It feels like ages since I had a ‘what I did last night’ type blog to write, but today, I’m rather pleased to report, I do. Yesterday afternoon, Dominik, having aken over from Marta at five, proposed we go to a gig he knew about. Apparently, one of his friends was putting on a jam session up in Shoreditch, and he thought it might be fun to go. Lyn and I were both up for it, so off we went: Lyn, myself, Dominik and his friend Anita.

While I must say it took a while for us to get there (we had to hunt for a flower shop on the way) once we got there, I instantly felt enthused. Some places just have a vibe about them, where one feels both relaxed and excited at the same time. The jam session was in a small place: it was a room with unplastered walls, adorned with all sorts of cool pictures and artworks. It felt quite countercultural in there, yet very friendly. People were playing music an chatting, and it all felt very relaxed.

Two hours passed rather quickly. About half way through, Lyn joined in with the music, and I got talking to a guy from Sweden. Everyone there was on the young side – you know, hippy types, the type of freethinkers who squat politically. I felt relaxed and happy: for once i wasn’t drinking, and for once I was in my manual chair, which I must say was rather nice. The night ended shortly before midnight with the most awesome beatboxer I have ever heard (seriously, the guy was smegging incredible!) and we were soon on our way home. According to Dominik, such nights happen regularly, so I’m now dying to go there again – it was the sort of place I can see mself havng a lot of fun at.

Watching the state opening of parliament earlier, I was struck by the pomp and ceremony of it all. We bits, as a nation, seem to relish such occasions: we seem to love dressing up and putting on a show, and pretending that it all somehow means something. So we had the queen arriving in horse-drawn coach, escorted by men on horseback, to participate in something essentially pantomimic: the way ‘black rod’ knocks on the door, the way people have to nod at certain points – yes you can say it ties us to the past, but at the same time it is a performance intended to endow the government with an authority and dignity it does not deserve.

Of course, I was struck by the contrast between the pageantry of this morning’s arrival and how the queen arrived at last years olympic opening ceremony. That sketch at least shows a bit of self-knowing humility on the part of the palace, and I’ve written before about how it can be read as an implicit admission of her position as a construct, a fiction. I find such self-knowledge praiseworthy and commendable, which is why I think that sketch quite an important work of art.

Contrast that novel, brave entrance with the entrance the queen made today, so full of ceremony and pretence. It is quite an interesting, amusing juxtaposition. Of course, on one level what we saw his morning up at Westminster is no less a fiction than having the queen parachute out of a helicopter with double-O-seven, but it is treated so much more seriously, as if it was somehow more real. That strikes me as rather odd, as if after it was finally admitted that the emperor was indeed naked, we are once again expected to believe he is wearing an ornate gown.

My reverie ended, however, soon after her majesty started talking. As soon as she uttered the word ‘fairness’ I knew that the content of her speech was going to be anything but fair. The tories should be banned from using that word: they try to fool people into thinking it means rewarding people who work hard, but cutting benefits and lowering taxes rewards the already-advantaged while leaving the poorest in society to starve. That fosters injustice and inequality rather than fairness. I felt sick every time her majesty was forced to utter that word – no doubt CaMoron put it in to make people believe he is doing the right thing, but a tory uttering the word fair is like nick griffin or Nigel Farage talking about tolerance – they utterly distort it’s true meaning. Also, speaking of farage, the way camoron is now pandering to that fascist boils my blood: the more people speak of Europe as somehow problematic, the more people continue to think in terms of simplistic nation states rather than internationally, the more xenophobic we become and the more idiots like Farage will think they have a valid point.

The speech ended with me angry, despairing at how we have to put up with such a government and fearful for the future. No doubt the tories love this pageantry, thinking that they somehow deserve it, and pretending that the pain they are inflicting is somehow fair.

I just heard that visual effects master Ray Harryhausen, whose stop-motion wizardry graced such films as Jason and the Argonauts and Clash of the Titans, has died aged 92. Cinema has lost another of its pioneers. In his honour, I think it apt that tonight I simply direct you once again here.

Lyn and I both dribble, and use teatowels to keep our chins dry. I’ve always done it: they are far more effective than tissues, or anything else. We have quite an assorment, acquired from all sorts of places. When we need to, we buy new ones from shops, as one normally would. Yet we also seem to pick them up, from time to time. For example, I ‘acquire’ bar towels from pubs, or used to when I frequented such places. It often happens without noticing: I have a habit, probably a bad one, of grabbing the nearest towel, mopping up my dool, and taking it with me.

One such cloth caught my attention today. I think we acquired it a year or so ago, at a paraorchestra rehearsal up in north London. Lyn was using it. It had hand drawn pictures of children: according to it’s boarder, it commemorated the millenium. I assume it is just one of those souvenir towels where teachers get kids to draw selfportraits, which are then compiled to produce a towel for their parents to buy. As such, this towel probably meant something to someone once, yet a decade and a bit on, it was discarded in the kitchen of a church hall. It does not record who created it, so I find myself wondering how it got there, and who the crudely-drawn faces staring from it are. They bear forenames only. They’d all be in their late tens at least, by now. Each will have his or her own tale to tell, probably by now not even remembering drawing these pictures. Thus it strikes me that this towel is a discarded piece of another person’s history, now completely devoid of the meaning it once had; a souvenir of childhood, of parenthood, of classmates, of friendships, now used as no more than a tool for wiping up dribble.

It has been a long, yet rather awesome, day. We met up with Charlie and her family (well, three of them) at the southbank: C’s sister poppy was performing there with her university choir, and they invited us to watch. After a splendid performance, we went and had a picnic in a nearby grassy area by the river. I caught up with my old friends over some excellent sandwiches and a few beers, and all too soon it was time to come home. Charlotte is well, as ever, and still her hyperactive self. We just got home, tired but content, feeling the warm glow of a day well spent.

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Sorry, this was just too funny fo me not to share.

I am getting very worried indeed about an increasingly apparent trend in british politics. I’m sure you will have heard by now how well UKIP did in yesterday’s local elections; you all would have seen Farage’s grinning mug all over the lunchtime news bulletins. I came in here to write about it, but now that I have I’m not sure what to say. As Lyn wisely pointed out to me earlier, simply hurling abuse at him and his followers will achieve nothing and get nowhere. And yet, they frighten me: it is clear that they represent a step backwards, a step towards isolationism and xenophobia, a step down a very dangerous path. Take any ukip policy and I will show you its underlying folly, its roots in xenophobia, or its sheer ideocy. For instance, ukip are against vthe smoking ban in pubs: what a cynical, populist move. Since the ban came in, pubs have become much nicer, cleaner and more pleasant. But because the type of people who vote ukip only see things in terms of their own rights rather than those of others, and they want to smoke, they oppose he ban. Something similar could be said aout their stance on climate change: because the environmental rules designed to tackle global warming inconvenience them, and they want the right to pump whatever shit they want into the atmosphere, they oppose all such regulation not worrying about the problems it causes for others. Theirs is a short-sighted, selfish, even childish worldview; one we could ell do without given the problems we face. Such problems can only be solved if we work with the EU, encourage the free-flow of people and ideas, and help everyone in society to forfil their potential. the moment we start listening to bigots like farage – and he is a bigot, just look at his speeches – we step back to a time when difference was feared, greed was valued and hatred was commonplace.

We need to step backwards, look at ukip and what they stand for, and see them as the fascists they are. That is not happening at the moment, so Farage can go onto programs like Question Time, spewing hate and folly and calling it ‘realistic’, and people will vote for him. He and his party of loons need to be engaged with, analysed, and exposed as the bigots they are before they gain any more credence and people start believing they are legitimate and viable. Fail todo so and something very dark and hateful will creep back into society. This has stred to happen now, and the weasel words of ukip have begun, trying to portray themselves as somehow non-racist and inclusive, but the sooner people see the folly farage represents, the better.

A bit of archaeology today. I found this fascinating piece earlier, telling of the finding of the remains of a british soldier who fell in Holland two centuries ago. It tells the story well, yet we may never know who this man was; it Made me cry, for some reason. I find myself wondering who he was, and whether anyone missed him. Reading it, this old song came to mind.

Charlie’s little brother Will is apparently in this music video as one of the bullies. That is rather ironic as I vant imagine Will bullying anyone, but it is nevertheless another hit for the Jones clan. I just came cross it on facebook, and while I can’t say the music is quite to my taste, the story the video tells strikes a chord. It could be about Lyn and myself: I have been stressing out today over my masters; sometimes it just seems like the world is out to get me, but, as the song says, ‘Together we’re

Invincible.’

(nice outfits too, I might add)

Note to self: when passing bus stops in the chair, slow down, especially when a bus is aproaching. Pedestrians are prone to put their arm out in order to hail the bus, not noticing the wheelchair user, thus inadvertently clotheslining him. This chain of events may sound improbable, but first hand experience this afternoon demonstrated it indeed to be possible. No damage was sustained to either party; both were highly amused.

When I got home from school earlier I found Lyn in the room where I usually keep my chair. That was rather unusual: I don’t think,even after over three years of living down here, that I have seen her in that room before. It is small, and used for wheelchair charging and storage. Lyn was in there n order to clean it out, and that is where we have been for the last two hours or so.

You would be surprised at how much stuff there was in there, especially for such a small room. Truth be told I found myself amazed at the process: it seemed like Lyn’s whole life was in there, at least for the last ten years. A record of a remarkable person; a perso with a disability trying to make her own way in the world. There was everything in there, from Lyn’s old photo albums o books to electrical equipment. We decided to keep the precious or useful things, but, to some protest from me, we decided to get rid of much of it.

Lyn is not as muh a hoarder as I am, and one of the things she was going to throw away until I protested was a set of drawings. I had never seen them before, but they were by Lyn herself. They were remarkable images – vivid portraits composed of small lines. It was almost hard to believe they were by lyn, they were so vivid, so good. I don’t write that in respect to Lyn’s disability, but because I instantly saw she has an amazing talent that she for some reason hides. Not only is she a composer but a damn good artist too. I now plan to go through these pictures slowly – I on glimpsed them initially – but I firmly suspect I’ll be amazed. From what I saw, they were clear, vivid images, slightly abstract, perhaps, yet full of emotion. The question now is, though, how many more talents has Lyn been hiding.

I just need – and I mean NEED – to point something out. Go here, scoot to around the one minute forty mark, and tell me who that reminds you of. The president of the united states is actually Dwayne Dibley! Who would believe it? The most powerful man in the world is actually Cat from red Dwarf’s alter ego.

A bit more about the closure of the ILF tonight, just to say that I think this shortish Guardian piece is worth reading. It goes into the dangers of it’s closure, and the blatant dishonesty of the government. Twenty thousand people stand to lose their livelihoods and independence, simply because the tories want to cut expenditure and tax. That isn’t just my spin, but,, as the article makes clear, is just a cold, hard fact. In short, people are losing their independence to satisfy the right’s desire for low tax, their individualism, their greed.

I went to the GAD meeting yesterday, for the first time in a couple of weeks, and saw the same lady I wrote about here. We both use communication aids, so we seem to get on. She greeted me with a big smile. I hope this is okay for me to write about on here, but I think her main problem is that she is isolated. She craves her independence (quite naturally) and resents her lack of control. She really wants to get out more, to be with people who respect her personhood, I think. She asked me whether I know of any other disability organisations which she could go to. I don’t, really, but next time I see her I plan to tell her about Onevoice, and perhaps try to put her in touch with my crip-activist friends. I came away wishing I could help her more, knowing I probably can, and vowing to at least try to do so. If anyone has any suggestions, please comment.

Lyn and I are sitting in the sun tonight, relishing a sun that shines so bright comfortable in our company after a long day

In our little garden, all daemons at bay

—

Sitting in the sun, enjoying a beer, banishing despair, anger and fear.

Across the table from the woman I adore

Out in the evening sun, who could want more?

The woman I love dearly is in the shower. She was hoisted into it by our PA Marta. A short while ago, Marta helped her eat, then go to the Loo. Marta also helped me eat, and finish dressing. She also helped us phone the council over concerns about a letter Lyn received yesterday. Without the support of people like Marta, we could not do such things; we cannot live as we do without our PAs. The level of support Lyn and I need is quite high, but according to this article, that support cannot now be guaranteed. Due to the abolition of the Independent Living Fund, ”Users are unlikely to receive the same level of funding after reassessment. This may undermine care packages and may mean that some users, such as those with particularly high care packages, may not be able to live independently in their own homes.” Never has a statement filled me with so much fear, so much worry: I love life with Lyn, in our little house together. It has already brought me so much jou, and I hope it continues to do so for a very long time. But a drop in support would mean institutionalisation, which would almost certainly mean the end of our life together. No more coffee together in the morning; no mor drinks in our little back garden; no more Bob Lawrence on radio Caroline; no more snuggling up at night. I hope to hell I’m worrying needlessly, but after what I’ve seen and heard today, I am genuinely scared.

I’m sorry, but I really must record my amusement with this news story. I realise it is tragic, and that people bought the devices in good faith, but you would think anyone about to decade whether to spend thousands and indeed millions on something calling itself a bomb detector would look into the science behind it first. But no: James McCormick was today found guilty of selling fake bomb detectors, devices which he claimed the devices could bypass all forms of concealment, detecting drugs and people along with explosives, the court heard. He claimed they would work under water and from the air, and would track an object up to 1km (3280ft) below the ground. Those who bought them are furious, but one has to ask what they expected. Frankly it is like me going out and buying an expensive computer which it’s seller claimed could cook clean and wash up, but turns out to be a metal box. Now, who would Lyn be more angry at: the salesman, or me, the fool who bought it?

I don’t have much to say tonight apart from how much I’m looking forward to bed. After school today I decided to pop up to the big shopping centre in stratford for another nose around. It’s easy enough to get to,, but by gad was that place packed. I soon remembered why we never go there. On the sunday I’d visited last, I had seen a shop I’d old myself I would re-visit when open. That’s why I popped up there today, but when I eventually refound the shop – it took a while – I found it ridiculously overpriced. I returned home tired and empty handed, save for fish and chips for me and Lyn, and a resolution to avoid such places, at least at peak times.

Yesterday was a great day: It was one of those days where I felt lucky to live here, in this great city, and to ave such a great girlfriend. Mind you, now that I come to think about it, what we actually did doesn’t actually sound all that much – we just went to the theatre and came back via the river, yet at the same time it was one of the loveliest afternoons I’ve had in a while.

Going to the theatre as actually John’s idea: he doesn’t work with us regularly, but when e does, he’s one of those PAs eager to go out and have fun. He suggested going to the theatre during the week, and we agreed it was a good idea. Mind you, I hadn’t heard of the play or the playwright, so I had no idea what to expect. I just saw it as an afternoon out with the prospect of a beer or wo afterwards, which was good enough for me.

However, it turned out to be much more: John took us to a small theatre in Soho, which reminded me instantly of the theatre spaces at university: small and intimate. I decided I liked it. The show started shortly after we had taken our places, and what unfolded before us in the following ninety minutes turned out to be a complex, absorbing narrative. The Life and Sort of Death of Eric Argyle was only written last year, and as such is a highly contemporary piece. It reminded me of the work of my friend Ricardio, I suppose, except that in this play the narrative had slightly more structure. That is not to say it was absolutely liniar – in fact I found it rather confusing, so much so that I bought the text after the performance. There were one or two things I think I missed, so I look forward to reading the text. It will also probably teach me a few things about writing, as it seems to intertwine prose and script in a way I haven’t come across. Watching it yesterday, my mind was intrigued, at times bored, suddenly stimulated, bored again, and in the end captivated. In one sense the play is about writing itself, and spoke to me directly as a bogger. In short it was everything one would want in a play, and it whetted my apetite to go to the theatre more, as well as reminding me how much I need to get back into fiction writing.

We came back via the river. Our initial plan was to go up into town that way, but we had left it too late and took the tube instead. it was on the boat that I wrote yesterday’s poem, and then, after eating at the dome, we were soon back here, and shortly after that I was curled up in bed.

Take us home, mighty river.

East, into the reflected sunset

Her last rays glint off the buildings

Shining and guiding us homeward

As the city prepares to sleep once more.

Yet the river flows as it ever has done

Night and day. Constant and eternal Take us home

As a rule I don’t lie to be picky over language. In fact I see myself as a linguistic liberal. I realise that language is constantly evolving and therefore has no absolute rules. Yet earlier, watching the news, I heard an american medic give a news conference where he began every sentence with the word ‘So’. Literally every sentence. The first few times I could forgive; then it started to get irritating; then I yelped with exasperation every time he began a sentence. Given this was a doctor, I began to fear for the English language.

I think I might as well just flag this Star Trek themed short piece by Dr. Mark Kermode up. In it he talks about the forthcoming Trek film, of course, but also interestingly touches upon star trek’s place in culture and it’s impact. He also makes reference to fan-fictions relation to that impact, particularly about how so much fanfic picks up upon the kirk and spock binary. While I don’t discuss that binary, much of what he says relates to my academic work: in a way it is part of the very discourse I discuss in my thesis. Very interesting stuff then, and worth a watch. I must say, too, that I still can’t wait to watch Star Trek into darkness!

On days like today one is supposed to be respectful of the dead. Whatever one’s views, we are told, we are supposed to put aside our differences and mourn the deceased. Well, I for one refuse to be a hypocrite; I refuse to stifle my conscious and dance to the Tory tune. To hell with respect, to hell with thatcher! We just watched as thousands lined the streets in reverence to a woman who ruined lives and livelihoods; who destroyed industries and with them the towns which relied upon them; who said there was no such thing as society.

That means, by the way, exactly what the left took it to mean, despite Richard Chartres’ fatuous protestation that that wasn’t what she actually meant. Thatcher, like those on the right in general, perceive humanity as a collection of individuals: everyone should care only for themselves, greed and selfishness are good, and the poor and week are so through their own ineptitude, and therefore should be left to starve. Chartres’ crap about Thatcher actually valuing interdependence is no more than the rewriting of history; an attempt to make an essentially heartless woman seem more caring. If she really believed in society, why did she do so much damage to the welfare state? Why did she lower tax and nurture a greed-is-good culture in the banks, thereby sewing the seeds of our current crisis? Why is her name synonymous with greed, selfishness and everything bad about capitalist neoliberalism?

For it is, and thus to see this woman who did so much harm being lorded and praised, given a state funeral costing ten million quid at a time when those on benefit are starving, makes me feel sick. Frankly, I’m disappointed there weren’t more protests. This country is hurting right now due to the tories, so to see the arch tory get such a send off, as if she did no harm, sickens me. I would simply have thrown her body into the river.

While you might well be right to say it was a bit of a waste of time, given that I didn’t achieve what I set out to, I feel I just came in from a glorious walk. I’m currently looking for activities with which to occupy myself – Lyn has her music and the Paraorchestra, so I think I need to hav soe sort of occupation apart from reading and blogging too. With that in mind, today I had the idea of going up to London and investigating it’s famous film school: perhaps courses there would e more hands on and activity-oriented. I have recently felt the need to go out there and start making stuff, doing stuff, rather than just tapping away at my keyboard for hours on end.

thus this afternoon I set out. first I headed for the local bus stop, boarded a 53 bound for whitehall, and instantly realised it was going to be a long afternoon. There were two prams in the wheelchair space. The driver asked the west-indian guardians to move them, as per the signage, but they misheard him and thought he was asking them to get off the bus altogether. You should have heard he argument that ensued – I felt so embarrassed I almost got off and headed home. I felt like hiding, and fixed my eyes to my Ipad for most of the trip.

I was still wondering what ‘bloodclart’ means when we got up into the city. In Parliament Square, of course, they were busy preparing for tomorrow. Strangely, it felt like the build-up to the olympics all over again, for there was the same sense of activity and anticipation, albeit under ver different circumstances. Not wishing to dally, though, I rolled on, down the now-quite-familiar whitehall, across trafalgar square, towards here google maps said the London Film School should be. It took me some time to find, and when I found it I was rather disappointed. I had rather expected a quite grand building, but the entrance to the London film school, it turns out, is no more than a normal looking door in a normal looking building. A door which, even more disappointingly, was quite firmly locked for the Easter break. I had trundled all the way up there for nothing.

Nothing, that is, apart from a great walk in central London. She looked glorious today, in the spring sun. Before I came home, I had a look round Parliament square, at all the statues, journalists and armed police. Then, not wanting a repeat of my inward journey, I took the tube home, resolving to do the sensible but boring thing and email the film school instead.

To my great relief, today I got my chair back, so I went to school and then for a walk. I had missed my flaneur-like strolls, but I didn’t go far: I just trundled up to the o2, where I noticed a poster for a steriophonics gig in october. I didn’t know whether Lyn likes them, but I know how she loves all music, and knowing too how quickly tickets for such gigs sell, I went ahead and bought tickets. Of course, I told her when I got back, and was met with a huge grin! Happy day, and we now have a gig to look forward to. Man, how I love living in this city, where one can stroll along ad buy tickets for a supergroup as if hey were a band playing at a local pub.

I was thinking the other day that pretty much my only real criticism of the Olympic ceremonies is that none of them involved Sir David Attenborough. They still fascinate me, believe it or not; they matter as we won’t have another chance to show off to the world like that again for a very long time. They were an opportunity to show the entire world what we can do, and for the most part I think danny Boyle and his fellow directors did an excellent job. Yet if I had directed it, I would have included David Attenborough in there somewhere: watching this and this just now reminded me what a national treasure Attenborough is. He has a great intellect and is fascinating to listen to. I do think he should have been included in last year’s festivities. Mind you, that raises the question, what could he have done? He is above all a documentary-maker and storyteller, more suited to talking and discussing than performing in such spectaculars. Perhaps that’s why Boyle left him out, but I still think it was a shame this great man was not included. And I also think that if Thatcher is getting a state funeral, David Attenborough will deserve one too, when the time comes.

Today marks ten years since I started blogging; a full decade since I wrote this entry. Blimey – that’s quite a achievement when you think about it. I know I’m not the best of bloggers: I’m not particularly astute, and I don’t always have anything interesting to write about, but I think I’ve written one or two reasonable entries over the years. I have made an effort to keep it up, which, considering most blogs are only active for a few months, is something to be proud of. Indeed, today also marks six months, give or take, since I missed a day: although I might soon return to posting an entry at least every two days, I reckon this is my longest ‘chain’ of consecutive entries. That’s also quite an achievement, I think.

In a way, this website is a record of my life over the last ten years it’s highs and lows, it’s achievements and follies. It has indeed been quite a decade: my first entries were written in my old bedroom at my parents house; then I blogged from my room at uni; now I blog from my little office in the house I share with the woman will one day marry (on that note, congratulations are due to my good friend from uni, Chris, who is getting married to day). I don’t know why, but something compels me to keep it up, to come in here and type out my innermost thoughts for the world to see. While that compulsion has got me into trouble once or twice, I can’t see it abating, so all being well I’ll probably be blogging for at least another decade.

I wouldn’t be much of a disability blogger if I failed to flag this piece of protest ar up. ‘Bedding Out’ is an interesting piece of performance art by Roaring Girl, drawing attention to the realities of life for many people with disabilities. As Liz Crow says, ”It is the peddling of myths about disabled people and those in poverty that bear no relation to our lives as they really are. It is the notion of us, in and out of paid work, as feckless and shiftless, fraudster and scrounger, as workshy and morally bankrupt that ignores the many influences of a person’s capacity to work and sets us aside as ‘other’.”

Check it out while you can!

I was going to let my entry yesterday stand as the last entry I’d write about thatcher, at least until next week, but last night it occurred to me that the tories appear to have decided to try to use her death to their advantage. As I noted on Tuesday, she is a highly politicised figure: given that those on the left are using the occasion of thatcher’s death to show the damage she and the tories did, those on the right are trying to do the exact opposite. That is to say the tories are trying to turn her death to their advantage, using it to celebrate conservatism; they are trying to make Thatcher out to be some kind of great patriotic hero.

We can se this in the way CaMoron recalled parliament yesterday, at great expense to the taxpayer, and in the fact that she is getting a state funeral in all but name: the tories are trying to turn her death into some grand state occasion. Nothing would please CaMoron more than the image of thousands lining the streets next Wednesday for her send off, as it would allow him to claim he and his party has support, that they are heirs to a national hero, and so on. In other words, the tories stand to make enormous political capital from the pomp and ceremony of the state funeral of one of their heroes, as then they could suggest she was our hero too, and that opposition to her, and thus them, is smaller than it actually is.

What we need to do, then, is ignore the entire affair. Rather than going and protesting, nobody should go at all. Riotous protests can too easily be ignored, but imagine what a bold, infinitely more profound image it would send if her hearse has to pass through empty, deserted streets. Two years ago, I wrote rather foolishly that the disabled community should boycott the Paralympics in order to send a message to the government. Obviously that was never going to happen, but now we have an even better opportunity: I get the impression that the tories want this to be an occasion like the olympics, where everyone comes together as one nation, but in order to honour one of their heroes rather than to celebrate an international sporting event. They surely aim to foster a similar level of patriotic emotion, but one which is to their advantage. Of course, the mood will be entirely different, but they are seeking to generate the same kind of nationalistic fervour, the same kind of nationalistic imagery with crowds lining the streets, but with a pro-government, pro-tory accent. What if they were denied such images? what if the streets are simply deserted next Wednesday? can you imagine a starker message of opposition to thatcherism, toryism, and thatcher’s current manifestations?

I think under the circumstance I better resist temptation to launch into another anti-thatcher rant – although I was pretty pissed off at the condescending arrogance of DDP’s comment yesterday (you would think someone who brands the entire left idiotic and immature would not be so cowardly as to hide behind three letters) – and instead lighten the tone by directing you here, to my favourite thatcher-related clip. Mind you, unlike the queen, I don’t think maggie played herself in this one.

You know, I kind of had a feeling that a big event was due: before yesterday lunchtime, it had been some time since anything big was in the news – the type of story that grabs all the headlines and dominates internet chat. My money was on north Korea: I thought that any moment Kim Jong Un will finally go crazy and seven shades of shit would hit the fan in the far east. It still might, of course, but the british headlines are now preoccupied with maggie thatcher and preparations for her funeral.

I feel as if I should write a fairly long entry about her. After all, she is a very significant figure in british politics. But I don’t feel I can, really. She was the PM when I was growing up, and as child I think I was hazily aware of her presence of her as an authority figure. In that limited sense I think I liked her. Of course as I matured and became politically aware, I realised the damage she did and the harm she caused. She saw the rise of neolibealim and nurtured greed and selfishness: despite tory attempts to rewrite history and try to somehow blame everything on Blair and brown, it was the rise of this -everyman-for-himself attitude which lead to the current financial mess. I get very angry when I see them trying to make thatcher out to be some kind of saint ho saved the country, when in fact she ruined it.

What I find interesting right now when I watch the news, then, is how people are reacting. In 1997, for example, when Diana died, we saw an almost universal outpouring of hysterical grief. I’m struck by how that contrasts with today, with half the country mourning, while in parts of the country people are actively celebrating. Amusingly, I read earlier that the song Ding Dong The Witch is dead is now heading for the top of the chart. I must say that really surprises me – I never expected to see british people revel in anyone’s death. I suppose it just goes to show how loathed she was, and the damage she did; but I also think it might be a reaction to what is currently happening too, with the Tories so deeply unpopular. Indeed, with CaMoron seen by many as a reincarnation of thatcher, might we read these celebrations of her death not merely as a dark, somewhat juvenile reaction to the passing of an elderly woman, but as an outpouring of opposition to her legacy and a rejection of the self-centred philosophy she gave rise to, under which so many are currently suffering?

Today, to mark the passing of Margaret Thatcher, one of the primary authors of the neoliberal ethos under which so many disabled people are currently suffering, I’d simply like to direct you here.

I heard earlier today that A teenager who became Britain’s first youth police and crime commissioner (PCC) has apologised for her inappropriate comments on Twitter. She had apparently made homophobic and racist comments. My initial reaction was, of course, to dismiss her as yet another youngster who now thinks it is somehow clever to resort to homophobia and xenophobia: I get the sense that, in certain communities and sub-culture, to spout such crap is to show oneself to be a free thinker, free from the much-maligned dogma of political correctness. I therefore muttered ‘stupid bitch’ and thought no more of it.

But then I saw who printed the story, and my blood boiled.The Mail on Sunday, the very paper which, along with it’s weekly counterpart, is leading this abhorrent trend against immigrants, benefit claimants and which is feeding the ostracisation of any other minority; the very rag which rails against political correctness, had deigned to hypocritically pounce on the poor girl. Have you ever heard such sickening hypocrisy? Such a appalling display of seizing a moral high-ground it had no right to. My sympathies instantly fell with the little girl: for the mail to attack this girl for being xenophobic and homophobic, when they are one of the principal forces behind the resurgence of xenophobia in this country, tells us all we need to know about this two-faced little tabloid.

The sun is at last shining upon south London. On days like today, I usually like to go for a roam – that is, I go out and explore the streets in my electric wheelchair. However, since monday my chair has been boken, so today I asked our PA minika to push me out for just a short walk. Of course, she can only push the one us, so we left Lyn at home listening to her funky funky music. It was a peasant enough outing: we went through the park (I waskind of hoping there would be a cricket match on, given the weather, but no luck) and then round, through the village and home again via the shop. Not as long as my usual jaunts, but useful: I find travelling, the very act of moving, helps me to think. I also reckon you notice more when you’re being pushed. Moreover, while there is nothing wrong wit staying at home – for our little house is very cool indeed – days like today just sem too rare at the moment to waste inside, broken chair or not.

Not that I’m crazy enough to think it will happen, but today marks fifty years until the day upon which, according to star trek, humans will make first contact with alien life. Trek ore says that, on 5 April 2063, Zefram Cochrane tests the Phoenix, demonstrating warp drive by achieving Warp 1 for approximately one minute in the Solar system. A passing Vulcan ship, the T’Plana-Hath, detects the warp signature and lands in Bozeman later that evening, officially making first contact with Humans, changing our attitudes forever. I just thought I’d draw that to your attention, and direct you here.

I watch the news bulletins with increasing concern, aware that, by the time I come to write tomorrow’s entry, the first shots of a dangerous war could have been fired. I feel I shuld be writing about Korea. That was my initial plan for today’s entry, but I just stumbled onto something much more positive. Here you will find a very interesting interview between Mark Kermode and Sir Danny Boyle (he may ave turned down the knighthood, but I choose to award him the respect he is owed). I must admit I did not know much about boyle, and still don’t really: I was too young to see Trainspotting when it first came out, and still haven’t, believe it or not; I think I’ve seen Shallow Grave once. On the other hand, I thought Slumdog Millionaire a masterpiece.

After watching this interview, then, I think I better go back and watch a few of his older works: the man is quite clearly a genius – one of the greatest directors working today. He is also responsible for what must be the greatest television spectacle this country has ever seen -the Olympic Games Opening ceremony. I’m sorry, but I still think that ceremony, and this sequence in particular, was a work of utter genius. I just think Boyle was so brave to do something so brave, so left-of-field, so surprising and yet so utterly british. Thinking about that ceremony still makes me feel proud to be british and a Londoner. Yet it also makes me feel creative: part of me says that if boyle can produce such remarkable things so can I. Interviews like this make me want to create, to write my own scripts and make my own films. On that front, I’m happy to report that I do have an idea or two I’m working on, but I still have yet to put pen to paper, as they need fleshing out. In the meantime, I now want to engage properly with Boyle’s work: he struck me as a director highly in tune with film as both an artform and mass entertainment. I’m just in awe of him – I wonder what else I can learn from the man responsible for making he entire nation gasp, the demi-god who had the queen parachute out of a helicopter with James Bond.

I have started to worry that I’m getting a little boring on the political front. I’m getting more and more upset at what our current government is doing: the only recourse I have is to come to my computer and lambast them on my blog. And yet there are only so many ways you can insult the government, only so many terms of abuse you can use before you either hav to write something more substantial or turn to another subject. The thing is, while I know with every fibre of my being that what CaMoron and co. are doing is wrong, I do know know enough to suggest any alternative. In a way this is the problem labour has: pretty soon they will have to start suggesting valid alternatives or they will loose credibility. I know the deficit must must be reduced, and that it is therefore vital for the government to reduce spending. At the same time, I know that reducing benefits will harm thousands of disabled people…Yet i occurs to me, somewhere in my mind, that I could be only worrying about myself – that is, worrying about the money I, as a disabled man, will no longer get. On that level, am I, and indeed all disability activists, bing as selfish as the tories? We know the benefits system must be reformed, or else it’ll collapse, and then we truly would be fucked. Yet we also know that that reform will inevitably mean a reduction, which means a severe drop in our income. Not to fight the cuts is folly, but if nothing is done about the economy the system will disintegrate and we would hav no benefits to cut. Thus I’m beginning to think we are stuck: we rightly dread reform but all parties agree reform must happen. All I feel I can do, then, is sit here and type, hurling unwarranted insults at people I’ll never meet, often going too far (as happened with a status update I posted yesterday on Facebook) yet not being able to offer any alternative. Thus think I’ll leave the whole depressing subject, await whatever doom is coming to us in peace, and try to blog about other subjects.

Earlier we bore witness to George Osbourne term criticisms of his ideologically-inspired cuts ‘ill-informed rubbish’. I couldn’t believe what I was watching: this pestilent little man, currently inflicting untold suffering on thousands of households, actually said ‘Now, those who defend the current benefit system are going to complain loudly. These vested interests always complain, with depressingly predictable outrage, about every change to a system which is failing… defending benefits that trap people in poverty and penalise work is defending the indefensible.” Can you believe this arrogant piece of shit? Those who defend the poorest in society have ‘depressingly predictable outrage’, and act out of self-interest. Those words filled me with rage: a millionaire accusing those who stand up for the poorest in society of self interest; speaking as if the justifiable outrage he has caused is no more than the whim of a few malcontents; insinuating that those who disagree with him do not understand. Have you ever heard such patronising, arrogant bullshit?

We who protest do understand – we understand far better than any toffee nosed tory. We understand the state s there to support people; we understand that, contrary to tory ideology, the benefits system does not trap people. That is an argument the right stole from the left: it is charities, which conservatives favour, which trap people. They have a vested interest in keeping people reliant on them, whereas the state needs people to be independent. Thus that argument is bull, usurped fro the left in order to justify lowering taxes. We also understand that we exist in society who should care for one another, instead of caring only for yourself. The able should help the less able, not hoard their money in a system based on greed and selfishness. Only then can everyone’s abilities be fostered.

So to see that arrogant asshole stand there and lamast those who care for thei fellow being and see these cuts for what they are as acting out of self interest fills me with rage. Surely someone so selfish, so arrogant, so ill-informed and so hypocritical has no right to hold public office. Sorry, to me such people are on a par with the very worst of humanity. Osbourne must go!

Duncan Smith, Duncan Smith

You really do take the piss

Your idea of fairness is a myth!

You hit the poor hardest with your avarice.

So resign now Mr Duncan Smith!

This afternoon, just on the spur of the moment – Lyn being otherwise occupied – I decided to go up to Stratford, to take a look at how the Olympic Park was evolving. I had been planning a trip up there for a while: it isn’t far, just two stops on the tube, and you know how interested I am in what happened there last year. In my head that place is the site of something remarkable.

Off I went, then, just after lunch. I’ve been there before, of course, but I was interested to see how the place had changed in the six months since the paralympic closing ceremony. Truth be told, I’m not sure what I expected to see: I knew that the place would be largely a building site, and it would probably be better to wait until the park reopens fully, but hey, I’m a curious little cripple. Besides, certain birthdays are approaching I need to start thinking about, and a tour of the Westfield shopping centre could help with that.

Now that I’ve returned, though, I don’t find there is much to report. Sure enough, the place is a building site: you can’t get into the park, so I just whizzed round the shopping centre for a bit. Even in there, though, half the shops were shut, it being Sunday, so just returned home after a while. Mind you, I did see a couple of shops I’d like to return to when they are open: I’ll probably wait a few months for that though.

I got the sense that that area is now in a state of flux or transition. Stratford’s time in the spotlight, for which it was (re)designed, is over: cruising around it’s streets this afternoon, I got the impression I so often get in London, of the old butting up to the new. There, victorian and Edwardian terraces, remnants of an old east London, Butt up to modern buildings built especially for last year. Now, though, it’s even more curious as the event those new buildings were built for is now passed, so they too have become part of history: they are passed their heyday just as the terraces are. I suppose in a way they are a synecdoche for London itself, full of history, constantly pressing forward into the future. And is stratford is part of this city which could stand for the whole, so London could stand for the world itself.

Wow! Amazing how prosaic I get after a Sunday afternoon drive.