I do not think I have ever recounted this story on my blog before, or, if I have, it has been a long time since I did so. Either way,it is a good story, and good stories deserve periodical retellings. Lyn and I were just at the cafe, enjoying a mid-afternoon coffee. Mitchell, our PA for today, started humming You Sexy Thing by hot chocolate. I hadn’t heard that song in a while, but it always reminds me of a chapter in my life now quite bittersweet.

Back at school, in about 1999, my class were involved in a wheelchair dance competition. I’m not sure how we became involved – I think our PE teacher, miss stoolberg, entered us into it. The class, mostly boys, weren’t that interested, but we thought we’d give it a go. We decided to have a bit of a laugh, and to base our display on The Full Monty, which was quite a big film at the time. We did our display to the tune of You sexy thing, at one stage ripping off our shirts to reveal T-shirts with things like ”you should be so lucky” printed upon them. Thus, as soon a Mitchell started to hum the song earlier, I automatically felt the urge to spin my chair to the left.

That competition now seems a lifetime ago. I still have the trophy for the disco competition that followed the main display competition; it’s still on the shelf in my parent’s conservatory, where, incidentally, it caught Lyn’s eye on Saturday. She and Dominic asked how I won it, so dad recounted the tale to her. Yet that tale for me is tinged with sadness, as three of that class have passed on, including the two ‘leaders’ of the display, rich Simpson and Andrew fox. Drinking my coffee outside in Charlton earlier, I remembered the day when my friends and I danced to Hot Chocolate with great glee, but those memories cannot help being tainted by events since then, by regret that my friends are not here to reminisce with me. I suppose it’s a consequence of going to a special school. I suppose, too, that most of all, such memories must be recalled with happiness – after all, not man people can say they performed the full Monty in a wheelchair.

Link

Lyn was looking at me and chuckling earlier, as we watched the budget together. I’m sure she thinks I must be mad, I get so worked up about it. I start shouting at the tv and everything – I can’t seem to help it. But the truth is I’m furious about what CaMoron, clegg and osbourne have done today: how they can claim to care about the less well off of this country is beyond me. They are slashing services so vitally needed just so they can give the rich a tax break. There was nothing fair or just about this budget; it was designed to reward greed. Of course, the Tories claim that setting taxation too high drives away business: I have always seen that as an excuse with which to justify the selfishness of capitalists. If everyone saw themselves as part of a community rather than individuals, they wouldn’t care how much tax they paid. The problem, then, is the Tory individualist mindset itself: that argument only washes because there are greedy people, and there are greedy people because such arguments justify their greed. The government shouldn’t pander to greed by keeping taxes for the rich few low, but encourage the most able in society to see themselves as part of a community that they should contribute more to. As it is, however, we have a Tory government intent ion starving the poor just so they can appease the wealthy few. They, and the minority of people who voted for them, should be ashamed of themselves; I have no words with which to describe my contempt for such selfish scum.

Please note that, due to some kind of technical glitch, the list of entries in my archive has disappeared. They are still there, but the links just aren’t displayed. this should be fixed shortly.

I was thinking earlier, as I once again zoomed the roads, lanes and pavements of Charlton, about the various worlds I now inhabit. Charlton feels very different to Congleton: they are, of course,, very different places, one rural, surrounded by fields and grass-topped hills; the other urban, a place of concrete and brick. Yet, more than that, they feel almost like different worlds, and I feel like a different person in them. I grew up in Congleton, so I feel like a child again when I go there, and once again become drawn to things I liked when I was growing up. Charlton is the place of my adulthood – a much more rough and ready place, so I feel more rough and ready. I catch myself thinking differently here than I do back up north, expecting different things of people. Indeed, I do think people behave differently in London than they do up north. It’s just one of those odd things to note: I’m still getting used to life in this great metropolis, and although I still love it, it felt good to once again walk among streets that seemed wider and less crowded, and between buildings that seemed cleaner and less crammed in. Mind you, walking the streets of Congleton town centre felt even better this time because Lyn was beside me. My new world finally got to see my former one, and that felt brilliant.

In the dining room of my parent’s house there now hangs the most beautiful photograph I have ever seen: an enormous pint of a picture taken at my brother Mark’s wedding. All the family is there, including me and Lyn. As soon as I saw it I fell in love with it, and it made our long-overdue entrance into our family house all the sweeter.

I’ll probably writ more about this in the next few days, but Lyn and I just got home from a trip up north. We went to celebrate my twenty-ninth birthday. It had been over two years since I had been to the old family house, and Lyn had never seen it so it was high time we made the trip. It was well worth it: between at last getting to show Lyn the place where I grew up, eating mum’s cooking (in copious amounts, I must add) and watching Midnight in Paris (I want Woody Allen’s babies!) this year was the most wonderful birthday ever. Now, though, I’m tired, and need my tea, but tonight I’ll be going to bed a very, very happy man indeed: my world now feels complete.

I don’t usually like just reposting images I find online, but this one seemed particularly astute.

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I had one of my better ideas last night. Possibly because it was Wednesday evening, I was feeling rather nostalgic for university, thinking about the Wednesday evening discos in the campus bar. The nights when I used to dress up and go to brandies now seem a lifetime ago; the building itself will have been demolished by now, or soon will be. That thought made me rather sad – my friends and I had many a wild night there, many of which are recorded in the archive of my blog. However, it was then that I was struck with an idea: why not create an online version of brandies? Of course, it won’t be the same: it is impossible to replicate the alcohol-fuelled chaos of a student bar on the internet, but that’s how the Facebook group ‘Virtual Brandies Bar, Alsager’ came into being. I’m quite pleased with my creation – it already has about eighty members, probably mostly former MMU students just as nostalgic as me for the place that was, at one and the same time, the best and worst bar on earth. I’m pleased to say that my online friends have reacted very warmly to the online echo of our old campus bar, and I hope they use it as a place where they can reminisce, swap stories and keep in touch.

There are a couple of things I could write about today. I could say how galled I am to see CaMoron lapping up being a statesman with Obama, as if he deserves to be there. That should be a real prime minister representing our country in Washington, not some smug, unelected Tory jackass. But I suppose, putting my serious head on, the bigger picture is that the special relationship is obviously alive and well, which must be a good thing for the UK. Mind you, I could also write about being just as galled to see nick clegg at PMQs, lying, dissembling and betraying a once great political party for the sake of his own power. The sight of that wretched worm trying to justly his actions in propping up an unelected, failed government fills me with total contempt. His presence in it insults the party of Lloyd George and Asquith.

However, I was watching the news earlier when something which pissed me off even more caught my eye. The metropolitan police have been found guilty of assaulting a sixteen-year-old boy with severe autism and learning difficulties. Now, I don’t know the specifics of the case – it seems that the boy refused to get out of the pool, the cops were called, and they used quite a lot of force to restrain the boy and get him out. I can’t say whether the force was justified, although I doubt it; what gets me, though, is the fact that they are appealing the verdict. If they didn’t realise the boy was autistic and assumed he was just being unruly, then fair enough, they made a mistake – apologise, pay the compensation and move on. But by appealing, the cops are saying that they think they were right to use such force even if the boy has autism, which strikes me as extremely arrogant and disdainful of disability rights. They are saying they don’t give a rats about this boys disability, they should be free to act as brutally as they want. As I say I don’t know much about this case – I don’t know what this kid was doing – but surely the MET are at least guilty of a lack disability awareness and a refusal to acknowledge the severe harm they may have done to this boy.

I know I said once that I shouldn’t simply post links to stuff I’ve found on youtube, but ever since I saw Slash playing Jessica on top gear on Sunday evening, I’ve been itching to link to it from my blog. I know it’s a shortened version (I’d kill to hear him play it in full), and there is not much I can say about it other than to convey just how awesome I think it is. But given that today has been an ordinary sort of day, and the only other thing I would consider writing about is the fact that CaMoron apparently has an Ipad which cost twenty grand, I think we could all do with something awesome to watch. At least the vision of a rockgod playing a classic while standing atop a mountain of cars might just be enough to make us forget that, at a time of severe cuts, our prime minister is wasting tax payers money on little more than a personal toy.

I am sure I hardly need to state my position on gay marriage and the current hubbub surrounding it on here. I am, frankly, extremely pissed off at the way these cardinals from the catholic church have presumed they can pass judgement on who can and cannot marry. Who gave them the authority to do so? Surely if two people love each other, and want to go through the marriage ceremony to show their commitment to each other, the should have a right to do so regardless of their gender. In this day and age, what gives the church the right to decree what does and does not constitute marriage? And if it thinks it still has the authority to do so, it is gravely mistaken: we live in postmodern, democratic and enlightened time – why should we listen to old men in funny hats who claim they speak on behalf of some invisible being?

People could say I am once again merely towing the liberal line, but that’s because the liberal line is the logical line to tow. The daily mail has it’s knickers in a twist about people it terms ‘militant neo-atheists’ and the erosion of religion, but as we as a society become more enlightened and open to new ideas, it’s natural that older, outdated ideas, like those surrounding marriage, will be swept away. The problem is not with gay people getting married; the problem is people failing to accept progress.

I was just browsing the internet. To be honest I was actively looking for something to post here, as I didn’t post yesterday and the subject I could have written about today, my meeting with Jodie, didn’t materialise. I was just taking gander at the bbc news website, then, when I stumbled on to something which frankly appalled me: this video-article, about the use of scantily clad women to sell stuff at tech shows, is shocking. Now, I have nothing against nudity,, and try to be open minded, but it seems to me that such practices turn women into things rather than people. What’s more it conveys the message that the gizmos on show are only for men, and that women are irrelevant the market, which seems a very misogynistic message. At the very least, if they must sell things that way, shouldn’t there be men in boxers and baby oil as well as women in bikinis? What pisses me off the most, though, is the elderly American guy on the tape trying to tell the reporter it is a non-issue, and that they are in the wrong for making a story out of it. Stupid old letch!

I know that I flagged this up last week, but we just watched the second part of make Bradford British, and would urge anyone reading this to do the same. It is a truly great piece of television, tackling head on thee racial and ethnic stereotypes which seem endemic in british culture. This is a program which asks what it means to be british, and for once finds an answer: britishness is not how one dresses or speaks. Nor is it defined by the colour of ones skin. To be british, this program suggests, is to be tolerant of everyone – it is about mutual respect. It is a simple point, often forgotten today, but for making it this television program has my utmost respect and admiration. Surely such things are what tv was made for.

Sorry I did not post an entry yesterday. It was something of a farce of a day, more than a little stressful, more than a little embarrassing. At about noon I decided to go over to chopper’s to see how the Lightwriter was: he was still drying it out so I decided to take a walk to Woolwich. I had things on my mind, and I find whizzing along in m chair helps me to think. I’ve taken that trip hundreds of times now, and although Woolwich is no Cairo, its somewhere to go to look about.

To begin with all was going according to plan – I was beginning to feel a lot better. I’d made it across the town square though when I noticed something was missing: my bumbag. I shrieked and started to retrace my steps. Halfway back to Charlton I was really beginning to worry. I headed back to chopper’s as that was the last place I knew I had it. I was hoping I had dropped it outside his house, and he would emerge holding it and calling me a stupid northern cripple, but no luck. When I told him, he immediately sped off in search of it. He didn’t tell me what to do, so I decided to follow, and that’s when things got interesting.

I headed back to the spot where I noticed the bag was missing, to no avail. By then, of course, the problem of battery power was coming in to play. The batteries on my newer chair don’t have the longevity of those of my old one, and she was starting to slow down. There was also no sign of chopper. Woolwich has a community centre called, appropriately enough, the Woolwich centre, so I decided to head there, going ever more slowly. I asked where I could go for lost property and was directed to the police station, which luckily wasn’t too far away. I knew I was being absurdly optimistic, but I was hoping against hope that someone had handed it in.

Woolwich police station has steps and no ramp, so wheelchair users have to ring a bell and wait for someone to come out. When they did, I explained my problem and the officer went back in to check if someone had handed a small black bag in. By then I was feeling very stressed, tired, and I wasn’t thinking straight, which is probably why, in a moment of madness, I drove off.

I didn’t get far: around the corner my battery ran out completely. Some passers by took mercy on me and, after I had explained the situation, they helped me back to the police station. There, to my great astonishment, I was told my bumbag had been found, handed in, and that chopper had picked it up. He did give chopper’s real name, but I dare not state that on here, for various reasons. I then realised that I am the luckiest bugger alive – not only had the bag been found, but it’s contents were still inside, including my cards.

The problem was getting home. I haven’t yet memorised my home telephone number or chopper’s, as they are both on a list which I keep in my bumbag as well as being stored on my other Lightwriter. I was feeling stuck, stupid, and was wondering how much longer Lyn would put up with my silliness before she sent me packing back to Cheshire. Fortunately the cops offered to give me a lift home, and by about half five last night I was back here, counting my blessings: I was home safe; my money was ok, the chair on charge. Most important of all, Lyn ha no intention of throwing me out, although I daresay it’s only a matter f time before she tires of me doing stupid shit like this. Seriously, though, I must be more careful: perhaps attaching the bag to me is a good idea, pain though it may be. Given the level of crime in Woolwich, I had a very, very lucky escape yesterday; I can’t always depend on that luck to get me home. I also feel guilty about putting Chopper through so much: apparently he hade gone as far as Bexley or Elton to look for me when he’d returned to find me missing. What had began as a nice quiet strole had turned into a full-blown emergency, and it is only due to chopper’s kindness, that of the police guys, and a shitload of luck that that emergency had the happy ending it did.

For the last couple of days it feels like I have been reacquainted with a good old friend. Have been using my old SL35 Lightwriter rather than the SL40 Lyn gave me to use when she started using her Ipad. The truth is, I spilled a bit of beer on the sl40 on Friday night so chopper took it to give it a good clean. It should be back soon, but using my old sl35 made me realize how much of a soft spot I have for it. After all, this was the communication aid which got me through university – the machine my uni friends christened Colin. I still know every nook and cranny of it. The operating systems are slightly different, and it was funny how swiftly I reverted back to the old system. For instance, to chose the predicted words on the sl35 you used the bottom-right key, but on the sl40 you use the numbers; for a while I still automatically went for the numbers, but now I have reverted back to instinctively going for the bottom right key. I suppose that isn’t surprising having used the sl35 and it’s very similar predecessors for over ten years. I suppose it’s like using a computer running windows again after having crossed over to apple for a year or so. Mind you, although being able to play solitaire again for a while might be fun, you would soon start craving the sleekness of the mac, and for the same reason I can’t wait to get the sl40 back. Sorry Collin, but, quite simply, I can do more stuff with your successor.

I realise I haven’t written much of any length on here recently, and that most of my last few blog entries have been link-oriented. I’m afraid this one won’t be much different. I simply haven’t had the time to sit down and tap out a good long rant in the last week or so. I keep intending to let loose on the arseholes who wrote a letter to the telegraph this week arguing that tax for the rich should be abolished. Can you believe that at a time when people up and down the country are suffering due to the cuts, some people can be selfish enough to think those fortunate enough to be able to put money back into the system should be able to keep more of their money and to hell with everyone else? That attitude, the way which some see the world only in terms of being an individual rather than as part of a community, really gets to me. Do they not realise that they are the lucky few, and so should contribute back into society? One of these days I am going to sit down and outline my entire world view on here; I’m basically a socialist, but mine is a type of socialism relating to and born of notions surrounding physical ability. It seems to me that one’s social worth is still related to physical ability, especially in terms of having a job, and it shouldn’t be. But that’s a diatribe for another day, so I’ll just send you here to a very illuminating and in a way related guardian article on how the UK is at risk of breaching international obligations to disabled people, and go mutter into a cup of coffee.

This is probably lazy blogging, but given that I blogged about ‘Proud and Prejudiced’ three days ago I might as well flag another excellent programme about multiculturalism. Make Bradford British was on last night but I missed half of it because chopper came over. I just re-watched it, and the concept struck me as genius. It seems like Channel four are making a real effort to examine the relationships between the different subcultures in the UK. I personally think they’ve been rather successful in highlighting the hollowness of ethnic prejudice with these two films. Of course, whether the beeb’s series of programmes on disability next week is just as commendable remains to be seen.

I had not really intended to note that yesterday was a leap year day (interesting, but hardly blogworthy). But I was just made aware of something quite incredible: my friend James’ cousin, Emma, gave birth yesterday. That’s pretty extraordinary in itself, but she had quadruplets. Four boys born on a day which only comes every four years. Now, if that isn’t blogworthy, I don’t know what is. Although ten weeks premature, all four babies are well. I’d like to express my heartfelt congratulations to James and his family, and I promise to buy him a drink next time we meet up. In the meantime, you can read all about it here.

Could someone explain to me how the condescension, patronisation and the way they make the girl perform for the camera on this video does not qualify as abuse? While there may well be good evidence to suggest that stem cells can help people with CP, the way in which these ‘therapists’ infantilise their so-called patient does her far more harm than the good that might come of injecting her with medications. Frankly, I wanted to see her punch the woman hauling her around in the frikkin’ face.

I just watched Proud and Prejudiced on channel four. Muslims against crusades and the edl strike me as two groups as confused as each other, both as crazy as each other. The one wants to impose a fucked up version of Islam on Britain, the other wants to protect Britain from what it sees as intolerance and so becomes intolerant. Part of me sympathises with the edl, as they seek to protect our society from religious extremism. Yet in so doing they become as extreme as they seek to fight. The irony is, both groups intolerance is born of the same thing: they both misunderstand islam. Muslims against crusades is as extreme as the edl which fears and so opposes all of islam; It does not want to see the imposition of shari’ah. But the muslims against crusades advocate the imposition of shari’ah as a reaction to what it sees as the western oppression of Islam: it perceives western tolerant values as being intolerant of Islam… both groups are formed in part as reactions to each other, and thus ironically become the embodiment of the very thing the opposing group is reacting against. I realise this is a mass oversimplification, and there are many more factors involved, but this is how the situation struck me as I was watching Proud and Prejudiced. It’s all fucked up, and in a way strikes me as darkly funny.

I must admit to being slightly miffed today. As you probably know, last night was the Oscars. We were watching the press report of the ceremony, and I was getting excited as there were three films which I like the look of. I decided that I Need – and I mean NEED – to see The Artist, Hugo 3d and Midnight in Paris. I told Lyn this, who asked me why on earth I hadn’t, then. With that rhetorical kick up the backside, I went to google the local cinema listings. There is an Odeon within easy wheelchair-riding distance, but, to my great astonishment, none of the films I want to see are on. Hurrumph! That put a swift end to my excitement, but I’m still very eager to watch these three films, as all three seem to herald the return of an artistic facet that mainstream film has been missing recently. Mind you, when I put this to Alan, my old film lecturer, he wasn’t quite so sure.

There are two more things I need to do on here today:

firstly, I need to draw attention to the fact that it is my brother Luke’s 26th birthday today. I barely see luke these days, as we both live our own lives, but I often thin little bro. I hope Yan spoils him, and that Yaiya gives him lots of koftas!

Secondly, I’d like to send you here, to a new video by lyn, about how she uses her ipad to compose. It is pretty detailed and very interesting – go check it out.

This article in the Daily Mail had me enraged yesterday, and I am still very angry indeed about it. It concerns a child of five who lives as a girl yet was born male. I personally think it’s a case of a kid being disinhibited enough to explore her identity; recent research indicates that Gender Identity Disorder is manifesting itself at younger and younger ages. But according to the daily mail, the child is mixed up and a result of the growth of the gender identity ‘industry’. Never have I read anything born of more hatred and judgementalism: rather than exploring the subject fairly and evenly, the article’s author, Paul Bracci, makes accusations left, right and centre, virtually accusing the child’s parent’s and authorities of abusing her, and encouraging her to be some sort of freak.

I have had enough of this: I have had enough of feeling I should tolerate other people’s intolerance. This girl can no more help being transgender – if that is hat she is than I can help having cerebral palsy. It’s a part of you, nothing to be ashamed of, and something that nobody has a right to judge. What can be helped, however, is what others decide to think about it. That is a conscious decision, so of others decide to take a prejudiced stance, why should that be respected? Yesterday I think I resolved the paradox of liberalism, the contradiction of having to tolerate intolerance, by assuming that intolerance is conscious. People can decide what to think; they can decide to educate themselves about a subject, but instead they choose to cling to narrow-minded ideas of how the world should be and everything else is wrong. Thus it is they who are at fault, they who have a problem, and they, rather than this transkid or her parents, who warrant social stigma.

The mail can similarly decide what to print; it chooses to spew all this bullshit. It prints tosh about how it’s views are backed up by evidence and born of ‘common sense’, when in fact most of the evidence on the subject supports a more tolerant stance, and to invoke ‘common sense’ seems the height of arrogance. How then does this sickening, unthinking hatred qualify as journalism? Such articles serve only to stir intolerance and sanction ignorance; why should this be part of our press? A lot will be made about the launch of the Sun On Sunday, about how it is gutter journalism. The Sun may be a lad’s mag in the form a newspaper, but it is nowhere near as harmful and deserving of scorn than the Daily mail. The sun does not pretend to be highbrow; the mail thinks it is highbrow journalism when it is nothing but the rancid ravings of the ignorant, arrogant and intolerant. Give me Page three over that classless, puerile crap any day. Mail readers seem to sneer at Sun readers, but at least sun readers don’t think they’re reading anything other than a rag.

It has been a long old day, although today wasn’t as silly as last friday. Today has been the type of day where you get to grips with adult life, yet nothing particularly noteworthy happens. I guess it is days like these which define adult life, but which, growing up, you don’t realise life will ever be this way. A day or reflecting upon the sheer normality of day to day life. Most of all, though, it has been a day where all I could think of is the prospect off curling up to Lyn later, a thought which made everything seem right, even though it was hours away.

To be honest I was feeling rather low today. One or two things, which I won’t bore you with, have been worrying me. However, this afternoon I decided to watch a thing about Stanley Kubrick from The Cinefiles, a YouTube channel where three guys sit round a table and talk about film. Little did I realize, I was in for a treat:

these men, Edwin Samuelson, Michael Foltz and Eric Cohen, clearly have the mixture of absolute passion and near encyclopedic knowledge that is a primary feature of cinephilia. It was like watching, say, Bazin, Barthes and Durgnat sitting round a table talking about film. They certainly have the desire to put films in some sort of canonical order that is another prime feature of the cinephiliac discourse, as well as it’s infectious enthusiasm. On the other hand, the barely touch on the philosophy behind films, discussions of which pervade cinephiliac journals like cahiers du cinema. To my mind, their discussions have an aspect of fandom to them. For example, while a cinephile will discuss film in terms of directorial intent, a film’s meaning and its relationships with other arts etc, a fan will discuss film in terms of the internal fiction, the behavior of the dramatis personae, and so on. Both discourses are equally intense, but have slightly different focuses. Anyway, before I get too anal, I best direct you to what I find to be a fascinating discussion, part one of which can be found here, part two here and part three here.

I was sitting here in my office earlier when, all of a sudden, I heard Lyn start to chuckle in her office. After a minute or so she hadn’t stopped, so I decided to go and see what she found so funny. I immediately saw the source of her mirth. I don’t like posting pictures on here too often, especially those I’ve just come across, but this one is worth it:

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I have seen quite a few fan-films in my time. Most of them, to put it bluntly, are crap, consisting of footage from original films some idiotic teenager has recut in his bedroom and added new sound effects to. From time to time, however, you stumble onto a jewel. this film, called Born of Hope, is one such marvel. Based on The lord of the Rings, it tells the story of Aragorn’s father, Arathorn, and how Aragorn was born. It is essentially a love story, but it has a few impressive fight sequences.

This is not, however, your average made-on-a-wet-weekend fan-film: it had a budget of £25000 and a cast of 400. All the shots are original, with an original script (based, apparently, on an account found in the Lord of the Rings appendices). The acting is of a fairly professional standard; the shooting style bears the mark of someone who knows how to direct. The director, Kate Madison, does not try to emulate peter Jackson stylistically but uses her own technique, including one or two awesome sudden changes of filter. It is also clear that this film was not made by those who came to LOTR through the films, but by those with a deep respect for Tolkien and his languages.

All of this has me very excited indeed: I never realized fan-films could be this good. This film apparently won the London independent film festival award for best micro-budget feature. It just makes me want to get back to film-making myself. I’ve recently made a couple of shorts which I showed to you guys, and I’ve written a script for a third, but what I really need is a new camera so I don’t need to use the camera on my computer. I really love fiddling about with shots and capturing interesting images and image-sequences. But I digress – it’s just that amateur film-making like this really does excite me.

I was thinking at least semi-seriously about going up into London today to try to tell those attending the meeting on the nhs what I thought. Lyn had to go see the doctor, though, so I thought I better stay home. Nevertheless, I do feel quite strongly that the Tories’ proposed reforms to the health service: despite the dissembling and the bull, any fool can see that what they are proposing is privatisation. However, I now wish I went, as then maybe I could have seen this for myself. It seems I’m not the only person who feels strongly enough to go up to downing street today; part of me wishes that this woman had gone further and punched the sonofabitch, although I suppose we better leave that sort of thuggery to boxers. If you ask me she deserves a medal for telling Lansley what the rest of us think.!

I have noted on here before how living in London seems to skew one’s sense of geography and distance. As a kid I lived in Congleton, a small rural town up in Cheshire. There, I could tell how far a place was by how long one had to sit in the car to get there. For example, the nearest major town, Macclesfield, was about six miles away, which took about twenty minutes to half an hour. This also gave me a good sense of place. Yet because of the traffic and the road systems, hat rule does not hold true in London: I find myself having to adopt an entirely new mental approach to geography, my ability to roughly gauge distances having had to be disguarded.

To remedy this, I decided to do a simple exercise. In google chrome I opened two tabs, both with google earth. One was centred on Congleton, the other Charlton. Both, of course, had the same magnification level. What I found was rather cool, and drives home just how gigantic the city I now live in is. For example, Winsford, the town where I went to school for fourteen years, is to Congleton where Wembley is in relation to Charlton, or thereabouts. I remember it taking us about forty minutes to drive to school every day; I seriously doubt we could get to Wembley in that time. Romford is my new Macclesfield, but I daresay if I told Lyn we were going to Romford to do some shopping, she would look at me as if I had suggested we go to Timbuktu for our groceries. Thus London has this strange warping effect on distances: the distances between places bear no resemblance to the time it takes to get there; you could say it has its own rules when it comes to geography. On one level it struck me how big London is inasmuch as it is just one city, one place; yet on another level it is very small inasmuch as it is a self-contained world.

This is probably interesting only to me, and hardly worth noting. Yet it just strikes me as one of those oddities I have noticed. I suppose it’s just another of those instances where urban life skews one’s sense of perspective, and where another set of rules apply.

Yesterday I started to ponder something I decided to call Chronological transvestism. We all know that ordinary transvestism is when someone wears the clothes of the opposite gender – in common parlance, it usually refers to men dressing up as women. Chronological transvestism is completely different: it refers to boys dressing as men and girls dressing as women. When you think about it, it is from some perspectives justt as profound a subversion as ordinary transvestism, yet for some reason, I noticed yesterday, I find it very irritating.

Chopper and I had another of our stupid days yesterday. I might have known I was in for one of those when I rolled up to his place, just after noon; the first thing he did was offer me a beer. Mind you, this one was better than last time, as later Lyn came and joined us in the pub, and we had a fairly good evening. Anyway, earlier, on our travels around south-east London, I had seen a boy who can’t have been mire than twelve dressed as many of the older lads around here do: he was in the padded sleeveless jacket, tee-shirt and cap of a guy in his late teens or twenties. I know this is reverting to stereotype, but that look is associated with the violent, drug-filled culture of the urban male. The way in which this boy was seeking to emulate that look irritated me, although I’m not sure I can fully explain why. Of course, the boy just wanted to be like the older boys around him, but what does he know of that culture? What does he know of drugs and guns? It sort of felt like he was intruding on adulthood, pretending to be something he wasn’t.

Reading that last sentence back, it sounds silly, and indeed almost hypocritical. Yet part of me thinks that kids should be kids and should stop pretending to be more grown up than they are. After all, that kind of urban male culture is no place for a child. Replicating that culture, almost glamorizing it, perpetuates it, and, unlike the harmless donning of skirts and dresses, I’m not sure that’s such a good thing.

Hemingway once called London ‘too noisy and too normal’. He much preferred Paris or Havana, and other exotic places where one could chase women and be chased by bulls. But London to me is just as fascinating as those places: of course, they aren’t the same, but no two places ever are. London has a character of its own; one which you can only make out after you have lived here a while. Part of this character comes from the sheer size of the place: it’s so big that sooner or later you start thinking that London is the world and the world is London. It expands seemingly endlessly in every direction, not just geographically but culturally – there are people here from all over the world. The sheer expanse of this metropolis gives it the feel of a near-infinite labyrinth where there is always more to explore.

Lyn and I went to Bromley today, an area which I’ve only been to once, briefly before. We needed to get there early, so we took a taxi. On the way there, it occurred to me that even if I live here for the rest of my life, I’ll probably never know London in it’s entirety. I didn’t know what to make of that thought: I knew every nook and cranny of the small town I grew up in, but I can never know London that way so I cannot quite feel it is my own. But on the other hand I revel in it’s enormity: it seems endlessly varied, each sub-area having it’s own distinct feel so, as I say, it feels like a world unto itself. Thus, London may indeed be noisy, but it is never normal.

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”Letting this goal in proves our strategy is working.”

The blog entry I made yesterday was crap. It isn’t that now disagree with what I wrote in it, but it wasn’t nearly as incisive a it needed to be. I just didn’t go deep enough into the subject. Truth be told, I don’t think I have written anything particularly incisive on here in ages. It isn’t that I think all my recent blog entries are crap I’m quite proud of one or two, like my ‘Desert Island Disks’ entry – it’s just that they lack a certain depth.

Dad came over today: I always forget how astute my father can be. We had a good long talk about this and that; at one stage I felt like I was using him to catch up with what was going on in the world. The problem is I have fallen out of the habit of reading around subjects. Dad made the point that Abu Qatada hasn’t done anything wrong; he is a highly educated, very intelligent person with a particular interpretation of the Qor’an. He uses the Muslim writings to incite hatred and war. The problem the authorities face, my father explained, is that if they do deport this guy it would be due to what he says, which would run contrary to the liberal value of freedom of speech. Arguing theocratically with this guy isn’t an option either, because he can back up everything he says with chapter and verse. In a way he’s rather like these fire and brimstone televangelists in the states, spewing hatred and backing it up with the bible.

Thus this dilemma is far more complicated than my summery yesterday. Most such debates are far more intricate than can be detailed in a simple 200 word blog entry. Yet when you have something on your chest you jut have to get it off. My discussion with my father earlier today, however, reminded me that it’s sometimes worth taking a closer look, stepping back and thinking a while. Yu also need to talk to other people, and ask their opinions. I have long known that perfect, absolute truth is unobtainable; all you can do is ask others what they think. I’m not alone in not knowing what to think about Qatada – nobody does.

The problem then is they might argue that there is such a thing as perfect truth, as often happens when I start debating online. I am, perhaps, not as wise as my father, and get into these online debates with right-wingers who demand I tolerate their right to be intolerant. I recently got into ne such debate over ‘Spastic ballet’: when I pulled them up for calling it ‘disturbing’, I was told I have an ”inability to accept that people have different opinions from you”. In other words, I was wrong for not tolerating their intolerance; they had a right to express their judgementlsm over my expression of personality, yet I was wrong in being judgemental about their judgementalism. Now tell me, where’s the logic in that? And where’s dad when you need someone to talk some sense?

I just watched the news at six as usual, and I feel I ought to say something on here about the main story, simply because I feel so conflicted about it. We heard today that Abu Qatada is to be released from Long Lartin jail. This is a guy convicted of plotting terrorism; it is very likely that he still poses a threat to this country, yet, despite the fact that e is wanted on terrorism charges in Jordan, the government refuse to deport him. Now I can’t make my mind up about this: ordinarily I take the liberal left stance and say that he’s served his time so should be let be. One cannot be tried for crimes one is yet to commit. But on the other hand the guy is obviously dangerous. He has been convicted in a Jordanian court in his absence. Given that he poses so much of a threat to the people of this country, why not, for once, put their rights ahead of his? But then my lefty side chimes in and points out he probably wont get a fair trial in Jordan, and that we must uphold our civilised values no matter how much of a threat this guy is. And so I must admit, not for the first time, to being in two totally opposing minds about this: my liberals instinct against my concern for what this lunatic might do.

I just want to note the not unexciting news that Channel four has comissioned a series of I’m Spazticus. I don’t know too much about it, other than the fact it was a pilot of a disability-based comedy show with two of my associates, Toby Hewson and Simon stevens. The glorious original can be seen here. If, however, it is being turned into a full series, it is great great news – such comedy is a great way of fighting prejudice against disabled people.

A few days ago I posted a link on here to an article about a guy with muscular dystrophy who had taken his own life over the cuts. In that entry I speculated that it would be the first of many such cases, and it seems I might be right. I just came across this article about Paul Reekie, a scottish writer who also committed suicide after having his benefits cut. He left no note, but the benefits letter was laid on the table near his body. What a tragic waste of Life? I ope people see what the tories are doing – I hope they see what pain those tory scumbags are causing for people with disabilities. They need to be removed fromm power before their ideologicallyinspired cuts lead anyone else to such despair.

Lyn and I took a walk though charlton park this evening, where Marta took this picture. Again, I thought I’d share it on here.

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I just had a quick gander at this video at the new Lightwriter. To be honest I have major reservations about whether I would be able to use it. No doubt it would be good for other people who can use their thumbs, but it would be way too fiddly for people like me. I need something I can put on my lap or on a table, with fairy big keys I can press. However, as soon as I saw it I began to wonder whether it could also be used to kill Borg or Jem Hadar. That spawned an idea for my next YouTube film. Watch this space.

Today marks five years since I made this entry. It has been five years since I found out about he death of my friend Richard. My memories of that day still disturb me – they still seem quite fresh. Most of all, I remember the long drive back to campus, the words of those men still ringing in my ears. That was a bitterly cold day, much like today. You could say I am being morose by writing about this; you could say that I should blog about more cheerful things, and forget about that sad chapter. Yet I suppose this is something I must do, as part of the way in which I remember my friend. I still feel angry that he didn’t have the long life he deserved, so commemorating such an occasion is a way to vent that anger, as well as to ensure I don’t forget the man Rich was.

Bugger – I failed! I was trying to see how long I could keep u blogging every day, and was about a week a way from having posted a blog entry every day for two months, but didn’t get round to making an entry yesterday. It’s a shame, but at least I ca still say that I’ve posted one entry at least every two days for over two years. Yesterday was a busy day: the right front wheel of my main wheelchair is broken, and I was trying to get it fixed. So off I went to ask chopper if he knew someone with a van who could drive us and the chair to the mobility shop inn welling.

I found my friend in the front garden of one of his neighbors, digging out an old post. It as not easy, and he was clearly putting a lot of effort into it. I decided to keep him company, hoping that when he finished we could go get my chair fixed. Time, however, drew on, and I suddenly realized I had been sitting there for two hours. When the job was done, of course, it was clear that my friend’s mind was on things other than my chair: the time had come for the imbibing of alcohol!

It had been a few weeks since I went to the pub with Chopper, so I didn’t see any harm in having a pint or two. We went to my bank first, as I needed cash, and then to a nice quiet place in eltom. As happens all too often, one or two pints turned into four or five, and then what I had intended to be a little trip round the corner became a fully-blown night out. For some reason, when chopper starts talking about having a good drink, I take it as my duty as a northerner to show this townie what drinking really is. To cut a long story short, when I got home I just had my dinner and headed straight for bed, ruing the fact I hadn’t just stayed home, read a bit, and blogged. And on top of that, my chair still isn’t fixed!

Lyn and I are just having a lazy Sunday. There is rather thick snow outside, so it’s a perfect day to stay in, catch up on TV we missed, watch time team and top gear, and so on. I have been trying too organize a trip to my parents in march, which is proving harder to get my head round than perhaps it should. There are so man different parameters and logistical factors to take into account: if I can get a degree surely I can get two crips and their PA to Cheshire and back. I’m sure it’ll become easy once I put my mind to it, but that can wait till tomorrow: now, it’s time too grab a drink f something nice, put my feet up, and look forward to watching three idiots talk bolloks and drive cars. After all, that is what Sunday night is for.