I just came across this. I’m not sure how accurate it is, but if this is the way things are going under the tories, we should all be very worried for the future of the NHS.

I had planned to write a reaction entry to last night’s commonwealth games opening ceremony in Birmingham today, but all I can say is “meh”. I sat down to watch it expecting something I could get my teeth into, but it turned out to be rather dull. Don’t get me wrong: there were some good bits, like the huge puppet bull and the Union Jack made from cars, but apart from that it wasn’t very interesting. Apparently it was supposed to tell some kind of story, but without the TV commentary that wasn’t at all clear. Frankly, pretty soon into it I found my mind wandering off to other things. There was nothing which thrilled me, no moments of awesomeness. And then it just ended with three rather lacklustre songs by Duran Duran, a band nobody has been particularly interested in for about thirty years.

Sorry Birmingham, but this was no follow-up, no long-awaited second album to London 2012. To be fair I know this show may not have had the budget London did, but my overall impression was that it was not as spectacular as it could have been. This was Birmingham’s opportunity to shine, but I don’t think it really did.

To my left is a book shelf. On it I have an array of books and DVDs, including my James Bond and Lord of the Rings box sets, as well as my copies of Dune, Lacan’s Ecrites and Ian Fleming’s biography. I know that if I wanted to, I just have to go over to the shelf and take a book down to read it, or ask someone to pop a DVD into the player to watch it. My collection will remain there for as long as I want it, and to add to it I simply have to trundle out to the shops to buy a text I want, or failing that order it online. It would then be mine to read or watch indefinitely. Simple.

Or that’s how things were until recently. These days online streaming is getting more and more popular. Of course, streaming has definite advantages, especially for people like me: instead of needing to ask my PA to put a disk in the drive, to watch a film I now just need to go to a streaming website and select the film I want to watch. The thing is, there are more and more streaming services on the web – Amazon, Netflix, Disney etc… – so to watch a specific film you need an account with one of those websites. If you don’t have an account you can’t watch the film; and you can only have an account if you pay a (usually monthly) subscription. Your ability to watch a specific filmic text is therefore no longer as simple as owning a DVD, but depends on which streaming services you’re subscribed to and your ability to pay. That has, in my opinion, reduced rather than opened up our access to film.

For example, I just came across a reference to a new Beavis and Butt-Head film, Beavis and Butt-Head Do the Universe. I used to love Beavis and Butt-Head, so was interested to see their return to the screen. I was also in the mood for some inane puerile humour, so I punched the title into Google and found it was available to watch on Amazon. That would have been fine as I can access Amazon, but when I clicked on the link I was told I could only watch the film if I was signed up to Paramount Plus, which would cost me seven quid a month after a first free week. This I was loathe to do: subscribing to more and more streaming services would just cost me more and more, and end up spiralling out of control. It would also mean paying for content, the vast majority of which I have no interest in watching. I thus couldn’t watch the film: it had not been released on DVD or in any other format, and could only be viewed via Paramount.

In theory streaming is great: having access to films over the web should make them more available than ever before. Only, the streaming system is becoming more and more monetised; putting films behind online paywalls makes them harder to watch, and once you have watched them you can’t actually keep them to watch again in a few weeks or months unless you keep up your subscription. Such sites have effectively made themselves gatekeepers for certain – usually very popular – films. It kind of makes me miss DVDs: at least they remain on your shelf, indefinitely, rather than having to pay a plethora of different companies again and again, whenever you want to watch a certain film. DVDs might not be as convenient as watching a film online, particularly for the likes of me, but, like books, they are single, specific texts rather than bundles of films and shows, most of which you might not be interested in. Once you have bought a DVD it remains yours, and you don’t have to keep paying a company which may have played no role in their creation, whenever you want to watch them.

Ten years ago this evening we all saw something which, for me at least, put it beyond all doubt that the potential for awesomeness in life is infinite. We saw something so cool, so epic, that I still get a thrill from thinking about it to this day; something which would have been seen as unthinkable before it actually happened. Ten years ago this evening, James Bond 007 was shown to escort Queen Elizabeth the Second in a helicopter to Stratford in order for her to open the London 2012 Olympic Games. It was an absolutely breathtaking cultural moment, and no doubt most of us remember where we were when we first saw it. A bit like September 11, then, that moment can be seen as a type of temporal anchor: a demarkation point in time with a discernible ‘before’ and ‘after’.

To be honest though, thinking about that evening I can’t help feeling very mixed emotions. So much has happened since then, I won’t even try to summarise it. I vividly remember watching the 2012 opening ceremony, lying on the blue sofa in the living room of Lyn’s bungalow in Charlton. When the short film involving the Queen and Bond started, I suddenly sat up straight, as if I could sense something incredible was about to happen. I then remember my mouth gaping open in amazement and awe as one of cinema’s greatest characters was shown to fly with the reigning monarch across the city, climaxing with a union jack emblazoned parachute jump nobody could ever have expected. It struck me as incredible, and I became instantly obsessed.

Yet now, of course, that old two seat sofa, which I once spent so much time lying on, is no longer there. Lyn isn’t there, and that life in that happy little bungalow has ended. That’s why my memories of that night fill me with such mixed emotions. Add to that the fact that Lyn herself participated in the Paralympic closing ceremony – something absurdly incredible in itself – and you see why my emotions are so conflicted today; my memories so bittersweet.

This evening London celebrates the tenth anniversary of an event the likes of which I doubt it will see again in my lifetime. In 2012 London performed before the entire world and showed the world how awesome it is. To have been living here in London that year was a privilege of a lifetime. In one sense it seems like just yesterday, yet in another it seems an age ago, so much has happened, so much has changed since then. The person I was watching the ceremony with that evening is no longer here, tinging my memories with a sorrow I doubt I’ll ever get over.

I’ve just come across something which is utterly, utterly chilling. This short documentary appeared today on BBC Iplayer. It’s about the treatment of disabled young people in Ukraine, who are locked away in institutions for years and just neglected. I defy anyone to watch it and not feel both heartbroken and appalled. Most are starving to death and barely let out of their cots, yet with the right support and equipment could probably live full, productive lives. Or to put it another way, here I am in my own flat, dinner in the oven and powerchair on charge; but that could so easily have been me, left to rot in a filthy dormitory with no way to communicate. I find this film extremely disturbing and extremely hard to watch. That such horrors are still happening anywhere in the world is truly chilling.

I have nothing to say about last night. I didn’t even try to watch the TV debate between Sunak and Truss because I knew it would just wind me up and get me throwing things at my screen; and having just seen a few clips of it on breakfast TV, I think I was right to do so. The show appears to have been acrimonious and bitter. The clips I just saw were a display of two spoiled, overgrown schoolchildren squabbling over things which neither has any real idea about. Why would I have any interest in watching that, especially given that I have no say in the outcome of this contest? If you ask me neither Sunak nor Truss are in any way fit to become Prime Minister. What we need is a general election. That way the whole country can decide who leads us, rather than a group of spoiled, selfish, toffee-nosed scumbags. Only, the Tories won’t hold one anytime soon because they know they would probably loose it, and they are desperate to cling to power for as long as possible.

The overground may have it’s uses after all. I was out and about again today. As I’ve said before, I go up to Stratford fairly often, but today I wanted to see how the ten year anniversary of the Olympic Games was being marked. As usual I got the jubilee line up there, and then looked around the Olympic park a bit. I found there was a small event happening, but it wasn’t very exciting so I pressed on north intending to explore a part of the park I had never seen before. A few weeks ago I had gone that way with John, and we had seen two large lakes which I wanted to find again.

The paths in that area are the kind of paths which just make me want to go on and on. They are flat and smooth, winding through parks and across charming little rivers. Following them you soon forget that you are anywhere near a metropolis. They take you further and further north, further and further from Stratford.

I rolled forward like that for quite a while, until I suddenly realised that I had no idea how to get home. Simply retracing the path wasn’t really an option, and would take too long. I told myself to stay calm and look for a bus back to Stratford. Leaving the lakes I found a road, and found myself in a place called Tottenham Hale. I had never heard of it before, and still had no idea where I was. Luckily though, I soon found a bus station, and then a train station adjoining it. With a bit of luck I would be able to get some kind of transport back to Stratford.

Which is basically what happened: I requested help at the desk, told the staff there where I needed to go, and soon found myself being escorted onto an overground train platform. To my surprise, though, I soon found the train heading through open countryside – had I really gone that far? Nonetheless, about twenty minutes later I found myself back at Stratford, feeling quite relieved and making a beeline for the Jubilee Line, eager to get home. I had at last used London’s overground train service though, and it had worked without a hitch: the train was on time, and the staff put out the ramps with no problem. Now I know I can use it perfectly well, I won’t be so apprehensive about using the overground.

First, though, I’m going to Google where Tottenham Hale is.

I’m suddenly rather excited. I just turned my computer on and came across this, the trailer for the third and (probably) final season of Picard. It looks like the whole cast of Star Trek The Next Generation are getting back together for one last fling. The minute-long trailer does not tell us much, and is just a montage of appearances from the old characters, but nonetheless it is very enticing. I wonder whether any of those actors thought they would still be performing in Star Trek when they took up those roles forty years ago.

According to this Radio Times article, the new season will hit the airwaves next year, so it’s definitely something I’ll be looking forward to. Star Trek TNG was such a big part of my childhood and adolescence, seeing the entire crew of the Enterprise D back together one last time will be such a treat.

Today I decided to resolve something which had been bugging me for a couple of weeks. First though, let me say that I know Saturday was not the best day to do something like this as the London transport system is always chaos at weekends, but I wanted something to do and it was a sunny day. When I tried going to Wimbledon a couple of weeks ago, I chose to go on the tram because the tube looked too complicated with too many changes. Looking at the underground map a couple of days later though, I saw that that was nonsense: I would just have to get the Jubilee Line to Westminster, and the District Line from there. All the stations I’d need were marked as accessible.

That, then, is what I did this afternoon simply to see whether I could, and it could hardly have been more straightforward. Apart from a short, unexplained delay on the Jubilee line, getting there was no problem at all. Once there I had a short look around, found Wimbledon Common (but sadly didn’t see any wombles) before setting off back home. The entire outing, there and back, took about four hours.

There isn’t much more I can report really, although I have to say that trips like this do wonders for my confidence. London once felt so vast to me, but it now seems smaller and smaller. I know I can get around and go where I want. Not all stations are accessible, but that just means I need to be organised and work out an accessible route. And besides, as I wrote here a couple of entries ago, progress is constantly being made on that front. You know, as I think I’ve said before, if I had been told, aged eighteen or so, that I would one day be living independently in London and roaming the city on my own, I wouldn’t have believed it; as a disabled young man I had no idea what I would be capable of. Yet here I am, the metropolis my oyster – although, ironically enough, I have never owned an Oyster Card – constantly exploring more of this wondrous, vibrant city. It just goes to show, you can never rule anything out.

I just woke from a nasty, horrible dream – the type of dream you feel relieved to wake from, and to find they are in fact just dreams. In it, me and my younger brother Luke were kicking the shit out of one another. Luke was being nasty to me, taunting me and winding me up just for fun, and I was trying to kill him for it. It got really brutal. For some reason we were in Greenwich Park with the rest of our family. The thing is, I rarely see Luke these days, except on the weekly Skype call. He has matured into a kind, extremely hard working man who loves his wife dearly; I have the greatest respect for him, and know he would never try to taunt me or beat me up (except to threaten to put me in a plastic bag and roll me down a hill, but that’s another story). I therefore have no idea why I would have such a horrific dream, so I just want to say: Luke, if you’re reading this bro, I’m thinking of you. I know you’re insanely busy with work these days, but it has been far too long since we met for a chat, a meal and perhaps a drink.

The same goes for my other brother Mark, for that matter. I suppose the last two years have driven families like mine further apart; it’s also probably an inevitable consequence of time, as both my brothers now have their own lives and families to tend to. Yet, bloody violent though it was, dreams like the one I just woke from remind you that your siblings still exist, that they are important, and that sooner or later you’ll have to do something to get them all together again.

I’m now pretty good at getting around London on the bus, and I use the tube quite often, but the one mode of transport I’ve never really got a grip of is the overground. For some reason I have never used it. Of course the main reason for that is because it’s not really accessible: to use it I would need to arrange for ramps to be put out for me, meaning I can’t use it on the spur of the moment. The tube may be far from perfect, but the great thing about more and more stations gradually becoming step free is that I have the option of getting on and off trains on the fly. That isn’t possible with the overground rail network, so I’ve never got to grips with it: I don’t know which lines lead where, as I do with the underground. That to me seems a shame. This metropolis has made a great deal of progress in making it’s public transport accessible for people like me; as far as I can tell, it is leagues ahead of the rest of the country. Yet there are still massive, gaping holes in it’s coverage which I wish TFL would get it’s act together on.

If anyone is wondering what the Americans are saying about yesterday’s heatwave, watch this. Believe it or not, they noticed what was happening here, although this guy does make some dodgy comments about Bangers and Mash, Spotted Dick and warm beer. More seriously, between witticisms, he also makes some very valid, pertinent points about global climate change: this is a problem which now clearly is effecting the entire world, and something we all need to do something about.

I just tried going out. Having spent yesterday at home out of fear of something going wrong in the heat, I was getting fed up of YouTube and Facebook, so I chose to risk going for a short walk. I have described on here before how much I like to get out and about, but the problem is there’s a lot that can go wrong: I fear my powerchair motors could overheat, or my iPad, which I keep strapped to my lap, could be permanently damaged in the sun. Yet there is only so much I can take of these four walls; and besides, I had shopping to get.

As soon as I went out of my front door I could feel the heat: it was quiet astonishing. Before I left I checked with John: the temperatures we experienced in India got to around 45 or even 46, compared to the 38 or 39 we’re currently experiencing. Yet somehow today felt hotter, as if a wave of heat hit me as soon as I opened my door. I instantly regretted my decision, but decided to persevere: I still had things to do, and still didn’t like the idea of staying home all day. As uncomfortable as it was, life had to go on.

In the end I got home in one piece. I first went to The Depot again for a cool, refreshing Coke, then up to Eltham for my groceries. I tried to be as careful as I could be, driving in the shade wherever possible. It wasn’t a particularly long trip, but when you know that there is a chance that your powerchair could suddenly cut out due to the heat, or your communication aid could burn out leaving you effectively voiceless, it leaves you almost constantly on edge. Of course, in the grand scheme of things these are relatively minor problems when it comes to climate change; yet if the temperatures we have experienced over the last two days are indeed a sign of things to come, I think we should all be very concerned.

The long fight to retake our rightful place among our neighbours has begun.

I probably spoke too soon on Friday. Judging by the weather forecast and feeling how hot it already is, things are about to get very uncomfortable indeed. I can already feel a kind of horrible humidity in the air. Yesterday was bad enough, but it looks like it’s going to get even worse in the next couple of days. Probably the best thing I can say on here would be to advise everyone (if you’re reading this in the UK or Europe) to try to stay cool, stay in the shade and drink plenty of water As it is, I think I’ll need to avoid going out for fear of my chair overheating. This isn’t going to be pleasant.

I remember Florida. I remember, in about 1995 or ‘96, my parents took me and my brothers to Florida on holiday. A couple of years before, my dad had more or less been forced to promise to take me there after I had refused to leave Disneyland in California, jamming my wheelchair breaks on until I was sated with the prospect of a return visit. That’s how we came to visit Florida

The main thing I remember from that trip is the heat. The heat from the Florida sun was unbearable, at least for people like us, used to much milder British summers. I think the problem was the humidity which came with it. I remember feeling desperately uncomfortable as soon as I left anywhere which was not air conditioned. That was real heat.

Going out trundling today, I thought about that trip. It is hot, of course; yet the heat isn’t stifling like it was in Florida, or India for that matter. I could bear it without feeling the urgent need to return to somewhere cooler.  What concerns me, though, is what may be to come: if this is just the beginnings of a trend which sees temperatures get hotter and hotter, year on year, it won’t be long until things are indeed unbearable, and the hot weather poses quite an overt obstacle in how we live our lives.

Just in case anyone is wondering why I haven’t written anything about the Tory leadership election yet, let me say that I probably won’t be blogging about it. I hi no intention to get myself worked up about a contest between a group of people who I basically loathe. As I’ve explained before, I oppose everything that the Tories stand for. They are people who dress greed, arrogance and intolerance up as virtues, and do not care about anyone less fortunate than their selves. Their advocacy of an unregulated, low tax state is nothing but a pathetic little conscious-soothing euphemism for their desire to create a society where the privileged can manipulate the underprivileged at will, inherent social inequalities are left unchecked, and the rich are allowed to hoard their wealth while the very fabric of society, including mechanisms which people like me rely on to live, is left to fall apart. I thus have no interest in commenting on a contest between people, each as abhorrent as the other.

This morning I had brunch in a nearby place called The Depot. It’s one of those new pubs which sells good coffee in the morning, good beer in the evening, and decent beer all day. Long story short, I was dying for something to eat earlier, so the first thing I did when I got through their door was to type into my iPad that I wanted a cappuccino, a pint of orange juice and a bacon sandwich. I then went to set myself up at a nearby table.

My order was duly brought to me – and very good it was too. As I was eating my brunch though, it occurred to me that I had asked for a ‘bacon sandwich’ rather than a ‘bacon butty’. Growing up in the North-West of England, I had always heard them referred to as buttys; yet these days, after over ten years in London, ‘sandwich’ seems to be my default name for them. That is what they are called around here. Yet as I was tucking into my brunch, it struck me that ‘sandwich’ just didn’t seem right: of course, things like cheese sandwiches and jam sandwiches are fine, but somehow, grilled pieces of bacon between two thick-cut slices of bread should always be referred to as a butty.

With that, I determined to make it my mission to convert the capital. I want to get everyone calling bacon buttys, buttys or butties. Telling someone that you had a bacon sandwich for breakfast just doesn’t sound right. London seems to have so much of a say over the rest of the UK culturally, it would be good to see the metropolis adopt something from The North.

I think it would be wrong of me not to note the sad news of the death of Monty Norman. Huge Bond fan that I am, I see his theme for Dr. No as one of the defining features of the series. As soon as anyone mentions James Bond, that theme automatically comes to mind; it’s as integral to Bond films today as it was in 1962. And of course, Norman wrote the themes for many other films, including The Two Faces of Dr. Jekyll (1960), The Day the Earth Caught Fire (1961), Call Me Bwana (1963), and the TV miniseries Dickens of London (1976). It seems we have lost yet another great of classical Hollywood cinema.

I just saw this and burst out laughing. I’m sorry, but it was just too funny not to nick.

Quite an uncanny yet cool thing happened this afternoon. A couple of days ago I was thinking about trying to find the Grapes again. It had been a while since I visited Sir Ian McKellen’s pub, and I wanted to try to find in again. On Saturday, then, I trundled down to Greenwich and took the foot tunnel under the river. I remembered it was on the north shore of the Thames, west of Canary Wharf, but further than that I would be following my nose.

Rather predictably, I didn’t manage to find the pub. After quite a long, good walk, I decided to return home and check where it was on the web. I had intended to go back that afternoon, but of course I got bogged down with other things and promptly forgot all about it.

Today I thought I would go up to Stratford for a bit. I still like it up there. These days, I like how I’ve seen the area change and develop over the last twelve years: you know you have been living in an area for a while when you start to reflect on how much it has changed. I especially like the waterways up there, and the accessible paths beside the rivers and canals.

I have a couple of favourite routes I enjoy taking in that area. I usually follow the Lea down to Star Lane, from where I can take the DLR back to Woolwich. Today, though, I opted to explore the Limehouse Cut, a long straight canal from just south of the Olympic park to the Limehouse Basin, a small dock on the Thames. I had seen the route on a map, but had never investigated it. It took quite a while to go along, but rather cooly the path is built on a wooden platform suspended just above the canal. You would have been able to hear my wheels rattling the planks for miles around, but nonetheless it was impressive how well maintained it was. especially for a footpath.

Getting to the Cut, I realised I was in quite a well-to-do area, obviously housing the bankers for nearby Canary Wharf; yet it also had an aura of history to it, as though you could feel a lot had gone on there in the past. I looked around, but soon began to wonder how to get back to my side of the river. Not to worry: there was bound to be a DLR station nearby. Just when I was beginning to wind my way east in the direction of Canary Wharf, though, I spotted a pub. And which pub do you think it was?

I had found the Grapes again! Of course, today being Monday, a beer was out of the question; but as I started to hover around the doorway, the barlady spotted me. The sixteenth-century doorframe was too narrow for my powerchair, so she came out to me. To my great surprise she recognised me from the last time I visited in January, and we began to talk. Sir Ian was apparently away filming, and is very busy these days, although she couldn’t give me any details. She kindly offered me a coke, which I was very thankful for, and I was soon on my way again.

It had just been a short visit, but as I caught the DLR back to Greenwich I resolved to go that way again soon. Sir Ian goes to his pub quite regularly apparently, and the possibility of meeting another of my favourite actors is too tempting to pass up. The afternoon had turned out to be rather a good one. I’m finding my way around London, especially East London, with more and more ease; and the best part is, you never know what – or who – you might find around the next corner.

I don’t think I’ve mentioned liking Frasier on here before, but it was one of the big TV programmes of my youth. If memory serves, my mum was especially fond of it. I just came across this intriguing news that, after almost twenty years, it is going to get a reboot. “In a yet-to-be-aired interview on CBS chat show The Talk [via Deadline], the actor [Kelsey Grammar] confirmed that they’re “in the final stages of the final script for the first episode,” adding that it “looks pretty good”.” They will apparently shoot the first episodes of the new series in October, so we’ll probably see Frasier’s return sometime next year. Something to look forward to at least. Frasier was one of the most witty and intelligent comedies of television, so it will be good to see the return of some of that zeal.

I couldn’t agree with this more. All tories are just as despicable as Johnson, no matter how much they may now try to distance theirselves from him.

Something odd happened yesterday which I think I ought to note here. I use the Emirates Airline quite a bit. Public transport nut that I’m fast turning into, it’s one of my favourite modes of London public transport. Yesterday I wanted to go and explore the area around Millennium Mills, which had been in the news the day before because it is due to be renovated. It’s on the other side of the river from me, so I decided that the best way to get there was via the cable car – something I’ve done plenty of times before. However, rolling up to the gate, I was stopped by the lady there, who asked me if I had anyone with me. Before I could explain that I didn’t need a carer with me and was perfectly fine on my own, she started to talk to her colleague about me as if I wasn’t there.

This immediately annoyed me. It happens quite a bit, but nonetheless it strikes me as highly patronising. I have a Master’s degree, for zark’s sake; yet they treat me like I’m five.

I tried to roll towards the lift hoping to make my intentions clear, but they still wouldn’t let me on. They kept telling me that I needed someone with me. Becoming more and more pissed off, I tried to ask to talk to the manager – I wanted these patronising bitches fired! Yet they still wouldn’t listen.

I think they could see I was getting angry though. Eventually a man who I assume was the manager came out. He explained that, due to a change in regulations, I now needed someone who could speak clearly into the communication system with me, in case there was an emergency. This, of course, struck me as utterly stupid: if the cable car broke down, I would be just as stuck as anyone, 300 metres above the Thames. Yet the rules were now the rules, he insisted, and offered to accompany me himself.

At this I gave in, not wanting to cause too much of a scene. I use public transport alone all the time; that I would suddenly need someone with me just to ride the cable car is utterly inane. Yet I wanted to press on with the day, and I was soon in a cable car carriage crossing the Thames, accompanied by a short bald guy I had never met before.

We may have eaten breakfast to the outstanding news of Johnson’s departure, or at least I did, but we shouldn’t forget that Johnson was only the head of the snake. The Tory party is still in power, and they were the ones who made Johnson prime minister in the first place. The Tory party put the country through a referendum it didn’t need to have, and then forced brexit upon us just to save its own skin. The Tory party is nothing but a group of self-serving, duplicitous charlatans, categorically unfit to govern this or any other country. I still firmly believe it ought to be broken up. As much as they try to weasel out of it, the Tories and their low tax, small state policies, not to mention Brexit, are the primary reason why the country is in such a mess right now. Thus while we can all celebrate the departure of probably the worst prime minister in history, we have to remember that we can’t truly relax until we have a proper government, composed of people who actually care about those less fortunate than themselves, in place.

Given that I got so worked up about Kier Starmer yesterday, I might be expected to write something about Boris Johnson today. But what can I say? What on earth can I write about the utter shitshow that is British politics? I watched more or less the first half of PMQs earlier, before it got too much for me to bear and I had to turn it off. Johnson blatantly refused to answer any question put to him, instead replying with bluster and accusatory bullshit. He should never have become prime minister in the first place, but is now clinging to power as if it was his birthright. His performance this afternoon was so full of pomposity and arrogance, and the underlying stench of someone who believes that his opinions trump everybody else’s simply because of who he is, that it quickly became unwatchable.

I cannot offer you anything more than this. I can’t offer any special analysis or insight.  Politically, the country is in a dire, dire mess, lead by a charlatan who refuses to face the consequences of his actions, or even admit, least of all to himself, that he even made a mistake. The fact that Johnson is still clinging to power this evening is a national disgrace. Yet at the moment there’s nothing any of us can do about it but sit back,  watch events unfold, and try not to get too worked up about it.

Following on from my pre-breakfast entry earlier, now I’ve calmed down a bit, I just came across this Youtube video in which the dude argues that Starmer is, in fact, playing a longer, more tactical game. His first priority right now is to get Labour re-elected, before he can even start to think about doing anything about Brexit, and the only way starmer can do that is to make sure Labour’s appeal is as wide as possible. The party is therefore going to shut up about Brexit, stop overtly opposing it, and let the wreckage it does speak for itself. Then, when the time is right, the campaign to rejoin the EU can begin. I really, really hope this analysis is right.

As I’ve written on here many, many times, I passionately oppose Brexit. Humanity should be coming together, not re-erecting ancient borders and re-enforcing outgrown divisions; and while it had it’s faults, the EU was one way of us doing so. Brexit to me is a crime designed to rob us of our human and consumer rights. It must be resisted at all turns, as passionately and vigorously (albeit nonviolently) as we would resist an occupying army. I am thus very, very pissed off at what Kier Starmer said yesterday. To state that the Labour party now backs Brexit and will not campaign to rejoin the EU is nothing but a betrayal of everything we on the liberal, internationalist left should stand for. Opposing Brexit should be our top priority: we are already seeing the vast damage it is doing to the UK economy; British citizens can no longer live and work in Europe just it is now much more difficult to attract migrant workers from Europe; and the Tories are about to put a match to our rights. Yet Starmer wants to attract voters, or rather, he does not want to deter the kind of barely literate, barely conscious morons all too easily duped into voting Leave from voting for Labour, so he’s trying to placate them by abandoning the fight to rejoin, spouting bull about “making peace with Brexit”. The problem for him is, that is an utter, utter betrayal of what most Labour voters believe in, and will turn many of us against him. I for one am now furious, and can never forgive the traitorous scumbag for this.

Yesterday was quite an interesting day, if a bit of a long one. I had been thinking about trying to go to Wimbledon for a few days: the tennis championships are on TV, of course, and it’s an area of London I’d never visited before. The thing is, it seemed rather hard to get to: unlike when I want to go to Stratford or up to Wembley, there is no direct tube line, and the tube line which does serve the area, the District Line, isn’t very convenient as it would require changing at least twice. There was, however, another option: the tram.

I’d tried out the trams before about eight years ago, but that was just a short trial run and since then I had sort of left them alone. Even getting down to the track takes quite a long bus ride. Yesterday, however, was the sort of day which made me feel like exploring. At about noon, I trundled over to the Royal Standard, then caught the 54 to Elmer’s End. I knew it was going to be a long trip, but such excursions are good for thinking, and if I was back in time for dinner I’d be ok. There is something about long, quiet rides on public transport which make it easier for me to ponder all kinds of things.

The 54 isn’t a very fast bus, weaving it’s way through Lewisham and across south-east London. In what felt like about an hour, we reached Elmer’s End Interchange, a quiet little corner of the city. After finding my bearings, I got down to the tram station, and was soon aboard probably London’s least well known form of public transport. When you hear the word ‘tram’, you might think of somewhere like Blackpool, with it’s decades-old carriages trundling along the seafront. London’s trams, though, are modern, sleek vehicles: London’s tram system is essentially a tube line for the south of the city, built on the surface rather than having to dig more tunnels.

I must admit it was a lot of fun. As the tram wound it’s way across south London, I got to see so much more of the city, from bustling high streets to into people’s back gardens. The tube might be faster and more direct, but you don’t get very good views. It felt like a pleasant, Sunday afternoon tour of a part of the metropolis I’d never seen before. Every thirty seconds or so, we stopped briefly at a station, but between them it felt like we were whizzing across the city.

The only problem was I couldn’t see a map, so I had no way of knowing where we were or how much further we had to go. It came as something of a surprise, then, when the automatic voice on the tram announced that it had reached Wimbledon. I was there, and the real exploration could finally begin.

By then, of course, it was about half three or four in the afternoon, and I knew it wouldn’t be too long before I would need to start thinking about getting home. Leaving the station, I tried to get my bearings, looking for directions to the tennis club. It was obviously a well-to-do area, with high-end stores and gin bars lining the street. Turning the wrong way at first, I eventually found the way up quite a long hill and down a lane bustling with spectators and security people. It all looked very prestigious.

I reached the All England Tennis Club about three hours after leaving home. It had been a long journey, especially given that my only reason in going was to see if I could get there. Yet I had made it; and, having got there and having looked at all the posh looking people outside the club, it was time to start my journey back.

Fortunately I realised there was a special bus from the club back to Wimbledon station, and from there it was just a case of getting the tram and bus home. Strangely, the journey back felt quicker than the journey there, but then I knew where I was going and wasn’t so concerned. I must say, though, that I really like London’s trams: they are sleek, modern and accessible; faster and less dependent on traffic than busses, but without the obvious costs of building a new tube line (or risking disturbing any balrogs). Yesterday afternoon I began to wonder whether the tram system could ever be extended, perhaps up to Woolwich to connect with the Elisabeth Line. Yet that is an entry and exploration for another day.

This probably refers to the state of affairs in America, but I’m sure it applies here too. Churches are essentially giant organisations for social control and exploitations. They pressure people into donating, and grow obscenely wealthy because they don’t have to pay tax. Well, it’s time they made a real contribution to society.

Time for a bit of Friday evening music. I was just restoring a few links to my old blog entries, and came across this bit of awesomeness. It’s an electric guitar/rock/metal rendition of the Star Trek TNG theme mixed with the theme from First Contact, but trust me, whether you’re a Trekkie or not, it’ll get your head banging.

I couldn’t agree with this more!