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.

I think it is fair to say that this has been one of the most bizarre, amazing and beautiful evenings of my life. This morning I gathered through the all-knowing, allseeing book of face that there was some kind of even at the Amersham Arms in new cross by a group called tan a Deptford. Truth be told, I didn’t know much about it, but in the description it said something about getting to wear all kinds of costumes so I thought it might be worth a look. More importantly, a couple of my old uni mates, Jodie and hollie, have connections with that group and I thought it might be a good chance to catch up with them.

At seven this evening, then, I made my way over there, normal clothes over a pink leotard, just in case the occasion called for it – from the photos on Facebook I thought this might be the perfect opportunity to don one in public again. I did not quite know what to expect however, and now I have come to describe it, I’m not sure I can. I find they do a kind of physical theatre: everyone who wishes to participate moves to the music, using props and taking costumes on and off to create tableau or small dances. It apparently comes from brazil; I found it captivating and was almost instantly drawn in, Jodie very kindly helping me off with my boy stuff.

I know I probably should not have imposed hat upon her, but she said she was happy to help.*

It went on for over an hour, the four main performers constantly changing and creating scene after scene, dance after dance. I was really getting into it by the end, but I kept thinking about how much Lyn would have liked it. I’m not a dancer or a musician, but Lyn has been and is both. I really think she might love it, especially if she could do the music – the DJ being the person who controls the rhythm of the whole piece. After the performance had stopped, all those who had participated sat down to talk, and I learned that tonight was the first of four such events, happening every two week. I certainly intend to go to the next time, hopefully with Lyn and our PA but probably without the leotard. We have been looking for some type of hobby we could do together – I think this might be one of the solutions to that problem. It was an amazing evening, and an experience I’d loe to repeat with lyn: rather bizarre, yet intriguing.

*Sadly, Hollie was not there

We are currently in the middle of redecorating our front room. We started it yesterday; the plan was to have it finished by the end of the day, but this morning only one wall is done. Lyn had he brilliant idea of having a ‘painting party’, where we invited everyone to come join in, listen to some music, have a dink or three and do some painting. James came along, and it was great to have a chance to catch up with him, even if we did not do much painting ourselves. It was Lyn too who chose the colours. At first it passed my mind that I should be slightly offended that she didn’t ask my opinion, but then I thought, ”I’d only have replied that I was up to her anyway, so she was probably right just to go ahead and choose”. As it is, she has made an excellent choice: the one wall which was finished yesterday is now a warm, homely shade of purple. With any luck thee other three will be finished either today or tomorrow, so I’ll let you know how we get on.

I am writing this on a Mac. There was a point, I must admit, that I thought I would never use apple stuff: I was always a PC kind of guy. I think I got this from my brothers, who were always tinkering around with computers, opening them up to install new hardware and so on. You can’t really tinker with a Mac. That, and the fact that you were virtually dictated to by Apple over what you could and could not do with the machines, lead me to believe that Macs were for numpties.

That was, of course, before I had started to use any apple products. Lyn swears by them – so much so that you could say that she is a member of the so-called ‘Cult of Apple’. When I moved in with her, I brought my PC down, but that recently gave up the goose so Lyn gave me the Mac we recovered from the thieves. It was like a revolution: no more crashing, no more waiting an hour for it to boot; just a sleek, stable computer. I’m still getting used to it, of course, and I still don’t know what half the buttons on my desktop do, but I love not having to worry about my computer or whether it will suddenly hang. I now think that it is what I needed all along: I’m converted! Mind you, I seem to recall my brother Luke using an apple laptop last Christmas, so even my brothers aren’t immune to their lure.

For Lyn, however, the case is slightly different. Apple was the company that gave her her freedom and independence. Using her Ipad, watching her face light up, brings her so much joy that I sometimes worry that she loves it more than she loves me. To think that the man who gave her that, who created so much wonderful inspiring technology, is no longer with us is very sad indeed. I don’t know much about Steve Jobs other than what Lyn has told me; I know he was a visionary and a maverick, and despite the fact tat he insisted on retaining too much control over his computers, I know the world has lost a great man.

I know it’s not purrfect, but it seemed to me that this was just begging to be made.

I wrote the following email to my dad yesterday afternoon. I think it tells quite a cool tale, so I thought I’ddd re-post it here:

Dear dad. I think I better tell you this because I know you will want to be told. On Monday going up Charlton church lane – a steep hill not far from here – my chair broke. The link between the chassis (purple bit) and the box with the motors and batteries had worn away: under the seat there is a purple tube that goes across, and is connected to the motor at two points. These had apparently rusted so that the front of the battery box was now much lower than it should have been and my chair was tilted forward. However, this afternoon chopper and I managed to get it fixed: believe it or not Charlton still has a village forge, and the guy there happily re-welded the broken connections. Its not perfect but it will hold.

I’ll try to be on skype later if you want to talk

Love matt xx

The forge was awesome, an must have been there centuries. The guy kindly did it there and then, and, once I had chance to get down on the floor to look at his work, I realised the welds were much stronger than I first thought —- that thing won’t break again in a month of sundays. He refused to let us pay him anything, too, so I bought him a small bottle of JD. God I love this crazy little village within a city. However, I must apologise to my parents for not getting on to skype last night: something else came up, and Chopper needed my help, but I’ll leave that for another entry.

I know I should write something about Teresa May’s speech today, as that was the thing that agitated the most. If I knew where to begin it would be a fine thing, but, you know what? I can’t be bothered. I can’t be bothered to go through that speech, explaining how almost everything she said amounted to the ratings of a moronic bigot. Of course, it would be the simplest thing in the world to do so, but I suspect anyone reading this blog entry would have already seen the many flaws in he arguments. The vast majority of people in this country will be able to tell that her speech was a load of xenophobic, dangerous and ill-thought-through nonsense, which makes May’s own belief that she is on the side of the majority so laughable. At least, I certainly hope she’s not on the side of the majority, as if she isn’t then I have greatly overestimated the intelligence of the general population. It’s obvious that her schpeal about immigration putting a strain on infrastructure is an attempt to varnish her basic xenophobic impulses with a quazi-intelectual argument; just as obvious is the contradiction in her statements that the riots were simply caused by criminals, yet were also caused by a breakdown in society. God forbid she admit to their real cause: discontent with a Tory government. How the smeg did we end up with such blatant morons in power?

As the second episode Fry’s Planet word aired last night (and if you missed it, you can see it here) I think I’ll direct you to this short film, illustrating clearly how language is so important, and the profound problems one encounters when access to language and the ability to comunicate is denied. Appropriately enough, fry’s program is about identity (despite no even mentioning Lacan once!) but I do think he has missed a trick by not covering the aspects of the subject connected to AAC.

We are just having a lazy Sunday; Lyn is out in the garden enjoying the sun, and I think I’ll go join her soon. This morning, before she got up, iii put on ‘On Her Majesty’s Secret Service’ as I felt like some good old 007. To be honest, my reaction was mixed: there is not much plot, and what plot there is is rather long and drawn out. I’m also not sure I like George Lazenby as bond either. Having said that, there were some brilliant touches: for example, there is a art where bond thinks he has resigned from MI6 and is going through the stuff in his office, and we hear snippets from the theme tunes from previous bond films. What struck me the most about OHMSS, though, was the way in which it differs from other Bond films. It is more romantic, and we see a more tender, softer Bond. That contrasted greatly with the bond of the last one I saw, which was You only Live Twice.

This made me think a bit: only in a franchise as huge as bond can we see such hug variations in plot and character. So far, six actors have played 007, and they all play him differently*. I think the case could be made that the Bond franchise is itself a genre. I’m sure this will have been suggested elsewhere before, and I don’t think the allusion is a perfect one, but if we expand the definition of genre slightly, I think the Bond franchise has genre-like qualities. It can’t e called a series, as that implies a sequence of films which follow on from one another, a la, say, star trek. Nor can it be called a saga, a la Star Wars or The Lord of the Rings**. With a few exceptions, the individual films in the series pays no heed to the others, while having common motifs and adversaries; they are also timeless – that is, they are always set in the period in which they were made. With the exception of Q, the dramatis personae do not age. Thus I think the bond Franchise has become too big to become anything other than it’s own genre.

Anyway, while it feels good to blog about film again, and there is much more I could explore on the subject, there is an Indian summer outside I don’t want to miss, so I’ll just send you here while I go hunt down a nice, cold martini.

*my favourite is still Daniel Craig, btw.

**Although LOTR might better be termed a trilogy.

I just thought I’d share this picture, taken yesterday in the glorious sunshine in Charlton park.

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(I was trying to smile, btw)

How the smeg can the government afford to spend umpteen million pounds on bringing back weekly rubbish collections, and yet continue to cut other services so drastically? This seems to me quite a good question, as it betrays a certain bias of the Tories. Naturally, we all need our bins emptied, but given a choice between having them emptied every week and cutting other services versus having them collected every two weeks so that other services can be maintained too, I think I know which one most of us will opt for. The thing is, the Tories are not like ‘most of us’. People who vote Tory are usually pretty independently-minded and wealthy; they don’t usually need care homes and busses. They are, however, the type of person to get upset about having to wait just that bit longer to have their bins collected. It is an utterly selfish, small-minded attitude, and the fact that CaMoron’s government would make sure such people’s petty needs are met before those who really need help, I find sickening. They are obviously selfishly prioritising the needs of their own votership. Do we really want these selfish bastards in power?

Ye gads what a day it has been. What started as a to hour trip to Woolwich and back turned into a five hour adventure, resulting in my being late for tea and the drinking of rather too much beer. I needed o pop down to the local social services today in order to sort something out at Riverside house. On my way through the town centre, though, I mistook a curb for flat ground, and flew out of my chair. I was fine, and could easily have just dusted myself off and got on my way. But the people around me saw, and, thinking I might need help, called an ambulance. ”Oh lord” I thought ”this is all I need.”

To cut a long story short, and after several attempts to explain I was perfectly fine, I got someone to call chopper. I know I should not have: ideally I should have called our PA, Mitchell. I rely too much on chopper, and calling Mitchell would have been the proper course of action. Yet, not having Mitchell’s number on me, an hoping that Chopper would be able to get there quicker and get me out of that mess more swiftly, I resorted to friend rather than PA.

My hunch worked, and my friend – an older, uglier version of Charlie if ever I saw one – was with us within twenty minutes. He explained everything I couldn’t to the ambulance ladies, sorted out the paperwork, and we were on our way. He even then helped me sort out my business t the council (although I still need to write a letter – a fact which I would not have found out had Chopper not helped). Well, what else could I do than buy him a pint or three for his troubles? I had intended to have an alcohol free day – to sort out my stuff, then come home. I wanted to pop out and then spend some quality time with Lyn. But if a guy asks only for you to buy him a pint in return for such services, what else can one do? Now though, being shattered after today’s misadventures, and having changed for bed early, it’s time gave Lyn the hug I intended to hours ago.

I am not too happy about this, although otherwise it has so far been a good day. I had to go to the hospital earlier to pick up my new shoes. It isn’t too far away so I just drove there in my chair. On the way, I had to cross the road at a pedestrian crossing, where a guy in a mobility scooter pulled up beside me. Now, I have this thing against scooters: I think they’re for old fogies, and no serious, self-respecting crip would be seen dead in one. They’re unpractical, unmanoeuvrable, and anyone who grew up around wheelchair and wheelchair users knows not to take them seriously. Thus, when I saw him beside me, I had visions of the race scenes in the Back to the Future films: if I could have revved my engine, I would have. I was gonna show this scooter man what real crips ride!

Only, things did not go as I had intended. To my horror, the scooter pulled away from me, and beat me across the road. ”God dammit!” I thought. ”Beaten by a grannymobile!” I was not at all happy, although I must say my chair is quite old, and thanks to it’s manoeuvrability I reached the hospital before the guy. But even so: beaten by a scooter! I need a beer.

Last night I watched ‘Fry’s Planet Word’ on Iplayer, having missed it when it first aired on Sunday night. I thought it was an amazing programme, all about language and it’s importance for humanity. I have long thought that people often forget how important language is; after all, as this programme pointed out, the development of complex systems of communication was one of the main factors behind the development of human civilisation. However, this morning a friend on Facebook pointed out to me that this programme could also function as a vital tool for VOCA users and their allies: there is often a problem that people are denied the equipment they need by so-called professionals, unaware of how vital the ability to communicate is, so their language is effectively ‘stolen’. As Terry put it: ” Stephen Fry’s Planet Word – new series on BBC 2 Sundays 9 pm GMT- this is the first one. absolutely brilliant program on Language! will massively help our fight against The Language Stealers by helping our lawyers understand just what it is his speech therapists, teachers and social care workers are stealing from my son and countless others like him, highly recommended to all our AAC friends and anyone who would support Michael’s right to language. Thank you Stephen Fry!” what I think we need to do now is contact Mr. Fry himself and make him aware of this aspect of his programme – maybe he could mention it on future series. In the meantime, if you haven’t already seen it, I urge you to go watch this fascinating programme.

Yesterday I came across this website for a wheelchair-accessible motorbike, and began to wonder whether I could drive such a thing. To be honest, I think it would be useful: we rely on public transport to get around town, which is fine most of the time, but it has it’s drawbacks. Busses only go to certain places, and you often wait ages for one only to find the wheelchair space is occupied by a pram. Being able on get about on a bike would certainly make getting about easier, not to mention cooler. However, when you consider he idea seriously, it’s probably not a good idea for me. Traffic in London is fairly hellish: my brother Luke has a motorbike, and even he won’t risk driving it in the city, so the mess I’d probably cause if I was let loose on he roads doesn’t bear thinking about. Besides, there only appears to be enough space for one chair, so I couldn’t lake Lyn with me, let alone our PA. it looks like I better stick to the good old busses and trains.

I just want to briefly address something which cropped up in the comments to this entry. It is, of course, not the case that my parents did not take us anywhere on our trips to London. In fact, we went all over the place. One of my favourite family traditions was to go to see father Christmas in Selfridges department store every autumn half term. They also took me to places like the science museum, and to the many royal parks. The thing is, I can now explore these places under my own steam; with Lyn, I have to plan out how to get there myself. And, as dad said in his comment, I’m now seeing all these places through more educated eyes, so it’s like looking at them afresh. The love I have now for this city is the love of a native, or the love of the flaneur: there is so much I want to (re-) explore, this time as a lover rather than as a son. I can’t wait to go to the science museum or the natural history museum with Lyn; I’m especially eager to go to Kew with her. However, I’m not sure we’ll be too fussed about seeing father Christmas in Selfridges.

I just want to direct you here, to a Blog entry from Lyn in which he describes how she got her stolen Mac Back. It really is quite an incredible story, and Lyn tells it well, so go read. I really am proud of my fiancee and personally think MI5 are fools if they don’t headhunt her now.

I suppose I better admit that I failed in my ambition not to drink until tomorrow, and therefore deserve punching. Chopper and I went to the pub this afternoon, so I’m currently pretty angry at myself. I suppose that, to be fair, it was not totally my fault: I needed money today, so I went to ask chopper if he wanted to accompany me on the ride down to Bexley. While I was outside his house, talking to him, one of his new neighbours popped up with a bottle of cheap champagne. He was new to the area, and I didn’t want to seem rude by turning down his offer of a cup. So that is how I broke my vow of abstinence, and once it was broken, I thought I might as well have a pint or two with my friend on my way home.

Given I was one day out I’m rather angry with myself, as I was sort of challenging myself. That makes me sound like a complete alcoholic, but I don’t really drink that much – I jut like a pint or two every couple of nights. I suppose, too, that I hadn’t drank since Saturday, and I seem to get quite anal about things like this, so there’s no need to beat myself up too much. I do need to cut down, and I have been feeling better this week for it, but I guess there is no point in flogging myself too much for missing an essentially arbitrary target. I guess my lapse today wasn’t the end of the world, but you are still free to punch me in the face.

My dads comment in reply to my last entry really touched me, and my eyes fill up with tears each time I read it, so I think a complete change of subject is in order. It has been ages since I attacked anyone personally on my blog, and I try to avoid ranting about people, but the truth is it can be fun. A couple of days ago I came across this article by Peter Hitchens. It is a perfect example off why I loathe those on the right so much, and why I am increasingly coming to think that their point on view is nothing more than a set of id impulses which they mistake for a political stance. It is about the victimization of disabled people, and ordinarily I’d support any such article, but the way in which Hitchens blames such victimization on the liberalization of society, by claiming that, because of political correctness, the perpetrator now feel as if they can get away with it, has me up in arms. This seems to me incredibly simplistic; I also think Hitchens is hijacking this case to forward his own agenda, when in fact he has no right to do so.

I hate the way that those on the right attack political correctness by claiming it to be some kind of repressive force, or that it prevents freedom of speech. Do they not understand that it is designed to be a system of ensuring equality, and to ensure that minorities are represented fairly? The PC ethos is, for me, born of the same principles as liberalism; they both understand that there are reasons why people act how they act. It is also founded upon the principle on which that of the freedom of speech is founded, so to somehow claim the PC agenda somehow infringes freedom of speech is truly ironic, and surely evidence of the right’s lack of understanding. Moreover, disabled people can be victimized for a number of reasons – economic, sociological, psychological – which we must understand in order to deal with the problem. This is not to absolve people of personal responsibility, but to realize that things are far more complex than to say some people are just evil and need to be punished. The irony is that Hitchens tries to pin the problem of disabled people’s victimization on the very ethos whose principles can remedy it. That’s why I find his argument very, very simplistic, and also why I feel insulted by his patronizing use of ‘poor, defenseless disabled people’ to further his mindless rightist arguments. It is not simply a case of bad people being allowed to get away with things by a system whose hands are tied by a reluctance to blame people for their actions, but the realization by civilization that things are far more complex than black and white, and that in order to solve a problem we need to first understand the reasons behind it. This is a realization that people like Hitchens seem yet to have, which is why I view their politics with such scorn and derision. In short, I think they’re morons.

I think I am falling more and more deeply in love with London. As with any major city, I suppose, it can be seen as a microcosm for the entire world, with most of humanity in all it’s diversity represented in one geographical space. But the thing with this microcosm is that it’s not that micro: London is vast, and it takes time to get around it; because of this, the landscape is also quite varied, and I think that is what I really like about London – it just begs you to go exploring.

The area that begs the most is the centre of London – the city of London, down by the river. We were there yesterday, on foot. Dom said he wanted to take us to a cafe he had found. As with all the best trips, I didn’t know where we were going, but when we got there I was amazed. He had taken to an old hydraulic pumping station which hey had turned into a restaurant. It was a truly fascinating place: church- like in size and shape, yet still very recognizable as a factory where some great industry had once taken place. The pumping machines were still there, candles flickering from them. Between these were the white tables and chairs for the customers, as well as televisions showing fashion shows. Thus there was a great juxtaposition of light and dark, old and new, industrial and human in the space; it would make, as Lyn said, a great space to perform in, and indeed she intends to look into the possibility of doing so. As for myself, I would just relish the chance to go back there.

We decided not to eat there, however, and after a coffee walked on along the river. The London of my youth was a London of the car: I think I’ve described on here before how my parents used to drive us down here to spend weekends with my grandparents. I did not usually get to see much of London then, apart from the roads and houses of Harlesden and Kilburn. These days, however, London for me is a London of the river. I get to see Thames quite often; it’s southern banks are easily within walking distance. I see London as a much more watery place these days, with the river a much more prominent geographical feature in my life. We were strolling along it’s north shore yesterday afternoon, when I caught a glimpse of tower bridge, and rarely have I seen a more beautiful site. Aye, I have fallen in love with this city.

We walked for a few minutes, then came to a kind of dock for yachts. It was st. Kathrin’s dock, and we went in. again, I found it fascinating – it was so different to anywhere else in London I knew of. It reminded me of Amsterdam. I could tell, too, that there was a hell of a lot of money about. There were a few nice looking restaurants down there, but we found a pub, The Dickens Inn, and went in.

I think it’s fair to say I have eaten a lot of pizza in my life. Back at university, coming back from late lecturers, it was just something quick and easy I could buy and feed myself. These days, I guess I eat one a week, so,, like life in London itself, pizza has just become normal, run of the mill. Yet the pizza we ate last night was outstanding, and one of the best I’ve ever tasted. Pizza, like London, can vary hugely, and there’s always something new to try; and like London, it still has the ability to excite me, captivate me, take my breath away, even if it sometimes feels humdrum.

I just have a couple of musical links to direct you to today. I’m not sure whether I’ve posted lins to them on here before, but, as both artists are related, they’re worth linking to in one blog entry. First, let me direct you here, where you can hear the melodic, relaxing and incredibly impressive vocal Harmonies of the harmonettes. Charlie is in this group, and their new site looks awesome. Second, I only found out about Hugh’s new site last night. It’s very different to the first, but then it’s rather different to any other genre of music know. Although he does look slightly geeky in his picture (he should never have cut off his dreads) his site is well worth a look. Both, in my opinion, are well worth a gander.

If anyone catches me with a beer before Friday night, they have my permission to punch me in the face. I’m trying to cut down on my drinking; I had intended to have a week of abstinence from Thursday onwards. That was when my parents popped down, and we collectively decided I needed to drink less and take in more vitamins, as that might help with my absences. I spend too much in pubs anyway, so after my detoxification week I’m only have the odd night out.

However, yesterday afternoon I popped over to chopper’s, only to find him in quite a state. He had fallen out of his loft and was obviously in quite a bit of pain. At first I offered to scoot off, to keep out of his way, but he declined that proposition vehemently. Then it occurred to me that what my buddy needed was a pint, so I proposed that he borrowed my manual wheelchair and we go to the Royal Oak.

So we went. I told myself (and Lyn) that I’d stick to Coke or lemonade, but one thing predictably lead to another; pubs just seem to have that effect on me, and needless to say I felt annoyed with myself when I got home. My alcohol free week had been going so well, and I knew that the pint I’d have at the end of it would taste all the better for it, but now I have to start again. On thee other hand, I suppose I shouldn’t be too hard on myself for being so weak-willed: mates are mates after all.

Mind you, I keep forgetting that there are much cooler things than pubs in the would: I haven’t been clothes shopping in ages, and, for me, the cool, tight feel of a new leotard easily outweighs an evening in a grotty pub. It’s also kinder to my liver. The next time the C-ster asks if I want a trip to the pub, I’ll propose we go shopping instead.

Lyn and I may have found somewhere new to hang out: the problem is, it’s not the best place to get around in if you use a wheelchair. Yesterday we decided to check out the Westfield Centre in Stratford, a new shopping centre which is apparently the biggest in Europe. It was easy enough for us to get to, and I was certainly impressed at first glance. For my northern readers, just think of the Trafford Centre, pump if full of steroids, remove some of the aesthetics and you will get some idea of what this place is like. It is huge – in fact, I found it too big. I felt constantly lost but thankfully I was following Marta around so I didn’t have to worry about navigation. However, as the day wore on, the place grew busier and busier, so it became harder and harder to keep up with Marta and Lyn as people kept barging in front of me. I usually like such places, but yesterday it seemed half of London had converged in one place and navigating my chair became very, very stressful. I must admit that, tellingly, I didn’t feel my usual childlike pang of regret and disappointment when the time came to come home.

Having said all that, I think we will be going again. Part of me, the masochistic part perhaps, kind of liked he place. As I said, it is easy enough to get to, and it would be a great place to do our Christmas shopping. It lacks some of the aesthetics of it’s northern counterpart – the roman-style columns ad so on – and could do with being just a little smaller, but the place itself is okay. The problem is, I just think it would be even better if we were the only people there.

I’m sorry this link might not direct you to the correct show for long, but on The One show this evening we saw something interesting. Research as recently shown that most non-professional runners, such as those that will enter the great north run this wekend, don’t run correctly. They run heel-toe, as most people do when walking. The most efficient and least painful way to run is, apparently, to run on the balls of your feet. That might not, in itself, be interesting, but I find it very, very ironic. Like many ambulant ‘toids, I walk on the balls of my feet because my Achilles tendon is tight. Growing up, my parents and physios were forever reminding me to walk properly and put my heels down. Now it turns out that I was walking in the best way all along, and I can point to the research that proves it. Win!

On the local midday news today there was a short piece about this website. Tubecrush.net is where people submit pictures of strangers on the tube and rate them for their looks. I have no problem with this, but these days I use the underground every couple of weeks or so. I had to wonder if a photo of me might one day appear on there, but then it occurred to me that, if that happened, there is a very real possibility that I would die of laughing.

Right – how’s your physics? I’m feeling much better today, and my fears over Chopper turned out to be entirely unfounded. He’s a good friend, and when I told him I was embarrassed about what happened on Monday he told me he just accepts it as he accepts any other aspect of my CP. Anyway, changing the subject entirely, I think I’ll just direct you here. I don’t understand any of it, but check out the authors. Go Mark! Go Mark!

I still feel stupid; I always do after it happens. Yesterday was a great day, bright and sunny. Our friend chopper had the day of so about one he came round and invited me out: it seems he was in the mood to do something fun, but wasn’t sure what. We eventually decided to go up into London – we had been planning to have a boys’ day out for quite a while, and yesterday suddenly became the day to do it.

The thing is, I was having one of my off days. I sometimes get odd little absences; according to my parents, they’re not epilepsy, but are related to it. I don’t lose consciousness, but they break my concentration, blur my sense of space, and generally confuse and worry me. I had had one an hour or so before chopper came round so I was feeling a bit low, so I thought a trip out might take my mind off it.

So off we went, making first for the train station, ad from there to the city centre. Chopper said he wanted to show me London as he knew it – the London of a man who has lived here all his life. It was great fun – first we got money, then went to a pub, then decided w needed more money. I won’t tell you everything that happened up there, because that is between me and my friend, but needless to say we ha a really great time. However, at about half eight, around about Leicester Square, I zoned out again. We had just eaten some pizza, and were headed towards soho. I was probably just tired. Chopper noticed, and decided it was time to come home. I couldn’t’ disagree too much, as we had been up there for a good five or six hours, but I couldn’t help feeling a mixture of embarrassment and disappointment. There was much more I wanted to see (he’d promised me ladyboys!) but now I’m worried that he’ll be reluctant to take me up there again. Chopper says he will, and we must wait till we have a bit more cash in our accounts anyway, but things like that make me feel insecure about myself.

I find myself wanting to say something profound tonight. I want to say something aout the events of ten years ago and everything that has happened since on the world stage. 9/11 was terrible, and the two conflicts that happened because of it possibly even worse. But I have no words to sum all that up. The truth is, I said what I wanted to get across yesterday, and I fear anything I write tonight would just be overly emotional, vitriolic or just fall flat, so I think I’ll just send you here instead.