I just wanted to record that today I wrote 1500 words. a new record. go me!

where do i start telling you about this week? its been cool. on tuesday I managed to get myself to a poetry reading, arranging a lift with my friend marcus. The pooetry reading went well. It was held at the local puub, off campus. wednesday night, went to the disco, as usual. established that two beers isdefinately my limit. ahem.

yesterday, I had dinner at the house of a ccouple of fellow students. they’re married with 3 kids. had quite a good eavening, even without my lihtwriter. we talked philosophy, I showed them my website. watched rich hall’s dvd.

god, I love uni!

I’m afraid this is another ‘woe is me’ rant. my lightwriter broke on friday, and has to be sent for repar. So, this is it, no lightwriter all week, and, apart from esther, they don’t understand my voice. sorry to be such a drama queen, but this scares me. esther’s making me a letter board, which I used when I was ten, but such things are flawed. without my lightwriter, how will I proove to anyone that i’m anything other than a drooling moron. feel rather scared, but it’ll be an adventure.

It has come to my attention that the following appeared on my friend kate’s blog:

“Perhaps 21 would also be a good age to learn how to spell!” if ever i find who wrote this, he or sshe would do well to hide. if, moreover, it is revealed to be one of mine own kindred, then I am ashamed. I would expect better. this really doe piss me off. Kate is bright, astute, and inteligent, and her spelling is nought save testimony to the abject failures of the special school system.

who wrote this?

i was watching two of my friends playing pool last night, talking, and so forth. I still think its cool how accepted I am. however, at one point, my mate misses his shot.

“God! I’m being such a spastic tonight!”

“Oi!” I said, about to retort with something like “theres only one spastic around here”

but there was total silence. the poor fellow looked aghast, as if he had said something terrible. I really thought he was going to wet himself with fear. “oh god, oh god,

I’m so sorry matt!”

I just couldn’t keep my face straight. I howled with laughter – he looked as if he’d killed something..

what a noughty spastic I am.

http://www.livejournal.com/users/beccaviola/ go on, she’s cleverer than me, And far more likely to b interesting.

breakky eaten! she was just a bit late time to do some work

nobody has come to give me brekfast. this is worrying. without my shoes socks, lightwriter and umbag on, I can’t go get help. luckilly, I have plenty of food, including 2 pan au chocolat which a film studies tutor gave to me. the shoes might be more of a problem, and i find doing my clip of my lightwriter up simply impossible. oh gawd

y is it that not having spoken to becca all day leaves mee so lonely? i jusst have 2c ‘becca has just signed in’ and it warms my soul.

Do u not see what you’ve done here? Four more years of bush running roughshot over international law, making war as he pleases, will bring forth terrorist attacks that I dread to think of them. Your beloved country will become more and more a rogue as country after country is invaded on your petty whims.

You voted for this? Do you not see your savagery, your xenophobia, your stupidity? You voted for more war and bloodshed, more attacks, more savagery, all due to a misguided sense of patriotism.

So let the terrorists come. The more you attack, the more their numbers will swell. There is no brand of human marked terrorist – enrage anybody enough and they will fight. America has enraged many people, and they will come.

You fools. Do you not see you are being manipulated? The release of the bin laden message 5 days before the election was deliberately designed to cause a patriotic fervour, leading more people to vote for bush. I don’t know where that video came from – maybe tora bora, maybe the fox studios – but its effect could have been predicted. It could only inspire patriotic fevour, rather than fear, which would play right into bush’s hands. Bush knew this, Kerry knew this, and bin laden knew this. No doubt that video helped win bush the election, as well as his keeping America in a constant state of fear. It was this fear, and his vicious attacks on Kerry, which returned him too the white house, to make more war and ruin America.

I hope you’re proud.

i feel frustrated. still love becs tho, which makes everything seem ok!

All things are possible. that which I never tought would come to pass happened last night, and true loves first kiss was stolen atop a star-lit ferris wheel in manchester.

I love you, becs

http://www.electoral-vote.com/ this site predicts a kerry win. I hope so. I feel likee i have an exam tomorrow

In short, Wednesday ruled and was very dull at the same time. My new P.A came at 2pm, as predicted. The problem was, there was nothing to do: the film I wanted 2c wasn’t on anywhere in Cheshire, and poor Becs had a doctor’s appointment so I couldn’t go see her. I thought it necessary to give mark a tour of the campus, then we checked out the library to make sure “inside I’m dancing” wasn’t playing, which it wasn’t. In the end, I we borrowed a DVD of Alien from the library, and watched it on my computer.

However, I better explain something. Wednesday was the day of the Halloween disco, and I had packed my black leotard and a pair of thick tights in case I got chance to dress up. That morning, I had asked my home helper what I could wear with them, and she had bought a pair of pink bunny ears, bowtie and bob-tail for me. She said when the home helper came to give me my tea, she would help me change for the party.

But no home helper came, so I had to ask mark to give me my tea, and…err…I couldn’t waste the chance of going to the party dressed as a bunny girl, could I? Poor mark didn’t know what he’d got himself into! Oddly, though, he already knew the best way to put tights on, and a short while later, I was heading off to brandies bar, cute white tail attached to the back of my leotard by safety pin. I felt I looked pretty, and got many complements from the girls at the bar (most dressed as cats) and a few of the boys. My friends were very surprised, but I think they were cool with it.

However, better not wear my bunny girl outfit too often outside, as I am now nursing quite a bad cold. How girls do not die from the cold I do not know, but I must admit it was surprisingly comfortable. and yes, mum, i am doing SOME work.

Mark s. starts work with me today. should b cool. thinking about ggoing to watch “inside i’m dancing”. will let uou know how we get on.

hay, mark. remember when we used o watch the a-team?

…..that’ll be cool.

seriously, tho, I have a lot of hope for this, still maintaining that, after the superb job peter jackson did on the “unfilmable” lord of the rings, hollywood can film anything.

this article came to my attention from my social worker, julie this morning. It’s so upsetting. I wanna help this girl. with the right help, I think jemma is heading for truly great things.

Thanks, julie.

was just watching this film with est. I have never, ever seen a less funny comedy. why jack nicolson made it i dont know.

last night my parents came round to interview a prospective personal assistant. Things are already pretty cool here, bbut it’ll be nice to replace social services home help with my own helper. This wway I can get out more, say to the arthouse cinema iin stoke. Anyway, the interview went very well, and the vacancy was filled. Nice enough bloke, and I look forward to dealing with him.

It struck me tho, that when the time came to say goodbye to my parents, I didn’t start blubbing like I used to. Perhaps I’m getting more mature? err…perhaps not.

My email system at uni is still dodgy, so I’m writing this here because its the best way of getting infomation to the right people. I keep this blog for a laugh: to let family and friends know howI’m getting along, and what I think of stuff. I did not intend to hurt anyone through it, but I have. I grossly misrepresented the views of my father and older brother, who mean no harm to anyone, least of all Charlotte wyatt.I’m sorry for any offense my rediculous site has caused. ok the fight ends here. I need an’ug.

Last night college had organised a poetry recital at a local pub, near uni. Robert, my teacher had had a word with me about it, and we agreed to meet at 7pm for him to drive me to the pub. Given that social services come to help me eat at 6.45, I decided to buy a sandwich at lunch for my tea. I can scoff sandwiches quite quickly.

6.45 came, and went. No helper.

50.nope

6.55. Uh oh. I decided to go out myself and try to eat on my own. I left a message about where I had gone with my flatmates, and headed, sandwich in hand, for the canteen.

Robert was already there, waiting. “I was getting worried” he said. I explained my predicament, and he very kindly offered to help me eat. Imagine it: one’s writing lecturer feeding you a ham and tomato buttie! It was almost surreal. I felt rather strange, and guilty.

The rest of the evening didn’t go too badly. The stairs in the pub which everyone except myself was worried about weren’t a problem. The poetry itself was first rate, and the student they had asked to introduce the thing did a fine job. There were many quite serious, deep poems – I felt like crying at one stage – but these were well balanced by comic poems. My own attempts were read by a mature student called John, and I think they were well received.

So, apart from the disaster at the beginning, and scaring tutors by going down the stairs on my arse, the evening went well. And, given my experience with something called a Diesel on Wednesday, I kept to the coke!

I just found the following on an american site;

[quote]Mom and Claire’s brother watched the September 11th videos showing on tv. It is amazing how it affects you all over again, like maybe they just forgot how really bad it was… mom teared up and could hardly talk… it was just horrible for everyone. Prayers go out for those people… the victims and the survivors of this awful tragedy.[/quote] they show repeats of 9/11 on tv in the us. why? to stir up feelings? supprt for bush’s war. is this the state of american democracy? how very, very underhand.

This morning, before esther arrived, I was hanging around th net and I came across this short film. It’s a parody of michael moore’s work, and draws a parelell between 9/11 and…wait for t…the battle of helm’s deep. even though it’s clearly pro-war and probably pro-bush, I cant help but love this film. I was amused to see their version of moore claiming that there was no link between sauron and saruman, and that Mordor was, in fact, a peace-loving nation.

I just read this article about inside i’m dancing. I mustn’t comment till i’ve seen the film, but I’m irked that they haven’t used disabled actors.

Me and my parents were talking last night about what it is to be human. Two factors had sparked this debate: the murder of ken biggley and the decision of the charlotte wyatt case. Firstly, we were debating over whether charlotte was human – I think she most certainly is, reguardless of what she can and cannot do. from a very reductionist standpoint, she cannot do what most other humans do: talk, think, love. This was the crux of my dads argument last night, and I think its bollox. She is loved by her parents, she loooks like a human. she should be valued as any other human being and given the chance to live. After all, doctors once said similr things of me.

Later in the evening, we got to talking about the bigley murder. This discusts me, as it will most people, but at one stage I forgot myself and dscribed his captors s not human. dad pulled me over, saying “as soon as we define such people as not human, we forget that they have motives; as soon as we define them as animals, they become easier to kill, and we become as bad as them.” dad wad, of course, right, but it struck me as odd that he could define a disabled baby as not being fully human, and then defend the main tennet of libealism so eloquenttly. Not sure I understand.

I just wanna note that my newest garment fits. Feel slightly wary of saying this, but its my blog and I’ll say what I wish. my new leotard fits perfectly,and I especially like its short sleeves. why I like dressing so much I don’t know, I just do. thinking of wearing something feminine on halowe’en.

On Wednesday s, as it stands right now I don’t have any lessons – I have no lessons in the morning, and all universities and colleges leave Wednesday afternoons free. Because it’s the beginning of term, I don’t have much work, and Esther proposed it might be nice to use the time to go explore Alsager. Very kindly, she and her mother came to help me explore the city. Mrs. Everett wanted to visit the bake house in the village, and I wanted to see if there are any decent book stores there.

Perhaps surprisingly for a university town, we found only one book store, but this was well stocked. Having got my parents to order the books I need for uni, I went in to investigate the price of Michael Palin’s Himalaya book. This was £20, and given that I have limited money, and that my parents will hopefully be getting it for me for Christmas, I thought it best not to buy it.

Alsager struck me as a well-to-do, middle-class area, full of rather large houses. It is the epitomie of affluential suburbia, and the shops which line it’s high street reflect this: mostly estate agents, coffee shops and high quality clothes stores. Mrs Everett bought two dozen or so sausage rolls for her sons from chatwins, but mostly we just did some window shopping.

I must say that both mrs Everett and Esther are very kind indeed. It must not have been easy to come all the way from Crewe just to take me shopping, and although I offered to pay for the coffee, they refused point blank to accept my money. Mrs Everett offered to pay for Himalaya, which was naturally out of the question – I’d have felt so guilty. She’s too kind.

However – and my parents won’t like this – on our way home we passed a dance store, synonymous with middle-class areas. Let me explain that, as a replacement for intimacy with ‘the fairer sex’ I have taken to cross dressing, and one of my favourite garments of lust are leotards. like it or not – and part of me agrees with my parents and brothers that this is a disgusting pastime – my dressing is a part of my persona. It brings me much joy, and I couldn’t resist the opportunity to order a beautiful black leotard. It will cost 11 quid, and yes, Dad, I feel guilty, but I really need this part of my life. Please don’t be too angry.

After that, we strolled home, where Esther helped me get lunch, and we all ate together. As I said, I’m very grateful to Esther and mrs Everett. They were very helpful, and I need a way to repay them. Any suggestions?

I was up in Durham yesterday, visiting mark, my brother. He lives there with Kat, and I always like going up: I love travelling, and crossing the Pennines into the north-east is always beautiful. There is always something about car journeys which allows one to think.

We got there early, because dad was driving, and we took the Octavia. Mark lives in Ushaw Moor, a village just outside the city. It’s a pretty, quiet little place, but mot of all I love visiting Mark because I’m in awe of his brain: he’s doing a PHD in physics!

Massive brain or no, sometimes he gets stuff wrong. Over lunch, we began to discuss the case of Charlotte Wyatt, whom the NHS want to let die despite her parents wishes. Mark – and everyone else in the room – said that she should be allowed to die, but in my opinion this is murder. Life, I believe, should always be preserved, no matter what. My brother presented the ‘suffering’ argument, but given that A) suffering is relative and B) charlotte cannot give her opinion on the subject, this argument doesn’t wash. As I said, relatively speaking, I suffer, should I die? I also made the points that I was against abortion of disabled babies – which, effectively, this is an extension of – and that I too was resuscitated at birth. Should dr. Kay have given me mouth to mouth? I think so, and the same concept applies to charlotte.

Now mark thinks I’m fascist. I think mark should stick to physics.

http://www.ottobock.com/en/superfour christmas is coming. I so want one of these!

I went out to the union bar again last night. Brandies is it’s name, and I must admit it’s not at all like how I had always imagined bars. I thought they were small, crowded places, carpeted in red with mahogany furnishings. To be sure, a small part of brandies is like this: the bar itself is indeed mahogany and equipped with the quintessential pull-taps, but away from the bar, the room opens up into a huge hall, suitable for dancing. There is a stage, and two pool tables in one corner.

As a person who, back home, spends evenings in his room on a p.c, I have decided that its high time I experience what I call ‘bar culture’. Brandies is just round the corner from where I now live and, as I don’t fancy the prospect of sitting alone in my room of an evening, it seems I can just walk to brandies for an evenings entertainment. It isn’t so much the alcohol – for I never drink more than 2 pints – as the people whom I meet there. It seems a good place to make friends. Why then do I feel so guilty about it? Why is my brain getting so puritanical on me. Argh. I sound like my mum.

Anyway, last night I met this bloke. I had got there early, after tea, and the place was nearly empty. About eightish I got chatting to a mature student – a family man waiting for his rugby-playing wife. We chatted about all sorts of things: he was a decent, helpful guy, unafraid to call me names. I decided to tell him about my current PA problem, and he said he might be a possible candidate. He sounded well-suitable, but I thought it prudent to proceed through official lines, so I asked him to look for the add in the local press. It will probably come to nothing, but at least I have yet another cool new friend.

I was curious. I just found a link to the video of the beheading of Armstrong. As a student of history, I’m familiar with state beheadings. They’re usually swift affairs with a well-swung axe or guillotine, but this was beyond words. Whatever respect anyone had for these insurgents – these cowards who can no longer be called human – is gone. If I didn’t know it would jeopardise the life of Kenneth bigley, and probably the lives of innocent Iraqis, I would urge the total annihilation of these scum. I’m usually anti-capital punishment, but I want these people dead.

well, this is it. Today’s the day I head for uni. we’re heading for alsager in just under an hour in order to set my room up etc. I’ll be sleeping at home tonight, but today’s the day we set everything up. Don’t know when I’lll be able to blog again, but I intend to blog from uni.

It feels as if this is the beginning of a great adventure: a ship finally about to leave its moorings for the high seas. the bags have been packed. the decks are clearr. all hands prepare to weigh anchor. take us out!

I just watched the film Ghandi with dad. It’s a truly excellent film. I just want to say how much I’m in awe of this softly-spoken man, and how much I admire his methods of non-violent protest. I wanted to see it partly because I like Richard Attenborough’s work, and partly because I wanted to try to use the British Raj as a frame of comparison for what the Americans are doing in Iraq. In this era of the war on terror, where I feel neither the terrorists nor the Americans are in the right, we could do with a “great soul” like his around.

Often, I refer to the current state of affairs as a war of vengeance for 9/11, and I am reminded of Ghandi’s words: “an eye for an eye makes the whole world blind”

Let me start this entry with a confession: I don’t like staying away from home. I’m a complete wimp about it. I like being with my parents and my brothers, safe at home, with my room, and my bed. It is for this reason that when my parents wanted me to try staying a night or two a week at school, age 14, I cried my eyes out.

Never mind that there were kids half my age who stayed all week, something about Resi made me want my mummy.

See! I’m a complete wuss!

Why oh why am I now, age 21, starting t feel the same feelings of apprehension about university? I’ve been through this with myself again and again: if I don’t leave home now, when will I do it? Do I want to be the only 50 year old still living with his parents? No. therefore this is something I must do, for both mine and my parent’s sanity. To be sure, part of me is looking forward to it: more freedom than ever before, cool people to talk to, bars etc.

And yet there’s that old familiar tingle in my stomach which tells me to stay in bed and hope the problem will go away. What if I don’t find out where lectures are? What if I forget something? What if I’ve missed something I’m supposed to know? All these things are now going through my head, and I’m not sure what to do. Frankly, I’m scared.

I’m also scared that I’ll bottle it, and ask to be taken home. That must not happen – leaving home starts now, or it never will. As much as I worry about the big, wide world, I really do not want to say home all my life, never to see thhings like the amason or the great barrier reef. I cannot – I must not – be a wuss all my life.

“He who joyfully marches to music rank and file, has already earned my contempt. He has been given a large brain by mistake, since for him the spinal cord would surely suffice. This disgrace to civilization should be done away with at once. Heroism at command, how violently I hate all this, how despicable and ignoble war is;

I would rather be torn to shreds than be a part of so base an action. It is my conviction that killing under the cloak of war is nothing but an act of murder.” – albert einshien

I hate when people pat me on the head. It’s silly! Folks think I’m aged five, rruffle my hair, and talk down to me. I hate it, and it makes me want to kick their condescending little asses. But there are times when such behaviour is useful, and even endearing. I’ll explain:

I know this fine old English pub, called The Swettenham Arms. It’s way out in the countryside, down quaint little lanes; Dad says he found the place in the old CAMRA guide, and we sometimes went there when we were little. Last summer, I discovered the place, although well outside walking distance, was well within reach of my wheelchair, so I decided to mount an expedition to have a drink or two there. The thing was, although I offered many times, the owners – kind, elderly people – wouldn’t let me pay for drinks. They refuse o take my money, but they talk to me, hold my cup steady etc. and even though they sometimes talk down to me, they’re so nice that I don’t mind.

I was over there this afternoon: the bar keeper helped me with my Pepsi (free) and, as we chatted, stuffed two mint chocolates in my mouth. I think they were a bit surprised to find that I am going to university, and was able to enquire about the pub’s history (it’s 16th century), but, although their voices became less patronising, the chocolate still kept coming.

It’s such a nice place too. Just past the pub, the road gives way to bridal path, which leads one through some very picturesque scenery for five or six KM, but brings one out on the main Congleton-Homes Chapel road, which is too dangerous for me to go along. Also, directly behind the pub is a gate to a nature reserve, which I’m yet to explore.

As these people were so kind to me, I think it necessary to convince dad to go their more often, as I feel these kind people need to be paid somehow. If we buy a meal or two there, my conscience would be clear. I’m sure many of my friends would say that these folks were being highly patronising, but I just cant resent them if they are so kind.

No doubt you will have gathered, from my lack of entries, that I’ve been away since Wednesday. Mind you, I’m not the most frequent of bloggers, so you may just have thought that I was just being my usual lazy self, but let me assure you the former was the case. I had an excellent time down south, and we did more than usual this time.

When we go to visit my Yaiya, its usually just for two or three days, and we nearly always simply hang around her house (either that or I get left behind while my parents go shopping). Tres dull. This time, however, was different – we actually went places!

The first day – Wednesday – we went to the famous science museum. Mum had to work, so myself, Luke, my cousin Cyril and Dad took a bus into the city centre, which is a rare event in itself. At that time, we did not know that most new London busses are adapted to accommodate wheelchairs, so I thought I had to get out of the chair to get onto the bus. This was ok, as I needed the exercise. The museum itself was fine, and not too crowded, although I did get rather peeved when a woman pushed in front of me to use a computer that I was just rolling up to. I think she heard when I shouted the word “bitch” at her fat arse. It was strange, though, how much that little incident irritated me: I was fuming all afternoon.

The next day, however, was the coolest from my perspective. I had arranged – that is, cajoled dad and Luke into arranging – to go see Becca for an hour or so. Why she agreed to let us all into her house I do not know, but it was very cool to chat with them for an hour or two. Not for the last time I wished I had brought my Lightwriter, but we managed. My parents seemed very impressed with both Becca and Katy, and they were quite taken when she told them she had chosen not to be ambulant. It was Kate’s decision to, use a chair more than walk, which would surprise many able-bodied people, especially if they cling to the medical model. All in all, it was a very enjoyable couple of hours – far better than those spent watching the chronicles of Riddick.

If Thursday was the coolest day from my perspective, then Friday was the coolest from Dad’s, for he got to walk around a farm chomping apples. We had all driven – yaiya included – into deepest, darkest Kent, to a fruit farm. I couldn’t resist, upon arrival, asking for a scone with cream and jam, for I had gone all nostalgic for all things British: the sun was shining, cricket was on the radio. We toured the farm, with a very learned guide, who let us taste all the different types of fruit grown there for research purposes. However, not satisfied with the small chunks the guide gave us, dad took to picking his own from the tree. As for myself, given half a chance I could have made one hell of a mess of the plumb trees.

The next day, I woke late, but still in time for breakfast and a walk into Harlesden for the regular surplices we get while in London. It is, by the way, the only place we have found which sells straws by the hundred. That afternoon, myself, Luke and Cyril went into the city centre for the Liberty Festival in Trafalgar square. This was a large disability festival, full of disability culture. While the disabled have a few things to be angry about, the festival was peaceful, filled with music, comedy and dance. Katy was there, and introduced us to her friends. I got to see Francesca Martinez perform, which I had wanted to see for some time, although from what I could tell she had not adapted her act for the occasion. I missed my Lightwriter, as it was noisy and communication with Katy et al was difficult. It was also very hot, so after about an hour I decided to be merciful to Luke and Cyril and go home. Nevertheless, it renewed my pride in who I am, and reminded me that I belong to a huge, great community of disabled people, who face just the same problems I do.

You lot know my attitude to religion by now, but Sunday was the anniversary of my Bappou’s death, so we went to church. It was the typical Sunday sermon, after which we took communion, and went to eat in a nearby ‘Armenian’ restraint. I certainly cannot complain about not eating well this week, as we ate at a Mexican resteraunt on the way back from Kent, giving my Yaiya her first taste of Mexican food. I think she liked it.

Well, that’s about it: we had a slow, relaxing, Sunday afternoon, and got home just after 10pm. I still miss Bappou each time we go down there, but this time I had a lot of fun. I also have a new mobile phone, which I am still learning how to use, and trying to resist the urge to throw it across the room in frustration.

Some time ago I made you (all?) aware of a Harry Potter-based Fanfic called Summon the Lambs to Slaughter. This novel is of great interest to me in that it explores the very nature of good and evil, by portraying a character conventionally thought of as evil as actually working for good. The main protagonist has cerebral palsy (CP), but Snape’s bitterness and hostility towards her actually benefit her by forcing her not to rely on the gadgets and gizmos she is usually afforded.

In the story, what is thought of as evil (and, frankly, inhumane) is actually seen by the protagonist as good. Thus the story vividly explains why ‘good’ and ‘evil’ are blurred. Thus I find it absurd for the republicans to be talking in such terms. To portray oneself as ‘fighting evil’ is as juvenile as it is arrogant, and no doubt bin laden sees himself as doing the same. The war on terror is not Tolkien’s War of the Ring, nor is it the fourth world war. Bush is neither Frodo nor Churchill, and to view terrorists as another Hitler is a gross oversimplification. They know no borders, and I fear that they will multiply as America romps so eagerly throughout the world in it’s current crusade.

For, like it or not, religion is a major part of this war. I am an atheist: I see no evidence of a god, save for his venom. At school, I saw kids suffer and struggle for life while the teachers fed us platitudes and kept us away from the public. And I ask myself: “what God would allow this?” God is not there, and for the republicans to prey to him as they fight this war against Evil is merely a sign of their stupidity. Religion is for the weak. Republicans use it as an excuse for their tunnel-vision –their belief in a free-market economy, which breeds only greed and corruption at the expense of the majority. Socialism may not work, but one of it’s downfalls was the greed an selfishness of humanity.

Another example of the sheer childishness of the people attending this convention was the way Moore was booed, like kids booing the villain at a pantomime. He dares to question your views, tries to make you look outside the tunnel: maybe America isn’t the great land your fathers said it was. Maybe it is corrupt and flawed, like any other country on earth. Admittedly, it no longer has the highest crime rate (I just looked it up.) Yet you condemn Moore as a traitor for speaking his mind and questioning dogma.

You criticise Kerry while supporting a man who has seen no battle. You were so eager for vengeance for 9/11 that you believed the claptrap about the links between al qa’ida and Iraq: links which amount to a few money transactions and a hospital stay. It is almost as if you want to prove to the world how big and macho you really are, after someone kicked you in the nuts. Have you ever wondered why you got that kick, other than the typical “they hate our freedom”. Well, maybe they do, but if so they are fools and deserve only to be ignored.

I have written enough. Let the fools play soldiers.