to speak to a couple of people about organisations for the film festival. It was just a typical morning for me in this vast, vibrant city. Yet I can’t help wondering, what if I wasn’t in London but Kabul today? I presume that there are just as many disabled people in Afghanistan as there are anywhere else. Here I am, living independently in one of the world’s great cities, receiving all the support I need and free to trundle in my powerchair. But what would life be like for me in Afghanistan, under a regime as oppressive as the Taliban? Would I be getting the support I need to live? What about the equipment?

Since the Taliban were deposed, living standards in Afghanistan had started to be brought into line with other modern states, and I presume that included rights and support for those of us with disabilities. With the religious nutters back in power, I fear that any such progress now stands to be stripped away. We know that the Taliban persecute disabled people, viewing us as useless and using us for suicide bombings. Whatever the rights and wrongs were of going into Afghanistan in the first place, having spent twenty years helping it develop, hopefully into a modern, functioning democracy, surely we can’t now just abandon it.

I know this sort of entry is slightly lazy blogging, but I really couldn’t put it better:

I know that war must always be avoided, and that violence is nothing to be relished, but I really think the US and UK must now go back into Afghanistan. I’m no military analyst, of course, but looking at the pictures we’re receiving, and knowing what we know about the Taliban, surely we can’t abandon the country to that bunch of religious nutcases. We can debate whether America and it’s allies were right to pull out of Afghanistan in the first place all we want (and I note that Trump is now trying to pin the blame for the current situation on Biden, when it was he who initiated the withdrawal to begin with), but the fact remains, surely we can’t let the country be dragged back to how it was. Surely we can’t let these men re-impose their medieval views, robbing women and girls of their rights, beheading anybody who questions them. I’m not saying I know the answer – another full-scale invasion would obviously be absurd. Yet surely we bear some responsibility for what happens there, having invaded twenty years ago. Afghanistan has a right to flourish and prosper like every other country, not get dragged back into a religious dark age.

I’ve written on here before about how I view religion as a negative, oppressive force which ought to be done away with. In the case of christianity, pastors and preachers use a set of bronze age myths, combined with a promise of a pleasant afterlife, to endow theirselves with a form of unearned political and social authority: “Listen to me and you’ll go to heaven.” Last night we had news of the most horrific mass shooting in years. This morning, however, I saw various religious figures inviting people to find solace over the atrocity in religion: they were insisting that we “pray for the victims” and that we must all “have faith”. To be honest, I found reading that nothing less than sickening. They ask us to find comfort in a god which, if he existed, would presumably have the power to stop such horror. Leaving such irrefutable logic aside, however, these religious figures were effectively trying to use last night’s tragedy to reinforce their social authority. I must say I find that very perverse indeed. If nobody believed the fairy tales they tell us, these bishops etc would be of no higher status than anyone else, much less get invited onto breakfast news or sit in the House of Lords. They therefore have a vested interest in insisting that we all believe in a god which cannot possibly exist, and in using horrific events like yesterday’s as a means to reinforce our social indoctrination. Note how quickly these religious figures jumped at the opportunity to use this shooting to their own ends? Does anyone else find that disturbing?

I’m still a big fan of The Cat Empire. If you want to listen to one of their newest tracks, uploaded to Youtube just a few hours ago, check this out. I don’t know why, but something about their music always puts me in the mood for a party.

I have just come across something very interesting indeed, to me at least. I still have an odd interest in the Olympics, and the ceremonies in particular. It fascinates me how each city in turn uses such ceremonies to show itself off to the world. This probably stems, in part, from my love of travelling and exploring different places and cultures, as well as from my interest in Walter Benjamin from a cultural studies perspective. I like how in a way these ceremonies can be read as artistic texts, like plays, books or films, but on a far greater, international scale, with cities, countries and governments spending fortunes on finding their own way to present their selfs to the rest of the world.

This morning I began to wonder how Paris was doing in it’s preparations for it’s opening ceremony in three years’ time, so naturally I googled it, and came across this. Fascinatingly, our Parisian friends have decided to adopt a completely new format for the show, not just confined to one stadium as previous opening and closing ceremonies have been, but performed throughout the city. I think that’s a very interesting development indeed, and there is a lot you can read into it.

The french, being french, obviously take a lot of pride in their capital; they are bouncing at the opportunity to show it off to the world. It is indeed an extremely beautiful city. By taking the ceremony out of the stadium, they are making the city itself the focus of the event. Of course, London 2012’s opening ceremony had two or three films which cut away from the stadium, most notably my favourite; yet most of the action centred around the stadium up in Stratford. I get the impression that what paris is planning is on a far greater scale. The focus of the event will not just be one place, one stadium, but encompass the city so that Paris itself becomes the stage. I get the impression that what is being planned there is a complete departure from anything we have seen before, designed to put an entire city on display as far as possible. The event will take place across the city, so that the audience get a taste for it’s culture, architecture and history. I must say that the prospect of that, done over a city as aesthetically gorgeous as Paris, intrigues me, (although they’ll really have to pull the stops out to beat 007 meeting the Queen).

Needless to say, this was provoked by my experiences today, but has been brewing in my mind for some time.

Today I would just like to reiterate what I wrote on this day last year here. It’s my brother Mark’s birthday again. He has asked me not to tell everyone how old he is, so today I’ll just wish him a great day, and say that I’m thinking of him, Kat, my nephew and niece. It has been far too long since I saw Mark and his family (or Luke and Yan, for that matter) in person, and I really hope that, once this covid nightmare is over, we can all get together for a great big family get together. Frankly, I think we could all do with one.

I decided to do a bit of an experiment yesterday, just to see what would happen. I’m still relishing having my blog archive restored, so on facebook I asked my friends to choose random dates over the last decade. I would then see if I could find the blog entry I posted on that date, and pop the link under my friend’s reply on facebook.

I was thrilled to see that it went rather well: I got seven or eight responses, and in all but two I was able to find a corresponding entry. For those I didn’t – well, I have to have some days off – I posted the link to the entry I’d written the day before or after the requested date. I think that’s quite an achievement. After all, there can’t be many other personal blogs which have been updated so regularly for so long (I know other people have more important things to do, such as jobs, but let’s leave that aside for now). Also, in the entries I found, I made the effort to restore any links and pictures which were missing, so it was a way to help with my ongoing archive restoration project.

I take a lot of pride in my blog and keeping it up; I see it as my primary output as a writer. The fact that my experiment went so well thrills me, as it demonstrates that I can keep something up if I put my mind to it. But I’d like to keep it going, just as a way of going back and restoring missing links etc. So, dates please?

I’ve never had much of a liking for golf. If you ask me, it ruins a perfectly good landscape by drilling holes into it and letting men with nothing better to do walk around trying to hit balls into them. Golf balls, on the other hand, can have far better uses. Back at school, my classmates who used powerchairs used to replace the nub of their controllers with a golf ball with a hole drilled into it. This used to make them easier and more comfortable to control. I think Alan, the guy who looked after the chairs at my special school, did the drilling.

Since I started to regularly use powerchairs to get around, of course, I’ve done the same. It certainly feels better on your hand when you’re getting around. The only problem is, the golf ball doesn’t always stay stuck to the bar attaching it to the chair. Mine have a nasty tendency to come loose and fly off. Yesterday, for instance, I was trundling down a nearby hill when my golf ball did just that, and I didn’t see where the bloody thing rolled. I was left to wheel home with a naked control bar – not very comfortable.

Now, the issue is not getting another golf ball – I already have a box full, bought from a local sports store. The problem I now have is finding someone with the right drill to make the right sized hole.

Everyone is probably expecting me a say what I thought of the closing ceremony in Tokyo today, given my fixation with such events. To be honest though, I don’t have much to say about it. It was pretty dul, with no stand out moments or anything to get my juices going. I was so underwhelmed by it that I decided to go for a walk after it, to see whether I could think of something to write about it. I went on one of my favourite routes, into Greenwich Park. There, though, I happened upon something rather cool: a band was playing on the old bandstand, and a rock band at that. They were bashing out the kind of classic rock themes which I sort of have a soft spot for, so I changed course to take a look.

I got there to find about five fairly aged men playing to a small yet growing audience. They weren’t that bad. The only problem was, it was about to chuck it down. After I had heard one song, it began to rain so heavily that I was forced to find shelter. Luckily the event organisers tent was nearby, and they kindly invited me to take cover with them. There, I was able to listen to the band play: while I can’t say they were perfect, it was still a pretty cool thing to find. In a way they reminded me of Lyn, and the kind of music she sometimes used to play. I found myself wondering what she would have said, had she been there. It was the kind of spontaneous musical happening which seemed to happen fairly regularly with L; I couldn’t help imagining her dancing in her powerchair alongside me.

Once the torrent had stopped, I went back out to the front so I could listen to and watch the group properly. I soon found myself in for a bit of a treat: they were skilfully playing the kind of rock classics i love, including Sweet Home Alabama about midway through their set – a song which never fails to get me dancing.

I stayed till the end of the show, the rain luckily not returning, before getting the bus back, classic rock anthems by the likes of Deep Purple thumping through my head. London had done it again: Tokyo may have been slightly underwhelming, but I was still glad to see London still has it’s surprises.

I have fallen into the habit of wearing my Charlton Athletic Football shirt every Saturday. I bought it a few years ago when my cricketing friend James and I were going to a match, and I suppose it helps me blend in to the local community. The thing is, I often forget I’m wearing it, and it has a tendency to cause some reactions – both positive and negative – from people I pass in the street. Today, for instance, I was over in Charlton to buy a couple of things from the chemist there, and random people kept cheering and whooping me. Despite the shirt, I don’t pay much attention to football, so I couldn’t tell you who Charlton are playing, how they are doing or whatever; yet people seem to assume I know, as if I’m a member of a club. Once or twice in the past I’ve been shouted at just for wearing the shirt, and it has taken me a few moments to work out why I’m receiving random abuse: Charlton must have beaten whatever team they supported. On the whole, though, the shirt helps me feel like a real south Londoner, although I have to be careful when I go close to Millwall fans.

I have not seen a South Park episode in ages, but used to be into it when it first hit the air. It seemed to push the boundaries of what is acceptable on tv more than any other program. I had assumed it had run it’s course. However, I just came across this on the beeb’s website. It would seem that Kenny, Cartman et al are making quite a comeback. “The creators of the South Park cartoons have signed a $900m (£646m) deal with US media giant ViacomCBS. The agreement will see Trey Parker and Matt Stone make new South Park episodes for the Comedy Central network.” It remains to be seen, of course, whether the new episodes are worth watching, especially since it just became pointlessly crass towards the end of it’s original run. But with six new seasons and fourteen films in the works, this must be something to look forward to, particularly given the amount of money going into it. Besides, I think we could all do with some juvenile obscenity these days.

Today was one of those awful, farcical days which part of me just wants to forget, but is probably worth blogging about. I think I’ve mentioned here before that I use my iPad as my communication aid. As such I have turned the passcode off, just to speed up access. This morning, though, for some reason my iPad kept asking me to set up a new access code, which required me to input a phone number. I don’t have a phone, so I asked Serkan if I could use his.  He kindly said yes, so I tapped it in.

We waited a bit, but no code came. I tried a couple of times without luck. The time came for Serkan to go, I still couldn’t access my iPad. By then I was becoming a combination of annoyed and worried: without access to my iPad I wouldn’t be able to communicate with anyone outside, and I had one or two chores I needed to do. Like any communication aid user, I need my Ipad to function as a normal citizen.

For the time being, though, I left it and got on with other things – such issues always sorted themselves out in the end. But as the day went on I began to fret: I needed my Ipad to function in order to live properly. I tried to fix it over Facebook messenger with Serkan using my desktop with no luck. By around mid afternoon I was getting very annoyed – nothing I had tried had worked – so I decided to head up to the Apple store in Stratford to see if the guys there could help.

Needless to say, by the time I got there I wasn’t in the best of moods: On the way some teenage girls had thought it funny to try to wind me up. And then there was the question of how I was going to explain my issue to the people in the apple store if I couldn’t communicate. Yet if my friendships with people like Lyn have taught me anything, it is that perseverance and patience is key.

I now know the Westfield centre quite well, so I was able to make straight for the apple store. There, I was assigned a friendly young guy to help me. Using short words and gestures, I managed to show him what the problem was. At first, however, we got nowhere: we needed a phone number which I couldn’t remember, but which I knew was listed on my ipad – which I couldn’t access. We were going in circles and I was beginning to despair; the guy told me there was nothing he could do.

Suddenly, though, he had an idea. Asking my permission to touch my Ipad, he began to press ‘back’ on the screen to the point where I had apparently opted to update my security settings, although I don’t remember doing so. He then told the Ipad not to update, and it was at once back to how it was and fully accessible.

I was so happy I could have hugged the fellow, and told him so using my newly restored speech app. It was such a relief! Mind you, I was slightly embarrassed not to have thought of it myself – so much fretting over something so simple in the end. Nonetheless, I boarded the tube home very happy and relieved indeed, in stark contrast to the dire mood I had been in just half an hour before. Once again I had encountered a problem and managed to get it sorted. I suppose the key is not to lose patience, and always pay attention to which buttons I’m pressing on my Ipad.

I just came across this short but very interesting video arguing that the 2036 Olympic games should be held somewhere in Africa. Now that the world’s biggest sporting (and cultural) event has been held on every other continent at least once, with Europe and North America dominating, it’s time for a city in Africa to have it’s turn in the global spotlight. I must say I wholeheartedly agree: more than anything to do with sport, for me, the olympics are about bringing the world together in one big party every four years. It’s like a huge party which travels the world, allowing humanity to show itself off, city by city. If that is true, then surely it’s time that somewhere in Africa hosted the games.

The obvious question is, where? I’m no geographer, and can’t possibly say which city in Africa would be best placed to host the games. Perhaps I’m resorting to stereotype, but I kind of assume many places there aren’t as well off as cities in Europe (a consequence of colonialism). Nonetheless, it would still be wonderful to see an olympics in Africa (the opening and closing ceremonies would probably be fascinating) and they could give the selected city and country a boost. Thus I think this is a great idea. While I still hope to see an olympics up in Manchester one day, I think raising cities and states on africa to the level of any other continent, so that they are just as capable of hosting events like the olympics, is a goal we should be working towards.

Today I decided to carry out a bit of an experiment which I had been mulling over for a few days: given that I have now been blogging for so long, could I find out my average wordcount per entry? If I took a set of entries made on a given date, would it tell me roughly how much I write on average per entry? I know my blog entries aren’t that long, but I take pride in the fact that I’ve now kept my blog updated so regularly for almost two decades.

With that in mind then, I took today’s date (as good as any) and copied all the entries I had made on that date between 2010 and 2020 into a Word document. I then did a wordcount and divided it by ten. There were only nine entries, though, as I didn’t post an entry on 3 august 2012. Also, the entry for 2020 was a picture, with only a few words. Nonetheless, I got a grand total of 1666 words, giving an average per entry of 166.6. I’m quite pleased with that: although my entries are often fairly brief, I always try to write more than a hundred words, just to keep things moderately healthy. Now I have confirmed that I do, I think I can go on taking pride in my blog. After all, there can’t be many other personal blogs which are long enough lived that you can conduct such experiments on.

I’ve written on here many times about the profound effect university had on me. At uni, I was able to gain the confidence, both academically and personally, to eventually move down to Live in London with Lyn and then live here on my own. As with so many people, uni made me who I am. Of course, I needed a lot of support to go to uni, support which basically stemmed from Tony Blair’s push in the mid noughties to get half of young people to go to university. A lot of resources went into that push; resources which are now drying up very quickly under the Tories. I wrote a few months ago about how I doubt I could have gone to university these days.

I read earlier that Tory MP Andrew Bridgen is now claiming that the push for so many people to go to university fifteen years or so ago has caused the HGV Driver shortage we are now seeing. He claims that, now so many people have degrees, there aren’t enough people left to drive lorries. I have never heard anything more sickeningly stupid in my life. Of course, everyone knows that the real reason for the shortage is partly the pandemic, but mostly Brexit. Yet it’s obvious that Bridgen is making these obnoxious claims in order to justify Tory cuts to higher education: they have always hated the idea of so many people going to university, preferring for it to be the reserve of rich people, like them. That way, poor people can be kept ignorant and in their place, and their authority would be left unchallenged.

The fact that Bridgen is trying to blame the shortages we are now seeing on something Labour instigated twenty years ago, at the same time as trying to justify depriving so many people of the access to higher education they otherwise might have had, tells us all we need to know about the bunch of lying toffs now running the country.

I think I had been needing something like yesterday to happen for quite some time. A week or so ago, my old university friend Charlotte invited me to join her and her family in Crystal Palace Park to celebrate her sister Poppy’s thirtieth birthday. Crystal Palace is only a short bus ride away, so naturally I jumped at the idea; it had been far, far too long since I had seen any of those guys. After such a bleak year and a half, a bit of socialising was just what I needed.

Yesterday, then, after stopping to buy a present and card, Serkan and I set off on the 122 to Crystal Palace. It’s quite a large park, and the paths aren’t very well maintained, so it was a bit of a job to find them. C had told me exactly where they would be, but nonetheless I was just beginning to fret when I suddenly heard a familiar voice cry out ”Matt!” I looked around to see Poppy beckoning me over to a large gathering of people, and then I knew I was among friends.

What followed was a lovely afternoon of music, dancing and chatting. Serkan stayed for a bit, helping me pop to a nearby Tesco to buy some beer and then taking the obligatory group photo, before taking his leave. I was then left to catch up with old, dear friends: Charlie is still the dizzyingly exuberant person I remember from uni; Hugh and Jodie were there, caring for their young son, Jodie still being wonderfully colourful and sporting an exotic head dress; Mr. and Mrs. J were there, looking well. Poppy herself apparently no longer works in Kidbrooke, but had found a teaching job elsewhere. It felt fantastic to see them all, even if we needed to dodge the occasional shower.

Charlotte and I had a brief walk around the park, by which time it was almost time to head home. The day ended all too soon. As I said, it had been far too long since I had seen those guys. Nonetheless, we resolved to meet up again before long, and C and I began to make a few hazy, long-term plans. At that I made my way back up the hill to the bus stop, feeling like the light at the end of a long, dark tunnel had just come a bit closer.