I think dad was rather annoyed by my choice to watch casino royale this afternoon. Out of all the films I got today, it being the momentous occasion of my birthday, I chose to see something I have already seen. Well, what can I say? I love that movie, and really enjoyed it this afternoon. Bond is always good fun.

This evening should be nice: the spaggy bog is cooking, the ale is chilling, and I think I just heard mum get home. Tomorrow I’m off to Chester for an evening in the most excellent company of the jonses. Life, I say again, is good.

Great.. I think I’ve overestimated my wordcount, or counted things twice, or something, because today about 4000 words dropped off my wordcount. Oh bugger. Keep fluctuatng between despair and the thought that its not too bad. I suppose it isn’t – just a little deflating.

Anyway, moving swiftly on, Cameron is to back late abortions for babies with minor disabilities. Whateveer one may feel about abortions, to abort a child simply because it has a disability is counter to modern civilisation itself.

So. CaMoron, it seems, has decided to go with the family. How lovely! Great idea: a good family is the basis for a good society. Wonderful, Mr CaMoron will solve all our ills by ensuring we all have good upbringings in good families.

Oh come on! Just how retarded can you get? Yes, we would all like to live in the good stable environs of a middle class family, but many families aren’t like that people aren’t like that. The family, if you look at the sociological research, can be destructive, brutal, leaving women and children open to abuse. The traditional view of the family is sexist – women are supposed to be housewives, men the breadwinners. Moreover, times have changed since the 1890s – many people don’t want to be held down by family units; it makes society more fkexible annd dynamic. Thus, for all his display of ‘forward thinking’, CaMoron has once again showed himself for be an outdated anachronism. Compassionate conservatism – what bullshit?

I go home today for easter. As I say, I’ve only spent one night at my parents house since Christmas, and the little kid who used to burst into tears at the prospect of one night away from his parents seems long gone. Uni has given me freedoms I’ve never felt before – some say I’m cloistered, and there’s a modicum of truth to that, but I’d have been much more cloistered had I simply stayed at home with my parents and commuted here every day. University is not the world, but it’s a taste of it, and I’m hungry for more.

I have nothing against football, as a game. Kicking a ball about with your mates or brothers can be rather fun, and I have happy memories of doing just that. But lately I’ve been brooding over football culture: the idea that it is more than just a game, that somehow football is linked with masculinity. I dislike the concept that, to be a man, one must like football; I dislike how many people seem to think it’s the be all and end all, and how they think to be able to play football well is a sign of manliness and superiority. It’s just a game, for fucks sake, and a comparatively simple one at that. Personally, I find cricket far superior to watch. As that needs a modicum of intelligence to play. Yet European male society, for the most part, seems obsessed with football.

Here on campus, we have the MMU football Academy, where 20 young laads in red uniforms are taught to play football. I don’t see the point. Surely these lads should be back in school or college learning about something more valuable to themselves and society than how to kick a ball about a field. Leave football to free time. Yet they obviously think that football is the be-all and end-all; that they are so manly, so clever, just because they can kick a ball into a net. For me, the cerebral will always outrank the physical: it is far better, I say, to contribute to society through artistic creation or scholarly research than by trying to assert one’s masculinity through kicking a ball about. After all, where does that leave me? I have no football skills whatsoever, so am I, to them, somehow inferior or less of a ‘man’. The whole of this football culture thus seems somewhat fascist in the way that it prises athleticism and ability. So what if you can kick a ball? It just means you can’t find anything more constructive to do.

I was just in the wes for breakfast. Three or four of these boys in red jackets came in. they’re all no more than eighteen, and on some kind of BTEC or HND. They started to play poker, right there at the table. Now, there’s nothing wrong with a friendly game of cards, but this was for money. I suspect that this, to them, was a display of how manly or adult they are. How vapid?

I suppose I just dislike the whole football as business side of things,, or football as masculine. To me, it is nothing more than a game, and I find those that treat it as anything more essentially vapid.

Well, that was pretty anticlimactic. A few days ago my friends were talking over dinner, and jen told me about the props department. It had come up because, that afternoon, I hadd gone over and borrowed a small desk lamp to use in a film I’d been making from the tekkies, who are in charge of props. Jen had described it as an alladins cave, full of cool stuff like guns and swords and tutus. So this afternoon I went over, looking forward and wondering what I might find.

Tony, my friend from last year, now works with the tekkies. I told him what I was doing, and what I wanted to see. He replied that, since I was no longer in the contemporary art department, I wasn’t allowed to borrow anything, but it wouldn’t hurt to let me look. The store is housed in the basement, so I had to get out of my chair and go down some rather steep stairs. Once there, I was unimpressed – it was just a lot of junk. I looked for the guns and swords, but there didn’t appear to be any. No tutus either. I felt rather cheated!

Meh. Seems the highlight of my day is a trip down some stairs. I need a break from uni.

I’m slowly starting to think about what I’m going to do after my master’s, and, putting my boredom with academia aside for the moment, ‘Dr Matt Goodsell’ has a certain ring to it. I’m still very interested in cinema, the ontology of the photographic image, and the contingent, but I’m becoming increasingly interested in how these things interplay with other art forms, like theatre. It seems that live theatre is based on the contingent, the live, so does it have its version of the punctum? With this in mind, and still letting my thesis rest, I went to a few ctp shows this morning.

They weren’t earth shattering, like the one I went to last night. They were okay on the aesthetic level. But at the last one something unusual happened. The audience had to stand on rostras (plinths or podiums). I knew this already, as I’d been warned, and indeed I’d been told beforehand I could still come in. but what got me rather angry was announcement made before the audience entered the space: ‘If anyone doesn’t want to stand on a rostra, please don’t come in..except for matt.’

Something about this really ticks me off. It’s the fact that it was announced in such a fashion. I’d been singled out in an effort to make a manifestly inaccessible performance appear inclusive. Frankly I was angry, and just a little insulted. I didn’t want to be an exception; nor did I want to see a show which was innately uninclusive. I was also upset by the manner by which it was announced. Their rather half-assed effort to accommodate me aside. I wanted no part of something so overtly and vehemently discriminatorily. In short, they could stuff their show, and thus I left.

I just came back from a performance in the black hole. Most of the theatre here is ‘contemporary – that is to say post-modern with very little meaningful (in the usual sense) dialogue. But what I saw this evening was a major exception: it was dialogue-driven, written by Mark revenhill, and indeed derived most of it’s power from the dialogue. Ravenhil has a keen cynicism: he illustrates exactly how countries which invade countries in the name of freedom and democracy can be as despotic as any. There are scenes of utter barbarity in the name of freedom – we have a series of short sketches, all shot through with the same disgust at the current state of world affairs. this felt edgy, highly political and angry.

Argh, its late and I can’t explain myself, but this was the best (and longest, and most powerful) bit of theatre I have seen on campus. It reminded me of the sheer power of art/

we brits may bbe ahead of the yanks in having a blind home secretary, but disaboom has today reported that new york is first blind [and black] governor. link

Mind you, this is only because the previous governor got caught in the middle of a prostitution ring

Maria cooked for us last night. We have started a regular ‘cookery’ night where, on Sunday afternoon, I pop over to sainsbury’s to get ingredients and Maria cooks for myself, jen, ash and Steve. It’s quite excellent and very civilised. Last night she did a dish from her native Portugal involving cabbage, bacon and sausage which was delicious. Anyway, at about half five or six llast night I popped over to emberton to eat.

I walked into the kitchen: ‘hi matt, wanna come to karaoke with us? Maria asked.

‘Okay.’ I said. This sounded fun. The plan originally was to get the 8.30 bus to Crewe, so we ate and then started to get ready. I popped back here to change – I wouldn’t usually change to go out, but my jumper was slightly mucky and I felt like dressing up. I dressed as quickly as possible (skirts with elasticised waistbands are a lot simpler to slip into than the tux I wore the previous night) and was back in emberton by about 8.20. yet by then the plan had changed: we were now getting a taxi to the club at about half 9. I didn’t mind as it gave us time to polish off a rioja we had started with dinner.

Ten O’clock saw us at the limelight in Crewe, where we met Lyn and Faithe. I was rather happy and loose. The singing started shortly after we started, and pretty much all of my friend put their name down to sing. It was then I had a crazy idea: why not? I asked jen to put my name down to sing ‘Nobody Does it better’. The fact that nobody would understand it didn’t matter – or maybe that would be the point.

As it happens, though, my name wasn’t called. I can only assume jen forgot to put my name down, or thought I was joking. If you ask me, it was the limelight’s loss:

what could be better than a spastic in a black skirt crooning ‘nobody does it, half as good as you. Baby you’re the best.’?

You know, ash millet makes an excellent martini.

Last night we held my birthday party on campus. It was a 007 themed party, and it was brilliant. Now, I know emberton north common room wouldn’t be bonds usual haunt, but you should have seen what my friends did with it! Silhouettes on the windows, and cool balloons with the 007 logo on them! As for myself, I felt a billion dollars in my suit – fresh white shirt, black bowtie, toy gun in my breast pocket. I felt like I was licensed to kill. Mind you, I gave up trying to come up with witty lines, and needless to say I didn’t try to imitate bonds misogyny, especially given most of the people there were women.

What else can I say other than it ruled! I had a great time, even though they insisted on playing ‘social’ drinking games, which commander bond would never do. Too crass. This could also explain why I don’t remember being put to bed.

Bond looked at the blue and white sign. ‘Manchester metropolitan university, alsager campus’. why in gods name had M sent him here? Apparently there was due to be a party held in emberton north common room, where certain monies were due to exchange hands. Hardly worth the attention of MI5, and yet as he walked past the performance studios, 007 had a funny feeling this was only the start of something…

the following may or may not become an appendix to my thesis, but I thought you guys might enjoy it. the thesis is going well, so today I decided to have some fun.

Taking as a starting point Godard’s remark about wanting to live films, and in an attempt to return to the process of creation, I have recently been working on recreation of films. As outlined in my piece on mimicry, I am in no way the first person to do this. There seems to be an abundance of such material on YouTube. It is as id the viewer is so taken by the film, that his cinephilia so absorbs him, that he tries to live the film himself. Admittedly this is merely the playing of games, but I would argue that this phenomenon and its relationship to cinephilia is worthy of explanation.

Perhaps the first thing to note is that this imitation is always done with an audience, it is a performance. This could be live, e.g. a throw away act made for ones friends, or towards a camera thereby emulating the very medium of fascination. The latter would render the performance permanent.

I therefore decided to try to recreate the famous James Bond ‘Gun Barrel’ Sequence. This was done using a small webcam in my room. Such sequences usually consist of a figure in a suit walking onto the screen from the right, turning, and shooting at the camera. The screen then turns red and the pre-title sequence starts. When this is over we see the opening titles which in most films, consists of brightly coloured women dancing amongst the credits. I wanted to achieve the same effect, but also to combine this with my interest in transgressing gender boundaries. I also wanted to make a homage to the Bond series. Moreover, I find it ironic to have both 007, a man renowned for is physical fitness and the typically beautiful dancing women, portrayed by a man with moderately severe athetoid cerebral palsy. After all, what could be more post-modern?

I started with a shot of me, in a suit, in silhouette, instantly turning and ‘shooting’ a toy gun at the camera. A still was taken from this image, and, using photo editing software, a black ring placed around it to replicate the gun barrel. thereafter, this image was paced and replaced in the sequence several times, each time with the background getting redder and then blacker, until the screen turns black. In the absence of funds to make an opening action sequence, we then fade up to a moving image if myself dancing against a blank background. Given that the women in the original credit sequence are shot in silhouette filled with colour, giving them a certain anonymity, I chose to dance in a green zentai to recreate this illusion. However, to maintain constant reference to bond, this shot was interspersed with still photographs taken from the original bond films. Throughout, ‘Nobody does it better’ by Carly Simon plays nondiagetically.

Is it me, or do I sense a slight tone of anti-intellectualism from the so-called disability bitch here?? She rants about hawking, it seems to me, for being focussed on his physics and not his disability. She writes to him: ” You have been so busy trying to unlock the mysteries of the universe that you have yet to devise a quick formula for filling in DWP application forms with minimum effort and maximum reward, or working out how we can all get into RADAR-locked loos with nothing but the power of our minds, or the precise tone of voice we should use to get Normies to relinquish priority seats when we get on a crowded bus.” So? Why do we as disabled people need to focus on our disabilities? The last time I did that I got bitter, so I focus on my interests in film and the arts. Before, I was first and foremost a cripple; today I am first and foremost a student who happens to also be a cripple. I say let the professor look into black holes. Personally, I find it much healthier than thinking ‘woe is me.”

I found something quite interesting out today. I was talking to lyn dodd, head of just about everything around here, today. She told me that they have a report book which she reads, part of which concerns brandies on Wednesday nights. They put anything unusual in there – which of the footballers got naked, who fought whom, etc etc. she told me that I’m in there too.

‘Why?’ I asked, fearing that I’d done something bad but forgotten.

‘It just says that you went’ said lyn. I couldn’t help but chuckle. Why should my entrance to brandies be noteworthy? What might this book say? ‘Matt the campus cripple came, got drunk, was taken home at eleven.’? I mean, with the amount of insanity which goes on on a Wednesday in there, it isn’t as if they don’t have anything better to write about. But, oh wait, I’m special!

I was just round the corner watching some of the destruction of Woodiwiss. Two great mechanical monsters with pincers are taking it apart, piece by piece. I’m still masculine enough to think the sight rather cool, and yet I’m also struck by the thought that this was, not long ago, a place where people lived. Like emberton and kellet, it echoes with cheers of frivolity, calls of excitement. In my first year here, the campus was at it’s zenith, full of students. Now all this is moving to Crewe, and in less than five years, alsager campus will be no more. I cannot help but feel desparately sad about it: I’ve had many happy days here, and many great nights. It is the site of my greatest triumph. On top of this, Crewe is a far less pretty campus: it is more compact, more claustrophobic. There’s also a dual carriageway by it. In short, it is downright ugly. The whole move is all wrong.

I suppose it doesn’t really matter, as I leave soon. Yet I cannot help but get angry about it.

It had been ages – literally over a decade – since I had heard tubular bells. It used to be a favourite of my father’s, and still is. I like it too, but had forgotten about it. We were driving back to alsager on Saturday, having been to see scott, becs and Vanessa for the afternoon; charlotte had classic fm on, but we were chatting and not listening to it, when I suddenly heard it. Not the full version, mind, for that takes an hour to play, but a cut down version of paul oakenfolds classic.

Dad used to play that track on Sunday mornings, sometimes, when I was little. The opening bars, as distinguishable as anything in music, always pleased me. I heard them, again, late Saturday afternoon in Charlie’s car, and instantly I was in two places at once. I was again, crawling on the floor of the front room at Hampshire close, aged 5, but also in a car with two of my best friends. Hence two very joyful times were united by one piece of music, one phrase, repeated.

You know, tubular bells now seems even more dear than it was now. Its such a great, mysterious piece. Funny how music can do that.

Its been a hell of a weekend, and…by god this place is a mess. Friday night I was staring to worry nobody was going to show up, where we were all meeting etc, when jen popped me a line saying everyone was descending on my place imminently. Then suddenly everyone was here. Well, Emma, becs, Scott, ness and, of course, charlotte. You can probably guess what happened there – it involved alcohol, and lots of it. They decided to change in and around my room, using it as a base for the night. The plan was that they would return after brandies to collect their stuff. Poorly on my part, I drank too fast and was very drunk by ten, so true to her old form and with her trademark ‘oh no’, charlotte put me to bed. Problem was, everyone wanted their stuff, so at 1am there came a huge banging on my door.

Needless to say, the next day I was quite hangover, but was able to go for lunch in the plough with Emma and charlotte, thence to becs and Scott’s in burslem. We spent the afternoon chatting, then came back to campus. C dropped me off at mine to go get ready. There was something of a cock-up here, as c told me switch and Nicky were coming to mine 15 mins later, but they weren’t. anyway, when charlotte returned, she fed me a shop-bought sandwich, got me girlified, and we set off to a social in Kellet. This time, I decided to pace myself, and, with the help of red bull I lasted till about 1, talking, dancing etc.

At time of writing, charlotte will be heading home, but later today I should be meeting switch, Nicky, rocky and Emma for lunch. It has gone too quickly, and I’ll miss them even more because of it. And yet I doubt very much that it’ll be the last I’ll see of my old crew.

once my dad famously got drunk while watching eurovision, and decided the irish were elvish. if thats true, then this is one fucked up elf. i mean, what the smeg?

I cant wait till tomorrow. Its old boys, so everyone is coming back. All my friends from the last three and a half years are going to be here for a weekend of partying and mayhem. I can’t wait to see them: Emma is already here, and I saw her briefly on Tuesday, but we need a good catch up. Charlotte of course, the prospect of whose arrival has me squealing in anticipation. The inimitable Steve, harbinger of jollity, thief of leftovers. Becs, scott, and ness. Chris, who I really ought to catch up with. Oh, there are too many people I cant wait to see. It feels like Christmas eve – I just hope I can get to sleep okay, as I’m going to need my energy.

Now that my patents are home, and no burglar is going to read this and infer that the Goodsell family house is empty, I can freely admit I’ve now been at uni for my longest stretch ever. Its been five or six weeks since I’ve been home, and that was just for one night, making it just one night at home since Christmas. I’m quite proud of myself. The boy who once cried at the prospect of staying one night in resi seems long gone.

Mind you, I did feel a few pangs of homesickness last week, but I think that was stress more than anything. My thesis is, by and large, going well: I think I have about 24000 out of 30000 words, so I need to get on with my conclusion. Thing is, I sit down to write and no conclusion comes. It’s frustrating. I’m also waiting for feedback on the last 6500 I did, which makes me nervous. Thus, having worked hard all term, I think I better let my thesis rest a bit. Given that it’s old boys this weekend, I’ll let my thesis rest till Monday, by which time I should have the feedback I need.

There’s something happening here this weekend and the one after. I’m looking forward to both old boys and my birthday bash. Yet I must admit I’m beginning to long for the simple life back at my parents.

I’m not posting a long blog tonight for there’s a poetry slam on in the bar. Last night they had a jazz concert there so we’re currently being spoiled. Before heading out, I’ll just welcome my parents home from their trip to south America. I hadn’t mentioned they were away before for fear of posing a security threat. Sounds like they had a great time.

Also, today marks my little brother’s twenty-second birthday. Happy birthday Luke. Hope you have a great night.

Now for the poetry.

Sometime in about 1975 a young man called Simon – if memory serves – was attending university in Southampton. At that time, he was sharing a house with a young, impressionable student called Mary. Mary was a good cook, but it was Simon who taught Mary a rather unusual recipe for spaghetti bolognaise. She adopted it, and would later cook it for her husband, whom she also met in Southampton, and later her sons. In time, they would all cook it their selves, and thus the recipe would live on.

All save the middlemost, for whom cooking, let us say, would be a highly dangerous activity. Yet, thirty two years after it’s creation, roughly the same recipe was cooked at a university, by another Mary. For the middlemost son was cunning at instruction: he remembered his mother’s recipe, and, unable to cook it himself for fear of fire, calamity and explosion, he was able to instruct his friend about making the recipe. And thus it was, in the early spring of 2008. that same spaghetti bolognaise was made anew, and eaten again in halls, just as it was upon it’s creation.

Last night definitely needed to happen, I think. I’ve been at university solidly now for about four or five weeks, and I’m getting fed up of canteen food and ready meals,. It’s not that I’m a culinary snob: I just like good food which isn’t covered in grease once in a while. So, on Friday I asked jen if we could go to the plough; she agreed – I think she was as bored as I am with Wes food. She said she was skint, but I said I’d pay for her and Maria to eat on my card. It’s worth it – trust me.

In the end, five of us went. Stephen, from the states, and Jen’s boyfriend, Chris, tagged along too. The more the merrier I say. I think we all had a good time: I ordered the steak and ale pie, and got a Cabernet Sauvignon to share.. both were, I think, good choices – Maria seemed to like the wine, and became even more talkative than usual.

We spent the evening chatting. After we’d finished, we went to meet rosie in the Mere, where they serve real ale. Needless to say, I’m glad I was being pushed in my manial chair. Jen helped me get to bed at about eleven, tired, but happy.

My trip back from Crewe to alsager in my chair last January is rather famous around here. Charlotte regularly refers to it, for example, when she wants to remind me how stupid I can be at times. Yes, looking back, it was stupid – and fucking scary. But that 6 miles is nothing, it seems, compared with the trip one 24 year old plans: Jeffrey Preston is determined to ride his electric wheelchair from London, Canada, to Ottawa in 40 days this spring. He’s making the 650-km trek to raise awareness of the inadequate conditions of Ontario’s transportation systems for disabled people. its rather cool, if you ask me. Mind you, I must say I’m too busy (and scared of big lorries) to make any such trips.

link

According to the ouch messageboards, there are to be a series of shorts from aardman called creature discomforts, featuring disabled characters. I viewed them online last night – nothing special, just a set of monologues by pieces of plasticine. Frankly, I feel pretty low today, so this is sort of more my cup of tea atm.

I came across this last night while I was getting ready to go out. It is, you must admit, very cute. I better not say anything about it because I’d like you all to get the revelatory bit at the end. Mind you, I must say it’s like watching two little hyperactive daleks. I think it’s very cool indeed

Its been another good day. Okay, so I haven’t written anything towards my thesis, but this morning, pretty much on a whim, I decided to go see Alan. I’d sent him some stuff on Friday and I wanted his feedback. Alan was in his office when I got there, just finishing talking to another student. Although he hadn’t read the stuff I’d sent him, he was very encouraging. I have about 24000 words of a 30000 word thesis, suggesting my first draft should be finished soon. Then editing. Alan’s encouraging words were: ‘piece of piss’. I hope so.

After that, being in Crewe, I scooted over to south Cheshire college, popped in on Jane etc. to a certain extent, jenny Harris and Jane Higgins started all this: they were the ones who first mooted the idea of me going to university: before Jane posed the question ‘ why haven’t you gone to university yet?’ I hadn’t even thought it a possibility. They started me along that path. Indeed, they were the ones who introduced me to Esther, who is now one of my best friends and most valued comrades. I therefore decided to ask them out to lunch or dinner – I know a top notch Indian restaurant in the village me and Charlie went to once. Shouldn’t be too hard to arrange.

Being in a good mood, I headed into town to look for films and clothes, found nothing, and came home. I got back here about three, watched a film, and then went to meet jen in the wes for dinner. And to top it off, I kind of just saw a lunar eclipse. All in all, a top day.

As I’m sure you’ve all heard, Castro has announced his retirement today. I’ve been interested in that little island since I became interested in Hemingway. It amuses me that the yanks were never able to budge their closest enemy. Mind you, they haven’t tried since the bay of pigs.

For all his faults, Cuba apparently has one of the best health services in the world, which one could argue makes it a good place for us cripples. Well, maybe. Either way, Castro or no Castro, I still aspire to drink a daiquiri in Havana one day. Mind you, I wonder if the island will once again become America’s playground now.

Today I started to read Skallagrigg by William Horwood. A friend of mine recommended it to me, warning me that I’d hate the world for a week after reading it though. So, today I got it from the library, and began to read, first in the canteen then back here, in my room. I sat down to read ‘just till lunch’ at about eleven, but when I next looked at the clock it had just turned four and I’d read 100 pages.

It is, in all honesty, quite disturbing. Part of the story concerns a boy, Arthur, who, having cp, is institutionalised in about 1925. he is intelligent, but nobody sees it. He is treated brutally. The way he longs even to see the sun makes me appreciate being born when I was; also, it makes me want to remind everyone that I can think, that I am conscious.

Its also quite an odd book thus far, mixing tenses, and going from first, third and un one passage second person. What strikes me as odd in particular, though, is it’s portrayal of cerebral palsy. The book seems to suggest we have our own type off language, or at least us spazzers can understand each other clearly. This book seems to suggest, too, that we have our own faith or mythology concerning a being called Skallagrigg; if we do, this is the first I’ve heard of it. This Skallagrigg also seems to have the ability to, in a way, cure us: in this, of course, the book implies that we want to be ‘cured’. I certainly don’t, leading me to infer that Horwood, although thoroughly researched, does not have cp.

Nevertheless, it is a very interesting, powerful book, which offers insight into disability history and, through reception theory, how disability is perceived.

Paradoxically, I think my friend was both wrong and right: yes, it describes a truly evil world – the hell of an institution. But I then look up from the page, at my own world, and find great joy in seeing how far we have come. Books like this make me appreciate the ability to order coffee.

Now here’s a turn up for the books. Not that I am particularly interested in such things, but its quite funny. The show I went to with Esther on Friday was called ‘that’ll be the day’. Its by a touring company, one of whose main singers was none other than Katy Setterfield, who last night won ‘the one and only’ on bbc1. I told you they were good, didn’t i?

I just got back in. its been a good 28 hours – surprisingly good, actually. I went home with Est yesterday afternoon; the Everett’s are very nice people. like the joneses, they’re incredibly warm and generous. Having worked with Esther for 5 years almost, she’s become a steadfast friend, yet we barely do anything together socially. Last night, I think, was the first step towards putting that right.

After dinner at her place, I set off with Esther’s family to the Crewe lyceum. Est had told me abit about the show,: basically a series of tribute acts interspersed with comedy. At first I thought this sounded dubious, but still wanted to go. However, I was wrong: in short: last night’s show ruled! The performance were all very good. From my chair, I must have had the best seat in the house: centre isle, four or five rows back but with the added height of my manual chair. Because of this, I really got into the show. It was full of witty asides, double entendre, raunchy gags and rock and role. My god those guys could play! There’s something about live music witch engages you; especially if its rock. There was one guy with a guitar capable of the most sublime solos. There were also these natty videos, projected onto a screen at the back of the screen, giving the thing an added dimension. I was pushed back to Esther’s smiling.

This morning was fairly relaxed. I sat in the kitchen and drank coffee while Est cooked lunch. Then, after doing a bit of shopping on route to the bus stop, me, Est and Mrs Everett came home. It was great fun, and, apart from me being too long for the sofa, a great two days.

I have a busy day today. Going to the theatre with Esther later this evening. It’s about time we did something socially together, if you ask me. Therefore I’ll just link to this video, which is kinda the very epitome of inclusion. Inclusion distilled into a cinephiliac moment.

As I’ve said many times before, mmu Cheshire is on two campuses, one in Crewe and one in alsager, with a bus ferrying students between them. This bus is, naturally, governed by a timetable. As there are two types of busses – wheelchair accessible and double decker – the busses I can get in are marked on the timetable. This isn’t ideal, I know, but it’ll do. However, what gets me annoyed is when a bus which is marked as accessible on the timetable turns out to be a double decker! It happened not once, but twice today, and it made me late for my lecture.

I’ll be seeing the appropriate people about it first thing tomorrow. It isn’t on.

I read yesterday evening of the apology issued by the Australian government to aboriginal members of the stolen generation, who I mentioned on Monday as a parallel for the disabled community. There hasn’t been too much said about it here, and it isn’t without controversy. It’s true that the removal of aboriginal people from there parents was wrong. Very few people would disagree with that, save perhaps for this berk, who I link to for the sake of fairness. But it does raise certain questions, such as, why should modern Australians have to feel guilty for the actions of their forebears? Why now? Will the Americans be apologising to the native Americans? To be sure, I think it’s a great move – if it helps to reconcile the two communities, then its fantastic! It’s a great step forward.

I must say, however, that I don’t think the same applies to the disabled community. If Mr brown or Mr rudd or anyone – for discrimination against disabled people is worldwide – suddenly decided to apologise to ‘the disabled’, such a gesture would be pointless. Discrimination against us has been happening for aeons, and we are also such a nebulous group as to raise the question of who you’d apologise too. Anyway, I don’t want anyone to apologise to me, for what would they apologise for? I’m very comfortable. Its quite difficult; I guess you can only go so far in drawing parallels.

Rarely do my two prime interests – film and disability – merge, and when they do it’s seldom good. Look at lars von trier’s Das Idioten, for instance. But now comes ‘The last American freak show’, about some self-confessed freaks touring America performing ‘acts’. Now, I have no problem with this – if they want to degrade themselves by performing like animals its their choice. Just keep the fire-pissing-hobbit away from me!

link

You know, it’s hard not to feel cynical sometimes; its hard not to feel angry; its hard not to feel persecuted. Not that I feel such things, personally. For the most part I am happy. around campus people respect me, often bending over backwards to help me, when asked. I have a first class degree, the equipment I need to do my masters, a good set of Pas. What more could a cripple ask for.

Yet, looking at disability politics and issues as a whole, its hard not to feel bitter. I feel bitter about the special school system, as you know. But there’s other stuff too:

yesterday I read how a girl with cp in the states, prone to choking fits, was sent to school with a DNR sign attached to her chair. I mean – this is a living, thinking, communicating seven year old. And, as if that wasn’t enough, the newspaper which first published the article got back comments like ” She’s a detriment to others.”, ” A tube! I don’t want my kids to watch her eat!” and probably the worst ” If a machine has to breathe life into her lungs, Is she really worthy of this air?”

How the fucking hell can people be so cruel as to question a child’s right to air? Moreover, I was chatting to a guy in Australia earlier who grew up in institutions. He pointed out that he and other disabled people like him could draw parallels with the now famous ‘stolen generation’. In the twenties and thirties, aboriginal children were taken, often by force, from their parents and raised in ‘white’ families, often as servants. This barbarity was described as being ‘for their own good’. Similarly, in the fifties and sixties, parents of disabled children were encourage to institutionalise their kids, ‘for their own good’. Hence history repeated itself, and kids like Anne

MacDonald paid the price,

Looking across the board, at segregation, institutionalisation, murder – indeed across the whole of disability history – it’s hard not to feel hated. Not personally – I have many friends who love me, as I do them – but as a type. As a disabled man, member of the disabled community, I feel victimised. We are subject to discrimination, from the big things I outlined above, to the small things: patronising people in shops, steps into buildings, cars parked on the path so I have to go on the road to get by. I try not to feel bitter – I now enjoy more freedom than ever before, and my uni years have been the best of my life – and yet, sometimes the urge to rail against the world, and the paranoid idea that some think you have the i.q of a turd, or should have been killed at birth, gets too much.

link to article on katy jones.

blog of said australiian.

anne macdonald.

reason for paranoia

I find it rather ironic that Christopher whittaker now has a PhD. Don’t get me wrong, its brilliant. Its marvellous, and I don’t begrudge him it for a millisecond. Chris went to Hebden, but of memory serves he was mainstreamed after nursery school. He’s my age, and has cp, but of a milder kind than mine. The amusing part is, his mum is the deputy head of Hebden. Imagine that: her own school too bad for her son. She saw that he was properly educated, didn’t she? I’m sorry, but its hard not to be cynical. when I think of what most of my fellow ex-hebdonians are doing (Which, you’ll understand, I’d rather not go into for confidentiality reasons) it’s enough to make you sick.

link

I know that one of the cornerstones of liberal democracy is that you respect the rights of others to believe anything they want, but its hard not to look at the front pages and laugh. I profoundly disagree with dr Williams, of course: correct me if I’m wrong, but he seems to be advocating that some people be exempt from certain laws based on their faith; that, to some people, sharia law should apply. While we live in a multicultural society – which is a good thing – if democracy is going to work all laws must apply to everyone equally. It is absurd to have laws based on faith, or else someone could, in a murder case, claim that his religion dictated he kill. The idea that everyone is equal in the eyes of the law would fly out the window.

Quite what the archbishop of Canterbury was thinking when he said these things I don’t know. It just deepens my belief that religion and religious leaders should be kept well away from politics.

Nothing to do with disability, but I honestly believe this is a work of genius. It’s a film about itself; it admits ita s film about itself yet remains internally coherent. Just…bloody hell. What will Alan make of it? Its like, schizophrenia in film form.

Btw, the ‘trumpet shot’ was, I think, created by Hitchcock.