One of my favourite spots to head to on my daily trundles is the statue of General Woolfe in Greenwich Park. It is situated by the famous observatory, at the top of quite a large hill overlooking Greenwich, the Thames and north London beyond. Sitting by the statue, you get truly incredible views across the metropolis, with the Isle of Dogs right in front of you, the Dome/O2 to your right, and Central London to your left. I was up there earlier today; as usual for a pleasant Spring afternoon, the Park was thronging with tourists.

Looking at the statue, I began to reflect: what changes must it have seen? According to it’s engraving, the statue was a gift from the people of Canada, given to London in 1930. It has thus stood in that spot for well over ninety years. Of course, I’m not implying that I think statues can actually see, but if it could, Woolfe would have witnessed London changing and evolving dramatically. For example, in 1930 Canary Wharf, which the statue seems to look directly at, was still a major shipping harbour. There was no forrest of skyscrapers, but the place would have been bustling with ships. Of course, the O2 wouldn’t have existed and North Greenwich would have been lined with terraced houses. London would just have been spread flat before it, full of factories, mills and steam engines, utterly different to the sprawling metropolis, full of all kinds of weirdly-shaped buildings you see from that hill today.

It makes you reflect on just how quickly cities like London change. Indeed, it has changed dramatically even in the thirteen years I have lived here. You have to wonder: if the statue is still standing in a hundred years’ time, what might it be looking at?

When I turned the news on this morning, they were of course talking about the upcoming coronation. Let’s face it: that’s pretty much all we’re going to hear about over the next few days. To be honest, though, I can’t really say I’m all that fussed. Like many people it would seem, I’m starting to think it’s time to get rid of all this monarchic bollocks. The queen was a nice, inoffensive maternal figure. We accepted and respected her; for most of us she had simply always been there. Charles, however, seems to think he’ll somehow automatically inherit that respect, despite all the bollocks he and his family has put us through in the last forty years or so. To be honest, that seems rather arrogant to me. It thus does not surprise me at all that so many people seem to be having second thoughts about the monarchy.

Of course I’ll keep an eye on what happens next week, but that’s about it. It’s supposedly going to be one of these huge national mega-events, along the lines of the queen’s jubilees or the Olympic ceremonies, but I really can’t see that happening. As I noted here, for the last two or three decades the man we’re now supposed to refer to as our king has been a central character in a national royal soap opera which intensely irritated most of us. While the queen seemed to stay above all the nauseating drivel the press treated us to about who was in a relationship with who, Charles was at the centre of it. He therefore already has a hell of a lot of baggage associated with him. If he thinks he can now suddenly shed all that, and that we’ll all now dutifully accept him like we accepted his mum, he is gravely mistaken.

I couldn’t sleep so I got up slightly earlier than usual today, but I’m now very glad I did. I just saw this fantastic story on the BBC breakfast program: the European Space Agency is now investigating training it’s first astronaut with a physical disability. “John McFall is the European Space Agency’s first ever para-astronaut, selected to study how feasible it is for someone with a physical disability to live and work in space.” I naturally find that very exciting indeed. It was first announced last September, but it was great to see this being discussed. It’s an encouraging sign that organisations like the ESA are taking the inclusion of disabled people seriously, as well as sending out a strong message that ‘we’ have just as much to contribute to human progress as anyone else.

The program stated that we might not see McFall going into space until the end of the decade, so we’ll obviously have to wait to see if this comes to fruition. Nonetheless, it’s a very encouraging step forward. The image of a person with an obvious physical disability, floating in Zero-G alongside his able-bodied colleagues, will obviously be very powerful indeed. And who knows where this may lead? With any luck, McFall will be the first of many, and lots of other disabled people with all kinds of disabilities will follow him into the final frontier. I might even go up there one day….Mind you things might get a little complicated and sticky – imagine loads of drops of dribble floating around, weightless, inside a small enclosed cabin several kilometres above the Earth!

I know I shouldn’t just flag Youtube videos up like this, but if you’re a Star Trek fan you really need to check this out. I don’t know who made it or how, but Regeneration is a very touching add-on to Star Trek Generations (1994). Without wanting to give anything away, it adds something to the narrative of the film, tying up a bit of a loose end in quite a touching way. More than that though, it is a stunning example of just how stunning and impressive short fan films like this are becoming: the graphics and visual effects are jaw-dropping, particularly for a fan film. It was one of the first things I came across online this morning, and I instantly knew I needed to link to it here.

A few days ago I wrote an entry noting how short most of my blog entries are, and how I would try to write some more lengthy ones. I got a very nice comment from Liz back saying that she liked my short, single paragraph entries because they are easy to read. I have therefore decided to keep most of my entries short and to the point, like this. Short seems to be sweet when it comes to blogging.

Let’s face it: the Outists had no plan because they knew full well that leaving the EU was a stupid idea. They assumed the country wouldn’t be stupid enough to vote Leave, but campaigned for it anyway, just to get publicity by going against the political grain. They were campaigning for something they didn’t actually believe in, like the charlatan scum they are.

And now look where such brazen cynicism has got us.

I think I’ve mentioned how my CP can effect my emotions on here before. Basically my cerebral palsy makes emotions more easily expressed and harder to suppress, be they positive or negative. Most of the time it’s not a problem, such as when I give out weird squeals when I’m excited. From time to time though, it can cause a bit more trouble.

I have written too about my strong objections to street preachers on here, as well as my huge problems with religion in general. Something in the way they force their religion onto the public, speaking so loudly that they are impossible to ignore, infuriates me. It seems so arrogant, the way they think they know best and that everyone should believe what they do. I simply can’t stand it, so where any sensible person would just walk on and leave them to it, something within me compels me to stop and tell them to shut the fuck up.

I don’t want to go into details, but something happened this afternoon in the square at Woolwich which really shouldn’t have. Two guys were shouting their heads off about how everyone should believe in God or go to hell, filming one another like what they were saying was important. They were standing where such preachers always stand, at the top of Powis Street, using a speaker so they couldn’t be ignored. I of course took umbrage, and to cut a long, stupid story short, a huge row eventually ensued involving the men accusing me of being possessed by daemons and just about half the shoppers in Woolwich.

Why I can’t ignore such idiots I don’t know, but something just comes bursting out, as if they are speaking in reverence of a god who, if he somehow really existed, could presumably make the world so much happier but did nothing. It’s also the delusion I cannot abide, as if they demand we suspend our faculty to reason and just think what they tell us to, based only on the authority of a single book of baseless myths. I feel I just need to tell them to stop it.

I really shouldn’t get like this; I shouldn’t get so furious. Why can I not just carry on, on my way home? When I calm down, I feel deeply embarrassed and ashamed. I really don’t know what to do – should I just avoid going to Woolwich altogether? Yet part of me holds that if they have a right to preach, I have a right to tell them to shut up, and stop demanding we worship a god which, if he existed, did nothing to avert so much suffering, as well as the deaths of so many my friends, one by one by one.

Coincidentally I had just finished rewatching No Time To Die and was just browsing Facebook, when I came across something called 007’s Road To A Million. I hadn’t heard that title before, so naturally I googled it and came across this. Forgive my language, but my automatic reaction was “Oh for fuck’s sake!” Amazon are apparently creating some sort of Apprentice-style gameshow: “007’s Road to a Million will see contestants competing in teams of two on a global adventure to win the ultimate prize of up to £1 million. Filmed in iconic Bond locations – from the Scottish Highlands to Venice and Jamaica – this cinematic format will be a test of intelligence, endurance and heroism.” It goes on “In addition to conquering obstacles, the contestants, who will compete in two-person teams, must correctly answer questions hidden in the different locations around the world to advance to the next challenge.”

I know that, as a character, James Bond has his flaws; he is quite an anachronism. Yet there’s no denying that the Bond films are pretty much the most successful cinematic franchises ever. Over the past sixty years and twenty-five films, we have been drawn to stories about this secret agent, with his expensive suits, luxury cars and unique way of ordering a martini. But the key component is the cinema – Bond is fundamentally a filmic phenomenon. To see that people are now trying to usurp those key components to render one of my favourite filmic franchises into some sort of shitty gameshow, just to go alongside the countless others we already have, is very, very disheartening.

I was going to post this last week, but I suppose I lost track of it: I’m very proud to mention that, as of mid-April 2023, my blog is twenty years old. The first entry I ever posted, quite randomly about ‘The Return of Empire’, was on 13 April 2003. To be honest I find that astonishing, and I’m very proud indeed to have kept it up. I know my entries aren’t often that long, and know I should post more fulsome, analytical things more often, but I bet you can’t point me towards many other personal weblogs which have been updated so regularly over the past two decades. In fact, I would bet you that if I asked someone to suggest any date over the last twenty years, I would be able to give them a link to a blog entry written either on that day, or within a day of it.

Today I’m very proud to announce that I came first in the London Marathon this morning! I won it in my new, super-fast powerchair. I was able to whizz round the streets in record time. You may not have seen me on the course though, because my chair has a cloaking device I got from my Klingon friends, allowing me to trundle around the city totally unseen.

(Yes, I admit this is total bollox, but printing total nonsense seems to be a growing tradition in the Sunday press…)

Yesterday turned out to be quite an interesting day. After writing a bit about Star Trek, getting dressed and having breakfast, I settled down to watch some news. Nothing too unusual there, except that we were all soon greeted by the monumental news of Dominic Raab’s resignation. Things had suddenly become interesting, so I watched on: the BBC, obviously having decided not to just broadcast footage from the Five Live studio today, were broadcasting live from outside the palace of Westminster, an anchor addressing the camera directly. It’s a style they often use for breaking political news, only in the background, the shot was interrupted by a man with a placard about how we should ‘Believe in Jesus’ or some such bullshit. That automatically annoyed me: I’ve written here before about how much I oppose street preachers, and how arrogant I find people trying to force their religion onto others.

This went on for a bit. It was then, however, that I had an idea: Westminster is just a short, easy tube ride away – perhaps I should go up there and do something about the nonce with the sign. I might even get on live TV myself. After all, I didn’t have anything more constructive to do here.

That, then, is what I did, and within about forty-five minutes I was up by Collage Green. Only I soon realised I was far from alone: I had walked into a huge protest about climate change! Now, I realise I don’t write much about climate change on here, preferring subjects like Star Trek, politics and my trundles, but I know it is an increasingly important issue. As a worldwide society we must do something about our reliance on fossil fuels, as well as being more active in the search for cleaner, more renewable sources of energy. I was therefore very happy to take part and show my support in the protest.

I decided to hang around up there for a bit. There was a lot going on, including music and people giving speeches. I came across the fool with the sign about Jesus and told him to shut the zark up, but of course he took no notice. To one side of the area was a green where film cameras were set up, directed towards the Houses of Parliament. It was obviously where the Beeb had been broadcasting from, but by then they were winding down, probably due to the noise of the nearby protest.

I sat there and watched what was going on for a while, before deciding to head off. Rather than going back the way I had come though, I decided to head up to Green Park, just to take in some of the royal parks in the spring. Unfortunately things were made a bit more complex by preparations for tomorrow’s marathon, but nonetheless I got to the tube station, where randomly I bumped into my friend Eddie from Charlton. We then rode back on the Jubilee line together, catching up and chatting about old times.

This city can be quite incredible sometimes.

I suppose today I can only repeat what I wrote at about this time last week. I just watched the latest episode of Picard: it was practically the very first thing I did after turning on my computer this morning, I was so eager to watch it. I know I mustn’t spoil it for anyone else, but what I just saw really was incredible. It was an episode full of excitement and tension, with moments of great humour, rounded off with a truly touching ending. In short it was everything we could once expect from a Star Trek episode. More to the point though, it was a truly incredible farewell to a group of characters many of us grew up with, and whom we have watched grow through countless adventures over the last forty years. Characters we have come to know, admire and respect; treasuring their past appearances and looking forward to their next ones. To watch them at last bow out like this, in such a poignant homage to what went before, is truly incredible.

Knowing that this was their final appearance, and that we’ll probably never see these actors in these roles again, makes me sad of course; but something tells me we haven’t seen thee last of the Picards.

One of the main stories on BBC news this evening was about whether Dominick Raab is a bully. If you ask me, you might as well ask whether a chimpanzee is an ape, or a chicken is a bird. Raab is a Tory, and that goes hand in hand with being a bully. That’s what Tories are: their entire worldview boils down to a form of selfishness and arrogance; they think their beliefs, views and needs should always have priority, and that they have the right to intimidate others if that authority is not respected. As free marketeers, they hold that the wealthy, privileged ‘elite’ should be free to manipulate, dominate and control those they see as ‘lesser’ or less important than they are, so that the stratification of society – which just happens to benefit them – is conserved. In other words, bullying is at the heart of the Tory mentally, just as flour is a key component of bread. Thus if you want to ask whether Dominick Raab is a bully you might as well ask whether the pope is catholic or Donald Trump is an egotistical charlatan: they go hand in hand.

I created this when I heard the news from America last night.

Mind you, when I put it on facebook it didn’t receive much of a response. I hope people get the joke.

Does anyone know why the Beeb has started to air footage of radio Five Live on their news channel in the morning, instead of their normal news bulletin? Strong supporter of the BBC that I am, I usually watch News 24 in the morning while I get dressed and eat breakfast. Until recently I’d watch their normal hourly news bulletin. For the last few days though, we’ve been treated to footage of Nicky Campbell’s daily phone in from Radio Five Live instead. While I have nothing against Five Live, I must say this strikes me as odd: what happened to the news? If I wanted to listen to the radio, I would do so. More to the point, is this part of a cost cutting exercise by the BBC, where they have started to merge their services? Are they cutting costs by reducing the hours the News channel has to broadcast, and just showing viewers the inside of a radio studio instead? That’s what it looks like to me, and it strikes me as very cheap indeed.

I just have a bit of rather cool local news to mention here today. I now live in a small estate of three rows of flats which were constructed about three years ago. As I mentioned a couple of months ago, at the end of one of the three rows of flats, on the opposite corner to my place, is a small space for a shop. The space has, however, been empty or not in use since I moved here: things were obviously taking their time to get into order, before the space started functioning as a shop. Yesterday, though, that changed, and the shop finally opened. I thus now have a very convenient little grocery just thirty seconds from where I live. I popped in yesterday afternoon, just to check it out: they were selling all kinds of things there, from fruit and fresh veg, to (rather handily if I ever run out late at night) a good range of real ale. It now looks like my beer supply has been sorted. Mind you, the space does seem to have one or two accessibility issues, although I now think they can be worked out when necessary.

You have to love this crazy little island, particularly in the spring. One moment it’s baking and you’re wondering why you put such a thick coat on before coming out. The next thing you know, it’s freezing and you’re very relieved that you have it on. I suppose for most people this wouldn’t be such an issue: most people are able to whip a jacket on or off with it barely interrupting their internal monologue. 

In my case, however, it becomes quite a major operation. For starters I would have to find a safe place to stop my chair. Then I would have to unclip my iPad and place it in a safe spot, before staggering to my feet and starting to take my coat off, trying not to knock my glasses off or fall over in the process. I would then have to somehow stuff the coat into my bag, before getting back into my powerchair and reattaching my iPad. For some reason, whenever I have to do something like this, trying to coordinate things while maintaining my balance always seems far more difficult than usual.

I’m not writing this to complain or bemoan my fate; it just seems odd that something so apparently minor for most people is so taxing for me. Of course, by the time my coat is off and in my bag, it will have invariably turned cold again and I would be longing to put it back on. That means I almost never take it off in the first place, but push on in the heat. I suppose it’s just part of life in the spring, as well as one of those little aspects of a life like mine which most people are probably unaware of, unless I articulate them here.

Just to follow up on Friday’s entry, I think I’ll repost this picture today. By now, I’m sure everyone who wants to will have seen the latest episode of Picard. When this picture was taken, at Star Trek London in 2014, Trek fans would have probably assumed the sight of this bridge was a long distant memory which we would never see again: frankly, it was drenched in nostalgia. Now though, after the epic revelations of Friday, this bridge has come to life again and this picture has almost taken on new meaning; it’s as if all those happy memories watching Star Trek thirty years ago have been allowed to come flooding back. As a Star Trek fan, to have sat there, in that chair on that bridge, now feels more awesome than ever.

I’m supposed to be a writer: a man of words, able to express himself using the English vocabulary, telling others what I think and feel. Yet there are times when experiences go beyond words; times when all I can really do is squeal and wave my arms around in spasticated, ecstatic joy. I think I’ve recorded a few such moments on here over the years, but this morning, having just watched the latest episode of Picard, I think I had one of the greatest. I know that not everyone will have watched it so I better not say much, but what I saw this morning filled me with awe and joy. For a moment I became my ten or eleven year old self again, so thrilled by watching Star Trek The Next Generation on Wednesday evenings, itching to then go and play with his Starship models. Without wanting to give the game away, in this episode we see the return of something – an icon – which we all thought was long gone; and to see it back, to see these characters return to places they belong yet left long ago, feels very, very moving. Yes, you can call it nostalgia, you can call it audience manipulation, you can call it contrived, but nonetheless it is truly incredible. The episode of Star Trek Picard I saw this morning has filled me with a joy the kind and intensity of which I haven’t felt in a very, very long time.

What’s the difference between a Wetherspoons and a Waterstones? Well, in one you can get all kinds of information and learn all sorts of stuff about the human condition, and the other is a good book shop. Mind you, I might get a few dodgy looks if I start drinking beer in my local Waterstones.

(I began pondering this one a couple of days ago – let’s call it a work in progress…)

If you watch anything on Youtube today, please watch this Owen Jones video. It draws our attention to quite a disgusting story about a pub in Essex whose landlords think they have the right to decorate it with racist iconography. The landlord decided to hang a load of golliwog dolls behind the bar, and when people started to object, the right-wing tabloid press and then Suella Braverman stepped to the scumbag’s defence. Having only just watched the video myself I don’t feel I can say much about the story, but as Jones points out this is part of an extremely concerning cultural trend in the UK where bigots are becoming bolder and bolder in expressing their abhorrent views, and whenever anyone calls them up on it, they are dismissed as ‘woke’ or ‘snowflakes’. It was probably started in 2016 by Brexit, but is now getting really repugnant. I fear that if something isn’t done to counteract it soon, the open, inclusive, tolerant society those of us capable of rational thought have striven so hard to build will be torn to shreds. The alternative is to watch public discourse descend into hatred and bigotry.

Perhaps the first step would be giving the White Heart Inn, Greys, Essex to a decent landlord who deserves to own a pub.

I suppose I have always liked to think that, at the end of the day, the human ego would have it’s limits; that, when push comes to shove, everyone has just a smidgen of humanity or humility. However, it looks like that assumption has been proven well and truly wrong by Donald Trump. I would defy anyone to read this BBC article and not be utterly aghast by just how far up his own arse he is. Trump claims that, at his court hearing in New York, staff were besotted with him, addressing him as ‘sir’, almost in tears and wishing him well in the next election. To hear Trump tell it, it’s like he was the persecuted man of the people, the entire country on his side, fighting for the little guy against the nasty elite oppressor. It makes you wonder just how anyone can be so self-important or so deluded. More to the point, it also makes you wonder how Trump expects us to believe this bollocks: it is blatantly obvious he is misrepresenting the entire situation, trying to cast himself as the hero. For one, there is no way court officials would be so deferential. If Trump really expects America to believe this hogwash, he really is insulting it.

To my knowledge, the word “P’tahk” has never been formally defined. It originates, of course, from Star Trek, where it is used by the Klingons as an insult. As a word it is usually spat out with great wrath and venom, giving viewers the sense that a p’tahk must be something truly disgusting and utterly devoid of honour, but further than that we have no clue what the word means.

 I would therefore like to propose the following: as far as I am concerned, from now on a p’tahk is a person who is perfectly capable of climbing stairs, yet uses lifts out of sheer laziness. At the risk of getting hyperbolic, such people have really, really started to infuriate me. Whenever I go to cultural centres such as Stratford, the lifts are always occupied by people who are able to use stairs but don’t out of idleness and arrogance. I am often left waiting, or even worse the lift breaks due to over use. 

Needless to say, that is exactly what happened earlier this afternoon. I was prevented from entering Stratford station by a lift full of people too idle and entitled to use the short flight of stairs nearby. I tried asking them to get off, but they all refused, sneering back at me l was something dirty, or ignoring me like I had no right to make such a presumptive request. Things became heated, and some little shit of a boy tried dragging my chair backwards, tearing the bag on my back rest. Tempers instantly flared, some very heated words were exchanged, but fortunately things got no further than that,

The bag can be, and indeed already has been, replaced, yet that does not lessen the shock and rage I felt for some time after this happened; in fact I still feel quite shaken by it. I have no words for the kind of verminous child who assaulted me like that: who thought he had a right to shout at me, insult me and try to manhandle me. I can only resort to fictional insults coined on television programs, as I do not know how else to express my indignity. Apart from that, given that I have no way of identifying the kid and no idea where he was going, all that I can do is vent my frustrations here.

This evening, we mark twenty-five years since the signing of the Good Friday peace agreement, an agreement which resolved almost a century of conflict in Northern Ireland. Since then, peace has flourished there, and the paramilitary turmoil which once blighted that area of the UK is now far behind it. Yet surely the thing that must now baffle us all is how that peace has now been endangered by Brexit. How could any civilised, educated society knowingly allow violence to potentially return, or at least withdraw from the political body which made peace possible, just to satisfy a sense of nationalistic arrogance? How could any society be so stupid? Of course, I hope we do not see a return to the troubles, and I’m not saying we definitely will, but Brexit has made it a possibility. If that is so, as monumental as this anniversary is, how could we be so foolish to allow such progress to be potentially undone?

I must admit that I have become a bit of a bastard when it comes to the bus wheelchair space. I really have started to stick to my guns when I need to get on a bus, but the wheelchair space is taken by a pram. I used to just let it slide and wait for the next bus, but I have recently started to refuse to let the space which I technically have a right to, be taken by someone who does not ultimately need it. After all, prams can be folded and babies carried, so why should I be left waiting on the pavement?

I’m becoming more and more aggressive in this: these days I have started to put my foot through the open bus doorway so that the driver can’t close the door and drive on, until he puts the ramp out and asks the mother to move her pram. It has had mixed results: yesterday afternoon, en route to Lewisham, I delayed a bus for about ten minutes before my guilty conscience forced me to give up. Today though, coming back from my daily stroll, using this strategy lead to two mums being made to get off the bus to make room for me.

That was not ultimately my intention. It would have been fine if the mums had just moved their prams so we could all ride home together. Nonetheless I got on the bus, feeling guilty but knowing that I can’t let this sort of thing slide. As a wheelchair user I know I have a right to that space; as I describe here it was extremely hard fought for and won by disabled people and our allies. They did not campaign so vigorously just so I can give the space up to any pram-pushing mum who thinks it was their birthright. And if that means standing firm and refusing to let a bus continue it’s journey until a space is made for me, so be it.

I know that means becoming a bit of a bastard. Making mothers get off busses which they have already boarded is not pleasant; nor is delaying the journeys of so many people. It gives you a huge guilty conscience. Yet I have come to realise that it is something I must do, because the alternative is being a total pushover, allowing others to usurp my rights, and never getting anywhere.

It looks like it has already been out for a couple of months so it must have crept under my radar somehow, but I really must check out this documentary as soon as possible. It looks like it will still be a while until we hear anything about the next Bond film, but this doc apparently looks at the guys who actually are named James Bond. Of course, that includes the famed ornithologist who Ian Fleming borrowed the name of his fictional spy from in the first place; but can you imagine growing up with the name of perhaps the most famous fictional character ever? A character known almost universally, and strongly associated with traits ranging from his style of dress to the type of cocktail he drinks, to the cars he drives and even how he introduces himself. As huge a Bond fan that I am, to actually be called James Bond would be awful. I really don’t envy the guys whose parents were silly enough to make such a mistake.

Fortunately I only share my name with a rather obscure artist.

I’m not sure who created it, but the sooner this picture becomes a reality the better. At least if they’re busy packing boxes, Gove and his Tory chums wouldn’t be able to do any more damage, inflicting their anachronistic views on the rest of us.

As I said a couple of entries ago, it’s very pleasing to see more and more actors and characters with disabilities on TV. It really has seemed to have shot up over the last decade or so. I remember a time when the sight of a cripple on telly was a remarkable, blog-worthy event, but now, while it’s not quite an everyday occurrence, it’s becoming increasingly commonplace. I just came across this article on the BBC website about it. Actors with disabilities are especially eager to appear on television these days in order to express to others what being a disabled person is like. For so long we have been one of the most sidelined and marginalised groups in society; but at long last we are getting the chance to show others that we do indeed exist and that we have something to contribute. I can certainly sympathise: that is, after all, why I write.

While the article itself notes that there is still a long way to go before we achieve any kind of parity in terms of representation, it’s good to reflect on how much progress there has been made recently. With guys like Lee Ridley and Tim Renkow appearing on TV more and more, disability is slowly becoming normalised and accepted. We are gradually becoming seen for who we actually are – as just normal people.

What else can I blog about today other than to note that it marks ten years since I wrote this entry, and thus marks forty years until humanity makes first contact with the Vulcans? Of course, I’m not seriously predicting it’ll actually happen, but as I wrote ten years ago, it’s a nice little date we Trekkies seem to cling to for a bit of hope. I’m still a huge fan of the film, First Contact, so noting the date today kind of gives me a link to it: wouldn’t it be cool if, forty years from now, we actually do make first contact with alien life? Wouldn’t it be brilliant if humanity one day grows beyond national borders and state differences, and one day works together to explore the galaxy? Mind you, Star Trek also predicts that, before that happens, humanity goes through a catastrophic third world war, so we better just hope that only part of the prophecy comes true.

I just got back from a very pleasant lunch with my parents. We have taken to meeting, every few weeks or so, up in Stratford at the Olympic park. It’s nice to have a walk together and then a bite to eat.

I was struck by a thought earlier though: there was a time that I would have thought such an arrangement was absurd. I have described here before how I once thought that leaving home was something I would never, could never do. I was wedded to the notion of a long, stable family life with my parents, and drew great comfort from the thought I would never leave home. The idea that I would one day live independently in London, miles away from Mum and Dad, would have felt ridiculous and probably have reduced me to tears. For their part too, I daresay my parents once felt similarly: they probably expected me to be permanently tied to them as my primary caregivers, having to feed me, wash me and take me wherever they went. Of course they would have been thrilled if I did become independent of them, but when I was little or in my teens, I don’t think they were certain I ever would be.

Could they have imagined, back then, one day sitting in a cafe outside the olympic Stadium waiting for me, having told me on Facebook when and where to meet them? Naturally, it’s something any parents would do with their grown children; yet they may have once thought such an arrangement with me far fetched. I’d have to have my own house with my own care; hell, before they got me my first powerchair the thought that I would one day move myself about was probably implausible. Yet there I was this morning, meeting them just about on time, showered, shaved and breakfasted – as independent as their other two sons.

I know that, on the whole this isn’t much, just a small reflection on the fact I took myself to have lunch with my parents. Yet I find myself wishing that I could tell the timid boy I was, so afraid of ever leaving home, what was going to happen and how awesome life in the big wide world would be. He did not realise what he was capable of. But at least I know now, and I know enough to tell others not to be so afraid.

I’m not a fan of soap operas. I find the way in which they go on and on, with no real narrative destination, rather pointless. However, I just came across this story, flagged up on the Beeb, that a Coronation Street character called Paul is going to be diagnosed with Motor Neurone Disease. I never watch Corrie so I can’t really comment much, but I find it really interesting that a character in a major British soap is going to be presented as having a profound disability. This is obviously quite a major step forward in disability representation. After all, even though I don’t watch it, Coronation Street is the most watched TV program in the UK, and has been running for decades. It’s great to see disabled people, and especially communication aid users, getting a larger and larger media profile.

Watching the Sunday morning political shows earlier, I was appalled to the point of vomiting. I now honestly think that Suella Braverman isn’t fit to work as a pub toilet cleaner, let alone as Home Secretary. How can we allow such a cruel, malicious, dissembling bitch to be a member of our government? She clearly doesn’t care who she deports or where they go, as long as she pleases her vapid, heartless fanbase by appearing to ‘control’ immigration. That she is now claiming that Rwanda is a safe third country, despite very strong evidence to the contrary really is shocking. But she doesn’t give a damn as long as the people she refuses to care for are sent packing.

Things like this only strengthen my conviction that the Tory party, as a group of people, is manifestly unfit for government and ought to be disbanded.

I don’t think that many people outside London, especially east London, will have heard of the Docklands Light Railway. Of course, most people in the UK will know about the famous London tube lines like the Jubilee or Elizabeth Line, even if they never come to London to use them, but the DLR seems significantly less famous. Before I moved to London I had certainly never heard of it. These days, though, I use it quite regularly: it’s one of my favourite ways of getting around east London. What makes the DLR cool is, much of it runs on a raised track, elevated about twenty meters above the ground , giving you great views of the landscapes you’re going through. The best thing about the DLR, however, is that all the stations are perfectly accessible, so I never have a problem getting from place to place.

The DLR is about thirty-five years old. I recently began to wonder whether anywhere else in the UK could do with something similar. Unlike other London tube lines, the DLR is not a straight line but functions on a cross shape, terminating at Stratford in the north, Woolwich in the east, Lewisham in the South and Bank in the East. Passengers can thus get around the old docklands rather efficiently. I’m now curious whether such a public transport system could work in somewhere like Manchester, Liverpool or even Stoke. Would making getting around such cities far easier help to boost their economies? They might not be big enough to warrant a full blown underground rail system, but a light rail network along the lines of the DLR could be what they need.

Does anyone else think this is a cool idea? Perhaps we could go even further and create a light rail system running between the cities too. After all, so much money is spent on London’s transport infrastructure, other UK towns and cities surely deserve a larger piece of that pie.