Today was my little brother’s graduation day. Because of school and stuff, we only graduated a year apart, despite me being three years older than he is. Mum and dad went, but I couldn’t attend. They popped by about six. Surprisingly, Luke was with them, rather than out partying where he should have been!

Well done Luke! Well, three firsts out of three isn’t bad!

I just got back from Paris. Except maybe for Sydney, Paris is the city I love the most in all the world. I went with my friend Charlie – who, incidentally, just passed her PGCE – and I think it’s fair to say that we both had a whale of a time. Charlotte seems to have the ability to do anything she puts her mind to, including pushing me through the streets of Paris for hours, looking at the sights, stopping for coffees, doing a little shopping as we went. There is simply nothing better than exploring such a great city with one of your best friends. I must say that charlotte astounded me this holiday, but I think she thought it wasn’t that big of a deal. Her thirst for life and her warmth and humanity makes her a truly remarkable person, and one whom I am honoured to call one of my best friends.

Giving a complete step-by-step account would be far too tedious, and I could never recapture the sense of fun and freedom I had. Highlights included getting to the front of the crowd to look at the Mona Lisa – we were let beyond the barrier, but if you ask me its just a picture of a bored woman; going for a boat trip along the seine; going up the Eiffel tower (for a discount!) and, of course, euro Disney! Degree or no degree, you can never be too old for Disneyland, and wee both had a great time zooming about the park skipping the cues. another highlight was eating something we decided to call ‘cow ib a pot’ – a giant dish of about 6 types of meat on top of potatoes and saurcraut.

These are things which I will remember for the rest of my life. The sense of fun Charlie has is infectious, and I have never felt so alive. Trips like this make me feel like I can do anything – with friends like charlotte, the sky is the limit. I now feel ready to return to my work – and, to this end, visiting the home of cinephilia was an advantage, for it has inspired me. It was probably a combination of the city and charlotte’s joix d’vive that has refreshed my appetite. Travelling always seems to have tat effect on me, but this time, because it was a more or less independent trip, that effect is redoubled. There’s something I cannot quite explain – I now feel a sense of satisfaction, great admiration for charlotte, happiness, sorrow that its over, and eagerness to go again.

I think we both would like to go again sometime. Who knows: with any luck, this will be just the first of many such adventures.

I watch with revulsion as an unstable, possibly insane old man tries so desparately to cling to power – and I’m not talking about brown. Things in Zimbabwe look grim, and you have to wonder A) how could we have let things get this bad, and B) if e invaded Iraq because saddam was so bad, why don’t we invade Zimbabwe? Oh yes, there’s no oil in Zimbabwe is there?

On top of this we look towards nelson Mandela to do something. Isn’t it ironic that, amid the war on terror, we call a former terrorist a statesman, and look to him to solve our problems. Don’t get me wrong: I respect Mandela, but hate hierocracy.

this story, about a man caught driving his wheelchair while drunk, could be bad news for me. It is technically against the law for me to drive my wheelchair while over the limit. Boo. That’s half the fun! Especially when my eyes automatically close driving home from the pub.

Seriously though: I am sensible, flipping it to manual when I’ve had too much and asking my friend for a push. Either that or I just take my manual chair. Either way, I have never gone down any motorway access roads, drunk or otherwise.

Back at home, in our conservatory on the opposite side of the dresser to my degree certificate, hang two drawings. They are quite extraordinary: very bright and vivid, made up of swirls which combine to create recognisable features. They were given to my parents as a Christmas present from Arina Zinovyeva, a friend of my brother’s who came to stay. Luke emailed today to say that arina now has her own website. He wrote: ” If you see anything you like, be sure to pass a link on to your friends; Arina could do with more publicity.” I must agree, and therefore suggest you check arina’s artwork out here.

I went shopping this morning. Nothing unusual – the wes is now closed at the weekends, so I needed lunch. On the way back from the village centre, I spotted one of those scooter things for old folks going my way, and decided to have some fun. I waited for the old guy in the scooter to draw parallel, then floored it…only something unthinkable happened. The scooter – quite a big one, mind, not a flimsy fold-up – started to pull away. How could that be? It gradually got quite a sizable lead.

DAMN IT!

i am still working on the answer to Katie’s question. The truth is, that even though I see the use of such language as, in a way, counterproductive inasmuch as it sets up rhetorical divisions, I still enjoy the irony in referring to myself as a cripple. I love how people react; I love the sense of power it gives me. I suppose too that I need to remember the history of disabled people, and how, by using such language, we right the wrongs of the past. This brings one back to that paradox, which I’m still uneasy about. Part of me wants to embrace it, but part of me thinks that to try to have our cake and to eat it politically stymies us.

I need to think more on this.

There is one thing that unites humanity – we are all unique. To two people are alike, save for identical twins, and even they differ in terms of personality. Thus the idea of normal is a paradox: nobody is normal, and everyone is; basically, there’s no such thing as normal, and therefore, cp or no cp, I have as much right to brand myself normal as anyone. This is why I am extremely hesitant about the idea of freakism – of deliberately branding yourself not normal. It is a politics based on difference, which strikes me as essentially conservative. To see any one character trait as the core of one’s identity leads only to the internalisation of difference. To say ”I am black” ”I am Jewish” ”I am a woman” instantly sets up barriers, leading only to a separatist mindset. People talk of pride – disability pride, gay pride, black pride – but pride to what end? I am proud to be me, proud of my achievements, proud too of my friends and family. Why should I be proud of my disability any more than my brown hair.

This is coming from a guy who wears girl’s clothes and zentai suits. That’s just part of who I am, neither a source of pride nor disgrace. I say let everyone be who they are; take pleasure in the differences between all people, but remember too that everyone is equal.

I guess what I’m trying to say is don’t stereotype. To internalise any one aspect to the core of one’s being is to conform to one’s stereotype. There are some people who hold that if one has a disability, one must emphasise that aspect of yourself in order to reclaim it; one must enact disability stereotypes, to ‘be proud’. However, I see this as a type of conformity – to embrace the stereotype is to conform to it. Rather, I think we need to break free from the stereotypes, but not in a way that conforms to an arbitrary norm. anticonformity is a type of conformity. Thus the only way to break free from the stereotypes, to extend the concept of normal so that it embraces us, is just to be ourselves.

This is a complex issue, and I’m not sure I’ve explained it well enough. i am not saying we should abandon our wheelchairs; nor should we be all drawing attention to the fact we’re disabled, for the two are in a way the same thing. We should just be doing what comes naturally.

Surprisingly, there doesn’t appear to be much coverage of this, even on ouch, but on the breakfast news this morning there was a story about a group of lads with duchenne muscular dystrophy going to protest at downing street. They’re demanding more money be given towards stem cell research. Having lost three friends to DMD, I completely support them, and kind of whish I could be there. It was quite a painful experience, you know, having to watch your school friends pass away one by one; when I hear of l.d’s passing – and I know it’ll come – I don’t know how I’ll react. In my opinion, this is the worst aspect of the special school system, and renders moot any arguments against inclusion. Yes, disabled kids may be bullied etc by their able-bodied peers etc, but with all due respect this is nothing compared to what special schools make you go through. Either way, I hope that protest succeeds – call me medical model, but there’s little I want more than a cure for DMD.

Not that it has much to do with disability, but apparently the new out from animals album is now available to download. This is an up-and-coming technoband from Chester, whom I know through charlotte. They aren’t a bad group, so why don’t you go have a listen?

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While I broadly agree with Laurence clarks article here, it’s about five years behind the times. Indeed, it’s quite passe. I used to refer to myself as a spastic, then a ‘toid, but then I realised if we crips are ever going to achieve true equality, why set up a linguistic barrier? The reclamation of language, while lauded by some in the disabled community, looks from some angles like counterproductive political agitationism. It reinforces barriers rather than breaking them down. Only from certain angles, mind.

I know I was kind to the Tories on Thursday; I was trying to take a balanced view. I am aware that I must not get too blinkered, putting the party name before their policies and not listening to what they are saying. But what the fuck is David davis doing?! It is one thing to be opposed to this stupid 42 days thing, but quite another to use it as a springboard for some attention-grabbing stunt. We all know brown’s a dead duck, but what is davis quitting for? Principals my butt. The whole thing is nauseating.

Politics seems more and more childish these days.

Dad just dropped me off after a fairly good weekend at home. We got here just in time for my p.a, enabling me to have a much needed shave and shower, so now I smell of aftershave and am quite looking forward to the day ahead.

It was quite a good weekend: dad got back from a business trip to the states on Saturday at lunch, and Saturday afternoon was spent polishing off ‘Devil May care’, the new 007 novel by Faulks. He’s done a really good job in emulating Fleming’s style – not that I’m much of an expert – and the book was hard to put down between lunch and tea on Saturday. I must ask Chris Flackett about it, as he’s much more expert than I am on such things. Mind you, I needed to get it out of the way so I could get on with reading Mr. Barthes and Mr. Bazin.

Is it me, or is Barthes’ Pleasures Of The Text impenetrable gobledigook?

Sunday was cool. It was both father’s day and Mum’s birthday, so Luke came down with Yan (I hope that’s spelled right) and we went to watch the new Indiana Jones Film. I must say that, despite it being rather far fetched in places (tip of the day: when an atomic bomb is about to go off nearby, hide in the fridge) I think we all enjoyed it. There are genuinely touching moments in this film, and I left the auditorium feeling quite satisfied…until I fell over in the car park, which is another story.

After that, it was up the lane to the black swan for lunch, and a delicious piece of salmon and some very good wine. I don’t usually drink white wine, but the one we had with the meal yesterday was first rate, although I’ve forgotten it’s name. dad?

Thereafter, home, feeling quite content. Life is good.

Anyway, time to get on.

I just took a look at the news from parliament, having been recently so engrossed in personal matters. I must admit I am liking Mr brown less and less. I disagree with him on the issue of ’42 days’ – it seems he is sacrificing civil liberties in favour of the cause of the war on terror. The moment we start to do so, the moment we start to change our way of life and our laws, the terrorists win. CaMoron (perhaps I should spell it Cameron for once) pointed out ”isn’t it cleat that terrorists want to destroy our freedom, and when we trash our liberties we do their work for them?” I can’t help but agree with him. I understand that the intelligence services sometimes need more time to question suspects, but surely the basic principles of freedom and democracy must come first?

Apparently there’s a blind guy in big brother this year. Woohoo – at last everyone will learn that us crips can be as vain and moronic as everyone else. While this must be seen as a step forward for disability rights, however nominal, what interests me is the reaction from some members of the blind community, who fear that this person in big brother will show them all up. A young blind person apparently posted the following on the ouch messageboard: ”I hope he or she is aware that they are representing the visually impaired community and give us a good name. I hope that they don’t have awful blind habits, such as rocking or not looking at people when talking to them. I would like to hope that they will be normal”.

I have a problem with this. why should this person stand for all blind people? if a woman was in that house of idiots, would she be seen as representative of all women? Of course nit. Mind you, it could be slightly different given that cripples are such a minority, but I personally would hate to think I stood for everyone with cp, were I to somehow go on that show. Why should the actions of one be seen to represent the behaviours of the many? And how did we become so concerned with this idea of ‘community’?

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Something kind of odd happened yesterday. I was going to Crewe, just to meet up with lee for some coffee. After lunch, I took myself to the bus stop, and, reading the timetable, realised I didn’t have too long to wait. Sure enough, a bus soon came, but only let the nondisabled man with me on. The driver asked me to catch the next one, which, oddly enough, was only a few metres behind, so I complied. However, this next bus refused to stop completely, and I was left waiting almost an hour for the next bus.

I must admit that the thought occurred to me that this was an act of disabledism – that both drivers simply couldn’t be arsed to deal with me and my chair – but I’m sure this wasn’t the case. I would like to think that both busses were dimply full, or something. It was hard to feel positive at the time tho.

Especially when the same thing happened on the way home…with what appeared to be the same bloody driver.

I am recording this here for the sake of posterity. Around campus there seems to be a peculiar way of using the expression ‘oh no’; there is a special way in which it is said, with a slightly elongated ‘oh’ and a shortened ‘no’. there is some debate over where it came from, but I would assert that the phrase is one of charlottes – she used it with reference to me last year a lot, for example when I fell off chairs or got particularly drunk. I would assert that the phrase can be attributed to her, but whither charlotte got it, I know not.

Anyway, its on the ‘net now, so it must be true.

Last week I was in Crewe town centre drinking coffee, when I noticed someone roll up and park in an odd three wheeled vehicle, the back of which then proceeded to lower for the driver to wheel out in a wheelchair. I was, naturally, intrigued. I went over for a closer look. The vehicle was open topped; the front looks like a motorbike, the back like a trailer. To be honest it looked like something men with beards and welding equipment make in their garages, but I nevertheless decided I wanted one. no mode waiting around for busses! No more relying on lifts. Just me and the open road…imagine the carnage!

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I just had an ad hoc meeting with Alan. I was in Crewe anyway, on other business, so I thought I’d swing round. He decided it was a good time to give me an extensive amount of feedback, not all of which was positive, it must be said. My thesis needs a lot of work, but at least now I can start working properly again. My motivation is coming back.

Yeah, I know. Gotta stop using this thing as a diary.

It is odd how much a weekend a home can steady a shaking soul, worn out with worry. I was stressing out on Friday, concerned about the short and long-term future. I had not been home in six weeks or thereabouts, and frankly it was showing. I think I needed a weekend at home, where the tea is made in a pot and the morning papers are on the coffee table.

Over the years my parents have had some rows, but through these I have learned both that they are wise, and that their love for me is infinite. I guess I needed reminding of this, for the future now seems…well, not less uncertain, but more comfortable. I know I am not alone, nor will I ever be. My parents want me to stand on my own two feet, yet it is paradoxically only with the knowledge that they are there, on my side, that I can do that. This morning, although I still have much to sort out, I feel less worried.

Mum and dad made a few suggestions, which I like the sound of, such as living in Crewe rather than Chester, which makes sense for several reasons. They also gave me a much needed reality check. In short they’ve saved me from the mire of gloom I was descending into (not that Chester is a mire, just that crewe is slightly more feasable).

Well, the day has begun. Time to cease it.

Last night I went to the roughcut screening of ‘The school that Roared’, a film currently being made by the British Youth Film Academy (BYFA) which is based here at mmu. It is a kid’s movie, and it frankly showed, yet it was enough to get me excited: if I can somehow get myself involved with these people, who knows where it might lead. They gave a short talk after the screening, and I was impressed to learn that BYFA has already one several awards. I got myself an application form, which I’ll fill in shortly. How exciting.

The thesis is getting to a stage where I use expletives to refer to it, so I think I need a break. Although its unfinished, I’m frankly tired, and would like nothing more that to sit on the sofa at home, and listen to my father reading. I have been staying at university for god knows how long – must be about five or six weeks – and its starting to irritate me. I find myself getting pissed off at the smallest of things, like the busses. I was supposed to go to a meeting yesterday in Crewe with Alan, but in their wisdom the bus comp any which operates the intersite transport sent the wrong type of bus. Meeting cancelled. Now I still don’t know what to do with my zarking thesis. Ahh!

I know ii must keep my cool, but it’s hard sometimes. I’m just looking forward to Paris.

Today I would like to examine the subject of identity, and how it might relate to disability. There are folk out there who describe it as complex, but when you actually think about it, it is remarkably simple. A very wise woman recently told me that ‘it’s not what you are, it’s who you are’. That is to say, you can be given any label under the sun, but what matters are your actions and personality. I can be described as a person with quite severe cerebral palsy; a man; a cross dresser; a person with brown hair; whatever. These are just labels – constructions in the Lacanian symbolic – what matters is that I am me.

This is what I base my identity on. To have my disability at the core of my being would be to see myself as different from everyone else, like an adolescent Goth moaning ‘nobody knows the pain I feel’ as he listens to depressing music. We are who we are: okay, I happen to use a lightwriter to speak and a chair to get around, but I can communicate with anyone and go anywhere, so it does not matter. I am, quite simply, a person, and label myself as such. To define myself on the basis of my disability would be to set up divisions which need not be there – if I were to define myself as ‘white’, for example, I would automatically create a division between myself and people with different skin colour, implying separateness. Just as it should not matter what skin tone you have, or your gender, why does it matter that I have cp? To base the core of one’s identity on the fact that one may belong to a particular social or ethnic group to my mind betrays a particular kind of parochial attitude; the same surely applies to one’s disability. What matters is that we all strive to be the best person we can be.

This is not to say that I want everyone to act the same way, but the very opposite. Why should we restrict ourselves to one pre-set social group? Different groups produce different things, and have different ways to look at things. I don’t want to destroy that, or for everyone to be the same, but to mix, to try other things. Simply to define myself as one thing – a person with c.p – would imply that I intend to follow a pre-determined path, to act in certain ways. This is not my aim. I will always have cp, just as I will always be white, but at the core such things are not who I am. My father, for example, endowed me with a particular liking for cricket and real ale: I will probably always like them, but this is not to say I cannot also love football and larger, or sumo and sake. In the years to come, all being well, you will find my tyre tracks from Tokyo to los Angeles. The fact that I have cerebral palsy is irrelevant to this.

There is no denying that labour deserved to lose the Crewe by-election, and badly at that. This is not to imply I feel that the Tories deserved to win it – anyone with any memory of the position they left the country in in 1997 will think twice about voting Tory – but it is nevertheless true that labour, under brown, is a bit of a sham.

There is certainly a lot of bad feeling around about Mr brown. He’s acting more like the Tories than…well…the goddamn Tories! And what the devil were they thinking having Tamsin Dunwoody as their candidate and relying solely on a family name to win the election? How naive can you get? Is it any surprise the Tories won?

Frankly, and worryingly, it isn’t.

Its been a busy weekend, almost to insane levels. In time I’ll tell you all about it, but tonight I’m knackered. I’m just posting this to assure my reader(s) I am not dead and that the Crewe-bi-election has, let us say, given me pause for thought. Much more detailed blogging soon (after I mull it over).

Perhaps it was necessarry…

Charlie came to visit last night. Initially she was only going to stay for the evening. But about mid-afternoon she emailed to ask me if she could stay the night and could I lend her a sleeping bag and a bottle of Rose from somewhere. So I ventured out, buying a sleeping bag and a good Zimphandel.

She arrived just before seven. Our plan was to book a trip to Paris and then go for a drink somewhere. We soon discovered that neither of us were any good at booking holidays; I got bored and dropped a hint by handing C the bottle opener. We changed the plan – Charlie will pop into Going Places later today. At that, Ricardio and Burien appeared at my window and we all spent a while on the grass mound next to the Astroturf. After the wine was dead, me and C headed back inside to switch everything off before heading into the village. We went to The Bank Corner – the new place in town, I mentioned it yesterday, and we shared a Chianti as we talked about old times. Our three years here were great and we had some good times. Charlie told me how everyone misses it. I suppose pretty soon I’ll be in that position and I suppose too that I’ve been putting it off. University life offers security, you get a sense of belonging here and of community. C rightly pointed out that I must leave it soon, and that sense of uncertainty I felt is something everyone feels. Seeing her last night reassured me, I guess. This friendships built here over the last three years will never fade, and will be like homely ports as I venture out into the world. Interestingly, charlie suggested her hometown of chester as a place to live after I finish my masters – an idea that I rather like and will certainly consider. Chester is suitably cosmopolitain, yet not as hectic or as dangerous as a big city.

We ate breakfast together this morning, and went to Crewe together. I had a meeting there and Charlie needed the train. Her visit was brief, but it served to reassure me that there are still constants in life, and things to look forward to. Paris here we come.

It rather pisses me off tat the talk over breakfast in the wes this morning wholly concerned last night’s match and not the political events much closer to home. Granted, it was a very interesting match, but I am far more interested in the Crewe bi-election, for it seems to me that today truly is make or break day for both brown and CaMoron. I mean, don’t these people care?

As for the football, after finding brandies empty last night I headed into the village. There is a pretty smart bar which has just opened inalsager; it was, surprisingly, only a quarter full, so I went in and asked for a real ale before finding a spot in front of the TV. I told myself I didn’t care who won, but as usual I found myself supporting united as the evening wore on. The match, as you guys probably know, lasted longer than expected, but the right team eventually one. as I drove home, though, I found myself mulling over this disability thing.

I once saw the fact that I had c.p as the core of my identity. This leads one to make some logical deductions – for instance, one internalises the idea that one is wholly different, separated from the mainstream. One internalises the concept that one is ‘a freak’. But I no longer see this as either logical or healthy. I see myself as just a normal jo, as normal as anyone else. I just happen to use a few pieces of equipment to perform certain activities, but given that mankind is a tool-using species, I find nothing freaky about that. Why, then, should I take the position that I am anything other than normal? From this it follows that ‘freakism’ is a self-forfilling prophecy to define oneself as a freak is to let others do so, and hence become the freak. This to me seems the very antithesis of inclusion; to propagate actively the idea that disabled people are freaks is not a celebration of difference but it’s very opposite. To define oneself as normal does not mean trying to conform to ‘normal’ behaviours, like trying to use a knife and fork, but to encourage the idea that the use of a neater-eater is ‘normal’. The only way we can stop people from thinking that we are different tis to encourage the idea that we are normal. This means getting rid of this ”look at how different I am” type behaviour. Frankly, it’s very adolescent. It also means re-evaluating that contradiction, as we cannot have it both ways. To want to be seen as both different and normal is to want ones cake and eat it.

I guess I have rambled a bit today. I just wanted to jot a few things down. Seems driving home from bars is good for thinking.

Today I will just whish my good friend lyn a happy birthday. We have been talking online for a while, and have met once or twice. She’s also a fellow lightwriter user. I won’t divulge her age here, as, the truth is, I’ve forgotten it, but I’ll just say that I’m attracted to older women…

It has been quite a day. Crewe has become a microcosm for Britain, and I get to watch events as they happen. This morning, having failed to get to the bank early enough on Saturday, I set off for Crewe to withdraw some money, intending to meet Mayer for coffee and return by one. however, I found the place abuzz with politicians and cameramen. Naturally I was fascinated; it’s amazing to see so much attention on Crewe, so suddenly. I thought it worth hanging around.

In the square the bbc had their outside broadcast team. I watched Jon sopel doing pieces to camera, apparently to go on Newsnight. He had to say the same piece several times.

Of course I was in my flaneur mode. All the major parties were there. I talked a bit to Mr. opik, who is a very nice man. Yet I had one objective in mind…

CaMoron!

I must admit I was about to give up. I had been watching the bbc correspondents do their thing for a while, when I mustered up the courage to go chat with Mr sopel. I said how fascinating it was to see Crewe become a microcosm. He agreed, and we chatted a bit. I eventually said I really wanted to talk to CaMoron.

”Oh, he’s here” he said. ”apparently in asda – wherever that is”

I knew where asda was, and after thanking Mr s I was off like a shot…this was going to rule. Asda was just around the corner, and I saw a crowd in there, and then him. My own white whale.

I pointed at him, shaking with rage and excitement. This, of course, got his attention; he came to me. Shivering, I inputted the following into my lightwriter: ”I must beg you to reconsider your attitude to inclusive education.”

He replied politely that he believes in parental choice, and that inclusion is not suitable for everyone. I disagreed, saying that with the right support everyone could be included, at which he brought up his own son. I said that all children could benefit from inclusion.

The conversation was too short, and I know I should have put more points to him, but I couldn’t hog his attention. He gave me over to one of his minions too quickly, but I didn’t want to appear too pushy.

I told her of my grievances with special school; how I spent 13 years in one. I think she understood, as did CaMoron, but I rather doubt I changed their minds. But at least I lodged my complaint directly, however ineffective it may have been. They both reassured me that they don’t believe in total segregation, just for those who need it – I didn’t get chance to say that wasn’t good enough. Oh well.

Needless to say I’m quite pleased with myself. Okay, I could have said more – I wanted to; I wanted to press home my hatred of segregation – but you can’t have everything. I was, of course, polite at all times At least I got to make the basic pointy

I was out in Crewe yesterday. I got back late so I didn’t have time to blog. Tory campaigners were all over the place – they really think they can win the Crewe and Nantwich bi-election. I went up to them a couple of times and stated my opinion – politely, of course. I was told I was wrong, and that David CaMoron cares for disabled people – he has a disabled son, didn’t I know. Basically, they just spewed platitudinous, substance less crap – rather typically of the Tory party.

In the end, I put it to them that CaMoron threatens everything I hold dear, at which they politely whished me luck and I went back to the more pressing issue of finding dinner.

Michelle f added me as a friend on facebook last night. It was, of course, great to see her – I have barely seen her since school. I went to visit them, once, with bill, when rich was still about.

It has brought back a lot of emotion. Her profile pic is one of her and rich together, a fact which I find…well, I don’t know how I find it. I just find myself wanting to hug Michelle, to tell her how sorry I feel,, to tell her how I feel about Richard’s death – how fucked up it is. But I don’t know how.

I need my friends right now. All of them.

I hereby endorse papa’s pizzeria of Crewe road, alsager for pizzas, burgers and chips. Tasty international cuisine served by friendly staff.

(well, they still refuse to let me pay, so the least I can do is plug them here.)

I have been worrying about the future quite a bit lately. I’m coming to the end of my education, and it’s time to find something else to do. Yesterday, however, Katie suggested something which sounds about right.

I’ve often thought it would be good to make something like the Onevoice role model group more permanent. While it does great work, it only reaches a handful of people two or three times a year. But Katie suggested forming some kind of organisation or company where we would go into schools and empower kids.

I like empowering people, as long as it doesn’t stray into full-blown politicisation, as in telling kids what to think. It’s so rewarding. Back at school, I had no idea of life’s possibilities – that I could one day go to university, do a master’s, go on crazy trips to Newquay or Paris with friends, etc. Life once scared me, but now it stretches ahead like a vast landscape ready to explore.

I would love to show others this landscape – to enable them to see life’s boundless potential. This is why I’m so excited about this idea. Whether it will pan out remains to be seen, but, for now at least, the possibilities are endless.

Today I finished the first full draft of my thesis. It is extremely rough and still needs a lot of work, but its basically all there, more or less. I know I should be pleased with myself, but I cant shake a general feeling of impending doom. Alan seems to like what I’ve shown him so far, but…

Oh well. At least ii now have this draft on which to build. On a whim I had it spiral-bound; it only cost a quid and will help keep it in order. Small steps, eh?

Today, being the lovely day it has been, I decided that I was not going to stay in alsager. This usually means catching the bus to either Crewe or hanley, and, frankly, neither of them appealed. Thanks to the DSA, more and more of the public transport system is becoming accessible (except in London, where that shithead boris intends to bring back the old route master busses). I decided to test if this was true.

I decided to go to Chester. I’d seen busses with Chester marked as their destination depart from Crewe bus station, and it seemed an appropriate distance for a daytrip, so I got the 20 to Crewe and then the 84 to Chester. The busses were all wonderfully accessible, and, despite having to ride backwards, I enjoyed the journey.

80 minutes later I was in Chester, feeling quite pleased with myself. First I got a map from tourist information (I’d only decided to go to Chester after leaving home) and then decided to head for the Jonses. They’re my friends and I thought I might as well see if they were home. If they weren’t, no harm done.

Charlottes family don’t live too far from the city centre, but I nevertheless needed to ask directions two or three times. Everyone was very helpful. I found Mr. Jones in his garden, reading the paper. Only he and will were in. I’d only expected to stay about ten minutes, the purpose of the experiment being only to see if it was possible to get myself there,, but I stayed about an hour and a half. At one point, Mr. Jones asked if I’d like to stay the night. I was given a ham sandwich and a cup of tea, before Mr. Jones insisted we walked back to the bus stop together. They’re such nice welcoming people: although I didn’t want to intrude, their place was an obvious destination for my adventure.

The journey back went as smoothly as the journey out. I know this isn’t anything special, really. Most folks my age have already been on gap years and the like. But to me, this was an adventure – one more step towards Timbuktu. And besides, it certainly beat staying at home playing on my computer.

tonight was the evening of the summer ball. Surprisingly, I chose not to go this year: it would not have been the same without my old friends from the third year, and I suspect I would have found myself missing them. We always went as a group, and I think me and charlotte were more or less joined at the hip last year. (should see her in the next two weeks,, and Emma not long after. Woohoo!)

I decided to go to the cinema with lee instead. I didn’t want to be on campus this evening. We saw Iron Man, which isn’t a bad flick at all. Pretty standard action thriller, but I enjoyed it, so I have had a good evening anyway. I think I’ve got something out of my system tonight: not parties, nor my eagerness to dress up, but I sort of think I’ve grown up slightly.

Well, its getting late. Good night everyone.

My thesis having reached a semi-finished yet awkward state, I decided yesterday afternoon to go over to the front field to watch some cricket. Every Wednesday in the summer term they hold a match there, and yesterday MMU played Bolton. The sun was shining, the grass green. There is nothing finer.

It was a 90 over match, 45 each way; I hadn’t spent time watching a cricket match since Sydney, so I was eager to take it seriously and follow the game from start to finish. In the event, I did pop home to check emails once or twice, so I missed the odd ball, and at 5 I needed to meet jen for tea, but I didn’t do too badly. Cricket is the type of sport where you can do that, anyway, and I love it for it.

MMU batted first. We got about 270 for 6 off 45 overs. someone whose name escapes me topscored at 97. I always feel sorry in such cases.

Then we semi-skittled them, beating them 105 runs, or thereabouts. For a giant bear, bungle is pretty handy with the ball. For my part, I was just having fun, sitting in the shade of the hedges at the far side of the road. It was my father who instilled in me an intense love of this rather odd game, and yesterday brought back memories of Sydney Melbourne and Old Trafford. At one stage I even fancied I smelled Australia, but that could have simply been the coconut suntan lotion. Watching this sport being played puts me at ease with the world; it brings back happy memories; sitting there, yesterday afternoon, everything seemed right.

I have, in my recent writings here, been trying to work towards a greater understanding of disability and what it means to be disabled – that is to say, to fall under the category of ‘person with a disability’. It seems to me that the area is extremely problematic, fraught with paradoxes and contradictions, which ultimately do not satisfy me. How, for example, can we be a subculture with such a flimsy central focus? We are, to my mind, a loose amalgam of people. I know we can only achieve our goals by sticking together, but wouldn’t this have an automatic ostracisation effect? By establishing an us, don’t we automatically establish a ‘them’, and wouldn’t this contradict our goal of inclusion?

I have tried, in my own way, to scratch away at these problems, trying to uncover what they mean, and my place in the world. To my mind, no idea is sacred – I want to question everything. The day we stop doing so is the day fascism reigns. Thus I will continue to questioning ‘our’ nature. I feel, however, that I must do this from my own standpoint: while it is true that a particular failing of mine is my lack of evidence, I would prefer to work things out based on my own experiences of life and logic. In other areas, I understand the value of the quotation and the footnote (the bread and butter of academic writing), yet with his I need to work it out for myself. The very fact that I have c.p gives me just as much right to talk on the subject as anyone else. Mind you, it wouldn’t hurt to go pester Mary the librarian some more…

During a spate of procrastination yesterday, I came across reference to a book called Gandhi Behind the Mask of Divinity written by US Army Colonel G. B. Singh, which purports to expose Gandhi as a racist. While some have called the book ”deeply disturbing” in its eagerness to sling mud, it reminds us that no idea is above criticism, not even the mahatma, and especially not disability philosophy.

The stuff I’ve recently written here has been causing arguments. frankly I’m brassed off at being told I’m not allowed to question stuff – debate, it would seem, is dead. anyway, to lighten the mood, I’ll send you here. it is, lets say, right up my street

Sometimes, you just have to walk to the sea and make salt. In this simple action, Mohandas Gandhi showed an unjust law for what it was, and in doing so earned the world’s respect. Mind you, according to wikkipedia, the British jailed 60,000 after the mighty pilgrimage, but the fact remains the salt Satyagraha was a vital step along the road to Indian independence.

I’m not against protest. In no way do I think we should accept laws when they are unjust. I just think there are ways and means of protesting, ways and means of achieving true equality. I was just looking at some pictures of a DAN protest, and while what I think they are trying to do is necessary, I worry that all the bells and whistles and fury will ostracise the general public. We need people on our side, not to drive them away with vitriol. Rather than trying to cram our message down their throats, we need to show people what needs to be done. The mahatma could have cried out with great fury that the salt tax was unjust, but he instead walked to the sea and made his own.

Maybe I’m wrong. If dan succeed in their aims, its fine, for broadly speaking, their aims are my aims. But I look at these pictures and see a lot of sound and fury, and worry that it will achieve nothing but the proverbial pat on the head.