It’s a beautiful spring day, here in London’s South.

A nice day to be out of the house.

Out in the city, on the street

Places to see and people to meet.

The sun beats down on this crisp spring day

I, on of many, go on my way.

Where their feet fall my wheels roll

Just another urbanite out for a stroll.

One of the many, living at this great pace

All rushing about at this great pace Relishing City life, here in London’s South

A great day indeed to be out of the house.

Yesterday I was just playing around on the internet when I came across mention of the great exhibitions or expos. We have probably all heard of them, from old cartoons I daresay: they were when the world came together, converging on one city, for trade, science exhibitions and so on. From what I can make out, they were once very important, probably on a par with the olympics in terms of cultural significance. When you reflect that they were the reason for the creation of the Eiffel Tower and the Crystal Palace, it’s clear they were major events. Yet today we hear nothing of them, so much so that I assumed they had stopped for some reason, as others no doubt had.

Yet it seems I was wrong, and they are still going. Indeed, London is bidding to host the 2025 World’s Fair. If that is so, though, I find it odd that this is the first I have heard of it. In fact it was very hard to find anything about it. From what I read, these things profess to be as culturally significant as the olympics, so why isn’t everyone going ape about it again? Why aren’t we all as excited as we were for the 2012 olympic bid? why is there absolutely nothing about it on the bbc website? Why is the website about London’s bid so spartan and understated I’m not saying this is a bad thing, just that the contrast between the popularity of and excitement about the two events is strikingly stark. This is another opportunity to show London off, but in the context of culture, industry and art rather than sport. Given so much energy was spent on London 2012, given we had so much fun and benefited so much, why are we so unfussed at the prospect of hosting the 2025 world’s fair? I for one support this bid: hosting the worlds fair cold be as awesome as hosting the olympics…assuming anyone notices it is on.

I realise it is slightly sacharine, and told in a rather American way, but I really must direct you here. Some lads apparently stopped the basketball game they were playing when they realised a girl with Down’s Syndrome in the audience was being bullied. They didn’t think bullying was on, so they stopped the match. I thin that is great, and worthy of note, especially given how included thy made the girl feel after the incident.

I seem very adept at working myself into a state over very little. Before Lyn got up this morning, I had a chat with Charlie. It was just a brief ‘hi’ over Facebook, but during its course, C told me something was up with her throat. I said i hoped she was ok, but thought little of it until later,

This afternoon I took myself to stratford for my usual stroll. On my way, I thought about my conversation with Charlie. Something – pure paranoia probably – I suddenly started to fret that her throat issue might not be so dismissible. Given how short on detail Charlie had been, might she have something far darker? I suddenly felt a shiver: having to say good-bye to such a great friend, to such an incredible person, was almost too dark for me to contemplate.

Thinking over it I was being absurd; and a quick Facebook message resolved the matter – Charlie is fine. Yet given what happened with my friends from school, an you blame me? Losing so many friends has made me expect the worst. Today, though, is not one of those days: all is well, all is resolved. I need to stop being so melodramatic. Yet it just goes to show the effects of having attended a special school can have on one’s life. Nevertheless I really need to organise a meet up with charie soon.

I don’t usually go in for online petitions and stuff, but this story is too delicious for me not to flag up: ”Openly gay comedian Julian Clary has backed a petition to make him the new lead presenter of Top Gear.” How much clary knows about cars and therefore how suitable for the job he’d be I don’t know, but he’s apparently a big Top Gear fan. He could bring a new dynamic to the programme, and it’ll certainly be different to what it was under Clarkson. Mind you, I suspect this petition was simply intended to bait the homophobic neanderthals who would no doubt be livid at the idea of their beloved Clarkson being replaced by such a person. I watched top gear as a guilty pleasure on a sunday night, laughing at what those overgrown schoolboys said and did; others, however, actually thought Clarkson was a sensible, practical guy – a very worrying fact indeed.

Either way, replacing Clarkson with Clary might be worth a try. After all, last week we learned that Daniel craig sounds like this (I had to get that in somewhere!). As with any minority, gay people need a higher media profile. On top of that, this might be the fresh star Top Gear needs.

Here’s wishing my mum a happy mother’s day! I’ll see her quite soon for my birthday get-together, but for now I hope the best mum in the world a great day. I also want to wish my sister-in-law Kat a great mother’s day too. My nephew Oliver just turned one, so it is her second. I was looking at photos of Kat, Mark and Oliver earlier: he seems to be turning into a bonnie young lad. Some of those photos are enough to melt an uncle’s heart. I really need to find an excuse to go to paris to see them soon, but for now I’ll just wish both mothers the best of days.

I usually try to avoid charity, but drawing your attention to this is necessary. An old School friend of mine, Saranne is a single mum in need of a new wheel chair. We all know times are tough, so if anyone reading this could click on the link and help her out, it would be great.

I once noted on here that I was disappointed not to see a Statue of Gandhi up in parliament square. There are so many other statues of fine people up there, it seemed a bit wrong to me that there was not a statue of that great man among them. Today, it seems, that has been put right: as detailed here a 2.7 metre statue of the father of indian democracy, nonviolent protest and, in my opinion, one of the greatest people ever to live was unveiled there this morning. I think that is great news, and long overdue; it was about time he was paid such a tribute. I’ll be going up there to pay my respects to it as soon as possible.

I came across something earlier which totally sickened and appalled me. You may have heard that author Terry Pratchett died yesterday. He was a high profile advocate of the legalisation of assisted suicide, and some people associated with the disability rights community were saying they were glad he had died as his death stops him spreading his views. I find that utterly disgusting. It made me very angry indeed.

I hoped I had misunderstood, so I enquired a bit further: it may have been they were glad he had passed on before he had chance to top himself, a stance I can more or less accept. But it was as bad and as hateful as I had feared: they relished his passing simply because it silenced an opponent. Whether one agreed with him or not and, as I think I have touched upon here before, I am very wary of the issue – Pratchett had a right to his views. To welcome his death so emphatically, simply because it silenced a voice you disagreed with, is utterly contemptible. As much as I loathe Nigel Farage, I do not want him dead, nor would I relish his passing; I know enough of death to value life in all its diversity. I had hoped that to be true of everyone associated with the disability rights community – it disturbs me utterly to find I was wrong. I don’t want anything to do with people who take such an appalling, hateful and juvenile stance.

Anyone foolish enough to still doubt that UKIP and Farage are a bunch of racists, should just go here. Making comments other politicians have called ‘shocking’, Farage has called for ‘most’ laws connected with race and discrimination to be scrapped. For example, he says a potential employer should be allowed to deliberately select a british person over a Polish person. Needless to say, I find that utterly repugnant: it would take us back to dark days where people were pitted against each other due to the colour of their skin or where they came from. Employers should hire on the grounds of ability and suitability; what farage proposes would deliberately increase tension between groups of people.

Of course, the cretin instantly tried to backpeddle, saying his comments had been ‘willfully misrepresented’, and that he was talking about nationality rather than ethnicity or race. What crap!It is clear what he meant. It is becoming clearer and clearer that Farage and those who agree with them are bigots, but when you talk to them, they present themselves as the victim – an oppressed minority whose views are being stamped out by a politically-correct elite. We can see such a stance taken by twits like Jeremy Clarkson. Well, anyone who knows their history will know that men like farage and clarkson were, not long ago, a majority; one that ruled over others, repressing difference, denying others’ their rights on the grounds of gender, skin-colour, sexuality and so on. It is precisely to prevent such discrimination that new laws were introduced – laws which farage wants to repeal. The insult is, he invokes discrimination in his argument.

What I saw this man has said, upon turning on my computer and checking the news, chills me to the core. Thankfully it is being widely condemned. Farage would take us back to somewhere dark, where hatred and prejudice were common, even standard. Surely such bigotry has no place in our or any society.

Earlier today I was exploring the narrow streets of a pretty French town just to the south of Paris. My parents had told me the name of the place my brother mark and his family are moving to, and, it being rather overcast and gloomy in London, I thought I would head over and give it a look. It struck me as quintessentially French, it’s winding, narrow streets so evocative of the taste of wine and strong cheese; you could scarcely get more different to dull old London.

Of course, my explorations were limited to google maps, as much as we’d all love to suddenly whip off to somewhere exotic. I love how that website allows you to explore the world from your desk, so that whenever you feel down, or your feet itch, you can instantly transport yourself to somewhere far away (or, indeed, down roads you know well). This afternoon I was following my nose down pretty winding streets, feeling slightly jealous of my bro. Then again, those streets didn’t look very easy to navigate in a wheelchair – another advantage of website-bound exploration. With luck, we will see it for real soon enough, but for now, whenever I yearn for those streets, the taste of wine and strong cheese, Google does nicely.

Did my friend Alex ever get drunk? I can’t help but wonder, as I sit outside the dome on this bright spring day. Of course, he had a level of cp that meant he needed help to drink: did he ever have the opportunity to sit outside on such a day and sip a beer? Did he ever wake up on a pebble beach? Did he ever feel guilty about what he did the night before? Did he ever roll over in bed to cuddle up to the person he loved? He deserved to do all these things, and more. Yet he probably didn’t, and, I know now, will never. That seems, as I sit here, utterly unfair.

According to Phillip Hammond, anyone who seeks to explain or contextualise the acts of terrorists bears responsibility for their acts. He says, in effect, that those who seek to blame the security services for driving people into radicalism are just as responsible for atrocities as those who plant the bombs. I’m sorry, but this is just plain stupid – what is a person who sees things so simply doing in power?! There are always motives behind acts of violence, and one of them will be our own actions; the only way we can possibly counter terrorism is to think in such terms. But instead, Hammond says it’s wrong to do so, and that it is apologetic to try to blame the security services for the genesis of people like ‘Jihadi John’. Under that logic, such people just came from nothing, or are simply evil; and to try to say otherwise makes one as culpable as they are. Such reasoning is just plain wrong, over-simplistic, and it scares me that we have someone who thinks in such narrow terms governing over us.

I’m linking to this simply through sheer amazement. It’s a bbc story about a graffiti artists whose images move. He paints a wall, takes a picture, and then repaints again and again to gradually build up a moving image. It’s basically a form of animation, but a slow, methodical one. The beeb calls it ‘The most painstaking art in the world’. They’re probably right to say that – some of these images can only be appreciated from space, over days. I’m just in awe of the patience and creativity involved in generating such beauty.

I may have had a small role in it’s creation, having kind of badgered the dude about it, but I just found this, Calvin Dyson’s review of Happy and Glorious. I must say, it is an excellent piece: I had feared hardcore Bond fans would not be as taken by the film as I, but Dyson seems to share my euphoric amazement with it. A thorough and observant reviewer, he picks up on a few of the odd bits in this film, such as the silly commentary in the olympic youtube channel’s version, or the strange bit where the statue moved – points I agree with. To have the statue of Churchill wave was slightly weird, although from the way it is shot you could read it as Bond imagining the statue waving; and besides, it is not much odder than some of the weird things in the Moore-era Bond films – this for example. I think Boyle put it in because it fitted the jubilation of the occasion; indeed, as noted at the end of this Telegraph article, the tone of the piece could be said to hark back to the Moore vintage.

Dyson also says it could have been more bondish: they may have made more use of the Bond theme, or included a gadget, or had a pretty woman pilot. True, but perhaps that would be to overplay it. After all, this is not a bond film per se, but a film invoking the character as royal escort: There may not have been any bad guys to eliminate – the usual violence of a bond film would definitely not have been appropriate at an olympic opening ceremony – but perhaps we can imagine that M thought it prudent to send 007 along just in case. As I wrote here and here, it was bold and brave – the ultimate tribute to the Bond franchise. It was not supposed to be entirely about bond, but to insert 007 into reality like never before and in a way nobody could have imagined, thereby cementing his place in our culture in a gloriously British way. Thus it still has the ability to make me squeal spastically with glee, making my jaw drop; it seems I’m not the only one to be so thrilled by it.

Sat in the park, as children play

The sun setting on a sunny day

A quiet moment; the slowing of time a chance to reflect on this life of mine.

Thinking over the recent news

Looking over sunny views

Life goes on, and always will

Rain or shine, good or ill.

My palls are passing, there’s nothing more to say;

Save that the sun still shines with each new day.

Drinking coffee beside this bright green mead

A moment to reflect is what I need.

You know, before yesterday morning I genuinely thought I would find my friend fit and well. I thought that, thanks to the vagaries of the internet, it may take a while to find Alex – after all, it was well over ten years since I last saw him – but eventually I’d find him. I had little doubt that he would have as many tales as I; indeed he may have more. I couldn’t wait to hear all about what he’d been up to, what he’d studied at uni, where he’d travelled to. I expected him to perhaps have his own thesis to show me, and that it would probably be better than mine.

Instead, I found myself writing yet another of those fucked up entries marking the passing of a friend. I hate writing them, but I feel I must. The world must know what it’s like to have been to a special school: to know that, from time to time, you’ll get another phone call or email or facebook message saying that yet another person you grew up with is no longer here. It’s a horrible, fucked up feeling. The worst thing is I don’t know who will be next to go or when that call will come. I expected Alex to live; if he’s gone, they all could go. I might soon be the last; the final member of my class, the only one who remembers that childhood.

So much potential. So much promise. So much life. Gone.

A couple of days ago, I began to wonder about Alex Langley. I don’t think I’ve mentioned Alex on here before: he was an old school friend. He had fairly severe cp, and we went to primary and middle school together. Alex was included in mainstream after that, so we parted ways, but we used to see each other around town from time to time. He was a good man, a good laugh. Very bright.

Lying in bed two or three nights ago, I suddenly thought about him. I wondered what he would think of my MA. I googled him, without luck, before asking one of our old teachers if she knew where he was. This morning, I got a reply: he passed away about ten years ago. I know you could say I shouldn’t feel it because we had hardly seen each other, but it still hurts; getting news of the death of someone so bight and so young hurts like hell. I had expected Alex to have been to uni; he was a big trekkie, and I wondered what he’d say about my thesis. I expected him to jokingly rubbish it. That conversation, that catch-up between old friends, won’t happen now; knowing that fucking hurts.

While I find the tone of this cbs news piece mildly condescending, it’s subject is of great interest. It demonstrates the extent to which we cripples can now use robots can do almost anything, from shaving to remotely exploring museums. Some of the tech it showcases looks very interesting, which made it worth flagging up on here, although I think it also demonstrates how our american friends may be some time behind us in media attitudes to disability and the use of disabling language.

These days, whenever I need an instant pick-me-up, whenever I feel grim and want to regain my smile, I simply remind myself of all the mind-blowingly awesome things which have happened in my recent life. When I think about it, it is truly amazing: from watching Lyn play in the paralympic closing ceremony, to watching Monty python to meeting Patrick Stewart, simply remembering these events fills me with joy. It’s like an automatic boost to the system.

I was just pondering how that boost works, though, and it occurred to me that the memory is only half the story. The interconnected events which spur me do so because they go to show how great life can be; they reveal the potential of life. If awesome things can happen, they can happen again and again. Part of the reason behind my fascinations with both London and the Olympics stems from the fact that they are both cites of awesomeness – and how much cooler can you get than the queen parachuting out of a helicopter with james flipping bond? These memories fill me with joy; they allow me to say ‘I was there!’ But the also fill me with energy and an eagerness to go out into the city to look for more. Just as a glance at my graduation photo fills me with pride and confidence, rewatching this or this forces me to think about how great life can be; they are absolute demonstrations that, in this city, in this world, in this life, anything can happen. And if that is so, why not go out and see what does.

I got the slightest glance of Matt Lucas’ new show Pompidou last night. Not knowing what it was, but fearing it might be a pisstake of a guy with learning disabilities, I thought I better examine further. I just gave it a watch and, although I was unsure I liked it at first, I now see it as a work of genius. A comment on class, it is a comedy about an aristocratic gentleman fallen on hard times. The interesting thing is, there is barely any dialogue in the show; the piece is played out through mime and intonations which sound like words but aren’t quite. I was reminded a lot of silent film, of chaplin. But it is also truly, truly bizarre: dare I say it, it is almost Pythonesque in it’s randomness and logic. By the end I loved it, ad now greatly anticipate episode two.

Anyone still somehow doubting the folly of UKIP and the stupidity of it’s members should have been watching the tv again last night. ‘The Great European Disaster Film’ was another excellent piece of television by the bbc. Authored documentary by Italian director Annalisa Piras and former editor of The Economist Bill Emmott, it is an eighty minute piece which explores the crisis facing Europe through framing documentary and interview footage with allegorical cut-aways to a fictional crashing plane. Structurally it struck me as a novel and inventive way of handling the subject, although the plane-crash metaphor may have been a touch on the severe side. It presented both arguments, outlining both the advantages and disadvantages of being in the European Union, explaining too why it was founded and why it is still necessary. Mind you, the segment involving the snobbish old biddy from UKIP had me once again shouting at the screen – her backwards and inwardslooking attitudes tell us all we need to know about this ‘party’.

However, more screen-shouting was yet to come. After the show, there was a debate between Emmott and various people supporting or attacking his film – mostly, it seemed, the latter. The last two of these were Mark Reckless and Daily Fail writer Peter Hitchens; and I must say the stupidity of the pair astounded me. Even if I disagree profoundly with what they were saying, it was very clear they did not understand the debate, or what the film was trying to get at. I was stunned by their lack of any sort of grasp of the relevant artistic or political vocabularies. For example, when people talk about art on any sort of level, it is not uncommon to allude to any kind of thing in order to clarify or contextualise their arguments; these allusions can go anywhere. Thus at one point Emmott referenced football culture. His point struck me as perfectly valid, but to my utter astonishment it went straight over the top of Reckless’ and Hitchens’ head, who then inanely said their opponent was being trivial. They assumed they were in a position to govern what was or was not relevant to the conversation, but instead made their stupidity even more evident. How can we possibly take such people seriously when they are so demonstrably moronic? It now baffles me that Hitchens can write his name, let alone a newspaper column. Yet they speak as if they regard themselves as learned authorities. I was stunned, and felt sorry for Emmott, who had to deal with these cretins and their quibbles.

Last night, then, was fun. A night of yet more yelling at the tv; but a night when the folly and stupidity of UKIP and those who support it was revealed for all to see yet again.

Programme website

We all think we know london. As with any other word city, images of it proliferate on television: through programs like eastenders, writing like that of Conan-Doyle, and even the nightly news bulletin, we are all highly familiar with its main features. Any school kid can identify Saint pauls, the houses of Parliament or the skyscrapers of Canary Wharf. Yet I know a different London, a more intricate london, a homelier London. As I continue to explore the city, I go down streets lined with terraced housing, much like those I knew up in Cheshire; they feel lived in and down to earth. Much like those northern towns, the city here is a rabbit warren of roads, organic, crowded in upon itself. Yet abutting the eighteenth and nineteenth century terraces are modern buildings. Walking through the back streets of Woolwich this afternoon, the place seemed in flux: old and new jostled and juxtaposed. This was an ancient fishing village turned Roman fort turned seventeenth century barracks, now become commuter suburb of a modern, sprawling metropolis. It’s history is as evident as its modernity, and to see the two side by side, yet so clear, is fascinating. Thus I continue to take my walks, as I once did in Congleton and Crewe. Yet here the contrasts and juxtapositions are heightened to an almost absurdly complex degree. We might think we know london from our t.v screens, but this london, the city I am coming to know and love, the suburban, lived in London, is infinitely more interesting. Infinitely more real.

Astronaut Terry Virts just tweeted this picture, probably as a response to the sad passing of mr Nimoy. Frankly, I love it – it is one of the most humbling images ever: at once a lament and an inspiration. I had no choice but to repost it here. What better tribute to the great man could anyone make? [img description=”undefined image” align=”centre”]/images/astrovulcan.jpeg[/img]

Coming home after an afternoon out, I just checked the news, and saw this. ” Leonard Nimoy, who played Mr Spock in the cult sci-fi series Star Trek, has died at the age of 83 in Los Angeles, his family has said.” As a star trek fan, I am suddenly heartbroken: Nimoy, through Spock, helped make Star trek something I love. While I came to the franchise after the original series, I adore the films starring the original crew, which Nimoy both starred in and, in one or two, directed. Spock was one of the greatest characters, present throughout the franchise’s sixty-year history, and part of me hoped we’d see him again in forthcoming films. That will not happen now, and I feel deeply upset about it. I can only send you here, to one of my all time favourite star trek scenes, and say that Mr. Nimoy has been, and always shall be, my friend.

I’m not sure quite what to say about it in terms of commentary, but this bit of awesomeness demands linking to. Tesco has apparently selected a young girl with quite severe CP as a model for their children’s clothing range. ”Holly, who uses a wheelchair and communicates using a special computer system operated by her eyes, shone at the shoot and now features on the fashion pages of the Tesco website.” This is a small yet monumental step towards the full inclusion of people with disabilities into society; the somewhat patronising tone of the article aside, I welcome this wholeheartedly and with relish.

Yesterday I was on my way home from a meeting up at the british museum, in relation to my work at the RIX centre. It had gone very well indeed, and I got some very useful networking done. On my way back to Westminster tube station, rolling through central London I felt the urge to explore. Even after five years living here, there are still places I haven’t been, roads I’ve never rolled down. Passing through Trafalgar square, I felt very tempted to make a detour under Marble arch and cruise up the Mall. But it was getting late, and I was due home.

However, I just did it. Using the wonderful Google Maps streetview, I was able to make the trip I was not able to yesterday. I know it’s not quite the same, and you do not get any of the true city experience sitting in your office, but when it’s cold, wet and dark outside yet you still feel like exploring, streetview is a very handy tool.

Who would have thought such naughtiness went on down the hill. I just came across this story , revealing that ‘Charlton [Athletic] are investigating footage that appears to show a couple having sex on the pitch at The Valley.” I just looked it up on youtube, and it appears true. For the record, despite living a stones throw from he ground I had nothing to do with it. Frankly I’m very amused that something like this happened so close to us; it’s probably the best bit of action on that pitch for quite some time.

Although I’m not particularly keen on football, and although it doesn’t focus on one particular city, I feel as if I want to say something about the 2022 Qatar world cup. Since 2012, my eyes have been opened to sporting events, and big events in general, as a force for good in the world; a unifying force. As such, UEFA’s decision to award the right to host the tournament to Qatar, and the subsequent furore currently resulting from it, interests me.

Going with Qatar was a bold move to begin with. While the middle east is often in the news, it is a part of the world we seldom focus our eyes on for sport, competition or friendship. No city in the middle east has ever hosted he Olympics. Thus it is good to see the region being included, brought into the family, in this way. No doubt the increased attention on the region will make us more aware of it’s rich history and culture, which can only be a good thing. Let the world see Doha as they saw London.

At the same time, though, I have to feel slightly cynical about all this. Given it’s such a tiny country, not known for it’s love of sport, one must wonder what lay behind UEFAs decision. Plenty of other countries were bidding, including the UK, who are much better placed to host such an event. I’m sure I’m not the only one who can detect a whiff of corruption in the air. Now we have the farcical dilemma over whether to hold it in the summer or winter, moreover, part of me feels that they should cut their losses an restart the selection process. After all, I’d love to see another big sporting event in Britain.

We all know, of course, that UEFA is not going to do that: for starters, Qatar, it’s stadia already half built, would be up in arms. But with domestic leagues deeply discontent over yesterday’s decision over timing, UEFA is frankly making itself a complete laughing stock.

After posting my entry yesterday, I sent a link to it to the o2 facebook page. After two or three emails, I just received word that the o2 social manager has spoken to the Woolwich branch manager, who assured her that he will make sure it does not happen again. So, matter resolved? Victory? I have a feeling that that remains to be seen.

I think I ought to note something astounding. My iPad hasn’t been online all weekend. It turns out there was something wrong with the SIM card. When the problem first cropped up Friday, I razzed down to Woolwich heading for the O2 store there. Usually when such things happen, staff are very accommodating, and I expected that after a few moments of fiddling in my settings I would be back online. However the staff in the woolwich shop were extremely discourteous, ignoring me at first and treating me with something approaching abuse when I finally got their attention. They refused to even touch my iPad due to the few spots of dribble on it. They spoke over me, treating me like some combination of errant child and dirty animal. In the end they chose to get rid of me with the blatant lie that my connection will restore automatically in a few days.

Today, my iPad still firmly offline, I decided to go up to the O2 shop in the dome. The contrast in my experience today with that of Friday could not be more extreme. The staff were kind and friendly, going to some length to help me. They took my iPad, gave it a wipe with tissues, and a while later restored my connection. My SIM card needed a top up. I went away thanking them deeply, grateful to be functioning normally again.

Yet I still feel hurt about Friday. It is now clear they were lying to me, naming excuses not to help me out of what boils down to pure discrimination. In fact, I am now strongly considering making a formal complaint.

I mentioned yesterday that we were going to a party. It was my friend Luke’s twenty-first*, and it turned out to be quite a great evening. It was at a pub in Sydenham the same one, if memory serves, as last year – and it became clear pretty soon after we arrived that Sally had put in a fair bit of effort organising it. There was champagne, a DJ, and, later in the evening, a stripper. We all had a lot of fun; I think Luke enjoyed himself most of all. I haven’t seen much of him recently, so it was good to catch up, hang out and party on. Hopefully we can meet up again soon and start the ball rolling on a few projects.

*I made a mistake this time last year in saying Luke had turned thirty when he was twenty.

Until a few moments ago I was in a rather good mood: the sun is starting to shine, and we have party to go to later. But then I came across this piece of transphobic hate-speech. A bigoted old fool in Rome who calls himself the head of the catholic church has launched a tirade of abuse against transgender people. He says people who alter their bodies go against god’s design; that they go against the ‘order of creation’. I know I shouldn’t care. I know these are just the ramblings of a stupid old man who believes his imaginary friend created the world in six days. Yet, whether I like it or not, what this particular idiot says matters.

Why can such people get away with what boils down to bigotry, just because it is n the guise of religion? I know a little about transpeople, and many of them have particularly hard lives. I think too of Lyn, the loveliest, most patient of partners and probably the most remarkable people I’ll ever know. She lives exactly how she wants to live. For this old idiot to condemn her and those like her just because it goes against what he thinks is written in some moronic old book really pisses me off.

I too play with gender. I haven’t dressed up much recently, but the urge is still there. In part I see it as vital for breaking down gender barriers and rereading social roles. The pope says I am wrong to do so because it goes against god’s will. Well, screw your god! Right – where’s my pink leotard?!

I have recently been relishing reflecting on how there seem to be funny little connections between all the truly awesome events in my recent life. Since moving down to London, I have had some great experiences, but what excites me is how they touch upon one another. For starters there was the big one – the Olympics. That event has personal resonance for me for a number of reasons: for a start, Lyn played at it’s finale, and you never forget something so monumental. The fact that the documentary which preceded their performance cemented mine and Lyn’s relationship into the Symbolic made it even more special. Linked to that, in another ceremony there was a reference to Chariots of Fire, which has quite profound resonance for me because My class and I performed to that very track for a wheelchair dance competition at school.

Then, of course, there is my favourite: Happy and Glorious not only utilises my favourite Bond actor in what must be one of the most remarkable bits of tv ever, it also references the union jack parachute jump from the opening of The Spy Who Loved Me. Given that parachuting is not an integral aspect of the Bond character in that he is not automatically associated with that mode of transport, and that there were other options open to the ceremony organisers (007 could, for instance, have chauffeured her majesty in his Aston Martin, perhaps even re-using the famous car barrel-roll stunt from The Man with the Golden Gun; or they could have had the helicopter land and had her majesty step out), that the two are linked is quite beyond argument. Danny Boyle and is team must have had the pre-credit sequence of The Spy who Loved Me in mind when creating the opening ceremony. While you could ascribe the pattern on the parachute to the patriotism inherent to the occasion, or point out that there were no solouhetted hands or Carly Simon, to try to argue that there is no relationship between the two would be virtually impossible. After all, unless I am very much mistaken, that is where the flag-emblazoned parachute device originated; and both use the opening of a parachute as a musical cue. I find the fact that the one ties quite irrefutably to the other a source of almost perpetual joy. I also love the fact that, at the beginning of Happy and Glorious, you can glimpse the ball-room where Lyn and the Paraorchestra recorded the anthem for the queen’s 2012 christmas address, giving me a second personal link to it.

Through that, the entire London 2012 olympic and paralympic event is linked to my Master’s work. Due to the echo of the flag-emblazoned parachute, the semiotic/linguistic link is inescapable. To me that is awesome. And, through my thesis, there is also a connection to the Ahab scene from First Contact, meaning it links to another of my greatest memories: meeting Sir Patrick Stewart. Thus the two are connected; my thesis straddles both experiences!

The third of my awesome events was, of course, watching Monty Python Live. While I do not use Python in my thesis, there is a link to london 2012 through Eric Idle’s bit. Again, the two echo each other. The two events are also linked through their use of Stephen Hawking, who in turn has a link to Star trek. And of course, through Python my web extends not only to my favourite traveller, Michael Palin, but also to John Cleese, who was in two of the Brosan-era Bond films. I still relish the memory of going to se Mr. Palin talk, yet another great event in my recent life.

I hope you get the picture. I love how linked all these things are; thinking up these connections has become something of a hobby. This is just an overview: there are many more links in this fascinating, often uncanny, web of life. Noticing them makes one realise how intricate and intriguing the world is.

Something rather cool happened yesterday. I was just pottering around in my study at about lunchtime, when Lyn called me. She was in her studio, and sounded excited. She said she had been naughty: she had bought another speaker. Audiophile that Lyn is, she already has plenty, but I still said it was cool. Lyn and my dad share a liking for Bowers and Wilkins speakers – i can’t blame her for buying the best.

Lyn had bought it from ebay, so we expected it to arrive in two or three days. However at around dinner time, our doorbell rang. To our complete surprise, there was a guy there, who handed over over a speaker! I was astounded. Apparently the guy Lyn bought the speaker from lived quite near.

Lyn, of course, was over the moon. She has a new toy to play with. As I sit here on the sofa blogging, she is busily trying it out, blasting out tunes as joyful as a child. It is quite a wonderful, happy spectacle.

I think I’m developing a kind of arrogance or big-headedness about myself. When out and about, I seem to have adopted an internal sneer; a contempt for anything and anyone which irritates me. Of course, I better make sure this new mean streak does not get out of hand, but I think it has something to do with passing my Masters. I am now more confident than I ever have been in my abilities: I know I’m not stupid; I know I can write, research and analyse. Part of me thinks that it is therefore time I stood up (metaphorically) for myself, held my head high, and stopped being a pushover.

Of course, I’ll need to make sure I don’t take this too far – on must, naturally, remember to be courteous to all – but I think I could benefit from being a little more selfconfident and forthright. Far too often I let people push in front of me in queues; I let opinions and statements I know are incorrect go unchallenged; I allow myself to be looked down upon and my abilities be questioned. No More! I am Matt Goodsell, Master of Arts! I am not an idiot; just because I’m using a wheelchair does not mean you can push in front of me; and when you are wrong you will be told. I think I deserve some respect, and I now plan to get it.

I just gave UKIP: The First 100 Days a second viewing. When I first saw it last night I was very taken by it, but I could tell it required and deserved another watch; now that I have done so, I find myself utterly taken with this brave and sophisticated piece of television.

On one level, you could say this constitutes Channel Four standing up to UKIP. Parts of this program are very anti-ukip, making no effort to hide it’s underlying racism. Last night I was applauding Channel Four for having the bravery to stand up to this xenophobic party: it clearly spells out what a catastrophe a ukip government would be. Yet after the second viewing, I think the film’s approach is more subtle: it tries to show both sides of the argument. This is not the hatchet job part of me wants someone to make; it is very careful not to present ukip or their supporters as monsters I especially like how actual footage of ukip’s bufooonery, including footage of Farage’s speeches, was interspersed into the fiction, so there can be no debate over their accuracy*. This is a very clever move on the part of channel four, because, this way, the film cannot just be dismissed as just propaganda. At the same time, it spells out what a disaster a ukip government would be, and the division it would cause..

Parts of this film had me in appoplexisms of rage last night and again this morning. UKIP have that effect on me, even when they are presented in a fiction. part of me wants to launch into a venomous tirade against Farage and the bunch of idiots he calls a party, but this film reminds us that pure bile is not the solution. It spells out the folly of UKIP, yet holds back from going too far. It is a drama, a fiction; but beneath that fiction lie very salient truths about the dangers this party represents and the dark places it would lead us to. It is thus a brave bit of tv for which it’s makers need to be congratulated. This is why channel four is great.

*I nevertheless just read that ukip has complained to ofcom about the program, and farage has called it biassed and partisan.

I still have a strange fixation with the Olympics. It is not the sport that excites me, but the bidding process and choice of venue. The Olympics draw the world’s attention onto a city, each unique and vibrant. For a month or so, a city can show itself off; the world gets to explore a new metropolis, a new city-scape, a new people. Through the olympics we become flaneurs walking the streets of a city in a moment of celebration. The way in which each city choses to reveal itself to the world fascinates me. Yet, no two cities are alike; each has it’s own idiosyncrasies, it’s own unique heartbeat. How, then, can anyone choose one city over another?

It seems to me that it is a selection process like no other, with the steaks higher than any other. Countries compete directly with each other as in no other area. Unlike in war, this is entirely peaceful; unlike international sport, this is not about the physical prowess of individuals. It is a matter of enticing a committee to choose one city over another; about who has the best application, the best city. The associated costs aside, being awarded an olympic games by the IOC is a huge source of national pride, and thus it is a highly competitive process. Vast amounts of capital – cultural, social and monetary – rest on the IOC’s decision. Like winning the world cup, a host receives the esteem of the world; the benefits, though, are more concrete and long-term, often involving the opportunity to transform a city and refresh one’s cultural image.

Soon, cities and countries will start preparing to bid for the 2024 games, where I suspect the tension will be higher than ever: On the other hand we have Paris, no doubt still resenting loosing out to London in 2005 and desperate to host the games after so many set-backs. The French take a huge amount of pride in their capital; one senses they resented not being the first city to host the olympics three times, and want to catch up with London. This, together with the fact that 2024 will mark a century since the last Paris olympics, means this bid will really matter to them.

One might think Paris will be a shoe-in because of this, but the Americans, I sense, want to win this bid just as badly. After all, they were just as disappointed in 2005: they take enormous pride in New York. They were hurt deeply when the big apple bid failed, and again when Chicago’s bid for the games of 2016 was rejected, in the first round no less. American pride is such that they also think it’s time they hosted the games again; they think, as ”the worlds greatest country”, they deserve it, and don’t give a rat’s ass about Paris. Of course, one could argue that selecting Boston over say, New York or LA – truly world cities – implies that the American Olympic Committee is only putting a token bid in, but I really think they want it.

Thus, given that Rome and Berlin (two national capitals) are also bidding, we have a very interesting situation. A huge amount of national pride rests on the IOC’s decision. Only one city can win, meaning that either america or France will be disappointed yet again. You might say it’s only an olympics, and that is true; but to have a city chosen to host the world’s biggest party is a huge source of pride. To loose out to another city in another country automatically feels like a slight, regardless of how patriotic one is. For either country to be rejected yet again will hurt badly – there could well be friction.

Indeed, given how much the US contributes to the IOC, rejecting them in favour of what to the Americans would be yet another Old European capital could be gravely risky. The americans invest a huge amount of capital, both monetary and cultural, into their bids. Hypothetically, another rejection could push them over the edge: they could withdraw from the olympic movement altogether; without the US, the entire event would lose it’s credibility and relevance. From that point of view, the committee has no choice but to go with the American candidate. But could it really say no to paris yet again? Such a blow would be truly devastating for the french. I’d hate to be in the IOC’s shoes.

That’s what interests me: how will they play it, and who will the IOC choose. To a certain extent, I guess my fascination with this stems from my gleeful pride at living in a city which went through this process and won, and at getting to watch the losers from 2005 have to go through this process all over again; indeed, I admit there may be an element of Schadenfreude stoking my interest in this. Yet the subject, given it’s context, is oddly intriguing to me. Being awarded the olympic games is a huge signifier of a city’s importance and esteem on the world stage; the more games a city hosts, the more relevant it can be said to be. There is far more to this decision than financial gain. 2012 was the ultimate confirmation of London as one of the world’s major cultural hubs; it’s status was put beyond doubt. Other cities want that status, that cudos, too. What all bidding cities want, more than anything, is the esteem of the world.

We all know – or, rather, are lead to believe – that politics ad economics are vastly complex subjects. Yesterday I tried to condense my opinions on the economic situation into a form of allegorical children’s story. Of course, I grossly simplified things, and some would say it was a highly biassed misrepresentation. Ask an american republican, for instance, and the economic upturn is all down to their cuts. Everything here is subjective, and depends on how one sees it. From there it follows that there are no objectively right answers.

Yet I think you can take that a step further. People differ on how they see things, but those differing viewpoints have reasons behind them; reasons which make one more reasonable than the other.

As babies we are selfish: we demand parental attention, milk, and all the toys; we feel hard done by if, say, mummy and daddy move their attention to a sibling. Babies think they are the centre of the world, and only their needs matter. As we grow, however, we learn to share: we come to realise that there are other children in the playroom, and that their needs matter just as much as ours. Moreover, we learn that if we share, other children are more likely to share with us in return, so we all benefit.

This, to me, is what is at the base of the difference between left and right. Right-wingers still demand that undivided attention; they still think their needs come first. They therefore begrudge contributing to society (sharing) by paying tax. Of course, they might try to rationalise their worldview by citing other ways to contribute, or other convoluted arguments; yet their neoliberal stance boils down to the simple, childish greed of children who have not yet learned to share. To frame it in psychoanalytical terms perhaps, their superego is left underdeveloped.

The left is made up of those who grew out of that stage, who realise that sharing is good. They realised that other children in the room needed toys, milk and attention too, perhaps because their parents were careful not to spoil them. They therefore develop the nascent idea of equality, of fairness. In turn this matures into a communitarian, leftist stance.

That, for me, is what is at the base of the difference between right and left. It is a dichotomy of greed versus selflessness, of spoiled and unspoiled children. This also accounts for the anti-liberal attitudes of those on the right, for, like small children, they desire security and continuity over difference, novelty and change. Granted, it might be slightly reductive, but I think my theory sums it up well; it’s why I think leftism is a more mature, adult and ultimately more productive worldview. After all, is it not the grown ups who have to remind children to play nicely and share their toys? And it is only through sharing, and through working together rather than for personal profit, that we will be able to solve the problems humanity faces.

Once, a group of wise men lived together in a house in a town. They looked after their house well: good roof, pretty garden, strong walls. But one day, a huge storm came and destroyed the town, and most houses were wrecked. The local greek restaurant was utterly ruined, and its owners needed lots of help to save it. However, the house in which the wise men lived was not too badly damaged, and they were soon repairing it.

It was almost back to how it was when the wise men got some bad news and needed to move out. Shortly after that, some other people moved in. They weren’t so wise. For some reason they thought he storm had been caused by the wise men, and thought the house was in a terrible condition. They set about trying to repair the house, but, fools that they were, did a very poor job. But they were lucky: the storm had passed, and the wise men had done such a good job starting the repairs that the house continued to recover. The new guys were so gormless though, they didn’t realise: in their arrogance they assumed things were getting better because of their flawed repairs. In fact, everyone else could see that they were getting worse due to what they had done.

The house will soon fall down if the wise men do not return, for the new tenants have bodged the repairs. They claim to have improved the house when in fact it has become worse. The only reason it looks so good is because of the work started by the wise men – ironically the people the fools, in their ignorance blame for the storm. If the house is to flourish, the fools must be evicted and the wise men must return…lest another storm comes.