I have just got back from watching No Time To Die at the cinema. The web was filling up with reviews and opinions on it so quickly, I felt that I had no choice other than to get it watched. After agreeing with Charlotte that it would probably be easier just to go watch it by ourselves, I went at a quiet time during a weekday in order to minimise any risk. Now that I’ve seen it though, I’m not entirely sure what to say here as I don’t want to spoil it for anyone. The truth is, I don’t think it’s my favourite Bond film by any means: don’t get me wrong, it’s definitely set in classic 007 territory, and there are a few nods to previous films in the series which I really enjoyed. Yet the ending of the film didn’t really leave me satisfied, for one. Without wanting to give anything away, the conclusion of the film differs from every other instalment of the franchise, and I’m not sure I liked it. All the same, I can now check out what others are saying about it, think things over, and perhaps go and rewatch it in a few days.

More or less the first thought which came to my head upon waking up this morning was “I wonder what Toilet Guy thought of No Time To Die.” No doubt he went to the premiere last night, and will be reviewing the new Bond film on his radio show on Friday. Of all the critics’ opinions, I value his among the most.

I am, of course, referring to Dr. Mark Kermode. Toilet Guy was Lyn’s name for him: she never really listened to him much (talk radio not being her thing), but whenever he was mentioned she called him Toilet Guy. I don’t think L was being disrespectful, but linking an unusual name to something she would have been more familiar with than most. Lyn must have needed to use commodes lots over her lifetime, and was presumably so familiar with the term she couldn’t help cheekily noting the similarity whenever he was mentioned. I suppose, over the years, the habit rubbed off on me, so that now I inevitably think of Mark Kermode as The Toilet Guy in my internal monologue. Lyn was always making little jokes or playing with words; she had a talent for it which I’ll always remember.

I still miss Lyn a great deal. Life with her was always full of such little jokes and games. She didn’t share my interest in Bond, yet, in a strange way, I cannot help associating the Bond Films with Lyn, especially those of the Craig era. The last three films were released when I was living with Lyn in Charlton; and let’s not forget both Lyn and 007 had roles in London 2012. For a new Bond film to come out now that Lyn is no longer here feels different and strange: life goes on and the world will continue, yet having lived with someone so remarkable for so long, it’s impossible not to occasionally feel their absence. There will always be moments, references, events and names which have the power to take the mind instantly back and remind you of a loss.

Thus I’m looking forward to Mark Kermode’s review of No Time To Die this Friday. I hope he liked it. I expect it to be long, detailed, learned and interesting, as his reviews of the last four Bond films were. Yet, due to Lyn, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to stop thinking of him as The Toilet Guy.

I don’t have much to say today. As someone who doesn’t drive, I don’t feel there’s that much I can contribute to the current discourse. Of course, out and about, I see queues at petrol stations everywhere; it is total chaos out there. I’m just glad my powerchair is battery powered, to be honest. I also just want to point that I don’t remember the country ever getting this screwed up when Labour were in power.

Now that I’ve had a few days to think about it, I have to say I feel deeply embarrassed about my actions a few days ago. Trying to hijack such an awful event was an utterly juvenile thing to do – it was something an attention seeking teenager would do, utterly disrespectful to the murdered young woman. As strongly as I feel about Brexit, there is surely a time and a place for protest, and that was not it. I hate how much of a tactless prat I can be sometimes.

It’s probably fair to say that I’ve never been as eager to watch a film than I currently am to watch No Time To Die. My previous, rather pessimistic predictions aside, it is a film I’m starting to get high hopes for – I think we could all do with a bit of Bond right now. I just checked at my local Odeon, and they start screening it from Thursday. Months ago, I promised myself that the first film I would watch in a cinema after the pandemic would be the next Bond film: something about that felt fitting. On the other hand, it would mean breaking another of my little traditions: ever since Casino Royale came out in 2006, I have gone to see new Bond films with my friend Charlie. I still remember that day well, being escorted to the Odeon in Stoke by Charlie and our friend Tony like an excited child by his parents. If I go to watch No Time To Die on my own next week, it would obviously mean breaking that tradition, which would feel like a bit of a shame, to be honest. I suppose I have to choose between satisfying my enthusiasm to watch this film by watching it on my own in a week or so; or waiting until C can come down to enjoy it with me, something which may still be months away under the current circumstances. It seems like so long since I saw a Bond film in a cinema that I just cannot wait any more. But then again, what’s a few more weeks where friends are involved? Decisions, decisions.

I must say I love this news that William Shatner – Captain Kirk himself – is actually going to be taken into space. The ninety year old actor will be aboard Jeff Bezos’ Blue Origin rocket in October. As a Star Trek fan, I can think of nothing cooler or more fitting than to have the most famous starship captain ever really go into the final frontier. I hope it goes well. Then again, if they run into any Klingons or Romulans, at least they’ll be in good hands.

My brother Mark is a physicist. Being Trekkies, growing up we always joked that he would one day invent the warp drive. Practically though, I assumed that such an engine would be impossible in reality. Even I know enough about Einstein to know that it’s impossible to go faster than the speed of light. However, I just came across this fascinating Youtube video. Apparently, warp drives are theoretically possible, and several organisations including NASA are now working on creating one. I find that very exciting. Mind you, they first have to find a way around the fact that such an engine would seemingly need more energy than exists in the entire universe; but minor details aside it looks like we’re a step closer to Star Trek becoming a reality.

It looks like Mark might be beaten to it. Oh well – as long as they don’t piss off the Klingons or Romulans, I suppose it’s all right.

I probably shouldn’t have done it, given the issue they were reporting on is so serious, but I had to give it a try. You have probably heard that a young school teacher was murdered in a park in Kidbrooke on Friday. That park happens to only be about eight hundred metres from my flat. I first noticed something going on there a few days ago, when the park was being cordoned off by the police. Now, though, it is one of the main national news stories, covered by the big media corporations at the head of their bulletins.

Realising this earlier, I had a bit of an idea – a slightly childish one, perhaps, but probably worthwhile. I have an EU flag attached to the back of my powerchair headrest as a way of displaying my opposition to Brexit as I trundle around. I’d noticed that broadcasters like the BBC were reporting from a corner off Kidbrooke I could get to easily: if I could somehow sit myself in the back of their shot as they were reporting live, perhaps I could display my resistance to brexit on national TV.

That, then, is what I did. All the broadcasters were reporting from the same place, across a road from the park where the murder happened. I simply had to cross the road, sit myself in the area where people have begun to place flowers, and try to get in shot when I heard the broadcasters reporting live.

I sat there between one and half one, the time of the Beeb’s lunchtime bulletin. I sat facing the flowers with my back shown to the cameras so that hopefully my EU flag would be on display. I know this is nothing to play games over – murder is murder, and I must stress that I mean no disrespect to the woman who was killed or her family – yet, in it’s own way, Brexit is just as obscene and must be resisted however we can. I saw this as an opportunity to do so.

I returned home at about quarter to two, eager to see whether I was successful. And I was, in a way: On the Beeb’s 1pm bulletin, 14 minutes and 45 seconds into the program, you can just about see a blue baseball cap over the reporters shoulder. That cap is mine. Obviously companies like the BBC are very careful to avoid people muscling in on their broadcasts so they made an effort to cut me out. Yet I’m happy that I tried. It may not have been the overt, anti-Brexit statement I was hoping to make, but perhaps I can try again tomorrow.

It may just be the videos the site recommends for me, but has anyone else noticed that Youtube is filling up with reaction videos? People make videos of theirselves reacting to and commenting on other videos on Youtube. I suppose that’s ok – what’s wrong with a bit of constructive criticism and feedback, after all? Yet, on the other hand, it strikes me as a tad lazy. I mean, can’t these people find something new and original to create videos about? Surely we can all make up our own minds about the original vids? Then again, I suppose I ought to find something new and original to blog about, rather than simply reacting to people making reaction videos.

There are quite a few schools in the area where I now live, so now that summer is at an end, I suddenly notice loads of young people in school uniform appear towards the end of the afternoon. This didn’t happen last September, of course, because the schools were in lockdown; but now that they’re opening up again there are suddenly kids all over the place. It makes me wonder about getting involved somehow. Before I moved to Eltham, I used to volunteer at Charlton Park Academy: that is a special school which has severely disabled students. It was Lyn’s suggestion initially. I used to help kids there with their communication skills, mostly by acting as a rolemodel. I still hope, once things clear up a bit more, to go back there and resume my voluntary work.

I see volunteering at school as a valuable way of contributing to society; It also gives my days and weeks some structure. Perhaps now I live in Eltham I could do the same at one of the local mainstream schools too. What I could do for them I’m not sure: perhaps they have students with SEN I could give help or advice on; or perhaps they could do with a specialist in film or media studies – or indeed blogging. Yet the last few months have seemed so mundane and dull that I think I would just like to interact, productively, with a bit of society again.

I was just messing around on Google Earth Streetview, which I do fairly often as a way to explore without leaving the house. My old hometown has just had a big new bypass built around it’s north. I’ve only been ‘home’ three or four times in the last decade, and even then it was just for short visits, so I haven’t seen anything of the new road. I’m quite curious about it though, because it goes over the old lanes I used to trundle along in my powerchair, and I want to know what they, as well as the new bypass now look like. I thus keep checking to see whether Google has sent it’s Streetview car along the new bypass. It hasn’t yet, possibly due to the pandemic, but I’ll keep checking. I suppose that’ll have to do until I can head up north and look for myself.

This afternoon I decided to do a little experiment. I managed to watch some of the boccia from Tokyo. The truth is, I vaguely remember playing it a couple of times at school, but that’s about it. Seeing it played so well by Team GB in Tokyo, however, including by Beth Moulam, aroused my curiosity: would I be any good at it? More to the point, how easily could I get hold of a set of boccia balls? That seemed to me a good way to see how popular or mainstream disability sport is becoming.

There are a couple of fairly large sports shops in Woolwich and Greenwich. I was curious to see whether any of them would sell Boccia balls, or indeed would have heard of the sport. To find the answer, I trundled that way this afternoon. To be honest I didn’t hold out much hope, but thought it worth the outing.

First I tried in Sports Direct in Woolwich, only to find it mainly sold fashionable menswear, with nothing to do with sports. Then, after a brief look around, I caught the bus to Greenwich. There are a few large shops on the peninsular, including a larger Sports Direct shop, which I thought would have a good chance of stocking the specialist equipment I was looking for. Predictably though, I didn’t have any luck there either. I asked one of the assistants, who suggested I look in Argos – frankly I don’t think she had even heard of Boccia.

In the end I returned home empty handed. Still, I think it was worth looking. Hopefully, disability sport will continue to become more and more mainstream and popular, so that soon high street shops will sell things like boccia balls. In a way, then, I think this is quite a good litmus test of the status of disability sport, and with it disability culture in general.

This might be a slightly random subject for a blog entry, but when did Americans start saying ‘Season’ instead of ‘Series’ to mean a sequence of episodes of a television program? In the UK we say series, but Americans seem to prefer season, eg ”Season Three of Deep Space Nine”. I was watching The Joy of Painting a few days ago though, and Bob Ross used the word season. It kind of caught my ears: JOP was made and first aired in the eighties and early nineties, so it made me wonder when they adopted the new term and why? And why have we continued to say Series in the UK after Americans switched to Season? Of course, Americans use series to mean an entire program, as in Deep Space Nine or any of the incarnations of Star Trek are separate series, but they stopped using it to refer to a sequence of episodes made at the same time. Just one of those odd little details I wonder about.

Having just come across this bbc article reporting that the musical Everybody’s Talking About Jamie is being adapted for film by Amazon, I just had a bit of an idea: someone should make a film about a guy with CP starting university, who begins to experiment by going to the weekly campus disco in drag. What a film that could be. It would be a story about inclusion and tolerance, as well as one about experimentation, friendship and finding who you are. Sounds pretty awesome to me, if only someone would write it.

Whoever runs Coke adverts has obviously never watched Red Dwarf

When I saw this ad at a nearby bus stop earlier, I almost wet myself laughing.

I had my first proper cupaccino in months this afternoon, possibly my first since the halcyon days as a regular at Charlton Park Cafe. I was just out for my usual trundle: today I chose to stay a bit closer to home and explore a part of the local area I hadn’t really seen, over by Shooters Hill Road. That area is quite hilly and dense with forrest, so I had avoided it until now, but today I thought I’d give it an explore. Eltham Park was split into two in the 1920s by the building of Rochester way: I had seen Eltham Park South before, but had never explored it’s northern counterpart.

The truth is I was beginning to head back to Eltham along Rochester Way, when to my right and above me, I caught sight of a bright building in the park. Naturally this automatically pricked my interest, so I changed course to investigate. The paths were fairly steep and not as well maintained as they might be, but soon enough I was approaching an interesting looking building at the top of a tall hill, set in a park. It instantly reminded me of the cafe in Charlton Park, only, due to its altitude, you must have been able to see for at least fifteen kilometres across south London and beyond.

Automatically taken with the place, and fancying a coffee anyway, I decided to go in. While there were tables and chairs outside, from what I glimpsed through the door, the inside of the place looked interesting. Mind you, the problem was the front entrance to the place had a large step up to it and the side entrance was too narrow for my powerchair, so I had to stand up and walk in. It was worth it though, as on the walls of the place were all sorts of posters about the park’s history: it had been an airfield during World War Two, and is a monthly meeting place for bikers. My kind of place, then.

I only stayed for one cuppaccino before starting to head home. I resolved to go back there before long though. Access issues aside, I was quite taken with it. It isn’t that far away, and the view it enjoys really is incredible. While it might not become my regular haunt like the Cafe in Charlton Park once was, I can certainly see myself going there quite frequently.

Just for the record, I’ve never watched GB News, nor do I ever intend to. I may be ever so slightly curious about it, but being curious about the taste of shit is no reason to put it in your mouth. I want nothing to do with a channel which gives the scumbag Farage a platform. I was, however, pretty amused to read that it is already collapsing. “Andrew Neil has resigned as chairman and lead presenter of GB News, just three months after helping to launch the channel. Neil, 72, was on air for less than two weeks before announcing he was taking a break.” After so much fanfare and hype, this self-proclaimed champion of right-wing speech and challenger to the liberal mainstream has already lost it’s main anchor. Well, that didn’t last long, did it? As Owen Jones points out here, it’s hard not to feel a certain amount of schadenfreude, but frankly, given how much channels like this stand to pollute our political discourse, I say good riddance to Neil, and let’s hope the whole channel goes down with him.

For quite some time I have worn a baseball cap on a daily basis. Putting it on has become a bit of a habit, so my cap is almost as much as my daily costume as my shoes or glasses. A couple of days ago, though, I noticed my cap was getting a bit tatty: it was time to buy a new one.

This morning, then, I looked in Eltham, but couldn’t find anything. I didn’t just want any old cap, but preferably something fun and ironic which I could clip my anti-Brexit badges onto. This afternoon I set upon the idea of getting the bus to lewisham and looking in the fairly large shopping centre there. At first I didn’t have much luck, but then, in TK Max, I found what I needed. Among their adequate range of hats and caps, I noticed a blue one: it had a distorted yellow emoticon on the front, ink appearing to dribble down; under that there were a pair of crossed bones, and under that the words ‘Don’t Even Trip’. It instantly struck me as very appropriate for wobbly old me to wear as I roll around town in my powerchair.

I had intended to write a sequel to this entry yesterday. On the tenth anniversary of 9/11, back in Charlton, I wrote a pretty long entry about how that tragic date had become a marker in time for me, and about how dramatically my life had changed since then. I thought it would be a good idea to do the same yesterday, summarising the last decade. The problem was, though, when I began to think about it, I couldn’t even decide where to begin. If anything, the last decade was even more awesome than the one before it: a decade which saw me do so many incredible things after moving to London it blows my mind. The bigger problem, though, was how to sum up my relationship with Lyn. I spent most of the decade living with her, so I wouldn’t have been able to avoid reopening wounds which still feel quite fresh.

In the end, then, I obviously dropped the idea. It was still an incredible decade filled with so much joy yet now tinged with so much sorrow; begun after a moment in time, now two decades ago, embedded with so much horror.

I’m thrilled to report that last night’s screening was a great, great success. Ever since I first watched it last year, I knew I had to have Crip Camp screened at the Charlton and Woolwich Free Film Festival. It is the type of important film everyone should watch, as it traces the history of the Disability Rights Movement in America. While it is freely available to watch on Netflix though, I felt it important to get it screened properly in front of a live audience in a darkened room: political films like this should be social, communal events. Watching it with other people, discussing it both before and afterwards adds something to the event.

With that said, I’m happy to say that we got an audience of fifteen to twenty people last night, which was pretty sizeable given the venue and circumstances. I had prepared a short introduction to give before the screening started just to contextualise it and give a bit of background. It was in five paragraphs on my Ipad, which we plugged into the room’s speakers. I was quite nervous that I’d hit the wrong button at the wrong time and screw up the order of my speech, but thankfully it went well and seemed to be well received.

The screening itself went well too: at almost two hours long, Crip Camp isn’t a short film, but it’s the kind of film which draws you in. You become fascinated by the history and the people involved; by the fact that an entire civil rights movement could have started at a small summer camp for disabled people in upstate New York. You want to keep watching to see what will happen. This, after all, is the story of the largest, arguably most oppressed minority in America fighting for their rights. And, as I said in my introduction last night, there are lessons we can learn from this film, things we can take from it and apply them to our own time.

I’ll be introducing a screening of Crip Camp this evening. Come and watch if you can.

I think I need to flag this shocking news up today. “The deaths of three adults with learning disabilities at a failed hospital should prompt a review to prevent further “lethal outcomes” at similar facilities, a report said. There were significant failures in the care of the patients at Jeesal Cawston Park, Norfolk, it found.” The details of the stories are horrific enough, but the fact that this sort of thing is still going on makes it even worse. One hears nightmarish stories about disabled people being abused in institutions from the sixties, seventies and eighties, but you would hope that that sort of thing would have been stamped out long ago. It just goes to show that, when it comes to disabled people who can’t speak out for themselves, the people supposedly caring for them think they can do what they want and get away with it. And the most sickening thing is, more often than not, they do.

Having just seen the news that the SNP have restarted their independence campaign and now plan to hold a second Scottish independence referendum next year, I automatically decided that that would be the subject of todays entry. Before starting to write, though, I thought I’d check what I’ve written previously about it. To be honest, I don’t think I can do better than to direct everyone to this entry, written last year. My views haven’t changed since then: I still think that, were Scotland to break away from the union, it would be an act of utter selfishness and betrayal. The scots would be selling the rest of the uk out for their own petty self-interest: They might be ok, but they would have completely abandoned us, especially at a time when we need to work together to solve problems such as Brexit.

It has been a long, glorious day north of the river, exploring the old docklands. That area is becoming so gentrified, with multi-million pound blocks of flats being built all over the place, it’s crazy. Part of a project called the Royal Docks, dozens of new ten-storey-tall buildings are going up, equipped with trendy cafes and gyms, and set between stunning new parks. It makes me wonder again whether the same thing is happening in the rest of the country, or is it being left behind while London gets all the investment. Mind you, I was out so long I totally forgot a test match was being played, but having just checked the score, I see that I was right to do so.

I watched the Tokyo Paralympic Closing Ceremony earlier, but again there is not that much I think I can say about it. I am, of course, quite blown away by Team GB’s performance this year: to have come second in the medal table, besting everyone but China, is pretty phenomenal when you think about it. Yet, as with the other three ceremonies this year, the paralympic closing ceremony struck me as rather paired down and subdued, with nothing to get me excited. The fact this was the first such ceremony since Lyn’s death also cast a bit of a shadow over things for me, I must admit. Having said that, one image really caught my eye, not from Tokyo but Paris.

If this is an example of how our Parisian friends intend to proceed, I think we’re in for something rather interesting in 2024.

To be honest the very last thing I expected to come across today was a field with sheep in it, but that, remarkably, was exactly what I found. Taking a cue from my entry a couple of days ago, today I decided to go and explore Canary Wharf. I had only been there a couple of times before, and had never really looked around the area. Yet it looked so modern and snazzy in the photos I had seen, today I decided to put that right, first trundling down to Greenwich and then getting the DLR under the river.

Getting off just a stop later, I was instantly surprised. Where I had been expecting to be surrounded by skyscrapers, the area around Island Gardens felt fairly low rise and mundane. Having said that, the shiny towers of the Wharf looming over the area, there was definitely a sense of wealth and power in that area which I don’t feel south of the river.

Using the skyscrapers as compass points, I headed through Millwall Park and into Mudchute Farm and Park. It was there that I found my biggest surprise of the day: a couple of fields, albeit rather small ones, with sheep in. They were obviously a tourist attraction, but there, in one of London’s most developed areas, it was the last thing I expected to find.

I trundled on through the parks in the south of the Isle Of Dogs, my surroundings becoming more and more built up as I went. It felt like Manhattan, skyscrapers rising from both sides of busy streets, DLR trains whizzing around on overhead tracks. It seemed so modern and sleek I couldn’t help being quite taken by it: there was clearly a shedload of money in that area, I could see evidence of it almost everywhere I looked. The way the gleaming buildings were reflected in the docks between them made it seem like I had been suddenly transported to a distant city of vast wealth. At the same time, the docks themselves felt like reminders of a distant past: this was, after all, once London’s gateway to the British Empire; a place where countless thousands had sailed from and to, bringing riches from all over the world. Yet the area has now become one of the world’s foremost commercial centres, the docks now mostly inhabited by luxury yachts and crossed by stylish foot bridges.

I didn’t stay long at Canary Wharf, just exploring one or two of it’s small yet emaculate parks and it’s mall which rather cooly links directly into the tube station, before getting the Jubilee line to North Greenwich. It amazes me how every part of this city has a different feel to it: today I had a look around one of it’s richest areas, and got a sense of just how exuberant London can be. To be honest I found it astonishing, partly because of the wealth, but mostly because of the sheep.

Just to follow up on this entry a couple of weeks ago, about my concerns for disabled people living in Afghanistan, I think I ought to flag this very, very concerning article up. It reports that the Taliban are now targeting disability rights activists because of their links with america. It says that the religious nutters, who have used people with disabilities as suicide bombers in the past, are now coming to their homes and attacking them. The situation it describes is appalling, and indeed extremely frightening. I can’t begin to imagine what it would be like to live under such circumstances, but surely anyone with more than an ounce of compassion would agree that we can’t leave these people to suffer like that.

I was just browsing Facebook, looking for something amusing to pop on here, and I suddenly noticed the plethora of pictures of young schoolchildren: many of my friends from university are now married with kids, and they all keep posting pictures of their children in their new school uniforms. I suddenly feel very, very old. It doesn’t seem that long ago since I was dancing the night away with those guys at Brandies, and now they are all packing their children off to school. Time really does fly.

To be honest, The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air was one of those programs which I’d watch if it was on, but which I never payed any serious attention to. However, the project detailed here may change that. It seems someone took the premise of the show, about a young black man from Philadelphia who gets into trouble and has to move in with his wealthy Californian relatives, and reread it to give it a much more serious tone. He made a spoof trailer for it (a very well made one in fact – he obviously wasn’t just a casual fan) and put it on Youtube. That apparently caught the eye of Will Smith himself, and, according to the report, the reboot has now been commissioned for two seasons. From the look of it, I think the new program might be worth watching: it has a far grittier feel to it than the original comedy, and will deal with issues like class. Obviously only time will tell whether the new version is any good or not, but I like the idea of someone taking a lighthearted sitcom and refashioning it so it becomes a comment on contemporary society.