I’ll probably post a lengthier entry later, but, following on from last night’s entry, it is with great pleasure and a tear in my eye that I direct you here (or here if the first link has stopped working), to what I suspect might be David Attenborough’s last appearance. It is a short piece, brilliantly composed, and although it s clear Attenborough is not a singer, I can’t help but find it rather beautiful.

Thanks for sixty years of amazing television programmes, sir David.

Given that I’ve linked to two or three of the others, I think it right that I direct you here, to the final part of Frozen Planet. It is a vivid illustration of climate change, and how global warming is increasingly affecting the planet. In fact it is unusual for an Attenborough program in that it argues a point – that global warming is a real phenomenon – rather than being purely descriptive. To that end, it is very persuasive indeed, and I’d urge anyone who still somehow doubts the reality of global warming to watch this programme

However, the part which touched me the most, must have been the piece after the show itself had finished*, where sir David speaks the lyrics to ”What A wonderful World”. He has had a remarkable career, and I can’t help suspecting his appearance tonight (remarkably in tonights programme he stood in the Antarctic at the age of ninety and did several pieces to camera – I’m in awe of the guy) may be his last. Thus, this final part acted as his swan song, a summation of his life on air, and perhaps a farewell. I therefore found t very touching indeed; it brought a lump to my throat, and I suspect it will be something I’ll watch again and again. Thanks, sir David.

*Sadly, it is therefore not on the Iplayer recording

While I certainly don’t agree with everything the writer states, this seems to be a well-rounded discussion of the debate over Emma West. I agree that no matter how repugnant we may find miss West’s comments, her right to make them must take priority. There is much that I do not like about this article – the defence of drink driving for one – but at it’s core is a discussion of a central truth: that we should all be free to speak our minds. That, in a way, is why I must link to it. It’s all very well me going on about freedom of speech, but my words would be hollow if I only linked to articles I completely agreed with. I cannot deny that there is truth at the core of what this guy writes, even if we disagree on the details: he, too, has a right to argue his position.

To be honest I doubted it would happen in my lifetime, but it seems that a NASA telescope has located an earth-like planet outside of our solar system. For me, this is incredible news; the bbc are reporting it in the slot where they usually put funny or quirky stories, but I think it should be the main news story. Think about it: if it does have liquid water, this planet probably has life on it, which means we have probably found life on a planet other than earth. That is incredible news, in a way far more important than the financial farce or the moronic activities of our unelected government. Those things matter, but the discovery of this planet could be much more significant – what if it does have life on it? And what if that life is intelligent? In, say, 52 years and 5 months, people could be looking back to day, saying ”That’s when it all began”.

Like many people, I take seing the coca-cola advert as a sign that christmas is coming. Well, after seing this at the dome yesterday, I reckon the festive season is definitely here…

[img description=”undefined image” align=”centre”]/images/holidays are coming.jpg[/img]

It seems somebody has, at last, had a good idea. I heard earlier that a survey by Scope suggested that majority of disabled people supported combining the Olympics and Paralympics. I couldn’t agree more. Indeed, a similar thought occurred to me not so long ago: to have two separate events sends out the wrong signal as it represents a divide between the able-bodied and disabled communities. How cool would it be to have the two types of competitor compete side by side. Granted, they may have to compete in separate events – think of the carnage a race between a sprinter and a wheelchair racer might end in – but I can’t help thinking that to have able and disabled athletes compete in the same stadium at the same time would be a huge rhetorical step forward.

I suppose I should say something about Jeremy Clarkson today. Well, here goes: Jeremy Clarkson is a twat. That is all.

…

Okay, I suppose I should write a little more on the subject, but what else is there to say? He said something extremely insensitive about public sector workers at a time when they are getting desperate. He may have been joking, he may have been trying to be provocative, but that doesn’t excuse his narrow-minded, judgemental and frankly nave comments. On the other hand, I also think Clarkson is a caricature of a bigot: a figure that exposes how ludicrous right wing views are by expounding them. He is a laughing stock, and anyone who claims to agree with him is equally laughable. However, that doesn’t justify what he said, and no doubt he will be punished for his comments.

I hate having to write retractions and corrections, although I suppose in the grand scheme of things, this one is only minor. It has been a busy day: my friend Chopper and I have been all over the place, mostly getting stuff for the conservatory roof. On our travels, we bumped into Alex – it turns out he didn’t film that woman after all. He only posted it to his Facebook page; Chopper was misinformed by his sons. Needless to say, I am rather disappointed.

All this running about south-east London mean I couldn’t go up to see any of the protests. I’ve seen evidence of them: there have been more kids about than usual because the schools are closed, but the busses are running and things are quiet. Ii am disappointed about this too: if we are to get the government to listen, the entire capital must come to a halt*. I only just got in so I haven’t seen any of the up-to-date reports, but I bet you any money this already-failed government is continuing with it’ cuts, despite the fact that half the country is on strike, and the fact that the economic data shows that their cuts are not working. They were shown yesterday, beyond doubt, to be cutting too far and too fast; but instead of doing the sensible thing and easing the cuts, Osbourne decides to cut even harder. No wonder the country wants these idiots out of power.

*mind you, it struck me as a relief this morning that the direct payment system is in place. That is to say, we employ personal assistants directly; they are not public sector workers, so they are not on strike. Another advantage of DP, I suppose, although I dread to think what might happen if – or should that be when – the Tories cut that.

I should probably be writing about the budget, but think it would be wise for me to let the dust settle a bit before I do so. Instead, I just want to point out something cool: just as the world went mad over a clip of a dog chasing deer in Richmond park last week, this week it is up in arms over some racist woman mouthing off on a bus. I came across it yesterday, and like most people I was appalled. I thought about blogging about it there and then, but given that I didn’t have anything to say about it other than the normal statements of disgust that would have occurred to most other people, I decided against it. What could I have said about it that nobody else could?

However, I just found out something funny. The Chopster just popped in on a routine visit, and, according to him, I know the guy who made the video. It was made by one of his friends, Alex, whom I have met. How cool is that? Of course, I need to confirm it, but the woman in the clip does have a strong south London accent. Indeed, the truth is a lot of people around here have views similar to hers, although I suppose you could say that of anywhere these days. It just struck me as odd, and worth pointing out; it also presents me with the possibility of finding out more. I’ll have to talk to Alex the next time I see him.

Now I come to think about it, what happened yesterday was a little odd, but it was cool nevertheless. It started normally enough: we need or conservatory roof fixed, so about noon I buzzed over to choppers to investigate the plan for it. As usual, he invited me in, sat me in front of the film he and his sons were watching, and started feeding me biscuits, all the while chatting about this and that. However, he then said he wanted to take me to his mums house so I cold help him fix her light.

Although I’m usually much better at breaking stuff than fixing stuff I thought I might as well go with him; after all, he was going to fix our roof so it would be rude to say no.

Fixing choppers mums light was no straightforward task. The whole thing needed replacing, which meant getting to it from the room above. That was the fun part: we had to take up the floor boards, which meant chopper gave me a big crow bar to use. It really appealed to my sense of anarchy and destruction; mind you, it was also very tough going, so I could also manage a bit; I also think I took up a board that didn’t need to be removed. However, while I was doing this, it made me ponder: I’m not that great of an academic, at least compared to my brothers, so maybe had I not had CP, I would have been the sibling who used his hands rather than his brains. Maybe I would have been the builder, carpenter or scaffolder of the family; after all, I have always liked watching stuff like that. I know that is idle speculation, but, hard though it was, I really liked what I was doing yesterday. I got home dirty, tired, and in need of a drink.

Having said all that, my back hurts this morning, so perhaps I should not have been a workman after all. It did make me wonder though. Nevertheless, this afternoon the less physical task of continuing with my thesis beckons. That is fun too, although I don’t get to use a crowbar.

I was chatting to my friend James last night. He made a point which, to begin with, I was quite dismissive of, but the more I think about it the more interesting it seems. James was saying that events currently unfolding in Cairo reminded him greatly of the 1917 Russian revolutions. I am instinctively very weary of such talk:

after all, history does not and cannot repeat itself, so supposing one event can be used as a template for another seems to me quite foolish. Yes the two cases are similar inasmuch as they both have two changes o government, one each side of the year. But pre-soviet Russia and modern Egypt are two completely different places, so I thought trying to compare the two would lead only to superficial conclusions at best.

Yet the more I think about it, the more I think James has a point; in retrospect he was being quite astute. As in February 1917, earlier this year Egypt’s long-ruling dictator was overthrown, and as in October 1917, we have a group as extreme as the Bolsheviks, the Muslim Brotherhood, eager to cease power. The question remains, however, as to how closely the transitional council in Egypt resembles Russia’s hapless and shot-lived provisional government. The former seems slightly stronger than the latter, and indeed has promised elections. Crucially though, the world is watching Egypt, ready to step in in a way it couldn’t in 1917.

I’m not saying James is wrong; his is a very good point, and the thing it implicitly predicts, that one autocrat will merely be replaced with anther, might well come to pass. Yet however interesting this debate is, it is ultimately only frivolous academic speculation. It might be interesting to discuss such parallels after a good dinner, but it is ultimately useless in predicting what is really going to happen in Egypt. That only time will tell.

Rarely if ever have I felt as proud as I suddenly find myself feeling. The only time I ca compare it to is when my dad pushed me across the stage at graduation day. Lyn just called me and Marta into her studio to show us something, and showed us this. It is a video of her performance on Monday: once again I feel like a parent, but, this time, a parent whose child has just received a standing ovation from two thousand people after giving a most wonderful performance. Seriously, though, I had no idea how wonderful a thing Lyn’s orchestra was, or how big a thing they will no doubt become. Lyn is now set for enormous things, and once again I find myself struggling for words to convey how proud I am of her.

Lyn got safe and well last night, having had an excellent time in Brussels. She was only a few minutes later than ii expected – well within normal parameters – but even so I was beginning to fret. I felt like a housewife waiting for her husband to get home after work, or a parent waiting for a teenager to come in after a gig. Anyway, Lyn was very excited when she got home: she was performing with the para-orchestra, and the event, she and Dominic reported, had gone wonderfully. In fact, when they described it, and after I saw a shout clip of the applause Lyn and her group received, I began to feel quite miffed that I hadn’t gone. I think I’ll have to put my foot down and insist on going with them next time.

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