Dear Mr. Duncan-smith

Fuck, do you have some cheek. In a Speech I saw today you told the country that you are cutting welfare out of compassion, that too many people had become dependant on the welfare state an you were liberating them from a dependant life. To hear you speak you were sounding like some great hero setting people free, acting entirely altruistically. How fucking stupid do you think we are?! Only a complete moron would believe there is a shred of altruism in your actions; you are motivated entirely by the desire to lower taxes for rich bastards like yourself. The consequences of shrinking the welfare state is not a reduction in welfare dependency, but starvation. Ar we supposed to believe that everyone currently on welfare will magically be able to get a job, and the only thing stopping them from doing so now is laziness? No, p’tahk, it isn’t. That is a lie you Tory bastards pedal to justify your greed-motivated views. People need the welfare state for many reasons; I have many friends who use it, and not one of them does so by choice.

Moreover, if you suddenly block the only incomes of so many, the result will not be a sudden upsurge in employment but mass starvation and suffering. But you don’t give a fuck about that, do you, IDS? All you care about is people like yourself: rich people with good educations, from what you see as good families. To you, only your own values matter, and all others are lesser people. So cut the crap, you fucker, and stop patronising us. It’s blatantly obvious why you are doing what you are doing, and don’t insult are intelligence by claiming to set us free – you’re leaving people to starve, and, because they are not like you, you relish it. Yours

Thinking Britain

I am currently watching prime ministers questions as usual, and much is being made of the so called economic recovery. Too see the Tories boasting so merrily, acting so pleased with themselves, is utterly galling. Yes, the figures might be slightly better than expected, but this is despite, not because of, what the government is doing. The economy was always going to improve; luckily it happened before many economists forecast, yet people are still dying and suffering due to the cuts. People’s care packages are being cut, more and more people are taking their lives; yet CaMoron stands up in parliament patting himself on the back for a recovery he did not cause.

It is almost too much for me to tolerate. How dare these unelected pieces of shit be so arrogant?how can anyone causing so much suffering be so cocky? And it is the Tories who are to blame for our suffering, not Labour. Their attempts to shift the blame, to rewrite history, fills me with rage even further. As I wrote a couple of days ago, it is the conservative ideology itself which is the problem as it encourages selfishness and greed. To the Tories, if they and their rich friends are doing well, we have recovered – the rest of us do not matter. They pretend they care, but they don’t.

Enough is enough. If they had any honour, CaMoron and co would be apologising and resigning, but instead they demand our gratitude and respect. After all, to them they were born to rule. Thus they come on shows like Daily Politics and tell us all how everything is getting better and fairer. Better to them means lower taxes, and their idea of fairness is ensuring the rich are still able to oppress the poor, and those who can dominate those who cannot. They seem to have no compassion, no humanity, as long as people as rich as them are doing well; if others are suffering, it is their own fault and of no concern to the ruling class. This attitude means that my blood boils whenever I see a Tory speak, pedalling their lies, insulting the very country they presume so arrogantly to rule. They must go: people are suffering due to their arrogant, selfish ideology. They belong in jail, not Westminster, and any moronic bastard who denies that and defends them is as guilty as they are. The line on the graphs may be pointing upward, for now at least, but people are still suffering; they take credit for the former, but the latter is their true legacy.

Accessing the Ipad with her nose

Her head jerks, yet with the surety of an expert,

She selects precisely her intended target

Flitting and darting between apps.

So quickly you can barely keep up.

***

Then, her nose, nostrils a-flair in concentration, Having tapped ‘record’, she makes sounds, odd, babylike, yet obviously what she wants

To use later in her latest song

Those works of melodic genius which emanate from her small studio

***

I watch her, and we both laugh at the funny little noises.

I wonder what they will become,

How she’ll use them, transform them,

Slowly, precisely

Into something great

Facebook reminded me this morning that today would have been Lee Mayer’s 30th birthday. It has been almost a year since his death, but his family have kept his facebook page open. I still miss him, as I do all my school friends no longer here. Yet I suppose I have other things to concentrate on: there are a couple of big protests coming up, Lyn and I are going to a forthcoming radio caroline event, and there is also the matter of my birthday in march. In all, the future’s bright, and I should have lots to write about on here. I’m aware that most of my blog entries have been rather short recently, and need to get back to writing more substantial articles. Thus, while today I will remember lee, I’ll continue to look forward to a fun-filled future; old Mayer would not have had it any other way.

I was thinking this morning, and it occurred to me that the biggest threat humanity faces, as a species, is not climate change or dwindling resources, but conservatism. The mentality which has people place themselves before the community; which says money is life’s ultimate goal; which allows those who can to lord it over those who cannot, and says haves are somehow better than have nots. The ideology which demands mining more fossil fuels and objects to wind turbines because they blot the landscape; which objects to gay marriage because, despite giving all sorts of legal, moral or religious reasons, deep down they just hates gay people; which demands tax should be kept low for rich people even when the poorest in society are starving because their benefits have been cut. It is that ideology, that set of childish selfish impulses mistaken by idiots for politics, which blights humanity. Neoliberal conservatism itself is a problem, and the sooner we realise that, outgrow greed selfishness and the pursuit of money and start working together for the good of all, irrespective of ability gender or skin tone, the better.

My friend steve posted the following on facebook about five minutes ago

[quote=”Steve M”]

Jenny Chalmers and myself would like to announce the birth of our daughter, Molly Jane Metcalfe. Born on the 15th January at 20:09. Mum and baby are both doing well.[/quote]

I’m over the moon for them both. A great day (very positive feedback from dave, and the possibility of a new voluntary position) just got even better.

I was out and about yesterday afternoon, and thought I would pop in to the white swan. Believe it or not I don’t go into pubs as often as I used to, but I had heard the swan now looks great, and I felt like a pint. They weren’t exaggerating: the swan used to be a dump, and three or four years ago lyn and I were barred by the then landlord for dribbling; now, however. it is a totally different place. It is clean, elegant, with a good range of beers. Being just around the corner, I daresay it might well become my new bolt-hole, although it was a tad dear. Either way, it is nice to report a resolution to a drama which, although it happened three years ago, really got my goat. The new landlord seems like a nice chap who perhaps Lyn will meet soon too.

I just stumbled onto this, it’s pessimistic medical-model undertones aside probably the best cerebral palsy-based rap song ever, if just for it’s tenuous lines. Seriously,I take my hat of to anyone who can rhyme words like athetoid. Mind you, if this gets stuck in your head, don’t blame me.

I just want to draw your attention to something I noticed on Sherlock last night. It’s only small, and barely worth a blog entry really, but I’ll probably be smiling about it for weeks. In all I found the episode supremely well-written and a joy to watch, but towards the end, when everything is over and they are talking in the security services, Mycroft Holmes says something about Needing sherlock to be a sharp instrument, whereas ‘one of his colleagues’ speaks ‘fondly’ about needing ‘blunt instruments’. I squealled with glee when I heard that line! Who could he be talking about? Who is referred to as ‘a blunt instrument’? Why, 007 himself! That makes Mycroft’s colleague M. It’s only a slight, inconsequential allusion, but I found it glorious. It is so simple, yet so witty. Sherlock and Bond exist in the same universe there could even be a crossover, but I doubt it, although stranger things have happened. Either way, this simple, subtle allusion pleases me enough. I don’t know why I like such things – perhaps it is the simple satisfaction of ‘getting it’ – but it’ll probably have me smiling for days.

I am having a largely sofa-oriented day today. Yesterday was a long one, although it turned out okay in the end. On Thursday, having met them for dinner, I arranged to meet my cousin Christina and Tom and a couple of their friends in Greenwich. It was a straightforward enough plan: we were going to meet at Greenwich station at quarter to three. I got there with time to spare. Then I waited. And waited.

And waited. I must have been there two hours, all the while trying to get a message to chris or Tom to establish where they were; I even emailed mum asking her to phone chris. She did not have her number. About an hour later, on the verge of giving up and heading home, I finally realised I had the number all along – thank smeg for iPads and their access to emails. Kicking myself, I headed back to the station and asked one of the members of staff there to phone chris. Ten minutes later, Tom appeared, apologising profusely in that Michael palin-esque way he has.

I was feeling slightly grouchy by then, but a couple of beers and a bite to eat sorted that. Now I know what you are going to say: I should have had a PA with me who could have phoned them. However, had I had someone in tow, I would have felt obliged to give up and head home long before I saw Tom enter the station. I find being alone sometimes gives me a certain flexibility. On the other hand, yesterday afternoon perhaps I should have taken John or mitch, given we went to a restaurant after we met.

My errors aside, it turned out to be a great evening. I chatted to Tom about work, and we generally enjoyed each others company. In the end we walked back to charlton and had a beer in the Antigalligan pub. There we said goodbye, and I got home at about nine, knackered but pleased everything turned out right in the end.

As I tucked into a cornish pasty, I quietly congratulated myself for not giving up and for handling the situation – such events make me feel more independent.

That aside, time to put my feet up and chill out: independence can be stressful.

Sorry, I just have to put this here for it’s sheer incredible-ness

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Sometimes, coming home after a busy day, one which had seen you travel all over south London, and during your travels you have realised what a lucky guy you are to lead such a great life; a day upon which you have been out volunteering, helping make a difference; sometimes, coming in from the cold to the woman who adores you and whom you adore; all you can do on such days is, with an inward smile, ask the simple rhetorical question: ‘what a day?’

At school, volunteering as usual

A class about discrimination. Basic. ‘Spot the difference’

Teaching kids about something they’ll face all their life;

Yet won’t realise, don’t realise.

An irony, upsetting when pondered But they are ignorant of it, and their ignorance somehow brings me comfort.

It is wednesday again, and I have again been driven to despair watching the tv, watching an unelected elite lording it up in westminster while others starve, blaming their crimes on others. Each time I watch camoron and his sycophantic tory scumbags at PMQs,my heart fills with a type of palpable, pure rage. Somehow I can’t quite put it i words, but I know what they are doing is wrong. It’s similar to the anger expressed here – a kind of forlorn dispair at their inhumanity, their greed and their arrogance. I want to rant as the artist taxi driver does in the video, but I can’t; I just end up coming in here and writing another blog entry.

Anger has become a familiar feeling to me of late: yesterday, of course, it was anger at my own ineptitude at not realising that the reason that my chair wasn’t charging was that I hadn’t plugged it in properly, and having to pay forty quid for a guy to come to point that out. More often, though, it is anger at things I cannot control: anger at people calling men who dress as living dolls, as shown on this program, ‘wrong on every level’, then arrogantly refusing to justify their statement. Sorry, but I can’t let such intolerance slide, for where will it lead? I feel anger at the cricket: although england played poorly, australia’s behaviour was disgraceful, and I still say they do not deserve the ashes for that reason. Anger at Simon stevens, who writes all sorts of accusatory bullshit in the huffington post, as well as I’m told making threats to various people, then has the sheer cheek to portray himself as some kind of victim when people question what he writes. I suppose I should just let such things slide. Life is, after all, too short. Yet all these cases have at their core a kind of arrogance, an hypocrisy I cannot stand. Such people defend their intolerance by accusing others of not tolerating them; they confuse reasoned argument for insult, so such people are beyond reason and argument. The fact I cannot get through to them angers me. At the end of the day, the reason I get angry is that I can’t do anything about these things.

A long, stressful day

But I have little to say

My chair is now going

But stress-marks are showing

So to bed, if I may.

This cannot continue. I may feign anger at australia and her cricket team, but at the end of the day, cricket is a game played between friends. Politics is different, and my anger at the tories and the pain they have CHOSEN to inflict today fills me with a rage beyond words. Do they not give a damn how many will die due to their cuts, due to their refusal to raise taxes for those who can afford it? Day after day I read reports of starving and suffering, and I hold camoron, osbourne and all tory p’tahk directly guilty. This cannot continue; surely this unelected scum must be removed from power. For humanity’s sake people are dying because of them, and, as extreme though it sounds, I think direct action is now vital.

Just as I refuse to accept CaMoron as the legitimate Prime Minister of this country given the tories did not win the last election, as far as I am concerned England have retained the ashes. By no means did they deserve the loss Australia seems to have inflicted upon them; given the nature and severity of the defeat, in fact I suspect something not quite right. If we look at the statistics, something is clearly amiss – all the matches follow the same pattern: England start off well, then collapse. In normal circumstances, there is no way that should happen, leading me to suspect these were not normal circumstances. They probably hid it well, but I suspect foul play on the part of australia – I’d like to see Mitchel Johnson’s bowling action investigated for starters, and as I wrote here, Australia’s conduct both on and off the pitch was an insult to the game. In no way did they deserve tis ‘victory’ Thus, as far as I am concerned, this series is void and the ashes retained by England.

I’m not sure what I would do with it, nor in fact how much it costs, where to get it or whether any are still available, but I would love to have the bond prop mentioned in this review. Setting aside the fact that other pieces of Bond memorabilia – an aston martin car, for instance – might be more practical, this replica of the famous ‘golden gun’ appears so well made and so authentic that I simply and absolutely desire it. It would look so good on my book shelf.

I suppose the line between a good idea and a total waste of time can sometimes be quite fine. My grandmother lives in north London and, knowing that my uncle and aunt are currently staying with her, and seeing that it was quite a bright day, this morning I decided to pay them a surprise visit. They are planning to visit us at the weekend, so I thought it would be a good opportunity to make sure all the arrangements are in place.

Perhaps it is testimony to London’s sheer vastness that I rarely go up there. Despite a near enough direct tube line there, it takes over an hour to get to my grandmother’s. But it is christmas, and she keeps asking ŵhen I will visit her. Looking back I should have emailed my uncle first to make sure they were in, but I am me, and I like being spontaneous and quirky.

Of course, the predictable thing happened: they weren’t in. I got to that old front door I know so well, rang the bell, and waited, and waited, but nobody appeared. The cries of surprise and joy I was looking forward to hearing from my grandmother never sounded, and there was little I could do but start the long trip home.

Only, getting back proved far more difficult than getting there. Somehow I lost the way back to the station, kilburn having two or three such places. I became lost, and cursed myself for ever having the idea. Eventually, though, I found my way, but not before getting caught by a couple of vicious showers. Oh well, another misadventure to chalk up to experience, but at least I have seen a little more of this vast, sprawling maelstrom I call home.

The entire country seems to be getting into a tizzy over the wave of Bulgarian and romanan immigrants we can expect in the coming months. Farage et al are, of course, whipping up xenophobic fears, forgetting the fact that much of our economy is based on so-called foreigners coming here,, working hard and building up businesses. Farage claims that immigration puts some kind of pressure upon society, causing tension. Putting aside his other dubious claims, I find this claim the most objectionable. He is effectively claiming that migrants themselves cause xenophobia, that xenophobes themselves aren’t to blame for their hatred, and that people have a right to resent migrants. I might not have explained that very well, but the social tensions ffarage alludes to is surely the animosity some people feel towards migrants, for which farage blames the migrants themselves. In effect he is dressing xenophobia up as something legitimate; I find that disgusting and hope others see it. I hope too that others are as proud to live in such a vibrant, diverse society as I am.

Anyway, happy new year!

We can all appreciate how wonderful the internet is for keeping in touch. Every morning the first thing I do is check my email, then Facebook. I love how easily I can keep track of old school and university friends. Yesterday afternoon, for example, I was exchanging messages with lee donnelly, a good friend whom I have known since we were both ten. Doing so is important to me, given that the number of my classmates is now fast dwindling.

I was messaging lee, though, from my iPad as I was going about my business in lower Charlton. I popped in to say hi to a guard I know at a factory down there. It transpired during the conversation that he has a son with a severe disability – a kind of severe PMLD. On my way home, I suddenly thought about Kirsty again. I have mentioned her on here before, a long time ago. I wonder how she is, and what became of her. I can’t think of a way of finding out as she probably can’t access the internet. It occurred to me that she, too, may have passed on. A gloomy thought, especially in the festive season; yet I tend to wonder. These days we are used to being able to google a name and find someone, but what about people to leave no trace, shut away in special schools, and now probably in an institution.

Coming back up the hill yesterday evening, returning to the home and woman I love, I thought about a girl I knew once, hoping she could communicate and was thriving. For all I know, she might even be reading this blog. If she is, I wish her my best, and ask her to email me.

[img description=”undefined image” align=”centre”]/images/be this guy8.jpg[/img]

Hamburg, 1936; during the celebration for the launch of a ship. In the crowd, one person refused to raise his arm to give the Nazi salute. The man was August Landmesser. He had already been in trouble with the authorities, sentenced to two years hard labor for marrying a Jewish woman. (text and image from facebook)

Feeling like a fun afternoon packed pub and crowded street

Football match around the corner

Who knows who I’ll meet

***

Cold, but sunny and dry building up a thirst for a beer a sense of excitement in the air building with every cheer

***

A roll around south london Through streets I now know well past every bar and every pub and every old man with a tale to tell

***

So here’s to life in charlton the chaos and the strife full of madness it might be

But also full of life.

As I was with my review of the first instalment, there is not much I can say about the second part of The Hobbit. I just got home from seeing it at Bexleyheath, and all I can really say is found it stretched out and altogether quite unnecessary. It has no beginning, and absolutely no end; there is quite a lot of backstory, and quite a lot of fighting, but on the whole did not move the overall plot on much. I got the impression that Jackson could easily have stuck to his original pan of just making two films,, but stretched it into three to make more money. Thus I must say I was disappointed, but nevertheless I am now really looking forward to chapter three

I rewatched Midnight In Paris last night, and must say I was much more taken with it this time. A film all about nostalgia, in a way it could be seen as Woody Allen’s love letter to paris, or a romanticised vision of the past which he admits to romanticising. I found it fascinating as well as beautiful: ever since I heard about Hemingway – or, rater, the myth of Hemingway – I too have yearned to go back to that period, to see those guys for myself. I loved how they were depicted in the film: the level-headedness of Gertrude Stien, the lunacy of zelda fitzgerald, the directness of Hemingway. I found myself falling in love with that myth all over again.

As soon as it was over I ran into the living room and asked Lyn if we could move to Paris. Needless to say, she did not seem impressed with the idea. I was of course enacting the very thing the film shows to be folly – there is little point to nostalgia, for there were no golden ages. The more I think about that film, the more taken I am by it. I think I’ll definitely have to watch it again soon; it makes some fairly subtle points about art, history, and even film. I think I also need to engage with Hemingway again, as the film showed me things about the old bastard I’d missed. I’m now pretty sure he would loathe the waffling, verbose prose I churn out, Yet I’m fascinated by his attempt to cut writing down to the essential, the very essence of what you are trying to express. Everything else, I’m sure he would say, is bullshit.

This film made me think about such things again, and I can’t now get it out of my head. That, of course, is the mark of a good film – I loved it.

More on this soon, I’m sure.

It is quite a cold day here, but I thought I would take advantage of the dry weather and go for a stroll. The roads are chaos out there – there has been some kind of accident up by the river, so everything is snarled up. Sometimes there are advantages to using pavements. Anyway, somewhere around woolwich I had yet another of my random ideas: would it be possible to set up a real disability-themed night-club?* Could such a place actually work? And could I myself do it, perhaps with Lyn’s help. Certainly there are plenty of disused buildings here in south London we could make use of; and certainly it would help raise the profile of people with disabilities.

I suppose the first question you have to ask is whether such a place is necessary. There are plenty of night clubs around, although not all of them are accessible; why shouldn’t we just party alongside everyone else rather than building or own establishment? On the other hand, it could be useful to have a permanent space in which to show off crip culture, where disabled people can meet and socialize. The paralympics last year began the work of showing the world what a great, vibrant culture disabled people have – could that now be translated into bricks and mortar. I know that other sites are springing up in which all kinds of artists with disabilities show off their work, but none of them has the unique vibrancy of a night-club, so such a place would be unique. It would be a place where disabled and non-disabled people could meet, drink, talk and party; there would be disabled musicians, DJs, comedians and performers; the decor would be disability themed. The ultimate aim would be to have disability fade into the background, so it becomes normal.

Of course, I know nothing about running a night-club, let alone setting one up, so this is probably just a fanciful daydream. I don’t have the capital anyway. Nevertheless I do think this is a good idea, and that there is a need for such a place; this could be worth exploring.

*I know something similar apparently ‘exists’ in online game Secondlife, but given that nobody takes such online phenomena seriously, what I have in mind is far more concrete an would have a much more profound message.

Today we mark the coming of the Green Man, an ancient deity connected with fertility and/or death. The figure, usually that of a man with a large beard, was adopted into judeo-christian mythology: the midwinter festival most of us are celebrating today has very little to do with jesus of Nazareth. Indeed, as far as I can make out, most contemporary accounts place his birth sometime in spring. Thus this festival is all about the green man, whose green suit was turned red by a certain soft drinks company and who now gives out gifts. Just some random information really, but it strikes me as funny, as we tick into our turkey and guzzle down port, how such things come about. We aren’t celebrating the festival we think.

I still haven’t finished my book. I probably should have read it by now, given I got it last week. But it is theory, and I would prefer to give it my undivided attention for long periods, and I haven’t had chance recently. However, today I would like to make a note of a strange coincidence which occurred to me recently at school. I noticed how children with quite severe autism tended to like short clips of film: they seemed to prefer moments of action rather than extended sequences. We were in class, just going through a few YouTube clips, so I might have just imagined this liking given such clips are usually short. Yet it raised a question in my head. Could it be that people with autism are drawn towards cinephiliac moments by default, albeit via some other mechanism? Of course, the two phenomena are worlds apart: the cinephiliac moment is a moment in film upon which a viewer fixates, often writing about it, describing it. Much has been written about it, and the reasons behind such fixations are incredibly complex. Yet cinephiles describe how they are drawn to moments in film, replaying them over and over again; to see these kids at school echoing the activity of cinephiles struck me as odd.

At first I just dismissed it as coincidence. Film theory and autism are worlds apart, and I was linking two unrelated things similar only on the most superficial level. But am I grasping at straws, or is there something to this? After all, these moments are often based upon contingent or peripheral detail, and we know that people with autism fixate on small minutiae others often dismiss. I know next to nothing about autism, so this might be just another of my wild, baseless ideas, but I think it could be worth looking into, if just to rule it out.

I stumbled over Wholock a couple of weeks ago, and automatically assumed it was the beeb playing around with two of it’s major series in aid of children in need or something. But according to this Metro piece, it was made by a fan. My initial reaction was: ‘that’s not possible’. Watch the film – surely the beeb jus got benedict cumberbatch and matt smith together for a couple of days and filmed it; I was totally convinced. Yet apparently not: it was a fan-made, sewn together mash up. If that is so — and part of me still refuses to believe it – it is the greatest bit of fan-editing ever, and a jaw-dropping example of just how advanced the skills of fan-artists have become.

Today I just want to congratulate my friends Matt (aka Switch) and Nicky on getting married today. I know them from university, where they met and formed a relationship. I daresay they make a great couple – both are highly intelligent, creative, and just a tad geeky. Here’s hoping that they have a great day, followed by many great years together. I really must hook up with them soon.

Cold concrete, warm within.

My wheels whir as I ‘walk’ Through the streets, crowded, yet also desolate, as only the streets of a metropolis

Can be.

For where but in a city can you pass the cite of such a murder and see people drive by as they always had?

***

It’s bitter out there;

But in here, dry and warm.

My love as I left her

She shelters me from the contradictions of the city: Her affection a fire – a glowing blaze banishing the dark, the solitude, the endemic mistrust of the metropolis.

***

The cold rain falls

blurring the street lights. They are oddly pretty just as the city has it’s odd beauty:

vibrant and warm but an illusion in the cold rain

Their light barely hides the dark of the city.

Further to my entry about her work as a channel four introducer last week, this evening I’d just like to direct you here, to Kate’s own account of her experiences. I don’t want to say much about it – Kate is perfectly able to speak for herself – but I think it is well worth a read, and raises some very good points about the issues we communication aid users face.

Call me a sore looser if you wish, but I am seriously considering lodging an official protest concerning the Australian cricket team and the outcome of the ashes this season. Given the appalling behaviour of the Australians, both on and off the field of play, I believe the season should be rendered void and the urn kept by England. Outclassed and outplayed though they may have been, the English conducted themselves with far more respect and dignity; in contrast, the australians were hostile and aggressive, conducting themselves in the lowest manner. In short, Australia did not deserve to win. Therefore I demand the outcome of this ashes series should be rendered void and the urn retained by England.

I love books, or rather I claim I do. I have plenty, yet I must confess I rarely sit down to read them – I always seem to get distracted. However, the last two days have been different, for yesterday I bought my first ebook, and was instantly converted. No more struggling to turn pages, no more worrying about dribbling; I can just read and read and read. Moreover, it is a book highly relevant to my studies.

In his appraisal of my thesis, one of my examiners noted the lack of a named film theory-based model of identification. This was not a major problem, but struck him as a slightly strange omission given the focus of my work. The truth is I’m slightly rusty on that side of things, so I thought I better brush up. I did some googling, and yesterday found an ebook which fitted the bill exactly. It is An Introduction to film theory through the senses, and as such for me constitutes partly revision,but also offers me a bridge between the theory we covered in my last year as an undergrad and my own work on cinephilia. Crucially, though, it covers concepts such as spectators physically entering into texts, as well as kicking myself for not reading it four years ago, but deals from them at a different angle then my work. Two chapters in, I’m finding it fascinating, but I’m also wondering how to incorporate this theory with it’s rich history with my own work. I think I should at least reference it, but the question is how and to what extent. Mind you, I suppose I better finish the book first.

Tonight, just let me get one thing of my chest which has been bugging me for months: The dragon’s name is pronounced ‘Smorg’ not ‘Smawg’. My dad was right, peter jackson is wrong.

That is all.

It has been a long day: a couple of hours’ work at school, then bexleyheath for money and groceries. Yet it seems I missed a bit of action up at westminster. I just came across this report of something of a victory for the alliance for inclusive education (ALLFIE). By effectively occupying the offices, Campaigners have finally secured a meeting with an education minister, after occupying Department for Education (DfE) offices in protest at the government’s attack on inclusive education.

The tories are turning back the clock on inclusive education, in effect reverting to the segregation of disabled and able bodied students. Now, we all know this is a very complex issue: there are kids with some very complex and profound needs out there. One of the reasons I volunteer at Charlton park is to get a better handle on the issue, and my experience taught me that there is no room for dogma. Nobody would disagree that kids must be included in mainstream schools where at all possible, but the problem is some cases is finding ways to make that possible. Inclusion is a fine principal, but until a way is found to include all kids, until a way is found to adapt mainstream schools so they are accessible to all, some kids must remain separate.

We were progressing, albeit slowly, towards that goal. In the last twenty years, more children than ever were included. To let the tories turn the clock back is utter folly. Growing up, I saw the worst of it:we were effectively taught not to try; perfectly able kids left to waste. We were not pushed. And every now and then, you got into class of a morning to be told that yet another of your mates had snuffed it. We cannot let that return, and that’s why the alliance is so angry: the tories want to reverse the trend towards inclusion; the legislation they are passing will weaken the SEN framework that has traditionally supported disabled children and young people in mainstream education. For the sake of all children, disabled or not, they must be stopped.

Good luck ALLFIE!

The episode of Simpsons on channel four was good tonight. I had fallen out of the habit of watching it, preferring to catch up with the news, but tonight I made an exception. I found the person announcing the episode especially interesting, as it was none other than the Pink lady herself, my friend Katie! Channel four have began a season where people who use different types of communication, and whose voices are not often heard, announce their programs. If you ask me it’s absolutely brilliant; after it hosted the Paralympic games last year, c4 seems to have become a champion of crip culture. I sincerely hope it keeps it up: we need more voices like Kate’s on the tv.

Yesterday was quite an awesome day. Knowing I had an interest-cum-obsession with last year’s olympics and paralympics, and especially with their associated ceremonies, my friend James offered to take me to a talk by the director of the paralympic opening ceremony. Jenny Seeley, it turned out, would be giving a talk at his work up in London.

It was a fascinating presentation: Seeley spoke about her background as a Deaf performer and director, as well a going into detail about h the ceremony had come to be. As James had requested,, I was on my best behaviour but I had to raise a grateful fist when she mentioned the inclusion of I’m Spasticus by Ian Dury. That moment in the ceremony was very special for me: the moment wen I realised it was the disability community talking rather than being talked about. Thus, I realised last night, I was listening to one of my heroes.

It was a great evening. Basically the company james works for(a big firm in central london) is exploring how more people with disabilities can be employed. That is a good thing, of course, although I didn’t really want to go into the ins and outs of it last night. After the presentations, we talked abit over canapes and drinks. At one point, I asked one guy how such a company could employ someone like myself, not realising I had just inadvertently asked quite a senior exec for a job. However, I would now like to help more: while I still see the tory-led destruction of the welfare state as pure evil, surely efforts by big companies to employ more disabled people must be welcomed.

Inept fool that I am, I completely forgot to flag up the Paraorchestra’s new website. It looks wonderful, and can be found here. On it, you can find profiles of all the paraorchestra musicians, including one about Lyn, as well as links to last years documentary and videos of the performances. Great stuff indeed.

I took a roll up to London yesterday, to Trafalgar square. Lyn was having a bath, and on such occasions I often go out. I felt I needed to go, to see the crowds which had apparently gathered outside South Africa house. What I found up there, in central London on a cold but bright december afternoon, both humbled and amazed me: A group of South African women, chanting and dancing in a circle, a small group gathered around them. It felt kid of eerie, sort of magical and mesmerising, yet happy. I do not quite know how to describe it: it was as if a piece of some lush land far to the south had been transported into the sprawling concrete metropolis in order to honour a great man. I found it incredible.

I sat there a while listening to the rhythmic words I did not know the meaning of, and then, after popping in to Waterstone’s, headed back along whitehall. Passing the entrance to Downing Street, I gave my usual two-fingered-salute to the current occupant. I put even more venom into it than usual yesterday, furious at the hypocrisy of a Prime Minister now lamenting the death of a ‘great man’ who he had once advocated executing. The sheer gall of the right, now hailing Mandela as a secular saint when when they had once vilified him as a terrorist is sickening, but I digress.

I then headed to the statue of Mandela in Parliament Square, wryly noting to myself how his statue and Churchill’s had been placed at opposite corners as if to keep the two from arguing – somehow I don’t think those two would have got on. There, too, a crowd had gathered, and again I sat a while to listen to the singing. But it was getting dark, and before long I decided it was time to head home. On my way back to the tube station, however, I decided on such a night going back by boat might be more fun.

At that I caught the clipper. Getting aboard wasn’t that hard, but I did not think it would take so long to get to north Greenwich. I got home at least an hour later than I would have done, tired, hungry, and fancying a beer. Yet it had been another cool day, one upon which I had seen the magical sight of a par of Africa being brought to London in order to honour one of that continent’s, and the world’s, greatest heroes.