Not far from where I now live is  Kidbrooke Village. I came across it a few weeks before christmas, and since then I’ve been going there quite frequently.  It’s a trendy, recently redeveloped area which I reach along freshly-built paths. There are several blocks of flats (some still being built) set around architecturally-designed squares and pretty little parks. There’s even a cool little pub, The Depot, which I’d like to take Charlie to one day. It is the epitome of modern London, and was   obviously designed with city executives in mind. Yet I can’t  help thinking how much it contrasted with Congleton: you find such redevelopments all over the city these days, with their ubiquitous sleek urban architecture. Up north, though, towns seem to be being allowed to rot: new housing estates are  being built,  but there is no new infrastructure – no new  shops, community centres or parks – to go with them. So much  money is being spent on redeveloping London and it’s suburbs, while it seems the rest of the country is just being allowed to waste away. It’s an imbalance which seems quite perverse.

The world now urgently needs to get a grip on America. The idiot in the White House obviously wants to play the tough guy, and distract people from the fact he’s being impeached, so he starts world war three. With absolutely no understanding of the consequences of his actions, Trump has ordered the assassination of an important foreign dignitary. The buffoon didn’t know what he was doing: he’s a failed businessman obsessed with his own image who’d be begging on the streets of New York had it not been for his father. Yet in an act of utter, utter stupidity, he was allowed into the most powerful office in the world. And now, putting his own shortsighted interests first, he has been allowed to throw a stick of dynamite onto a situation many far more intelligent people had been working years to balance. Surely we need to put pressure on America to grow up and get a proper leader who understands geopolitics, before Trump does something even more reckless and stupid. Were this any other country acting so brazenly, the international community would be jumping on them like a tonne of bricks. Why, then, should the US be allowed to get away with it?

Oh,  what a way to begin a new decade.

In light of the sad death of Niel Inness recently, although it is now already three years old, I think it’s worth directing everyone here. Surely we all now have something to say in light of recent  events.

I am all for a general strike, like the one in france. If everybody stopped working and brought down the Tories, I say, bring it on. Such action may be extreme, but I honestly believe we are past the point where we need to take it. The problem is, if everyone stops working, who  would come and cook dinner for me?

Today,  of course, sees the dawn of a new decade. Part of me thinks I should write an entry summing up the last one, but I don’t think I could. Where on earth would I begin? It was, by turns, both incredible and devastating. When I think about all the amazing things I did over the last ten years, about moving to London, living with  Lyn, and then breaking up, it blows my mind. I have grown so much as a person. At the same time, I can’t help thinking that the world is now in a much darker place than it was in 2010. The first half of the decade was fine, but in 2016 it obviously took a turn for the worse, and I can’t help feeling very pessimistic about where things will now end up.

Nonetheless, that shouldn’t stop us celebrating  the new year: a new decade brings with it new opportunities. The 1920s were famous for their fun and exuberance, at least among a certain group of young American expats, so much so that they were called the Roaring Twenties. We are once again in the twenties; let’s make them roar.

I know I shouldn’t make too light of drinking, but this just seemed too apt  for me not to nick

(not that I now see myself as an old woman…)

As a tribute to the great Neil Inness, the so-called seventh member of Monty Python who passed away yesterday, and who wrote so many brilliantly witty songs, I’d just like to direct everyone here.

Dad just left to return to my Grandmother’s place in Harlesden after dropping me off here in Eltham. Suffice to say, the journey back too the capital was far easier than the train trip up to cheshire.  I’ve had a  lovely few days with my parents, and have two new franchises to get into: the Orville, Seth  MacFarlane’s comedic tribute to Star Trek, and Gavin And Stacey,  both of which my parents and I binge watched over christmas. Having got back to my computer, however, I can see from my Facebook feed that all the problems which were there before christmas haven’t gone away; in fact they’re worse than ever. The queen’s speech obviously did nothing to soothe the social divisions  opened up by Brexit; what concerns me is that, the way things are going, public discourse will hit an all time low in the new year. Of course we  should never stop resisting Brexit as vigorously as possible, yet with so much rage and hate about, you have to wonder where all  this is going.

Fao Iain Duncan-Smith

I just had a haircut. To be honest I needed it, as it had been months since my last trim. The weird thing was, though, it was like stepping back in time: dad and I just had another walk down into congleton and we were passing John’s barbers, the same barber shop my brothers and I always went to when we were growing up. Dad suggested going in, and I said yes. It looked different, so I at first assumed it had changed owners, but no: going in, it was just as it always had been. The uncanny thing was, though, I was recognised by the same guy who used to cut my hair. For a moment it was like the last ten years had never happened: Lyn, London, all the incredible things I’ve seen and done over the last decade. I wanted to tell his about my new metropolitan life, but there was no time so I just let it be. But it seemed strange to step back briefly into a life I thought I’d left behind long ago.

Only a complete moron could have missed the irony in the queen’s speech this afternoon. As many had predicted, the theme this year was reconciliation between old enemies, but one of the examples she used was the reconciliation of European nations after the Second World War. That’s literally claiming to promote peace between two groups, one of whom wants to destroy the very institution designed to ensure peace. I’m sorry to say that, for all the queen’s nice platitudes, those of us who oppose Brexit cannot be reconciled to it by a few nice words.

It’s Christmas Eve and I’m afraid to say I have a cold. I haven’t had one in months, even years, but I’m currently all snotted up. I must say, though, I don’t feel that bad for it: my nose may be running, but I have all the warmth and comfort of the house I grew up in. This will be my first Christmas here in nine or ten, and although I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss lyn, something about being here feels right. Mums downstairs in the kitchen, just as she always used to be; dad’s doing various things around the house. Apart from my brothers not being here, it’s rather like the Christmases of my childhood. After a year of so much change, cold or no cold, this is probably exactly what I needed.

When I moved in with Lyn, I started using her plastic tubing for straws. She had been using hard plastic pipes to drink through for years, but until then I had used conventional disposable drinking straws. After that, of course, I was converted and have been using washable reusable straws ever since. They were durable and reusable so I could carry them with me in case I wanted a drink while I was out and about, but much kinder on the mouth than the metal straws apparently now given to people who have Parkinson’s.

Well, yesterday marked a bit of a straw related milestone. When I came up to visit my parents I forgot to pack my straws, so I simply asked mum to order a roll online. They arrived yesterday, so I suppose I am now fully converted. Just another small way life with Lyn has changed me forever.

Dad and I took a walk down Into congleton town centre this morning. As I said yesterday, I couldn’t bring my powerchair up, so Dad pushed me in my manual. I don’t think I had been into congleton town centre for over ten years, since moving to London, and I must say it was quite a trip down memory lane. At one and the same time,  it was pretty much as I remembered it from my childhood, yet also very different.  The street layout is much the same, of course, but the place is slowly losing its life. For example I remember the town market being a bustling, vibrant place, especially on a Saturday morning, yet today it seemed half empty. I couldn’t resist mentally comparing it to what I’m now used to down in London: you can hardly move for people in, say, woolwich or Stratford markets at that time on a Saturday.

Sometimes there is only one remedy for getting more and more frustrated with the way things are going in the world, and that’s to pay a visit to the house you grew up in. I’m up visiting my parents for a few days. I came up by train yesterday, but suffice to say it was quite an arduous trip. Let’s put it this way: that’s the last time I rely on TFL staff to push me, in my manual chair, between tube and train.  Mind you I’m now quite relieved I did it yesterday as, judging by the new, the trip would have been even more difficult today. At least I’m here now, although I think I have to avoid watching the news on the big family tv. I’ve only been here half a day and I think my parents are already starting to worry about how furious I get whenever I see anything about Brexit.

I think I’ve written on here before about how much I’m looking forward to Star Trek Picard hitting the ether: in february 2012 I was full of anticipatory glee when I got wind that James Bond would appear in the London olympic opening ceremony; and equally excited when I heard, in 2014, that the Monty Python guys were reuniting to perform again. The return of my favourite Starfleet captain, however, probably has me even more excited. This is Jean-Luc Picard, after all: probably my favourite character in all fiction; the character I wrote so much about in my Masters, and who we all assumed Patrick Stewart had long since put to rest. As awesome as Happy And Glorious and Monty Python Live 2014 both were, I think Star Trek Picard trumps both in the anticipation stakes.

Yet it occurs to me that there are differences in the circumstances this time. For starters, the olympic opening ceremony and Monty Python Live were both stand alone, one-off events: both lasted two or three hours, and were then over. They were singular events, whereas Picard will be a series of multiple episodes. This gives it a phenomenological difference. We could predict that Monty Python live would be a re-performing of the old classic sketches, and that Bond’s meeting with the queen would likely be a brief film which wouldn’t have much of a relationship to the Bond franchise proper. Both were a matter of an evening. In the case of picard, however, instead of a single event there is an entire series of programs to look forward to; possibly several seasons which we’ll be able to watch multiple times: a hell of a lot more to get into, go over and analyse.

That also means, of course, that there is much more room for something to go wrong. The possibility that Picard could fail to live up to our expectations is what worries me, and my eagerness is tinged with concern. While I was slightly cautious about getting overexcited upon hearing about the previous two, this time I can’t help but fret that disappointment is almost inevitable. Star Trek The Next Generation will always be a part of my childhood; I’ll forever associate it with Wednesday nights and lovie.

The problem is, from the look of the trailers, the new series will be very different: the Captain, no longer a captain but an admiral, has apparently left Starfleet and seems to be set to appear as some kind of renegade. Now, if Star Trek Picard was a single, two hour film, they could get away with it. Films are stand alone in nature, so fans could more easily forgive any veering from the character we grew up with. It would be a singular event like Monty Python Live. A series, however, unfolds over several episodes and possibly seasons, making it more prone to criticism and error. Thus as much as I liken my enthusiasm to watch Star Trek Picard to my anticipation for the olympic opening ceremony and Monty Python Live, this time I also feel much more skeptical.

I’ve had quite a day: first to welling for a new powerchair charger, then to Peckham to meet J for a spot of culture and then dinner. I spent several hours on busses, switching between this one and that. Getting around this city requires time, yet a kind of intricate specialist knowledge one only acquires after a few years living here. A unique form of knowledge concerning not just which busses and trains go where, but which paths to walk down and where to by what; a knowledge that can’t be expressed in words. After a while it starts to feel like the world is the city, and the city is the entire world. It makes me wonder, are other cities like this? Are other cities this intricate and labyrinthine? Do other cities require that form of special knowledge, or is London itself special?

Given the vast majority of people under 45 apparently voted Labour, I’m sure this echoes the feelings of young people up and  down the country.

With a  Second Scottish independence referendum now firmly  back on the cards and an Irish Unity referendum seemingly gaining traction,  it seems we are witnessing the end of the UK, brought about by Brexit. What an apt legacy that would be for the tories: Their lies, stupidity and arrogance have destroyed the country. They claim to be nationalists and patriots, but have treated the uk and  it’s people with utter, utter contempt. Surely these scumbags shouldn’t be anywhere near government.  Mind you, the fact that so many people voted for the SNP in Scotland when they might have voted for Labour probably helped to hand the Tories victory, so they share the responsibility for putting the whole country in this mess.

I just got to my computer and saw the election result. I was very apprehensive: I didn’t blog yesterday because I was so nervous, despite  watching a very interesting Korean film, Parasite, at the Barbican on Wednesday, However, now I’ve seen the  result I am absolutely furious. How can the people of this country be so fucking stupid? Do they not see the Tories for the bunch of selfish, self-centred arrogant scumbags they are? Or that we can now kiss goodbye to the  NHS, which they’ll now flog to the americans? The last decade has demonstrated beyond doubt how inept and heartless the tories  are; surely something has to be done before these insults to humanity are allowed to govern for five more years.

This is my first christmas living in my own place, and part of me keeps thinking I should put a tree and decorations up. But another, more grumpy part of me says that would be hypocritical: if religion is just a form of social control, wouldn’t decorating my new place just be  submitting to that unearned authority? On the one hand, the place looks  sparse and unfestive; on the other, I don’t  see the point of celebrating an ancient Pagan fertility festival commandeered by christianity and used to authorise, among other things, sexism, homophobia and racism. If I really  believe we should be outgrowing religion why should I decorate? And isn’t the feeling of melancholy  I get at that thought   not exactly what the clergy would want me to feel?

The intolerant xenophobic arseholes clearly exposed in  this Channel Four news story  last night surely have no place anywhere near the uk parliament. It staggers me how we, as a nation, can even be contemplating electing such vile people into our government. It staggers me even further that Nigel Farage has the audacity to then try to tell the  country that the bunch of violent criminals he calls his political party is open and tolerant, and not the breeding ground of xenophobia it was just shown to be. Yet here we are: in two days’ time these uneducated hatemongers have a chance of being elected and getting  their judgemental views enacted, all to appease the ego of a lying insult  to humanity. Farage apparently thinks himself superior  and born to rule, when in fact he is as qualified to govern as a housebrick and ought to be rotting in jail; he is a snakeoil salesman who would have the most sickening form of bigotry-tinged capitalism imposed upon this country. What scares me is the fact that  we have reached this dire point in the first place: why don’t we just ignore these people as the bigots they are? Surely as a nation we are better than such  vile, base politics.

Boris Johnson didn’t want anyone to see this picture

Let’s hope he and all tories sees it here, and feels the shame the bastards ought to at bringing the NHS to this point.

Yesterday was another interesting saturday. A couple of days before, my old Onevoice friend Jemima invited me up to Together 2012 in stratford, a film festival about disability. Eager to do some networking, I went. Jemima Hughes is an animator whose short animations are certainly worth checking out. I met Jemima and her mum/PA on the way in to Stratford Town Hall, and, after a short wait, was treated to a fascinating montage of short films. The first series was themed around the sea, before it broadened out:  most were fairly postmodern. Jemima was then presented with an award for her fabulous short film about AAC. I didn’t stay for the whole afternoon as I was eager to get back to Eltham before it got too late, but what I saw was a clear demonstration that disability film – films made by people with disabilities about disability – is flourishing. More to the point, it made me eager to make a film to enter next  year’s festival.

I should probably try to comment on last night’s  tv election  debate today, but I don’t think I can say much about it. While you can read a proper analysis of it here, all I  can really say about is that it was hideous. The amount of utter bullshit Johnson spouted made me shout at my computer so much that I almost gave myself a heart attack. What he  said  was so obviously untrue, repeating jingoistic nonsense ad nausiem, that it baffles me how the country can  even be contemplating electing this embarrassment to humanity or his party. Unfortunately I don’t think Corbyn did anywhere  near enough to call him up on it.

And if he really thinks that  getting Brexit done will  somehow heal the social divisions of the last three years, then he has lost all  grasp of reality. That’s the line which infuriates me most. He pretends he cares how angry people have got, yet tries to  tell us that carrying out the very thing we are pissed off about, which just happens to be  what he has wanted  all along, would somehow make us less angry. Just how stupid does this man think we are?

I don’t mind recording that I’ve already voted: I  posted my ballot paper yesterday. I find voting  by post far easier than going to a polling station, and it’s also good to get it over and done  with. This means I no longer have to pay any attention to  anything any politician says; not that it would have made much difference anyway, as my mind was made up anyway. Mind you, political junkie that I am, I’ll probably still watch the news, and inevitably start shouting at the screen whenever a scumbag like Farage, Johnson  or  Gove starts lying their worthless heads off. At least  now I don’t have to worry  about somehow failing to do my bit to stop them and their sickening, evil schemes.

While  I’m sure there will already be millions of fanboys across the internet reading every last clue  they can into it, I think I’ll simply direct everyone here, to the long awaited  trailer for the twenty-fifth Bond film, No Time To Die.  I still suspect that, as Craig’s final outing as 007, there will be no real incentive to do a good job  with this film, especially given all the trouble there was during it’s production; but I suppose we’ll have to wait till April to see if I’m right. Never judge a film by it’s trailer, after all.

We’ve heard things like this before, coming out of the BBC: as part of the international day for people with disabilities, it is now promising to increase it’s on-screen representation  of people with disabilities. To be fair, while I have noticed a few more disabled people  on the box, it is still nowhere near enough: a few more wheelchair users here and there, but  sill no real portrayals of what life is like for people like me. Where are the communication aid users? Where are the guys with Muscular Dystrophy?

As the article points out, one in five people have a disability, yet we get nowhere near that level of representation on television, or indeed across the media. I’ve been saying this for years, since I first started blogging: increased media representation, as well as accurate portrayal of people with disabilities is one of the most effective ways of breaking down the barriers ‘we’ face. Being disabled, having a disability of whatever kind, still has a social stigma associated with it; equal  and accurate portrayal in the media is one of the chief ways of breaking that stigma down. Thus, while this announcement from the BBC is to be welcomed, given we’ve heard such announcements before yet seen so little actual progress, it’s a case of “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

I might have gone back to drinking the occasional beer, but I know I need to be sensible,  which includes staying well clear of the drinking game described here. ”Thousands of British have been admitted to hospital with alcohol poisoning after playing a popular drinking game about Boris Johnson. The game, entitled ‘Drink When Boris Lies‘ has been sweeping the nation in the last few months, and it’s taken its toll on even the alcohol-obsessed Brits.’ That sounds a very dangerous game indeed, especially given virtually every sentence coming out of the scumbag’s mouth has been proven to be a lie. I think it’s best not to play it; or, better yet, just don’t listen to Johnson speak.

Yesterday was another long, fascinating day with John. He messaged me at about noon, quite out of the  blue, proposing we  go up to  a  Palestinian film festival at SOAS. I said ‘why not’, and he suggested we meet at Waterloo  bridge at two. I headed up there (I’m now getting more and more confident about whizzing around the capital on my  own) but,  due to J not specifying which side of  the bridge we were going to meet on, it wasn’t until about three that we actually found one another.

Nonetheless, what followed was a fascinating afternoon, first popping in on a Masonry exhibition (the society, not the profession), before going up to the University of London, near Russel Square.  The event was a series of short films, played back  to back, about what life is like in Palestine.  As you can imagine most were very powerful indeed, but one which especially caught my  eye and which I now seriously want to watch  again was about a group of Palestinian wheelchair racers in training for the Paralympic games: the problems they were shown to face really put my life into perspective.

It was dark when the film screenings ended, but the day was far from over. John and I then caught a bus to Brick Lane: what a fantastic, funky area that is, full of clothes shops and music. We met a group of J’s skateboarding friends, and spent the evening talking, eating and exploring the area. I certainly want to go up there again soon, perhaps to explore it by  myself; yet the films I had just seen were still in my mind. Here I was in this vibrant, cosmopolitain metropolis, full of the rich variety of human life, while in other parts of the world people rather like myself were dodging bullets struggling to survive. Here, such realities are shown as arthouse films in university lecture theatres on Saturday afternoons, but there they are inescapable.

Apparently there was an election debate on tv last night involving a block of ice standing in for Bojo; there’s another tv debate tonight. There seem to be quite a few this time around, as if the politicians think they are a good way to appeal to the electorate directly. Well, I didn’t watch last nights and have no intention of watching tonights. In fact I’ve been staying well clear of all the ‘debates’ this  election: I have no interest in getting wound up,  watching the tories spout so much self-justifying bullshit that it makes me want to rip their head off. Far better to chill out, watch something else, and hope it all sorts itself out in the end. Mind you, the ice cube was probably more trustworthy than Johnson or any member of the current tory party.

Thinking a bit more about the incident on the bus a couple of days ago, I suppose apologising to that mother was  a bit like my habit of waving in gratitude  to drivers as I cross a road at a zebra crossing. Of course, by law they have to stop, so strictly speaking I have nothing to thank them for. Yet we nonetheless live in  a community, so I like to acknowledge that they stopped for me; would not doing so not seem arrogant? Of course, the bus wheelchair spot was hard won by the disabled community, and I had a right to it. But surely not to have recognised that  mum’s effort in making space for me would have seemed similarly arrogant, as if the mum, the bus,  and the entire world owed me something?

Although  I only just got word of this, I certainly think this program for the London Migration Film Festival is worth popping here. There are some really good films being shown, and I can especially recommend Midnight Traveller. If  you’re in the capital, check it out.

I just took the bus back from woolwich. I’d gone to see about renewing my passport, before taking a short walk along the Thames. Soon after I got on the crowded bus, a lady got on with a small girl in a pram. Seeing me in the wheelchair space, she immediately started to get the girl out of the pram and fold it up. The problem was, she had great difficulty handling both the child and pram, especially on the crowded bus. In the end another passenger had to help her, as the child could have fallen. I couldn’t help feeling guilty, and, a few stops later as they got off, I told her I was sorry. She replied  sympathetically that I shouldn’t feel bad, and I had nothing to apologise for. She was right of course, yet it’s odd: whether you can help it or not, when you know you’re the cause of such stress for somebody who, like you, is just trying to get home, you can’t help feeling bad.

When I was small, my Bappou (Greek for grandfather – mums dad) used to tell me stories about Cyprus. They were rather biased and one sided affairs: bappou had moved to London from Cyprus after the war,  and was rather staunchly Orthodox. Thus I grew up thinking that the situation in Cyprus was all the fault of the Turks, although I should probably point out that Bappou was prone to exaggeration and dramatisation, and probably didn’t intend to give such a one sided account.

I suspected Charlotte would like the Peckham Levels. She and Alex were down in London yesterday, and the converted multi-storey carpark turned community hub was where we opted to meet. I went there a couple of weeks ago, and the place struck me as having a vibe which was completely Charlie.

I went with john; we got there a bit late, so when I found my group of friends (Poppy included) they had already  ordered lunch. It was, as ever, great to see them, and we spent the next hour or two catching up. C seems to be doing really well, although the school she teaches at now sounds a bit rough. We discussed how cool it was to  see our old university friend Owen  on Rupaul’s Drag Race, and how impressed Charlotte was by  John carrying me up those mountains in India. Then, all too soon, it was time to say goodbye: a brief catchup between old friends, then back to normal. City life, I suppose.

Where but in an awesome international city like London can you go up to a world renowned arts venue such as the Barbican of an evening and watch a film like The Wall? This 2003 film explores Israel, and it’s foolish attempt to build a wall  to prevent  attacks from Palestinian terrorists. The screening was followed by an interview with the director. Even though some of the shots lingered a bit too long for my taste, it really was a powerful piece, made even more resonant now by the fact that other, arguably even more idiotic walls are being built elsewhere. It’s  the type of film which makes  you reflect on how lucky you are to live in an open, tolerant, diverse  city like London; indeed, a city where such powerful films are screened.

I think I might change the name of my blog to The Ill-Informed Fact-Checking of a Cripple, or something like that. After all, claiming to be a fact checker seems to be in fashion. Anyone  can do it as an easy way of giving yourself an air of authority and impartiality. The  thing is, it would mean I’d have to double check everything I write on here is actually correct. After all, we can’t have anyone calling their website a fact checker simply to try to make people think the right wing Tory bullshit they spew is somehow objectively true, can we?

I may have been a bit too mean on Bjork in yesterday’s entry. After all, a night out up at the o2 is nothing to be sniffed at. I  admit to being too critical. The problem was, I could barely hear the lyrics to any of the songs, and what I heard didn’t  seem to make any sense: it all seemed to be random, rather high pitched words. Nonetheless, it was great to have a night out with the guys: the O2 is still one of my favourite places, and we all had a good time. I swear, though, I haven’t seen that many goths or emos since South Cheshire College.