Things don’t feel right, and they won’t for some time. But the sun continues to rise, there is still fun to be had. Like discos, beer, and pink stuff.

I was going to go to the disco last night. I got myself all dressed up as Cupid because it was Valentine’s Day, and the idea of a spastic Cupid amuses me. Mind you it was pretty damn cold in a pink leotard and tights, but anyway. I got there about 8pm, and waited, and waited, and waited. The place was completely deserted. Only the staff were there. After about an hour, nobody had showed up ad I was getting cold, I decided to come home. I heard this morning, that it was the least attended Brandy’s disco in ages. Even after I left, very few people showed up. Oh well, at least I got to dress up.

I’m rather hoping there isn’t a Heaven, because when I get up there in 70 years or so, I’m going to get such a ribbing.

The events of the last week have made me realise how precious a friend is. Friends really are dear people – people you laugh with, people you cry with, people it hurts to leave behind. Thinking about this, yesterday, I resolved to do something odd. I need now to let my friends know I care about them – the only other option is to shun all friendship, and become a hermit. Then you never have to say goodbye.

This struck me as cowardly. It was then I came up with ‘the hug tax’. I plan to levy a tax of one hug on my friends; I intend to hug them all, showing them a piece of paper with my reasons beforehand. Upon seeing the paper, most launch into a huge great hug.

Not sure why exactly I need to do it, but it helps. I feel less alone. It’s as if the squeeze of another human lets me know I’m not alone. I have friends here, who care for me, and I care for them.

Hebden green, I suppose, is in the past. Finding out about rich is very painful. But now I must leave that behind, and look to the future. It seems to me that it is now rather possible that I am one of the last few survivors oaf my class. If this is so, I must not give up. I must carry on, and enjoy life. Not to do so would be something of a betrayal.

My quest to hug all my friends will continue. it may appear silly, but it’s the only way. They now seem even more dear to me.

I wrote the following last night when my friend vikki was here:

Watching my friend tap away, typing on my bed

She came to keep me company. Tonight, of all nights, I am not alone

For Richard is dead, and I feel like the last of a fellowship. Utterly alone. But not alone for she types away, keeping me company.

And I am deeply grateful for it.

–thanks vicks

I’m still hoping this is premature. I’m still hoping those men last Wednesday were wrong and that I will find my friend Richard alive and well. Yet I must admit to myself that they appeared to be certain, and that their description of the boy I grew up with fitted exactly.

If that is so, then my friend Richard is gone, a fact I hate to contemplate. All weekend, I’ve been looking for confirmation either way, looking for obituaries, getting people to wring numbers. No luck. It’s quite upsetting in itself, not knowing: part of me says there may still be hope, there may still be a happy ending. Another part remembers the certainty of those voices.

Keep thinking back to the nursery – to when we both used to crawl across the vast floor to play wrestling on the mats. I remember how we went through school together: how, before I got my lightwriter, rich used to translate for me. The trip to centre parks; going to Glasgow; how I earned the name slasha. I remember his jokes; how he always had a girlfriend.

I find myself wanting to cry. I want to scream. I want to utterly trash a room. I find myself unable to do either of these things – they will achieve nothing. Rich was one of the friends I expected to grow old, get married, maybe get a family. It probably isn’t going to happen now, and knowing that hurts.

It hurts very much. To a certain extent, this is what comes from going to a special school, since I find it likely that rich’s death was caused due to some complication with his spina bifida. In such places one has to cope with your friends dying, moreso than in a mainstream school, I mean, and it’s no easier after you leave. Looking around at my friends in the wes today, I found myself feeling alone, unable to explain, unable to let them no why I felt so bad. I’m not saying they won’t have had similar tradgedies, and they have all been very supportive, but I still felt alone, like I was the last survivor of a band of brothers, in a battle long since over, returning to a pub full of music.

Soon, I’ll join the singing again I’m sure. Rich wouldn’t want me to get too down. But, at the moment, it feels like someone hit me in the stomach. Writing seems to ease it slightly, but it will probably hurt for some time.

—

I was about to post this when Darren, a friend whom I got to call the vicar at Weston, came. It is true.

no more doubt; no more hope

still miserable so me and est have decided to have a ‘stupid day’ (ie much potty humour as possible) to kick us off, go here

I was working on my exhibition yesterday; going over memories of school with Jim. We now have a video, which dad found, of myself in 1992. I saw old rich S, and, remembering he lived in Weston, decided I needed a roll. I caught the buss to Crewe, and wended my way the two and a half distance to the small village. Then, given it’s size, I decided to ask about for my oldest friends. His imput would be great.

I first asked in a pub – no sign. Then, after a short scout, I saw two men talking outside the village hall. I asked them if they knew a guy about my age in a chair. They did.

‘son of a farmer? Younger brother, older sister?’

‘yes.’ I said ‘do you know where I might find him?’

‘I’m sorry to tell you this, but he died last October’.

I had always imagined rich getting old, married, this wise old Englishman. We went through most of school together, from 5 to 16. my gran always reminds me of him: ‘Do you remember Richard? He was always smiling.’ He was engaged to be married. I remember school unihock sessions with him best.

I don’t even know why I’m writing this. I’m posting it to make explaining easier. I’m hoping those chaps were mistaken. It’s possible but unlikely.

Oh fuck it. Fuck it all.

I may be accused of blasphemy around here, and my lecturers may call for my immediate disembowelment, but I really think modern artistic criticism is too ingrained in Freud. In my culture seminar today, it seemed Trish wanted to relate everything in Heimat to the oedipal complex, to the extent that she seemed to distort it slightly.

Don’t get me wrong – I do have time for Freud. Increasingly, I’m using him in my essays, as well as Lacan. They seem, oddly, to fit: lacan’s tripartite of the imaginary, symbolic and real seems, in fact, to relate to my situation. I have my imaginary self – how I see myself – and my real self – my outward appearance, how others see me. The symbolic bridges the gap between the two; but for me, my symbolic is generated by a machine, which has very little to do with either concept, for it cannot fully reflect my Imaginary self in the real. It’s interesting, if unscientific, you must admit. These hypothetical structures seem to fit some sense of reality: we always think of our inner selves ad different from our outer selves.

Mind you, I still think basing most artistic criticism on this is something of a mistake.

and for that matter, who in the hell made this? some people have too much time on their hands. I, however, did 1000 words of my 2500 word film essay. nearly there

what master of cutting made this

Last night was really quite awesome. My friend jenny was holding a 21st birthday party; it was held over in Crewe, by invitation only at the overdraught bar. Jenny expressly mentioned, too, that it was formal wear, which meant only one thing – my tux had to come out.

[at this point I better say my parents rule – they went to the not negligible trouble of dry cleaning my suit and delivering it here. Thanks guys]

so, charlotte having changed me into my suit, and looking stunning herself, we caught a lift over to Crewe. Jenny’s friends and family were there, in kilts, as were most of my friends. There and then, I decided it wasn’t a night for beer.

I went to the bar: ‘Please mix one gin and one vermouth’. I asked. What I got back was quite passable, but not a proper martini. I got talking to my friends, and a while later I saw AF at the bar, so I went over to chat. He complemented me on how smart I looked; I replied I simply had a bond fixation. He asked if I was drinking martini.

‘kind of’ I replied, whereupon he very kindly set about mixing me a proper martini, methodically pouring liquid from one glass to another to a precise recipe. When I tasted it, I recognised it as that which I had in Sydney on new years eve: something which I seem to be acquiring a taste for – Martinis. Quite delicious, even if it lacked the slither of lemon peel and green olive, which seem to give it extra bite.

I was determined, however, not to get drunk last night, so I happily drunk water for the rest off the evening, talking o friends, eating cake and dancing. I had a lot of fun: at one point, Steve thought it would be a good idea to sweep me off my feet and carry me about the dance floor. Everyone had an excellent time; jen made a good speech, and at about half twelve we got a taxi home.

Happy birthday, Jenny. That was great.

Its been a hecic couple of days. Last night, I was in my room, surfing the net, as you do. There was a buz on the intercom – I’d arranged to meet Charlie so I went to answer it. I had just opened the door when I heard a loud smash from back in my room. We got back to find someone had kicked a ball through my window. The uncanny thing is, if charlotte hadn’t come at that precise moment, I’d have been hit by a shower of broken glass. Spooky or what?

Needless to say, security came and put up some heavy duty plastic, and I got a new window this morning. But I still cant quite get over how spooky it was that charlotte came at precisely the right time.

Blimey! I’ve just turned my pc on to find some pleasant news: at time of writing – and I’m currently streaming TMS – England have the upper hand in the cricket. These days, that’s a rare thing indeed, especially against the Australians. Needless to say, I was very disappointed with England this tour, as we didn’t perform quite as well as I would have hoped.

Five nil indeed! What a slaughtering. Ye gads and little fishes, by the time we got there, for the Melbourne test, it was already over! We were all quite disappointed, and I feel sorry for my father, who has always loved cricket.

On the other hand, the great thing about this game is that it’s not just about the winning. This is why they keep playing tests if the series is already won. It’s about the love of the sport itself; about sitting in the crowd sipping Victoria bitter and listening to the barmy army. It almost didn’t matter that we were collapsing, we were still having great fun.

In football, the rivalry between supporters seems very deep – look, for example, at the rivalry between Celtic and Rangers supporters, which often gets violent. In cricket, this rivalry is merely made of songs: as we toured down under, every time the subject came up, it was done so with [Clark gets caught – 45-3] a laugh and a joke.

Peter, the driver of the tour bus, jokingly promised ‘not to mention the sport beginning with C’. it was clear that the idea that treating the rivalry between the countries as anything other than friendly was patently absurd. This is why I love the sport; even though this rivalry is well over a century old, it ends at stumps.

I believe this is how all sport should be, and can’t understand why sporting rivalries such as Celtic v rangers or Everton v Liverpool so often get violent. Doesn’t make sense.

[whats the betting, that when I get back to my pc this afternoon, we have lost?]

what would you get if you crossed tony hawks (the skateboarder, not the comedian), johny knoxville and me?

probably this

It has already been a highly productive morning: I have started my final film essay, and have 500 words already (about 20%). Witting the introduction, I find, clarifies what I am doing, so I now know where I’m going with it. I’ve also done a couple of other things which were hanging over me yesterday.

I was in a right mis yesterday afternoon. Basically, making the exhibition had lead me to reflect on certain things – about school, and stuff. It’s hard to explain concisely here, but I’d given my scripts tutor the script of the sketch about Andy, and her feedback kind of struck a nerve. It was too accurate, too sentimental, too goddamn sad.

Anyway, its Wednesday; a day of sport, fun. I’ve been at my pc since before 9; time to go to get a coffee.

I had to do a double take when I saw this headline. More people watched top gear than the final of big brother! Now that’s funny. Could it be that, despite all the hype, nobody cares about BB? Mind you, top gear featured a high speed crash, although I must say I found Mr. Hammonds message of thanks genuinely touching.

(yeah, I went to the TV room to watch it)

In the absence of anything better to write, I think I’ll post a link to this blond joke. I was going to write something on inside I’m dancing, but need to mull it over some more. There seems to be a dialectic in that film for disabled viewers: kind of like us watching you watching us, which has some repercussions I need to think through. Okay, the film itself is almost complete lachrymose twaddle, but still interesting.

My recent realisation that travel on busses was both accessible and free for cripples inspired a little adventure today. Saturday afternoons are boring, and usually see me twiddling my thumbs in my room, or wheeling into alsager. However, I’m bored of both these things, so ii did a little experiment: could I get myself to Crewe and back on the bus, alone? Besides, perhaps I can find something to eat in Crewe better than pizza.

It sounds silly, really, but it was quite a risky endeavour: what if my chair got stuck? What if I got lost? Of course, there are risks associated with everything; if I couldn’t muster the courage to get to Crewe, how could I ever get to Calcutta, Cairo or Cairns?* So, first I researched which bus would take me to Crewe, whether I could get on it, and where it stops. This turned out to be the 20 from the bottom of church road, going to Crewe bus station, leaving every 20 minutes.

I went to the bus stop and alighted, after a short wait, the twenty, and less than twenty minutes later I was in Crewe bus station. I better say it’s rather difficult manruvering an f55 onto a bus, but nevertheless quite possible.

What I hadn’t realised that there’s nothing to do in Crewe that late in the day, and, in the end, I decided to eat at MacDonald’s. even so, it’s the fact that I did it that counts. Given that it is free, this may be just the first of many such adventures.

*mind you, i’ll take a p.a when going to such places

Just a short one today. I’m not commenting on this, except to say that this girl better get out more, and that it’s funny as.

and the same applies to her cat.

Sometimes principles suck. Yes, they may be necessary, if not vital, but they still suck. My university is on two campuses, with buses running between them. As with last year, I have lectures on both campuses, but until recently couldn’t get on the bus as it was inaccessible. Instead, I had to get my own taxi between the two.

This was all very well and good, as well as convenient, but I had a problem: I want to be as ‘regular’ student as possible, but the taxi was another thing that set me apart from the rest of the student body. Besides, surely it was more cost efficient just for the bus firm to send the wheelchair-accessible buses. Moreover, I couldn’t get my electric wheelchair into the taxi, which I saw as a big problem. I thus asked uni if wheelchair-accessible busses could be arranged.

I still think the principles behind this are great as I type this in a lovely, warm room, but was quietly cursing it earlier, waiting for a late bus at 6pm tonight in the freezing cold.

I have finally got round to my Parent’s diary of the Australian holiday. It comprises of the emails they sent home while there. As such, it’s a fascinating document which both excites and depresses me. It depresses me as they miss a lot out (like one of my favourite memories, drinking my first ‘real’ martini in Sydney). They don’t describe the spectacular nights sky at Uluru – a sky which simply fills ones heart with wonder and awe. They don’t mention peter, etc. however, I’m more excited than depressed – it just brings back so many memories. It helps trigger a billion good thoughts.

What shall I tell you guys about tonight? [thinks, then laughs]

HELICOPTERS! Oh, man, do those things rule! In the south of Australia, about a day’s drive from Melbourne, are the twelve apostles – twelve spires of rock sticking up from the ocean. Two or three have recently collapsed, so they no longer number twelve. One can get helicopter rides along the shore for a better view of these natural monoliths. They use small choppers, so we had to hire two, and I went up with Luke (my kick-ass brother). I sat up front, next to the pilot, and it was one of the greatest moments of my life. The moment when the craft leaves the ground is unbelievable. And the view, is a view… just incredible. Watching the ground whiz by 30 metres below is exhilarating.

As if one is not enough, I had another chopper ride! King’s canyon is a truly beautiful area, a cleft in the ground full of exotic plants, animals and birds. One can, if you rise early enough, walk it’s rim on a guided tour, but by no means is this wheelchair accessible. So, while dad and Luke went on this walk, mum and I flew over it! How cool is that. Okay, we didn’t get up close, but I loved it all the same and the feeling of being left out wasn’t there (I think I had the better deal, in a way).

Looking down from the front seat of a helicopter, you see for miles; there is a feeling of power, of weightlessness. It was just sublime.

I want one.

not much to say tonight – its been a bit of a long day full of ups (having a great idea for my film essay) and downs (getting a relatively poor mark for a story). So tonight I’ll just post a link here , to the video of a great song by pink.

While the details of our circumstances are rather different, I think I’ll post a link to this article tonight. It’s a very well written and thought provoking article by a man with DMD and his use of a prostitute. My first reaction is ‘so what?’ the guy obviously felt the need to use a whore. As far as I’m concerned, that’s his business. But it does raise certain issues, like how ‘we’ get sexual partners. Now, I’m quite sure that if I wait long enough, I’ll eventually find a sexual partner. But I could be waiting a very long time, as right now girls don’t seem to fancy me, although most of my friends seem to be girls.

But what if I lost patience? I think I would indeed consider using a prostitute. As long as the lady in question is consenting, why should things like this be a problem, or even taboo?

I hate these dark evenings. It’s been quite a bitter day, and I haven’t done much. During breaks in the weather I managed to drive into the village and back: I seem to be able to think more clearly when on the move, as it gives my hands something to do and my eyes something to look at. I need to decide a few things about one or two forthcoming essays.

Right now, it’s probably morning back in Sydney, and Monday morning or not they’re probably having fun! while this may dishearten some, it kind of cheers me up. At least somewhere is bright and sunny. Sydney is a very cool place, and the harbour is beautiful, but I think I actually preferred Brisbane, with it’s long wide river and very cosmopolitan feel. It was also just about the only place where I got a real beer – one night we found an irish pub which sold guiness. I must admit, however, that I drank a bit too much of this. I noticed, too, that it’s university had a pretty sizable film theatre, so no prises for guessing where I want to move to

Oh well, to travel is to come back, and university is a cool place too. I better crack on with work in the morning, but whenever I get too bored, I can always look through the diary my parents kept while in Oz, or go for a drive into the village.

One final thing: I found out what ‘waltzing matilda’ means. Matilda is a name for one’s bag, and so to waltz it is to travel with a bag on your back. In short, it’s a travelling song!

I have been looking through some old blog entries today. I think I’ll use some for my exhibition-thingy in march, and deciding which to use will be hard. It does, however, astonish me to think that it’s now almost five; when I started keeping a blog I didn’t expect it to last very long, but it has, and I certainly intend to keep it up.

Admittedly, it’s been crap recently. I’ve been busy with other things, and haven’t thought much about blogging. It will get better, I promise. I need to tell you all about

Australia: About moreton island; about Uluru; about flying in helicopters and riding monorails. Need to tell you about my new friend Rozie, from the states, and Peter (who I’ve mentioned before), and about Simon and joss, my parents’ friends, who live in the coolest house in the southern hemisphere (bit like the burrow but with a kick-as basement). The question is, where to begin – how can I possibly tell you about the coolest journey over the most awesome, awe-inspiring place on earth?

Well, slowly. There’s too much for one entry; to be honest, I have enough material for several dozen. Where to begin, though? That’s the hard part.

There is, however, one part I need to put down from the off: Australia is wonderfully accessible. There are ramps everywhere, and folk are incredibly friendly. That is not to say that oz is wheelchair friendly, however: there is a difference between wheelchair friendliness and accessibility. Quite often, for example, lifts were tucked away in corners, and took ages to find. A good example of this is the lift up to the bridge over darling harbour, which took ages to locate and when you did it was being used, more often than not by people perfectly able to use stairs.

Mind you, this is my only gripe; I now have a plethora of great memories – enough to keep me blogging for another five years.

It seems its all going pear shaped for Blair. Given he’s had ten years in office, its not surprising. One of his aides has been arrested for fraud.

I don’t like the bloke. He’s lead us into a disastrous war. And now we are a country which virtually endorses execution. I do not care what the Americans might claim

– capitol punishment is barbaric. Saddam was evil, yes, but to resort to something so base, and for us brits not to object in the strongest terms possible, is utterly disgraceful.

Yet I remain stuck between a rock and a hard place. I hate Blair, but I loathe Cameron. He’s a conservative, and conservatism, rather than being a well-thought out political stance, is just a series of id impulses based on greed. Its about preserving the status quo, despite the fact that the status quo is unfair. Free market economy is wasteful. But conservatives want to preserve it out of greed. Then, there’s Cameron’s stance on special education; this, too, is poorly thought out. Special schools are disastrous in terms of education. The only way for us crips to be fully accepted is for all children to be taught together. Cameron’s plans to reintroduce segregated education is the mark of a man who blinds himself to long term repercussions while wanting to mollycoddle disabled kids. He thus doesn’t understand the issue.

Hate Blair. Hate cam-moron. I think I’ll move to Australia.

The interfaculty cup starts at two. I get the feeling all hell is going to break loose. This is the annual sports event between mmu Cheshire and mmu Manchester; it takes place here, and we compete iin many sports. I plan to go to girls hockey and girls basketball.

Thing is, the rivalry is quite fierce. Everyones quite pumped, and theres beer involved. Thus it’s a recipe for total chaos.

What fun.

I went home this weekend. After three weeks away and one week at uni, I just needed to sleep in my own bed. There’s nothing quite like going downstairs of a Sunday morning to find breakfast on the table.. the simple things, you know, like watching time team or David Attenborough with mum and dad. I love university, and I love my friends here, but home is still home.

Yesterday, as per my brothers instructions (he once famously wrote, aged about 9, that our Sunday ritual was to eat roast beef and to take grandma for a drive) we went down to Amerton farm. It has been ages since we visited my childhood joy: as a kid I used to love it. Back then it was a working farm where you could watch cattle being milked, hens being fed etc, but the thing I loved most was the tractor in the field. It was an old Massey, rusting away in the rain, but I loved it when dad took me from my pram, and later my chair, and placed me onto the old seat.

Yesterday we went down to see how much it had changed. Of course, it has changed quite a bit: parts have expanded, others shrunk. The milking parlour is gone, and there is now a petting zoo. I didn’t expect to see the tractor.

But, after a delicious ice cream in the restraint, we went walking. Dad commented on how much it had changed. We went into a barn, and there it was.

With a lick of red paint it stood there, unmistakably. The old tractor. ‘Hello, old friend.” I thought, patting it’s bonnet.

Life is good.

I’ve been humming ‘waltzing matilda’ all day today. I have been humming it all week, in fact. I have some very happy memories of that song.

It seems to be a symbol of everything Australian. Australians themselves seem to love it, and sing it regularly. While there, I had the good misfortune to go to watch two cricket matches; while we need not go over the result (I now regard English cricket as truly dead, and Rupert Murdoch the killer), I had great fun watching thee barmy army try to outsing the boony army, and vice versa. Surprisingly, we brits were more vocal than the ausies, singing our themes. However, after a rendition of ‘Jerusalem’, the Australian supporters decided to counter strike with ‘waltzing matilda’. The funny thing is, we joined in! this embodies the relationship between the two nations: the rivalry is a friendly one indeed.

But the most magical occasion when it was sung was on a bus. We were driving back from watching the sun go down at Uluru. If you ever have an opportunity to do this, you must. It is the most magical, beautiful thing ever, sipping wine while watching the awesome red rock glow. Our tour guide, Peter, one of the nicest, most knowledgeable people I’ll ever meet, had just finished talking, and the bus slowly made it’s way through the darkness. Slowly, quietly, someone started singing: ‘once there was a swag man…’ and others joined in. peter happened to have a tape of the song, so he put it in the PA system. That was quite a wonderful end to a wonderful day, and although the details may or may not be wrong, I remember it as being one of the happiest moments of my life. Once a jolly swagman camped by a billabong,

Under the shade of a Coolibah tree,

And he sang as he watched and waited till his billy boil,

You’ll come a Waltzing Matilda with me.

I’m afraid I won’t be able to write the article I intended to write tonight; I have had a lot of work given to me today, and, although it’s not due till march, its rather long and I’m eager to get it started. It is, however, a story, and for that I have plenty to write about.

Nothing provides one with more inspiration than travel. For my story I’m writing about one of the things I saw on holiday – the Endeavour. The replica of Cook’s ship is currently moored in darling harbour, Sydney; we got to that city on new year’s eve, and were planning to celebrate with dinner in our hotel, we’d flown in from Alice that afternoon, and were looking forward to a nice meal. My parent’s room looked out over the harbour, and, looking through their window I could see the National maritime museum, with three or four vessels ‘parked’ along side it.

There were two vessels clearly on the dock, and one sailing vessel to one side. I immediately expected this to be the endeavour, and asked someone if the sailing ship over the water was cook’s. he replied that it was, and I was happy.

A day or two after tat, we visited the museum. Oddly, the ship I had seen was not the endeavour; cooks ship actually lay with the rest of the ships in the museum, right by a destroyer and a sub. With my brother’s help (18th century barks are not accessible to us wobblies) I explored the ship. It was as if the crew had just left it. The captain’s uniform even hung in his quarters. Cook has been a hero of mine for quite some time, and it was amazing just to be in that ship/

However this left a mystery – what was the second sailing vessel? Secretly, I’d hoped it was called Enterprise, but it turned out much more spooky. On our second to last night in Australia, I went with Luke for a walk around the harbour; I asked him for a closer look at the mystery ship, and he obliged. At first, the ship appeared nameless, and we were about to walk past the ship when I finally saw her name, painted on her aft. I shivered. It was the most famous pirate ship ever to sail; Blackbeard’s ship.

The bounty.

This is just a quick entry saying I’m back. The lack of bloggage was due to me being in Australia over Christmas. Although they do indeed have computers down under, I was too busy to blog.

I have much to write about, but it’ll have to wait, as I’m basically shattered. I have enough material for several months of entries, and memories which will last a life time.

Esther and I are packing up my room. I go home tonight after about 6 wees away. Apart from a brief visit to give mum a form on Tuesday, it’s the longest time I’ve ever been away. I must say I’m rather pleased with myself, as a man who not very long ago couldn’t bear tto stay a night away from his parents. Why I was ever such a wimp beats me. I see university as my home now – it’s the place where I’m most forfilled. its whhere my friends are Anyway, dads waiting. I cannot believe I’m about to enter my final year. Time flies, and uni is too much fun.

I just got home, read this article, and thought up the following reworking of an old classic:

Tiger tiger burning bright

Motion sensing cameras fight

Still no hand nor electric eye

Frames thy fearful symmetry

EXTREMELY coolly, 1voice was in the guardian today. My favourite charity has won an award from my favourite newspaper. Mind you, given the work they do, if you ask me it’s about time: all joking aside, I think 1voice do an excellent job. Growing up, I felt somewhat alone, so the idea of bringing children who used vocas together with adults who used them is quite quite brilliant in my opinion. I’m not sure what the kids get from my being there – an academic rather too fond of alcohol – but my fellow role models do a truly great job. To say this award is well deserved is an abject understatement. Well done everyone!

Click here for the article, or see page 8 of the society supplement of today’s guardian.

Please can someone explain chick flicks to me! I was at the cinema last night with a couple of girls and we went to see The Holiday – I told them they could decide what we saw, since I chose last time. I rather like Jack Black anyway, so at first I had no objection.

However, this was a sugary, over-sentimental movie: apparently we brits all live in chocolate box cottages and have plumy accents; apparently everyone in LA works in the film industry and has big houses. This is a film where nothing bad happens – that is, there is no plot-retention, no twists or suspense. Its just two women swapping houses and finding love in each others countries. They all live happily ever after. No baddies, no cheating, no cool cars, no guns.

Well, charlotte and Julie loved it. They both said they cried. Explain please!

Last night was cool! Four of my friends are in a band – kind of the campus house band – and were playing last night in the limelight club, Crewe, in a charity gig for St. Luke’s Hospice. The limelight is one of those cool little places where you feel like you’re entering some underworld, although I was cursing the designer for putting in so many steps. You go up some steps to enter the place (where there’s the foyer with the bar which sells old speckled hen) then down into the room with the stage. Steps having been negotiated, I sat down with my beer.

Almost inevitably, given the purpose of the gig, I thought of school. Before the bands came on, Bryan Adams’ everything I do’ was playing on a big screen: that reminded me of a trip with school to centre parks back in 1994. we went to the one in Sherwood forest, and Miss. Tomlinson put Robin Hood, Prince of Thieves on to help prepare us. I thought of my class, hoping that they were having as much fun as I was. But then, the truth of that situation is complex, and, given that three of my old class had MD, prone to make me think bleak thoughts. Aye, I know about hospices…

That bit of thinking having been done, I sipped my pint and thoroughly enjoyed the evening. Brand new day were the last of four bands to play, all quite good. One band was made up of teenagers, and – as Nicky remarked – the lead singer looked like Elijah Wood, which struck me as funny. I then saw the lead guitarist had a passing resemblance to Samwise Gamgee, and mentally branded the band Hobbits.

I spent the evening talking and dancing. I realised too that I don’t like Brand New Day simply because I know its members – I like their mix of rock, Irish folk and strong procession. Charlotte rules on the violin, and I don’t just say that because she’s a good friend. These guys have a truly great sound.

Life rules more and more these days; I am almost considering trying to slow down. I can’t believe we’re about to enter our last term.

while I’m not usually in the business of advertising, this advert for hineken quite amuses me.

The internet is an odd thing indeed. It is at one and the same time the most wonderful depository of information ever known, and the biggest pile of shit ever to grace thee planet. This is it’s greatness; its why I spend hours on it; its why I add to it.

Nothing epitomised this paradox better than fanfic, or it’s most recent incarnation, the fan film. Yes, believe it or not, people have started making films of their favourite television programmes and posting them on the net. Predictably, with the demise of Enterprise, there are groups of people now making films based in the trek universe: I’d presume that one would need a fictional universe as detailed as the star trek one to facilitate such an endeavour. Either way, I came across such a phenomenon on Thursday night, and decided to find out more.

What I uncovered is, in a way, quite fascinating, both on the sociological level, and from the perspective of a student film interested in structuralism. Why would these people need to make such films: where do they get the resources, and for that matter the time, when they get no profit? Already, ‘hidden frontier’ has 7 seasons to it’s name, each with 6 half hour live action episodes. Admittedly, the cgi and production values aren’t up to cinema, or even television standards, but it’s still impressive. I watched season 6 last night, and it’s not as abysmal as you would expect.

The creators seem to be reading trek against the grain, as it were. We have a crew on a federation star base – DS12 – fighting a war against the ‘Grey’, but they seem to doubt Starfleet; that is Starfleet is portrayed as sanctimonious in it’s ‘holier and thou’ attitudes. It can be covert, too secretive; it wants other species to help it, but it keeps information from them.

No prises for putting two and two together! This is obviously a critique of the conduct of the united states in its war on terror. Both Starfleet and the US see themselves as having the moral high ground without actually having it. In hidden frontier, it is posited that the federation planted the evidence which brought the romulans into the dominion war on it’s side. Thus, the federation is shown to be fallible and duplicitous where once it was seen as the moral guardian of galactic piece.

You see now why I am interested? As people start to question America from within, the on-screen surrogates for America start to be questioned. This is why I can forgive the terrible dialogue and often abysmal acting. What we see in such series is a response, not only to star trek but contemporary society. Hence we have an openly gay couple in this series, something avoided in the mainstream.

I can already hear my brothers moaning, but I like it, and find it interesting. I’ll certainly continue to watch. Go take a look.

I must admit the pangs of homesickness returned last night. Believe it or not, I was in a church; my friends were giving a gospel choir concert, and I went along to listen. They were really really good, actually. Sat there in the church, with a decidedly festive spirit in the air, I suddenly thought of my parents and home. I wondered what was happening back there – my parents probably sat round the TV, or talking to mark or Luke on the phone.

Given the family home is about seven miles away, for about two seconds I wondered if I could get someone to drive me home. But then I realised my friends all felt the same way, and to do so would be very selfish. Indeed, there are people here from as far afielld as the united states who do not have such an option. I looked at a friend of mine from Texas, singing on the back row, and resolved to hug her as soon as I could.

After the concert came yet more singing. It was karaoke night in the plough, to which we all went after the show. The place was heaving, but we found a table near the stage. My friends, extroverts that they all are, performed, and it made me very happy when I got three of them to sing ‘nobody does it better’ by carly Simon. If I had gone home I’d have missed so much fun!

Home is home, a place where I’m always welcome, but university is so much cooler!

link

I woke up this morning in a much better mood than I have in the last couple of days. University just seems to be dragging abit, or perhaps its just the time of year, but today I feel re-energised, ready to face the day. Ready to continue my search for filmic neuroaesthetics; ready to write stories; even ready to do paperwork (well, it needs doing). It feels like someone just put new batteries in. how long it’ll last I’m not sure (I haven’t checked my email yet, which always has the potential to herald doom). Today I have writing, my culture lecture, then a carol service, then a house party which promises to get messy. Now doesn’t that sound like fun?

Well, onwards and upwards, and forwards into a bright new day.

My plan failed at the last hurdle. Last Saturday, at Onevoice, a guy called andy made a track by mixing recordings of statements from the kids and rolemodels and putting it to a beat. If you ask me, it was a really good record, and the first time I heard it I decided I wanted to get it played at the chrisstmas disco in brandies.

I asked Andy (whose band is called the Victors) to send me a CD as soon as he could. He happily obliged, and it came yesterday. Embarrassingly, the cd was in a ballamorey case, so I spent most of yesterday carrying what looked like a kids TV programme around. Anyway, everything seemed to be going according to plan.

Last night was quite a cool night. Before the disco, there was a party In kellet with pretty much all my mates. I was, needless to say, dressed as a fairy, my costume trimmed with tinsel. We were all dressed up, with four of my mates going as each other. We played I have never, a very embarrassing game indeed.

After that, quite drunk though we all were (Steve actually carrying me down the stairs, to my great surprise) we all progressed to the bar. It was freezing! Nevertheless, upon getting to the bar, I handed Steve the cd and asked him to ask the dj to play the track.

The dj said he would do so – later. So I waited, dancing and drinking rather copious amounts. And I waited. And I waited. Having a 9am lecture, and probably looking tired, charlotte took me home at 11, the track still not having been played. I cursed the dj for his lack of taste, and fell asleep.

Well, I tried guys.