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.

I’m writing this from the o2. I’m at a Bjork concert with Lyn and a few other friends. John suggested going a few days ago. I’ve never really been into bjork, but since I want to maintain a good friendship with Lyn, I choose to come. To be honest, though, I can’t say that I’m very taken by it. Lots of jingling bells and banging of drums, but not much rhythm: postmodernity lapsing into pretentiousness. Oh well, perhaps I’m being too harsh and will write something more positive tomorrow, but I’m yet to hear a lyric which makes sense.

I was just trundling back from Elthan high street when, coming the other way, I passed another guy  with CP in a powerchair. We had passed eachother briefly before and we had said  hi, but this time we stopped and had a brief conversation. His name was Fred and we live on the same road. His speech was clearer than mine so he didn’t use a communication aid, but I suspect he was   older than me. I said he  could pop round sometime as he seemed a friendly chap. That marks the first friend I’ve made since moving to Eltham – hopefully the first of many.

I encountered something revolting yesterday. Going along Eltham high Street, I encountered a stall for the Brexit Party. Naturally I stopped to tell them what I thought of them, but it soon became clear that the main guy running it had no idea what he was talking about. He tried to tell me that the party advocated things it blatantly does not, and that it had nothing to do with Nigel Farage. The revolting thing, though, was that one of the former  students I used to work with at Charlton Park Academy was also manning the stand. She had quite severe learning difficulties, and would have had no idea what she was advocating: the Farageist p’tahks were obviously using her to make their party appear inclusive. I tried to explain  my concerns to them but they weren’t listening. Can those scumbags sink any lower?

I was rather bewildered this morning when I rolled into my usual voluntary session at school to find everyone wearing pyjamas. I was nonplussed: had I wandered into some strange, alternative reality? But then I was told: this pyjamafest was for Children In Need. Now everything made sense! Had I been warned I’d have gone in my onesie. Mind you I could have pointed out that if we had a properly funded social care system such bizarre events would be unnecessarily, but that would have been far less fun.

A week or so ago I came across a post on a Facebook page for communication aid users which I found utterly insulting. It was a picture of a dog sat by a mat covered with coloured buttons. The person who posted it was insisting that the dog was somehow using the buttons to communicate, like many communication aid users do. I was appalled. It’s no secret that I do not like dogs; I probably inherited that dislike from my dad, who referred to dogs as Mobile Crap Droppers or MCDs. They are foul selfish creatures that people have, for some reason, taken to projecting thoughts and emotions onto, in the fanciful pretence that they are the moral and intellectual equivalent of human infants.

I find that notion repugnant for various reasons. Dog owners seem to think that they are on a par with parents, claiming a social cache they have no right to. Raising a child to adulthood is a honourable, worthy process which takes years of hard, patient work; feeding a dog, walking it and picking up it’s shit barely compares. Yet the way in which some dog owners seem to want to infantilise their pets, talking to them like children, carrying them around and even – believe it or not – pushing them around in prams implies a kind of anthropomorphisation which I find perverse. Dogs should be treated as dogs, not children; and caring for a dog does not make you equivalent to a parent.  Or, to put it another way, some dog owners seem to use their pets as surrogates for relationships with other people – probably children – in a way which I doubt is psychologically healthy.

Moreover I object strongly to the noxious, intellectually baseless insistence that dogs can use aac, firstly because it essentially states that communication aid users such as myself function at the same level as an animal. The dog in the link I found was clearly just pressing random buttons to get rewards; any emotion or significance people might derive from that is projected onto it. It was clear in the video I saw that the dog was not pressing buttons in order to trigger a word or message, as some AAC users to; it was simply walking over the mat, sniffing the buttons and walking on. To truly be said to be attempting to communicate the dog would have to consistently press the same button to get the same response: it obviously was not doing so.

Some contend that every ‘social’ animal is capable, at some level, of communication. Of course, all animals usually have some way of expressing basic needs, but the operative word there is basic. When it comes to abstract thought and the expression of abstract ideas, that requires a level of brain function only we humans have. For starters, it requires knowledge of an extensive lexicon of sound symbols, and their meanings: as the relationship between a symbol and what it symbolises is arbitrary (de Sasseur), and this requires a degree of cognitive flexibility dogs simply do not have, they can only be said to have the most basic understanding of words. In Pavlov’s famous experiment, the dogs salivated when the bell rang because they remembered food usually followed; you cannot then claim it functioned like language.

More to the point, to try to claim this video showed a dog trying to communicate and should therefore be considered on a par with an AAC user is a form of anthropomorphism which is insulting to AAC users like myself. What I found offensive was that this link appeared to claim that the only thing preventing dogs communicating at the same level as humans was a lack of a communication aid, implying that communication aid users in a way function at the same level as household pets. I might drool, but I assure you, using my communication aid – understanding what is said to me, and then composing sentences in response – uses a lot more brain function than a dog has.

The pretence that dogs are equivalent to communication aid using children is an insult to all AAC users, many of whom have had to struggle with all their/our might for the right to express ourselves. The fact that the link in question would go as far as to cite Rosemary Crossley herself made it clearer still that they had no idea what they were talking about, as if they were carrying on the work of that great pioneer of facilitated communication in helping the voiceless to communicate. A dog sniffing randomly at coloured buttons on a mat is not the same as a child with cerebral palsy trying with all their might to hit the right button on a tray to ask for a drink or be taken to the loo. (presumably a dog would just sit by it’s bowl or bark at the door). This is another instance of dog-loving balm-pots claiming things for their animals they have no right to; only this time they have gone too far, and they have really pissed me off.

Having just watched Bill Tayor’s quite lengthy testimony at the Trump impeachment inquiry, I  just need to say, it will be absolutely absurd if Trump hasn’t resigned by the ten o’clock news. Taylor just spent a couple of hours detailing what happened when; everything he said was backed up by evidence. Surely it is beyond all doubt that Trump was willing to withhold support to Ukraine (the importance  of which Taylor made clear to me) unless it investigated Muller. It could hardly be clearer: trump was willing to put his  own objectives ahead of his  country. How the hell can they or any sensible country not just boot that criminal scumbag out  of government?

Problem: flicking a large spot of coffee onto your glasses after Dom has left, and having no PA around to clean them until six this evening.

Solution: whizz to Specsavers on Eltham High Street, explain the situation, and  ask the kind lady there to clean them. Problem solved – boom! What’s more, she assured me that I could always go back if my glasses needed cleaning again.

One of the things I like most about using London public transport, especially the busses, is the range of languages you hear on them, from Panjabi to Polish to Russian. As a large, multicultural metropolis, it’s what you would expect. One of the tongues I’ve  recently been introduced to, mainly by my new PA Alistair, is Jamaican Creole. I heard him speaking it the other day as he was cooking my dinner, and again just now spoken by a lady on the bus. Most of the words in the  creole are English or English in origin, but the grammar and word order stem from languages from West Africa, so you get  an intriguing evolution of english, spoken by slaves and their descendants in the Caribbean and now being imported back into London. That, I must say, fascinates me: I’ve always liked words and writing, and the way in which languages change over time as  they are exposed to all kinds of influences. I also think the cultural melting pot that London is make it a perfect place to watch such evolutionary processes in action.

This has been a very interesting weekend for me on the film/cultural front, largely thanks to John. Firstly, late on Thursday night, he suggested going up to The Barbican on Friday to see Midnight Traveller. I had never heard of it, but from the online reviews it looked very interesting indeed.

That turned out to be an  understatement: I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more powerful, compelling piece of film. It tells the story of a family from Afghanistan trying to  make it to Europe. It’s a documentary shot entirely using mobile phones, so it feels very real and raw. The hardships the family had to endure, shipped from refugee camp to refugee  camp, paying off shady contact after shady contact, made me think just how lucky I am. There is a lot to be said about this film. It’s very gritty and gruelling, yet shot through with moments of humour  which give it a humanity which I found utterly compelling. I was also fascinated by the way it was shot: It  clearly used mobile phone footage, but the editing is so proficient you do not notice it. It has a solid plot structure and editing style. I could say a lot about it, but I need to watch it again first.

After the screening, there was an audience talk with the producer and one of the men in the film. How cool is that? We got to ask them questions and congratulate them on making such an outstanding, astounding film.

That, however, wasn’t all.. Yesterday I had another filmic treat. Our initial plan was to go to Peckham to see the sequel to The Shining, but because of the busses we got there too late, so instead we saw Official Secrets, a dramatisation of how a whistleblower called Katherine Gunn tried to expose the fact that our then government was trying to deceive the UN over the  legitimacy of the war  in iraq, and the disgusting lengths the government went to to try to  stop her. It was another incredibly moving film, and I left the cinema disgusted that such things could still happen in this country. Mind you, I did raise an eyebrow at the fact that a film about Labour’s stupidity would be released just at the moment when the Tories are trying to deflect attention away from theirs, but that aside, this is a powerful, important film which I think everyone should see – the second of the weekend.

Here’s a thought: does the fact that I live in London, have a degree and have socially tolerant tendencies mean I am part of the Metropolitan Elite? If so  that’s a first – I’ve never been elite at anything.

Although it is now well over fifty years old, the James Bond films are  always set in the contemporary, present day: when each film comes out, the narrative and setting always reflects the period when it was made. I was just out on one of my exploratory  rolls, though, when I had a thought: would it be interesting/cool if that changed? Ian Fleming’s books are set in the cold war era of the fifties and sixties, so perhaps it’s time for 007 to go back to his roots. The next Bond film, No Time  To Die, has already finished shooting; that will apparently be Daniel Craig’s last film before another actor takes over the role,  so might that present the franchise with an opportunity  for a change of tack?

After all, we live in highly politicised, heated  times; to continue setting Bond in the present would  mean invoking some of the controversies we are currently going through. If I was a producer of these films, I would want to avoid that at all cost for fear of offending one  political group or another. Bond works for the uk government, though, so how could they not mention Brexit? It would surely feel  like the film was avoiding the biggest elephant in the room ever. The moment you do so, though, you enter a minefield,  risking accusations of the franchise becoming a political tool for one side or the other, and thus a lot of negative publicity.

The obvious way out, it seems to me, would be to re-set Bond in the fifties or sixties. The next few films could then be period pieces. Of course, it would mean a change of tone for the films,  but this way, they could avoid having to enter into contemporary political debates. Or rather, they  could still comment on them, but more covertly and allegorically. With Russian meddling in both the Brexit Referendum and 2016 American election now undeniable, it’s pretty obvious that the Cold War hasn’t really ended. What better way to comment on this new phase of it than to make a   film about the first? It would  be far more  subtle, yet avoid Bond becoming entangled in  contemporary political divisions.

I think this is another excellent reason not to vote Tory. The p’tahks have announced plans to hold a Festival of Brexit Britain in 2022. They say they want to show Britain off to the world and reunite the country and all that bollocks, when it’s obvious that they just want to waste colossal amounts of money on a self-congratulatory egofest.  2022 will be the queen’s platinum jubilee, as well as the ten year anniversary of the London 2012 olympics, so they obviously want a resurgence of the spirit of national unity we experienced then. But it won’t work: any sensible person now sees Brexit as little more than a crime, and a festival celebrating that travesty will just add insult to injury. At best,  this event will be an opportunity for us to get together and protest.

I just got back from visiting Lyn in Charlton. It was the first time I’d seen her since moving out two weeks ago, and I had been in two minds about going: On the one hand I don’t want to loose contact with her entirely,  but on the other I don’t want to seem clingy by visiting too often. Today, though, I decided to bite the bullet: I’d left a couple of things there I was keen to pick up, so I decided to just go say hi.

I bumped into John in charlton, en route to PA for Lyn, who  confirmed I would probably be welcome. He suggested I wait an hour or so, to give  L time to get  up. An hour later, John was proved right: I needn’t have worried, as Lyn greeted me warmly. There wasn’t a shred of the animosity I’d for some reason been worrying about, and we chatted like two old friends. Not wanting to get in the way I only stayed an hour or so, but Lyn assured me I was welcome to visit fairly regularly, so that was fine. I also told L she was very welcome  to visit me here in Eltham whenever she wanted. As I came home on the bus, it felt like a small cloud which had been hanging over me had been lifted: L   and I  are still cool; going our own way now, but still good friends.

To be honest I really do not know what to make of this story. Top Gear presenter Paddy McGuiness and his wife were apparently verbally assaulted by a man for parking in a disabled parking bay. They have three children with autism, and therefore have a blue badge, but the man  disputed their right to park there because they didn’t look disabled.

As soon as you start opening this story up it becomes an ethical minefield, Disabled parking spaces are at a premium, so part of me thinks they should be reserved for people whose disabilities effect our mobility. Yet that immediately raises the question, how do you define a mobility impairment? Do  you need to be a wheelchair user? If so, what  about those  of us who can walk short  distances? Aa soon as you start trying to limit blue badge parking spaces to people with certain kinds of disabilities, you open yourself up to  a rhetorical minefield: as the article states, it can be argued that conditions like Autism can effect mobility, or that people with it need the wider, closer parking spaces just as much as people with conditions like cp.

Yet there is a small, cynical voice in my head which has a problem with  that;  which says that disabilities, particularly so-called invisible ones, seem to be in fashion these days, More and more people seem to be claiming to have an invisible disability or mental health problem in order to tap into a  kind of  social position: that of brave, downtrodden outsider persevering against societal oppression. In this case McGuiness’ wife Christine seems keen to assert that all three of her kids have autism, despite only two having been diagnosed: why do I get the impression that this is more a case of a tv star being too entitled and  privileged to park alongside everyone else and demanding a parking space closer to their destination?

Of course I feel guilty for admitting that; I have no right to begrudge anyone their blue badge. Yet if I was forced to park further away from somewhere  because all the disabled spaces were taken up by people who were perfectly ambulant, would that really be fair?The further people with conditions like cerebral palsy need to walk, the harder walking becomes and the more likely we are to fall and hurt ourselves. But then, how does that trump anyone else’s need for the same parking space? The problem is, more and more people seem to be being diagnosed with increasing kinds of invisible disabilities these days, but with only a certain number of disabled parking spaces, some tough decisions might have to be made.