Since I did one baby-related entry, I might as well do another. I have great pleasure in announcing my great friend Ricardio is now a father. He and his Partner, Hannah, today had a baby girl. You know, I’ve often made fun of Ricardio – I remember referring to him as ‘beardy’ when we first met at uni – but, truth is, he is an amazing guy, and I know he’ll make an excellent dad.

As for myself, Lyn is away on business for the night so I’m here alone. The house feels empty without her, and although I know she’ll be back tomorrow I find myself missing her a great deal. It feels so strange and empty. Oh well, at least I have the thought of ricardio now having to get up and change nappies to cheer me up.

It’s a long, slow, lazy afternoon. Lyn has gone to her music group (which I’ll be blogging about in due course, but I can’t say much about that now – it’s all hush hush). I went up into london yesterday with the Chopster, and we both came back exhausted, so today I’m just chilling, doing a little work on my thesis and generally mooching around the house. Thus, in the spirit of cheering everyone up and generally chilling out, I think I’ll just direct you here, to a video of Charlie’s group, The Harmonettes, singing Valerie. I think they’re quite good; they certainly brought a smile to my face.

I’ve been debating online again, and this morning I had occasion to set out the rational behind my worldview. I wanted to explain why society existed and needed to exist. I think it might also be of interest to readers of this blog:

I fundamentally disagree with you when you say society is a construction. Frankly, you only say that because it suits your selfish, self-centred worldview: you make the assumption that you’re okay fending for yourself, so everyone can fend for their selves just as well, or else die out. This is, of curse, a social Darwinian approach, and is intellectually void.

Man evolved to live in societies for a reason. We are social animals. We all know different people have different skills. A group is made up of individuals, yes, but each individual will have his or her own skill to contribute. Living as an individual, one might have some, but not all, the skills necessary for survival. It was therefore necessary to work together in a group, pooling resources, so that the maximum number of people had the maximum chance to procreate. It’s the survival of the species in all it’s diversity, rather than the individual, that matters – that’s the bigger picture.

We don’t live under the same evolutionary pressures now, of course, but the same principles apply. For the individual to be happy, he needs society to flourish, and for society to flourish, it needs to care for all its members. Say someone had a certain skill which society needed, but was otherwise unable to look after himself. The group has an interest in caring for that individual because it helps guarantee the survival of the rest of the group. That’s why I find individualism a poorly thought through concept: it is a poor attempt to rationalise greed and selfishness, but gets us nowhere. For the individual to flourish, society must flourish, and for society to flourish, individuals must work together.

I’m not sure I should publish this here, without their permission, but tonight on facebook my friend Marcie announced that she was expecting. This is absolutely incredible news: Marcie, know at uni as Rockie, is an absolutely incredible person. I have never met anyone with more warmth, and morre strength. She and Mike will make absolutely amazing parents.Words fail me – I’m overjoyed for them both.

I had previously dismissed Rich Hall as a mildly amusing American comedian who sometimes appeared on panel shows, but I was flicking through television channels last night, and I caught the end of his documentary about the American road movie on BBC four. I was impressed by what he was saying, so I decided to watch it in full on Iplayer, and I think t is one of the most intelligent things I’ve seen on tv in some time. The road movie, of course, is one of the most profound of genres, where the scenery itself echoes the internal conflicts of the dramatis personae: they are about going somewhere, about movement; but they are also about self discovery, about searching for something internally, as if the vast open spaces act as visual metaphors for the human soul. Thus, as I vaguely recall Alan saying in one of his second year lllectures (or I could have read it) the journey out is also a journey inward.

Moreover, as Hall notes, these films act as social and political commentary, concerning such things as the hippy movement, free love, and so on. Of course, most of them were made during the classical period of Hollywood, when the American cinema was still an art form which directors used to actually say something, rather than the bland, witless form of mass entertainment George Lucas turned it into in 1977. I must say that one of the great joys of Hall’s program is watching someone call star wars what it is: meaningless crap responsible for turning one of the greatest art forms ever into something vapid and puerile. I screamed with joy when Hall named Lucas as the talentless hack he is. I mean, star wars fans lord him as a great auteur on a creative par with Tolkien, when he is nothing of the sort: star wars is unoriginal, derivative, and meaningless in terms of social commentary. I therefore took great, great joy in watching Hall rip into it in his sarcastic way.* (The next time I meet a star wars fan, I’ll be very temped to shout ‘CHEESECAKE!’ at him)

It was refreshing, then, to see something of intelligence and substance being said about cinema. Hall makes very good points, particularly in relating certain films to their social contexts. He also examines how some films were made: for example, I particularly like his account of the filming of Easy Riders, a film which we covered in my second year at university. Easy Riders is a film possibly most notable for the fact that most of the crew were off their heads on crack throughout filming, including and especially director Dennis Hopper. Of course, he could have gone deeper, as I know I should but, probably better not, here, into examining the relationship between the road and the psyche in terms of psychoanalysis in this genre; but while that would have been interesting to film graduates like me, it would have probably have just weighed an essentially lighthearted, if fascinating, program down. As it is, though, there is definite intellectual weight behind what Hall has to say, and I think he gives a valuable insight into the American road movie, and American cinema in general. Go watch.

*to be fair, it must be noted that jrr Tolkien cannot be called completely original, for he famously borrowed from Icelandic and Germanic epic poetry.

While I still don’t feel quite right, and you should see the mess my bum just fired, machine gun like, into the loo, I feel a hell of a lot better than I did yesterday. Twenty-four hours ago I was in hospital, having puked all over the bed at about 4am. How I got there runs like a Victorian farce: I puked, Lyn rang the alarm; the emergency staff came, and thought Lyn was having a fit when she was just trying to get out of bed. They called an ambulance but before it arrived we managed to explain she was fine. The ambulance arrived, they took my temperature, and decided to give me a paracetamol.

Everything would have returned to normal had I not puked again at that point. The ambulance drivers would have gone, and we would have got back into bed. But I puked, and was taken to hospital. I thought they were just going to check me over and let me come home, but instead they put a saline drip in my arm. Thereupon followed a weird, very boring, few hours, during which time I grew more and more anxious to get home: I knew Lyn would be worried about me. I felt afraid and alone, being patronised by staff. Eventually, when the drip was over, and after a long wait for a porter to push me, I was moved to a place where I could wait for transport home. I was in my manual chair: had I been in defiant I’d have been homelike a shot. But no, they made me wait – I kept telling them to ring my friend to pick me up, but they refused to do so. Needless to say, I was fast loosing my temper.

What happened then, however, was one of the most incredible things of my life. I’d popped into the loo, and when I came out chopper was there, powerful and decisive. Never have I been more relieved to see anyone – you couldn’t have scripted it better. It was as if some deity had taken pity and sent me exactly what I needed, but in fact Lyn had just asked him to come get me. I guess that makes Lyn a god, but I digress.

Well, without further ado – chopper never being one for waiting on protocol – we were out of there like bats out of hell. We first came here to see Lyn, then, not wanting her to catch what I had, I spent the afternoon at choppers. There I snoozed on his sofa, coming back home inn the early evening, Skyping my parents, eating some dinner and having an early night. After a good night’s sleep, I woke up feeling much better, but with a newfound dislike of hospitals. Now, however, I’m afraid Lyn has caught what I had yesterday..

I came across this beer recently, and I thought I’d draw your attention to it. It’s a fairly nice beer, but it’s name strikes me as strange: it is amusing, yes, but does this mean that poking fun at people with ginger hair is acceptable. Call me a politically-correct spoilsport, but it struck me as odd – I mean, what if I came across a beer called ‘Total spazz”? Would I laugh, and order myself a few pints of it, or would I take offense and leave the place in disgust? Truth be told, I am not sure I know how I would react. The questions this raises, such as why it is acceptable to sell a beer poking fun at one minority, when a beer poking fun at another would certainly be banned, strike me as interesting and worth drawing your attention to.

We just watched the second part of the Beeb’s biopic of George Harrison, and I must say I was very impressed. I was largely ignorant of Harrison: I knew about john Lennon because of ‘Imagine’; I was aware Ringo was the drummer; I knew Paul because of this; but I knew next to nothing of the fourth Beatle. I was only aware of him as close friend of the Monty Python team, indeed tonight’s programme included interviews with Eric idle and Terry Gilliam. What struck me as odd, however, was the fact that Michael Palin did not appear. Palin was, I’ve heard, the closest python to Harrison: he was with the Beatle shortly before his death, so that Martin Scorsese, who directed this otherwise intriguing programme, didn’t include an interview with Palin strikes me as very strange indeed. That aside, though, is still a fascinating study of a very important and gifted musician.

London really is a beautiful city. It is, perhaps, at it’s most beautiful at dusk on a chilly late autumn afternoon, when the street lights are just starting to come on. Mind you, pretty much anywhere is beautiful at that time, particularly the inside of a good pub, or home. Yet that is when the city takes on a special type of beauty, especially here in the east, and down by the river. I was just walking back from Woolwich: I was on one of my exploratory strolls, and decided to try to find an alternative route home. I found a path by the Thames – out there it is wide and majestic; one gets the impression that you’re in an ancient landscape. The buildings look old, as if they belong to a time long gone, and indeed they were. The heyday of Woolwich was the late nineteenth century, when London was the capital of a vast empire: if you go down the high street, the shops look kind of shabby, but if you look up to their first floor windows, you can see the buildings the shops now inhabit were once finely decorated. For that place was once the centre for boat building, and thus a centre of wealth and trade

Walking home this evening I crossed over the entrances of the old docks and slipways, log since abandoned and forgotten, and they stuck me with a melancholy beauty. Cities like Paris have a beauty that strikes you instantaneously, taking your breath away with the poetry of its layout and architecture, yet while central London does indeed have some stunning buildings, the beauty of this city is one that takes time to find. It’s beauty is a kind of melancholic timelessness which you can only experience once you have lived here a while; it only it you from time to time, like when you’re by the river at Woolwich, but which every cockney has a sense of.

Poppies grew where men once fell, on fields once soaked in blood

Life goes out, in a wink, after the cannon’s thud

”To war!” They cried, ”To war! To WAR!” swearing oaths wholly hollow and so they went, those doomed few, food for the cannon to swallow.

—

I wrote the above poem a few years ago. I still remember it, ant thought it appropriate to post on here today.

I’m now supposed to write something on here about honour and sacrifice, and about how we must remember our brave soldiers who died for us. But we all know that would be platitudinous bullshit: the truth is I know nothing of war, and very few of us do. I fear the country has lately become obsessed with the wearing of the poppy, as if not wearing one is a sign of disrespect, and any organisation which dares to suggest they shouldn’t be worn to prevent political bias is pounced upon from the highest echelons of government. It is starting to remind me of the Americans, with their jingoistic flag-wearing; there, anyone who doesn’t have a flag on their lapel is an instant outcast. The men who died for this country do so to protect our freedoms, in theory at least, but where is the freedom in demanding everyone conform to mindless, jingoistic patriotism? The truth is, they fought and died for those in power, to protect people to whom they were just cannon fodder, and who thus have a vested interest in making sure we all keep chanting this patriotic bull.

I was about to come in here, sit down, and write a damning review of ‘Life’s too short’. It initially struck me as insensitive and crass, simply a vehicle for Ricky Gervais to childishly make fun at short people; and indeed part of me thinks it is just that. Yet, while I think Gervais has grown too arrogant recently, too full of himself, there is no escaping the fact that this program did make me titter. While I still think Gervais now somehow thinks of himself as the sole arbiter of humor, giving himself permission to make jokes at anyone’s expense, no matter who he offends, his shows are nevertheless endowed with a certain pathos which I cannot help but laugh at. I couldn’t help getting into it, finding myself seeing past the arrogance and childishness to the subtly beneath. I know I should hate these programs his offering tonight, in many ways, amounted to half an hour of ”laugh at the short guy” – but there were inescapable, if fleeting, moments of true humor and true wit which I couldn’t help but like.

Forgive me, but I just found this. It is a vid of all ten themes of the Star trek films played as one, so they form a suite. I’ve been listening to it for the last forty minutes or so, and it has, I must admit, brought me almost to tears a few times. To me, they are beautiful, triumphant pieces, which work together rather well, and which encapsulate one of my life’s passions. They also spur me on with my thesis, the third chapter of which is about that same passion. They make me want to sit down and watch the films again too, but most of all, these pieces remind me that I, like humanity in general, have so much to explore yet. I think, from now on, whenever I feel fed up or low, I’ll just have to put this on.

It has been quite a day. Ii got back here about three and was already ready to go to bed. I feel better now, after some coffee and a bit of playing around online, but not so long ago I was cream crackered. It happened like this: Sunday afternoon I was on one of my drives down in Woolwich, when I had an idea for a Christmas present. I passed a certain shop which sold certain things, and decided to make certain enquiries. The man said that the thing I wanted would be ready the next day wich was cool. So yesterday, shortly after posting my blog entry, I got up to go pick up thee the things I had ordered.

Only there was a problem – a big problem. My wallet was missing; I’d got rather drunk the night before and must have dropped it on my way home from the pub. Thereupon I began to do a passable impression of a headless chicken, hunting high and low,, asking in the pub, looking in the leaf litter, but it was gone. Eventually I gave in to the obvious, and asked my mum to cancel my cards, but by that time my bank branch was shut. Mum did what she could online, but I would have to physically go in and do the rest.

This morning, then, was quite hectic. I first got the bus to Bexley to sort out my bank stuff. That bus ride in itself takes over thirty minutes. Thankfully, the guys at the bank were very helpful, but even so it took ages to sort it all out. Then another interminably long bus ride to make sure I picked up my gifts. Fortunately they had kept the things I had ordered, which I paid for with the money I had just got out.

That, however, wasn’t all. I got home, dumped my stuff, then went right out again as I go to school on Tuesdays. I find helping at school very rewarding, and take that commitment rather seriously, which is why I went in, but part of me just wanted to forget about it and just crash out on the sofa. Needless to say, I got home, two hours later exhausted.

Yet I was also exhilarated, and quite pleased wit myself. I like going out and doing things – sorting out problems like this. I know, thanks to mum it wasn’t a very complicated problem, and just required a bit of sitting on busses; but I really think the time is approaching when I’ll be able to handle it myself.

My friend Alex, ho now works as a teacher in Jakarta, wrote to me about inclusion. I think I’ll post my reply here too, as it sums up my attitude to that debate these days.

—

Dear Alex. Good to hear from you again.

You know, my opinion on the issue of inclusion has changed since we left uni. To be honest I’m not sure what to believe anymore; I certainly don’t believe it’s an issue one can afford to be dogmatic about, and I was indeed dogmatic about it in the past. I think a lot of people in the disabled community are. Mind you, I suspect they have every right to be. However, since moving to Charlton (slightly less exotic than Indonesia, I know, but it has it’s fair share of wildlife) I’ve been volunteering at a local special school, and that has made me question my opinions. A result of the inclusion policy is that whoever can be included in mainstream schools now is, so now only the most severely disabled kids are segregated. I’ve thus been working with kids with very severe cognitive and behavioural proems – much more severe than me and my classmates; it’s hard for me to see how many of them could be included in a mainstream environment.

Yet that, I suppose, is part of the problem. For inclusion to work – and I still think it would be great if it did – the mainstream environment must change: most comprehensives are set up for ‘normal’ kid with ‘normal’ minds and bodies. As yet there aren’t the systems in place which would enable such schools to accommodate the type of student I encounter in Charlton park. Forcing such kids into a rough and ready comprehensive would be inhumane. I know one young man with quite severe autism; he’s very intelligent, but has a childlike fascination with clowns. I dread to think what would happen if he was put into a classroom with thirty adolescent thugs. Indeed I have friends who were included, and were bullied mercilessly. On the other hand, to segregate kids from their able-bodied peers, like monsters to be kept away from society, is often just as reprehensible.

Thus I don’t think we have found the answer yet. Indeed I’m not sure there is one. I think, though, that Charlton Park is the most suitable type of school for most of the kids there. To find a better solution would require a hell of a lot more resources, resources which, at the moment, we do not have. The problem is balancing the needs of the individual child against the need in society for inclusiveness and equality. Again, above all, it’s not something one can be dogmatic about.

I hope I have answered your question. Please don’t hesitate to ask me more, and if you have time, tell me more about things in Indonesia – it sounds fascinating. If you don’t mind, dude, I’m thinking about posting this on my blog, too – is that okay? Peace Matt

I think I’ll post this image here today, partly because I think it’s quite an interesting picture with a cool composition, but mostly because I’m a big softy.

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I keep intending to get back to political analysis on here; I have yet to write anything meaningful on the eurozone crisis. I know I probably should, given that this blog is an attempt at political and social commentary, however half-assed. The thing is, I don’t know enough about economics to write anything of the sort; I just know that I would feel more comfortable with someone with a better understanding of economics than the numpty Osborne representing us at thee G20, like Alistair Darling, or even a goldfish.

Another factor in preventing me from writing a blog entry about economics is hat I keep finding far more interesting stuff to blog about. Marta was just helping Lyn to get up, and we were talking about David Attenborough. Marta has been watching frozen Planet, and is just as captivated by it as I am. However, she said she only just discovered the joys of Attenborough; I explained that he interests me greatly, and that I had read his autobiography. While she hoisted Lyn out of bed, I popped in here to try to find the Life on Air website, but look what I found instead. Attenborough’s Zoo Quests, which aired when my parents were babies, are online. They are fascinating bit of television history, not only because they began Attenborough’s incredible sixty-year career, but also because they demonstrate how much our attitudes to wildlife, as well as indigenous cultures and people, have changed. Moreover, they are part of a lost world: Britain still had it’s empire, and everyone on the beeb had an upper-class accent. I have the impression that the world was a very different place back then, and the bbc was a very different organisation, so these programmes appearing online allow us to glimpse a lost world. What intrigues me, though, is how David Attenborough has straddled both worlds; culturally he’s become a figure of permanence, stability and comfort to a great many millions. I hope Marta’s children can grow up with him on their tv screens, as we all did.

Nigel Farage, please just shut up. everything you say is intellectually void. I called you a xenophobe when we met in Crewe; you arrogantly and patronisingly ignored me, probably because I was using a wheelchair and communication aid, so you thought I was not worth talking to. Well, you may not have the intelligence to realise it, but all your beliefs boil down to xenophobia and the outdated belief that britain can be an island politically as well as geographically. I suggest you shut up and sop going on bbc news as if your views count for anything other than the ravings of a bigot. Europe is in crisis; it is not helped by idiots like you going on national tv and wasting air time.

I just have two words to post today: He’s back!

[cue squeals of childish joy and lots of running excitedly about the house. Lyn looks on, bemused]

After posting my last entry, I thought I’d share this with you. Lyn calls it ”Matt in his Beatle”.

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Mind you, I’m not sure I like my wheelchair being compared to a small insect!

I have not just fallen in love with the river; I think I’ve fallen with London full stop. Yes, she can be savage and brutal, but she can be surprisingly beautiful. Lyn and I were walking today, up north of the river. We had gone to see abbey road studios – it was on TV last night, when it had occurred to us that we had never been there. So we went, catching the tube to Kilburn and walking from there. After seeing the studios – sadly, we couldn’t go in – we decided to go for a walk.

Dominick took us along the road to regent’s canal, which we walked along towards Camden. I had no idea there were canals in London, or if I did they are so rare I had forgotten there were such things. Walking along it’s banks, as dusk became night, I remembered walking along the banks of the canals up in Cheshire. Bill used to push me along the bridal paths to the Romping Donkey in my first or second year at university: it was nice, peaceful, heading between the fields. Something about the stillness of the water and the green of the banks transported me back. Only, there was one big difference: back in Cheshire, if you stood still and were quiet, all you could hear was birdsong. I tried the same thing tonight, but the birds were drowned out by the traffic. ”Oh well,” I thought ”At least it looks pretty.” And so it was: London may not have the fields and countryside I once loved, and indeed still do, but it makes up for that in may, many other ways.

When we reached Camden, we headed to the market, and almost instantly I wondered why Lyn hadn’t taken me there before. It is a treasure rove, an Aladdin’s cave of all kinds of shops selling all kinds of things. Some of these appeared to sell the sort of stuff which appeals to me – exotic, unusual clothing and so on – so I made a mental note to head back there when I had more money and time. It was, however, time to eat, so we enjoyed dinner together in the ancient market, and then headed home. We got back just in time for me to watch Frozen Planet; I could think of no better way to round of a day exploring a city I love with the woman I love.

I Just want to record something minor but awesome. I was in school today, helping out. It was a pretty cool lesson: two or three of the kids use communication aids, and there’s one little boy who, possibly for the first time in his life, is learning how to interact properly; he’s at the stage where he has learned how to call teacher names, and takes great pleasure in doing so. After being denied the ability to communicate for so long, I reckon the name-calling stage is something every VOCA user goes through – if memory serves, I did. Watching his little face light up made me feel warm inwardly, and reminded me that I really do need to get back on touch with Onevoice.

I also found out something else. Two weeks ago, at the communication event, the kids had released balloons with messages told by a member of staff today that someone on France had emailed school saying one of the balloons had landed in their garden. How cool is that?

Just so you know, I went over to Chopper’s yesterday to apologise what happened the night before, but as soon as I started to type my apology into my Lightwriter, I heard: ”Dawn’t be so fukkin’ stupid!” in Choppers broad south-east London accent. According to him, it was nothing, although he did propose we go have a pint to make up. I eventually squirmed my way out of this, though – two or three days off the juice seem a very good idea right now. I was reminded of the famous toast by homer Simpson: ”To alcohol, the cause of, and solution to, all of life’s problems”.

Anyway, my intoxications aside, I just stumbled on to this news that two disabled men in Manchester have lost their challenge to that city’s social care cuts. It’s sad, but I’m in two minds about such cases: I think there will me more and more of them as the cuts bite, and I will support such moves however I can. But I also think that such cases are futile and almost frivolous: they are part of government policy, and as wretched as that is, no court will, at the moment, rule against it. Yes, government policy has been ruled against in the courts before, but as one judge rules against the cuts, the floodgates will have been opened. I can’t see that happening right now, as much as I’d like it to. As for myself, rather than lodging any court cases, I think the best thing I can do financially is cut back on how much I spend in pubs.

Not that I want to turn my blog into a confessional, but I suppose that, just as I record my adventures on here, I have a duty to record some of my misadventures. Unfortunately, I think the events of today fall into the latter category. It started well enough, I suppose: I got a call from my friend chopper, saying he wanted o introduce me to one of his best friends over in Greenwich. So we wet off on the bus together, heading to weatherspoons in the historic town, where we met Chopper’s friend Wooster and a few other guys. So far, so good.

I was immediately taken to Wooster; he seemed to me a top bloke. Thus, when chopper began to talk about coming decided it was too early. I temporarily forgot that

I have a wonderful fiance back here, spending time with whom is better than any night out. Chopper and agreed that, while he would return to Charlton, I’d stay in Greenwich for one or two more beers.

Looking back, I should have come home, rather than go out on a pub crawl with a bunch of virtual strangers. They were trustworthy enough – chopper had vouched for them – but they didn’t know me. More specifically, they didn’t know the difference between me and me drunk. Thus,, once I had a beer or two in me, and the night was only just warming up, my new friends began to worry that I’d had enough. I told them I was fine, but it didn’t work, and, to my great embarrassment, Chopper was called to pick me up like a father collecting an overtired son. Okay, I’d began to request that the karaoke guy play some bond themes – he did a great rendition of Live and Let Die – but I could definitely have got myself home. As it was, I was driven home by our friend John, as if in shame.

I guess it shows that I have people around here who are looking out for me, which can only be a good thing. Yet I do feel embarrassed by it, and embarrassed for Lyn too. She puts up with so many of my antics. Chopper is a good friend, but if such things happen too often I fear he’ll soon tire of me. Oh well, I guess I’m still learning: I’m so grateful to Lyn for bringing me in to a world where such mad things can happen, into this maelstrom of a city where you never know what will happen, but I can be quite sure I’ll get home safe. And when I get there, the best part of the adventure is being able to recount it to the most wonderful woman in all the world.

I am still trying to work out how fate, providence or whatever you want to call it conspired to let this happen, but I am personally bloody amused by it. On Wednesday evening, chopper and I were in the pub, talking about this and that. We were talking about Halloween, and suddenly Chopper says that he and his sons were getting a type of suit which went over the whole body. My ears pricked up at this, and I decided to probe a bit more. It turns out they were buying morphsuits, also known as zentai suits – the very thing which I discovered on the internet about three or four years ago, had bough from sheer curiosity, and which had amused me just as greatly when Charlie asked to borrow it. Now, coincidence of coincidences, my mega-masculine friend and his sons are buying the kinkiest things in my wardrobe! How did that happen? Chopper has seen pictures of me in mine once or twice, but I didn’t talk about it to him much. I realise this is only something minor, but it amused me too much not to note.

They’re going up to London to get them this morning, and I will go with them. Well, I couldn’t let chopper and the guys get suits without getting a new one for myself, could I?

I cannot help but wonder whether David Attenborough will ever retire, or whether he will go on forever, like the Duracell Bunny of natural history TV. I had honestly thought he had retired, or at least cut back to just doing voice overs from the safety and warmth of a studio; but no! In last night’s Frozen Planet, we saw the great man talking to camera in the arctic, just as he always has done. He must be pushing 90: I’m just in awe of the man. And, as with every other programme he has presented in his sixty year career, it was fascinating. What impresses me most, other than the brilliance of the presenter, is the sheer goddamn beauty of the camerawork. Some of the shots they got took my breath away. I know that is largely down to the magnificence of the scenery – and, just as when I watch a Michael Palin programme, I feel my feet itch – but most of those shots were framed perfectly.

Such programmes almost single-handedly justify TV as a medium. Back at university, I remember ”Life in the undergrowth” airing on Wednesday nights. Rather than going to the weekly Brandies disco, while it was on I used to catch a lift round to Steve and Chris’ to watch it – Steve also being a fan of Attenborough. I loved those discos, but to me Attenborough took priority: such things were too good to be missed. You see, then, how much sway these programmes hold over me – they are television history, and I warren will become the stuff of legend. There are other presenters, but I can’t help thinking that, culturally, sir David Attenborough is something very special, for he has brought so much wonder and beauty to so many people for longer than most of us an remember.

I wrote this, inspired by the joy of a good night…

—

Feeling nice and warm and snug

My arm around you in a hug

Our heads on one pillow, my nose in your sweet hair

I must be the luckiest man alive to be there;

With you, sleeping sweetly

Breathing slowly yet deeply

As tender as a child

Embracing you, so noble, brave yet mild.

And I thank my lucky stars I’m lying there, so warm and snug,

My arm around you, Lyn, in a hug.

I typed out the following this morning, but decided to post it on here too in order to give you guys some insight into the attitudes I often encounter locally. I can’t just dismiss them, but think they need engaging with; this might sound patronising, but I think such attitudes show the socioeconomic conditions here too.

Dear chopper. Sorry dude, but I just could not let you get away with what saying last night, as it goes against everything I believe. I really like you, and of course our disagreement on such a trivial matter won’t effect our relationship, but I can’t let you get away with what you were saying abot Africans.

I understand you say you aren’t racist, and I don’t think you are. Racism implies that you adhere to the long-discredited notion that humanity is divided up into types or ‘races’ of people, along the lines of skin colour. I don’t think you believe this – you treat black people as you treat white people. Rather, you just claim to hate ‘Africans’ – people coming directly from Africa. I must admit this interests me, as it seems to throw up a lot of interesting questions and contradictions which one could write at length about, and which I must deal with here.

First off, how do you define an African without resorting to race? You can only do this on a cultural basis, by saying that African culture is different to European culture. This is the only way you could have such a divide: genetically and biologically, the two groups of people are identical. Study after study shows there is no significant difference in IQ, brain size or an other objective measure of intelligence. The only difference is cultural.

If, then, you hate African culture, what is it about African culture that you hate? Given that mankind evolved on the plains of Ethiopia, we cn all be said to be

African, and so human culture – bipedalism, tool use etc – is, in a way, African. More pertinently, though, African culture is a broad church, ranging from Frenchinfluenced North Africa, the ancient civilisations of Mali, ancient Egyptian civilisation, the pastoral communities of the Great Plains, down to modern, westernised South Africa. It is hugely diverse, and it has long fascinated me, to be honest.

The type of African culture you seem to object to is not a specific one, but, I think, a caricature African culture composed of many negative stereotypes. That is not to say people do not behave in the way you describe: I have encountered quite a few people locally, who probably do hail from central Africa, with some very negative attitudes towards me as a wheelchair-user, but this should be viewed on a personal rather than a cultural or ethnic level. There are two things I can say about this: firstly, I have also encountered similar attitudes from Europeans, and indeed brits. A few months ago, a woman called Claire Khaw phoned a chat show on radio 5 and told the country hat she thought severely disabled children should be killed. Khaw was, at one time, the London mayoral candidate for the bnp. Secondly, there are reasons why such attitudes arise in some cultures. Much of Africa is poor. It shouldn’t be, as there are vast swathes of land which, if cultivated, could make it rich. It’s poverty is a legacy of nineteenth century European colonialism; it’s people were repressed. As a result, people could not afford to have unproductive, disabled babies, which is why most were probably killed and why people like myself aren’t as well accepted in such cultures. Thus there are good, socioeconomic why we may encounter such attitudes in people from Africa, and possibly why they still have them. That is not to say I excuse it, but I can understand it more coming from a nonwesterner than I do coming from someone like Khaw.

What I’m trying to say is, there are reasons why people behave as they do, and indeed not everyone from the same geographical area behaves in the same way. On a cultural level, people may share certain attitudes and behaviors – I have even observed this locally, as the people of Charlton have their own specific behavioral patterns – but that is no reason to say they are all the same. It is certainly no reason to hate the people of an entire continent.

Anyway, I love you dude, but I needed to tell you my opinion.

Matt

I’m sorry, I know I mustn’t keep just directing you to television programes I’ve watched, but today I feel duty bound to direct you here. The final part of Fry’s Planet Word is a corker, in part because it has a segment about Tolkien including an interview with Peter Jackson, but mostly because it is a celebration of literature and story-telling. There is a pat of me that, like Fry, revels in language; While I must admit I have not sat down to read a book in ages – although I know I need to get back into the habit – writing has always been my first love (apart from the ever-patient and understanding miss Levett, who rather acerbically comments ”ooh, that will look good on the shelf” every time I bring another book home). Indeed, it is partly wh I keep writing blog entries, as writing s my main form of artistic expression. Anyway, I advise you to stop reading my inane wittering and go and watch a fascinating programme.

I’m pretty pissed off that I missed this march. Apparently, thousands of disabled people today marched in protest against the cuts, but neither I nor Lyn knew anything about it. It’s a shame, because I think the time has come to forcefully demonstrate our objection to what the government is doing. Oh wel, unfortunately I think there will be many, many more such protests I can go to. I guess I’ll have to be more observant if I’m going to be the activist I want to be.

I was chatting to James over the possibly of an EU referendum yesterday. Before now, I had simply dismissed the prospect of one as merely pandering to xenophobes, and a large part of me still thinks that is what the desire for one is born of, but James made the very astute point that were we to have one, all the crackpots in UKIP and the BNP would be silenced thereafter. The worst that could happen is that the UK would have to renegotiate with Europe, which, given the existing treaty is about forty years old, might not be such a bad thing. I am, of course, pro-Europe; I see it as an example of humanity working together, breaking down arbitrary national barriers, which must happen if we are to survive as a species. Yet the question is, in the current climate, can we continue to support our European neighbours? Indeed, by the same token, can we afford not to? Isolating ourselves from the union might be counterproductive in the long term, even if it is a basket case right now. A large part of me agrees with James that putting it t the vote would get all such questions out in the open, and then out of the way; but then, perhaps a further question is can we afford such a distraction right now? And what if the short-sightedness of the xenophobes prevails, and we end up isolated? A no vote would make ukip irrelevant, but a yes vote would give goits like Nigel Farage more credibility than they ever deserved I find myself pondering such issues; like the killing of Gadaffi and the news from Dale Farm, I am troubled by affairs I don’t feel I have been told enough about. It seems to me that all three raise questions that I don’t know the answers to.

I don’t have time to review it as much as it deserves,, but I believe this to be one of the best films I’ve see in a long time. It’s a self-referential account of the controversy surrounding Life of Brian. While it is very funny, it should be read as a straight piece: yes, there are some anarchic, pythonesque bits, but it is cuttingly serious as well. It is also a beautifully tender portrait of Michael Palin and his relationship with is wife Helen (even though she is played by a guy). Anyway, I urge you to go watch this fine, fascinating film.

I suppose I was in a bit of a bad mood not so long ago. I’m not sure why, but sometimes you just feel grumpy for a bit. School wanted me to go in to help them. They were having a day based around communication and the ways in which people communicate, so I was probably an obvious person to ask along. The thing is, they don’t actually ask me to do much, just be there and act as a role model, leaving my mind free to wonder and ruminate over my unfinished thesis. That always depresses me. I was in the school assembly, something which, back when I was a student at school, I tried to avoid. This one didn’t appear to be much different to those of my childhood, until the band started to play. Suddenly, my ears pricked up and my back straightened in my chair: put simply, those guys rled. They literally rocked! There was one lad with quite severe autism I’ll just call P – by the FSM, can he handle an electric guitar! I thought: ”we so have to teach these guys Hendrix or nirvana or something”. That thought, the thought of such an awesome juxtaposition, was enough to brighten my day, and all was cool again. Now to see that it comes to pass.

After my trip up into the city yesterday, I can’t help feeling that the so-called occupation movement lacks focus and direction. I went to find the truth for myself. It is a lot of people demonstrating against something, but nobody there seems quite sure what. Or perhaps very few: I met a few very clever people up there, having debates about world governments and other such ideals, but it all seemed so pie in the sky, so wishy-washy, that I can’t help thinking that, to paraphrase shakespeare, it is just a load of sound and fury, essentially signifying nothing. They talk about the end of capitalism, and a new world order, but even though I am as aware as anyone of the vulgarities and the depravities of the capitalist system, I doubt these people outside st Pauls (a place which they have amusingly renamed Tahrir Square) have any more idea what to replace it with, or how to bring about it’s demise, than their forebears in the sixties. I’d gone up there with hope, but left feeling rather more cynical. I’ll probably go back up there again soon, to check on progress, but I can’t help thinking that such an action is always going to be futile.

Our living room looks wonderful. We finally finished it last night by putting the newly repainted shelves up. It is now a mixture of gold, silver and burgundy, a combination which I had slight reservations about at first, but now it’s up on the walls I think it looks truly beautiful. Lyn certainly as good taste, I’ll give her that. To celebrate this momentous event, we sort of had a small party: okay, we drank a large bottle of wine left over from the original painting party last week. This was, however, rank, godawful stuff, so Domonic proposed we mix it with coke. He said the Spaniards do it, although it sounded a pretty odd combination to me. As with the walls, however, it really did work; as a matter of fact it surprised me. It’s no daiquiri or martini in the cocktail stakes, but Carimucho, as Domonic called it, is definitely worth a try. The best part is, you don’t seem to get a hangover with it – now that’s what I call a combination.

I was watching ‘Sunday Morning Live’ earlier today. There was a woman on there trying to argue that sex education was harmful to young teens and shouldn’t be taught in schools, something which would naturally strike a lot of people as somewhat closed-minded and bigoted. However, when one of her fellow panellists put this to her, she accused him of being intolerant. This is something I’ve noticed a lot recently in my dealings with right-wingers online: they seek to deny other people their rights to freedom of expression, but when someone tells them to shut up and stop being intolerant, they exclaim that they are being denied their freedom of speech. It is totally hypocritical, an really gets me wound up. What’s more, for me it just goes to show how juvenile right-wing and especially far-right-wing politics is: it spews all this hatred and intolerance onto others, yet demands others tolerate their hatred. I know there is a paradox at the heart of liberalism which says one should tolerate all but intolerance, and that part of being a liberal is to be conscious of and to meditate on that paradox, but as I once wrote here and probably in other entries too, what is in the left a paradox is in the right a blatant, arrogant hypocrisy. It demands tolerance but denies it to others, which I think must be a sign it hasn’t been thought through philosophically.

I think my outing last night did the trick I needed it to do. Taking defiant, my older, slightly more robust chair, I headed up into Soho at about seven. We had really gone to town, if you’ll forgive the pun: I was in a red dress I recently bought in a charity shop, and Marta had made me up so I was more passable than I had ever been before. As I once wrote here, I seem to have a feminine side which practically demands to be let out every now and again; and it was certainly let out last night. Needless to say, I had great fun, and attracted a lot of attention if you get my meaning. I had almost all my rinks bought for me too, so it was a cheap night. However,

I must say it was quite stressful too at times: negotiating central London in a chair on a Friday night is not always fun, which is why I don’t do it that often. Next time, I think, I’ll take someone with me. I’d love to go with Lyn, although, having told chopper about my outing earlier, he says he would be up for going with me on my next ‘Becky’ night out. That would certainly be…interesting

We have just been picking out clothes for me to change into this evening. I have kind of been stressed out this week, as you can probably tell from my last few blog entries, so I think I need a bit of escapism. It has also been ages since I went anywhere en femme – I suppose having a friend as masculine as chopper gets in the way. But part of me still loves to dress up and go out; for her part, I think Lyn likes me to express that side of my persona from time to time. However, it occurred to me a few days ago that Charlie might be the one to credit for all this: back at university, she used to sometimes positively encourage me to dress up of a Wednesday evening. Even when I wasn’t so keen, I remember her gently cajoling me into something girly, although I rarely took much persuading. I know I credit her with a lot of things, but it was charlotte, and then Jen, who helped me dress to go to discos, discos at which pictures were taken which would later gain the attention of a certain Miss Levett. Thus, in a way, Charlie may be partly to thank for the life I now live. Mind you, something tells me Lyn and I were always going to find each other.

Anyway, time to start getting ready.

I’m just posting a quick note to say everything went well this morning. I got really quite worried earlier – what if the doctor prescribed anti-epileptic drugs, or said I couldn’t go out on my own? It could have been really quite disastrous. In the event, however, we agreed that, given my little absence are so infrequent and mild, it isn’t worth doing much. At least I know now what they are, and that they are harmless I was quite relieved with the outcome, and now fel ten times better than when I woke up. I just had a good hug with Lyn, and my main chair should be returned to me shortly, so now I think some of this is in order.

A couple of hours ago I was rather pissed off. I was still fretting about my thesis; I had just watched PMQs, in which CaMoron’s arrogance made me want to kill him; and, online,, people like Claire Khaw were churning out their usual hateful moronics. Such things were getting to me, so much so that I was seriously contemplating catching the 52 up to Westminster and demanding that the government stand down ad the Tory party be disbanded. On top of that, I have a doctors appointment tomorrow about my absences.

However, instead of going to try to cause a revolution, I decided to just go for a walk. It was rather grey and gloomy, but I just needed fresh air. Brooding as I went, mentally spitting venom at everyone I passed, I started to mull stuff over. CaMoron had to go – his deficit reduction scheme clearly isn’t working, everyone can see that, but the way he was continuing with it even when everyone can see it is the wrong course to take. His arrogance makes him unfit to be prime minister. As for Khaw, how could she say such thing and call herself intelligent. One day, I am going to have to sit down and explain to her why all she says is intellectually moot.

By then, I was heading through the park, thinking about taking a trip to Woolwich. I’m currently skint, but a bit of flaneurie is always good for the soul. When that thought occurred to me, I began to reprimand myself for not being at my computer working on my thesis, as I often do when I go walkabout (the flaneur being a major figure in film and cultural theory). But this was countered by three simultaneous thoughts: that this morning I’d emailed it to James for him to look at; that I probably needed a break from it for at least three or four weeks; and that, yesterday afternoon, I got the most touching email from mum and dad basically saying I shouldn’t fret so much and that ” Your mum and me do not wonder what you are ‘fucking about at’ – we know you are finding your place and your direction…” With such thoughts rising to my consciousness, I realised the sun was coming out.

However, there was still the thought of tomorrow’s appointment to fret over. The situation is very stupid: I know what the problem is, and what the scan will how- I’m just going in to see if the doctor can tell me things I didn’t know, like whether anyone else has ‘absences’ like mine. But the danger is, what if he prescribes drugs which effect my personality? That is a scary thought, because I don’t want to change from being me. Well, I then thought, I’ll just tell him thanks, but no thanks. I’m fine as I am. But what if he insists? Now You’re being silly. This whole situation is silly – look, we’re almost in Woolwich.

My internal dialogue was put on hold as I threaded my way through the crowd. I had a look in a few shops, but I mostly watched the people, listening to the stall holders cry out their prices as if they had one so for hundreds of years. It was fascinating, and as curiosity set in my gloom lifted – I could actually feel myself cheer up, brightened by he multicultural society about me. I began to think in sentences, and about how I would describe the scene were I to blog about it. I passed the spot where, last week, I fell out of my chair and pressed on towards the river, funk lifting as I went. As patches of blue began to appear in the sky, it occurred to me that I had been fretting over nothing: there was not much I could do about CaMoron; Khaw is just some nutty woman who seems to spend all her time on Facebook; I might be stuck with my thesis,, but I will got there in he end; and as for tomorrow well, I think I know how to handle it.

With that, I decided to head home. I would stop by at chopper’s en route to see what he is up to, and maybe this evening I’ll ask Laura for a glass of that wine left over from Saturday. Just one glass, mind – I do have an appointment tomorrow. It had been quite a good walk, and it really had cheered me up: ”hey” I thought ”maybe that’s something I could blog about.”

Every now and then I start feeling quite low about my thesis. I started it four years ago; it was only supposed to take me a year to complete and it’s still not finished. The truth is, I don’t know what to do about it. Then I look at my brothers, both highly successful academics, Mark just having started working at world-famous Cern, and I feel like such a failure. Part of me thinks that people like my parents and my old university friends are looking at me and thinking ‘what the fuck’s he fucking about at?’ Part of me agrees with them, that I should stop gadding about, get my head down and get the damn thing finished. But another part of me says that I have other priorities, and that even if I’m not the academic I once wanted to be I still have reason to be proud of myself. Life with Lyn is going well; I’m now pretty independent. I get out and about; I volunteer at a local special school. I constantly experience new things: the event I went to last night may have been unconnected to either film or writing, but it may well lead to things which I can apply my specialist knowledge to, and anyway satisfied my interest in art generally. Most importantly of all, I’m the partner of a wonderful person, and that’s more important to me than any damn certificate.

I guess I’m not an academic like my brothers, or the student type I was three or four years ago. Yet part of me still misses it, a part which surfaces every now and then, such as when I chat to James or hear Mark Kermode talk. I miss reading, writing and talking about ideas, and having conversations with people who reference writers like Marx, Lacan and Zizeck as casually as the fellows down at the royal oak talk about football, weed or women. When I feel such pangs, I know it’s time to get back to my studio, take my books from where I left hem, open my thesis and start work. I may not have finished it, but I will one day.