I cannot claim to be a Dr Who fan by any stretch of the imagination. Frankly, it strikes me as a kids program. But I find the announcement that the next doctor is to be played by a woman, Jodie Whittaker, really rather interesting. The beeb obviously want to take the show in a new direction: by diverging from what has been a norm for over fifty years, they are clearly making a statement. I suppose the Doctor is one of those characters, like James Bond, who acts as a kind of cultural cornerstone: something we can rely on, and know to be in the cultural agenda, even if we aren’t particularly fussed to watch it.

Now, if the producers of Bond decided to take such a turn, the fans would be up in arms. Bond, when you look at him, is quite a rigid character: white, heterosexual and male, as described by Ian Fleming. You can’t really deviate from that. Yet the Doctor has no such original; he’s also a supernatural timelord, capable of regeneration. That means he can be played with. Whether fans will accept such a deviation, though, remains to be seen. While the producers are trying something new, they are breaking from decades of tradition. Who fans could be as stubborn as Bond fans, and demand that the character still adhere to the ‘norm’. I suppose it all depends on how well Whittaker performs: if she does well and brings something new to the show, this could turn out to be a great move. It will be quite fascinating to see how this plays out – I might even watch it to see how she does.

I know it’s silly – how can a solitary house function as it’s own state, for one? – but I really like things like this. ”Retired academic William Riches has declared his Severnside home an independent Republic in protest against the Brexit vote. The 77-year-old former university lecturer has made wife Judith President and given his children and grandchildren citizenship so they do not need a passport to cross the threshold of his home.” Even in times like these, you can still depend on a bit of British eccentricity. Mind you, it goes to show how much and how passionate the opposition to Brexit still is. My only worry would be if a bunch of outist thugs – you know the type: skinheads who think every word Farage utters is gospel – get pissed out of their tiny brains one night and decide to go and ”invade”. I, on the other hand, fully support the project, and proudly recognise the republic of Middlewatch.

I love the little surprises this city can throw at you from time to time. This afternoon, it being overcast and feeling decidedly ”meh”, I took a walk to Woolwich. Crossing the road to the old arsenal, I thought I’d trundle eastwards along the river for a bit. I had never been that way before, and wanted to see where the path lead. I was in for a surprise: I found a newly opened park I didn’t know existed. Gallions hill is a huge symmetrical mound with a path spiralling up to it’s summit. It is well kept in terms of planting, but the view from the summit was what took my breath – you could see for miles across London. The place intrigued me: I wondered whether it was an old hill fort or something – it would certainly have been in a good position for one. As I drove home, patches of blue sky starting to break through the clouds, I promised myself I would go there again soon, hopefully with Lyn. After all, such a spot is an excellent place for two lovers to find a bit of privacy, as the lights of the city twinkle before them.

Is Brexit in it’s death-throes, or am I being overly optimistic? Everywhere I look these days, I see signs that the country is starting to step back from the brink: report after report is saying what a negative effect brexit is having; and I get the strong impression that, behind the scenes, the government is desperately trying to look for a way out of it. But could that just be wishful thinking on my part? Am I simply reading what I want to read in papers like the Guardian, and ignoring papers which say everything is going swimmingly, dismissing them as being biassed?

I’m not sure. For one, I’m sensing an increasing tone of desperation in Brexiteers. They seem to be starting to play the blame game, casting the leaders of the EU as the bad guys for not giving us what we want. They also try to blame other factors. We can read into this an admittance they would never speak openly, that things aren’t going their way. I saw a clip of Farage on his radio show earlier, trying to make it sound like it was all europes fault, maintaining the utter delusion that they need us more than we need them. As it becomes ever more clear that they don’t, and that we were fools ever to listen to scumbags like farage, the gibberish they spew will become more and more desperate. They’ve already started the blame game, or threatening some kind of civil disturbance if brexit isn’t carried out – what stronger sign could there be that brexit is indeed proving to be a catastrophe, that the signs I’m seeing are accurate, and that it would be best to put an end to the project before it goes any further.

I think I ought to clarify something, just in case anyone was wondering. I was at a film fest meeting last night, and gavin asked me about it when I showed him my blog entry about meeting danny Boyle. He saw the line under my blog title, and asked who Clippity Clops was.

That is a reference to a ruler my brother had when he was at school. It memory serves, it came out of an old cereal packet and was decorated with all the characters associated with Coco Pops, one of whom was Clippity Clops. Mark and his school mates thus called the ruler Clippity Clops.

The story goes that, on one occasion, the joke starting to wear on a bit, one of mark’s classmates asked to borrow the ruler, using it’s nickname. Mark was rather fed up of people asking for it and replied with sarcasm ”Clippity Clops says Fuck off!” When M told me this story, it got me creased up with laughter immediately: the way he said it was filled with venom and sarcasm, and it tickled me so much that I chose to use the line on my blog, which we were just setting up at the time. That’s why you sometimes see that line on entries here. It’s an old, old joke and maybe I should change it. Then again, I still find it rather funny, and it reminds me of my brothers, so perhaps I’ll let it be.

I’m very pleased to report that last night was an utter triumph. It was the big screening of the Thousand Londoners films, over in the Greenwich Picturehouse. To be honest, never having been into the Picturehouse before, I didn’t quite know what to expect. Once there, though, I met Matt and my other friends from Lifeline. I was taken down to a private screening room in the basement, where about seven or eight of the Londoners films were shown to an audience of about thirty people. My film, Matt, was shown last, hopefully because the guys thought it would be a nice climactic point to finish at. Before that, though, some very, very powerful short films had been shown about people from all walks of life, together making up a snapshot of life in London.

After that came the question and answer session. Matt, myself and the other filmmakers went to the front of the room and answered questions from the audience. They seemed very impressed by what they had seen, and were keen to ask questions. I gave one or two answers, and left the rest to the others; but nonetheless I couldn’t help but feel very important. Was this what Steven Spielberg or Peter Jackson feel like? It was fascinating and thrilling, and above all filled me with a desire to do more.

This project gave me my first small taste of proper filmmaking. It is an artform I love. What happened last night filled me with confidence and enthusiasm, for it was just the start. It’s now time to move it forward and go on to even bigger things.

In the last few weeks I’ve begun to see more and more signs of desperation from those who campaigned to leave the EU. Are the outists/leavers getting angry because it’s starting to look less and less likely that brexit will actually happen? Look at the anger spewed by some knucklehead from ukip at the fact that london city hall still flies the eu flag. These fools are clearly getting agitated; their lies have fucked us, we’re waking up to it and they know it. The land of milk and honey they were hoping for clearly hasn’t materialised, and as a result we are now hearing wilder and wilder claims from fools like Gove and Rees-Mogg. They are still trying to tell us that everything is going swimmingly, when it clearly isn’t. It’s a laughable, pitiful sight: fools clutching at straws, trying to swear black is white, when it’s now as plain as it could be that their lies have severely damaged the nation.

Today marks a year since I wrote this entry; a year since I stopped drinking. I’m quite pleased to say that I’ve kept off it completely. It hasn’t always been easy, and there are still times when I’m very tempted to have a beer, although part of me asks what’s so difficult about avoiding alcohol? I’d like to record, though, that I’ve not had any reduction in my absences: while I’m currently going through quite a good patch with them – I haven’t had any in over two weeks – I haven’t noticed a significant reduction in them since giving up drinking. I just wanted to get that down. I otherwise feel much better, and certainly have no intention of getting back on the booze any time soon. Lyn’s a lot happier with me, for one, and I can think a lot straighter without having to contend with any hangovers.

I am fast developing a severe and profound loathing for Jacob Rees Mogg. I know I shouldn’t be so hateful, or stoop to such ad hominen attacks, but the guy is really, really starting to piss me off. He’s apparently gaining popularity, and there’s even a campaign to make him prime minister; but if you ask me the p’tahk should be on his knees begging our forgiveness, alongside the other members of the leave campaign. The way he projects himself and uses language, as if he thinks he is superior to everyone else, really pisses me off. The guy seems to think we should all be looking up to him, using all these complex words, feigning eloquence and intellect when in fact he is just a self-serving, arrogant prick. He didn’t earn his wealth but was born into it; he has contributed fuck all to society; yet he has the audacity and arrogance to demand that we all look up to him. He hasn’t done a proper day’s work in his life, but he stands there dictating to us as if he knows best, couching the campaign to leave the EU in pseudo-intellectual bullshit when it boils down to an act of base, moronic xenophobia. I know I shouldn’t rant like this, but such people really irritate me, especially if they helped to put the country into the dire state it’s in, yet act as if they were right all along.

It seems that every time I go out exploring this city, I fall in love with it more. There is always more to see, more roads and winding paths to follow. Yesterday, for example, I came across a bronze-age barrow on my way back from Woolwich, thousands of years old. Yet where once my little walks were solitary, these days I often share them with Lyn. We just got in from a great one: the joy I get from following her, as we drive our powerchairs through the endless suburbs of south-east London, is hard to describe. It’s like a feeling of contentment; a warm, happy feeling; a mixture of freedom, curiosity and love. There’s a joy to be found in discovering the right paths to take in new, unexplored parts of the city; that joy is redoubled when you follow such paths with the person you love.

I don’t usually buy a paper, but every time I go into Co-op I like to browse the headlines of the various dailies. It’s quite interesting to see how differently they cover the news, and how they each try too twist it in their own way. This morning, though, the front page of The Independent really got me swearing; in fact I found it rather troubling. Liam Fox is attacking the BBC, accusing it of not covering Brexit in the right way. He said the beeb would rather see Britain fail than Brexit succeed. In effect he is attacking the media rather than admitting that he and his fellow outists have completely screwed the country: They have rendered us an irrelevant little island nobody wants to trade with, but, oh no no! It’s all the beeb’s fault.

Why should guys like him be allowed to get away with it? They manipulate people into voting for something manifestly outside of their best interest, lying to them so that they put their rights at risk, then claim some kind of victimhood when things start going tits-up. It’s utterly wrong. For that arrogant p’tahk Fox to start attacking the BBC because they are letting people see the utter stupidity of the referendum result is an insult to democracy. He does not want people to see the truth of what he and his fellow outists have done to us. It bears more than a whiff of totalitarianism, and I find it chilling.

I saw my friend Dan yesterday, who complemented my new golf ball. Just over a week of using it and I’m definitely converted. In fact, I’m now considering starting a collection. After all, my first one is bound to fall off and roll away sooner or later. What I now want is golf balls which suit my personality or mood. I remember at school my friend donno had one painted like a pool eight ball. That isn’t quite my style: I’d rather have one which looked like the planet Earth or perhaps Mars, or, better yet, the Klingon home world Qo’nos. The question is, where do I possibly find one.

I found somewhere quite fascinating yesterday – a place I’ve been past many times on the bus, but had never explored. The north Greenwich peninsula is currently buzzing with building work, with modern, multi-story apartment blocks going up everywhere. These are snazzy, architecturally-designed buildings, giving the area an ultra-modern feel. Yet, amid all of this modernity is a lone row of nineteenth-century terraced houses, at the end of which stands The Pilot Inn. It’s as if it is a remnant of another era; a leftover from history. The juxtaposition with it’s modern surroundings was utterly striking: it does not really go. It felt like a part of a nineteenth century northern mining town had been lifted up and placed among the skyscrapers. Of course, if you go in to the inn, as Lyn and I did yesterday for a coke, you find a modern, well-kept bar, perfectly in keeping with the o2 just up the road; yet from the outside what was once a normal row of terraces, one among many in that area, now looks utterly at odds with it’s surroundings.

I did it again last night. The film crew were back to continue their shoot in Charlton House yesterday, so I went over to have another look. I was told that they would be wrapping at half seven, so, if I wanted, I could come over then to see the set. That, then, is what I did, only of course they overran: half seven eventually turned into half past ten, but that was cool because I got to sit outside and chat with some of the crew. They were fascinating to watch and talk to; they kept offering me slices of pizza, but fortunately I had had my dinner before I came out.

When eventually the shoot ended, and everyone was coming out of the front of charlton house, I managed to speak briefly again with Danny Boyle. Of course, he remembered me from Friday; he told me he enjoyed reading my blog and would continue to do so. When I heard him say that, I almost wept with pleasure and pride. I also gave him copies of my MA thesis and essay on Happy and Glorious, and he said he would email me.

Mr. Boyle then headed off, and I instantly had an attack of the squeals – I was thrilled beyond words at what had just happened. I started to head home, squealing with joy, when Joel, the locations guy with whom I had been talking, called me back: did I still want to go up and see the set? I did, of course, and he took me up in the lift to see it.

Rather ironically, they had been using the very room the film festival team use when we have meetings there, but now it was made up to look like a posh bedroom. Fancy panelling was on the walls, and there was a four-poster bed. They had apparently been filming some kind of bedroom scene. I didn’t stay long, but even with most of the equipment already taken out, it was fascinating.

Today, Boyle and his crew are moving on to film somewhere else, and Charlton will be back to normal. I was told that they might be back in the autumn. I hope so. For now, though, if you ever watch an American drama called Trust, and you see a bedroom scene set in an ornate, posh-looking room, now you know where it was filmed.

I know I keep mentioning our local cafe in Charlton park; one of the reasons I like it so much is the variety of characters you meet there. The regulars come from all walks of life, with many stories to tell. I was just chatting with one particularly interesting fellow, Adrian. He has quite severe mental health issues, but beneath them you can tell he is a very astute, articulate and perceptive guy. Adrian and I were just chatting about the old institutions: where I have just heard dark stories of such places, he has personal experience.

Towards the end of our chat, Adrian said something which I thought was so perceptive that I instantly decided to note it here. He reckons that if we asked the world’s leading psychologists, psychiatrists and sociologists to look at human society as a whole, to see it in terms of being one vast, collective mind, they would probably diagnose it as having a personality disorder. When I heard him say that, I laughed out loud; he was so right. Human society, as a whole, is extremely insecure with itself; it does not know whether it’s coming or going, at odds with it’s environment. Moreover, for a man who has personal experience of such issues to point that out, seems to me quite profound.

Last night was another of those evenings which will remain happily in my memory for the rest of my life. I may not have recorded it here, but I eventually managed to get Greenday tickets last year. They are not a band I often mention liking on here, but I’ve been a bit of a fan since my brother Mark introduced me to them in the early nineties. I was quite buzzing as Lyn and I headed down the Jubilee line last night, on our way to Hyde Park. I was finally going to see the band I first rocked out to; the band who gave me my first taste of rebellion.

What can I say? It was incredible! In fact, I’m still buzzing about it. They gave quite a performance: those guys obviously know how to put on a good show, and did so in style. As they thrashed out their old classics, I was dancing around on the wheelchair viewing platform like I was in Mark’s old bedroom again. The music, the stage, the sight of so many thousand people before me, was exhilarating. It filled me with energy and joy of a kind I’ve experienced only a few times before. To hear those songs being thrashed out, the rhythms I know so well seeming like new, was awesome. And when they played Basket Case, I was in heaven.

London has done it again: it has once again given me something incredible to hold on to and remember. I love this city, and last night, sitting in one of it’s finest, most beautiful parks, the most amazing person I’ll ever meet sat beside me, I could not have been happier. My, what a week it has been.

Not that I’ve been into a pub in a good long while, but as a firm supporter of the smoking ban, I think I’ll flag this up today. It is now ten years since the ban on smoking in public buildings came into force, and I think the country is a better place for it. We are no longer forced to breathe in some selfish bugger’s second hand smoke, which is especially welcome for those of us who find it hard to move out of it’s way. I know it wasn’t to everyone’s liking – namely smokers – but long may it continue, I say.

Something incredible just happened. As I said yesterday, I was very excited to see a film crew at charlton house, and the chance to meet Danny Boyle meant I set off round there bright and early this morning. Of course, I knew that actually meeting the guy, let alone getting to have any kind of conversation with him, was rather unlikely; but at least I could watch a professional film crew at work. I could sit in the sun outside charlton house (you couldn’t go in there as film equipment was everywhere) and watch events unfold.

I sat there for most of the afternoon, in between runs to the cafe to report back to the guys there. Matt turned up, chatted a while, then left. I knew I’d need to be patient so I stayed there, until eventually out the great man came. Earlier in the day I’d got talking to one of the assistant directors (I think) and had explained why I was so keen to meet Mr. Boyle. We had exchanged emails (hurrah for networking!) and he had seemed quite impressed. Just when I was beginning to contemplate heading home, he came back out to meet me, bringing with him one of the greatest living directors.

As with when I met Sir Patrick Stewart, I was awe-struck: Once again fate and good luck had conspired to allow me to meet one of my heroes. I wanted to say so much; I tried to explain why the olympic opening ceremony meant so much to me, showing him this blog entry on my Ipad, but he obviously needed to get back to work. Nonetheless, I feel we had a fairly decent conversation, at the end of which I shook his hand, someone took our photo, and I was left to drive back home, once again wondering how I can be so lucky.

I still can barely believe this is actually happening – god himself, it would seem, is coming to Charlton Village. I was out in the park yesterday, enjoying my usual cuppa, when I noticed something going on up at the House. I asked my fellow coffee-drinkers what was happening, and was told a film crew was setting up to film there. Of course, this got me automatically interested, so I whizzed up the path to investigate.

At the front of Charlton House, I found men taking film equipment from vans into the house. It looked like high-spec, fairly professional stuff, so this clearly wasn’t an amateur production. I asked one of the guys about it: he didn’t know so I asked another, and was told it was for a period piece about Getty Images.

And then the amazing part came. Wanting to sound as if I actually knew something about film, I asked who was directing. I expected to hear a name I had never heard before. But I had. We all have. It was none other than one of my favourite directors, and a personal hero of mine, Danny Boyle. When I heard that name, my jaw hit the floor! Boyle, the very guy who directed Happy and Glorious, a piece of film I find so remarkable, so awesome that it still has me spasming with glee; Boyle, director of Slumdog Millionaire and Trainspotting; Boyle, one of the greatest living directors, is coming to Charlton village.

He’ll just be here a few days. Apparently he’s filming Trust, an American television series about John Paul Getty, and will shoot on Friday (tomorrow). Of course, the chances of me actually meeting the great man are minimal – he’ll probably be very busy indeed, and the last thing he’ll want will be the likes of me trying to chat to him. Nonetheless, this is very exciting news indeed, and I’ll no doubt be over there tomorrow trying to watch.

I can’t believe how these things turn out sometimes. How did this happen – what are the chances? One of my heroes, making a film on my doorstep. It’s just incredible.

I’m currently on an ongoing quest for something new to get into and explore. Since starting to make films with Matt Ball, I’ve begun to look at everything in a slightly different way, wondering how I could use it in a film. Of course, I’ve done that for ages anyway, looking for material to write about on my blog; yet now I’ve started to think more in terms of film. That’s how I came to be pondering finger spinners a couple of weeks ago: after seeing them on sale in Woolwich market, I began to wonder if a film could be made about them. I’m interested in the new and previously unexplored; new art forms and sports; things not yet seen as mainstream. How might such things then be explored? Could such new art forms be documented and analysed as one would analyse more traditional art forms?

It seems to me that that is the way things are flowing: people are increasingly trying to get away from mainstream forms of culture and types of expression and into new ways to communicate. Look at the rise of youtube, for one, where everyone can upload short films about whatever they like. Means of expression are growing and changing, and I think this has lead to a plethora of new art forms being created. Culture seems to be evolving very quickly indeed. This fascinates me, and I now want to go and explore a few of these new forms of expression. What new things can I find, out there on the streets? And, just as interestingly, what can I then say about them?

My new golf ball took a bit of getting used to. Just to follow up on yesterday’s entry, I must say it was quite strange, at first, controlling my powerchair through the golf ball: I suppose it’s like a new pair of shoes which you have to break in before they get comfortable. Within about twenty minutes, though, I found I liked the new sensation, and could see why so many powerchair users preferred golf balls: There was something bigger in my hand; something to get hold of and grip, giving one a better sense of control. I can now definitely see myself becoming a golf ball convert.

A few days ago I lost the knob off my powerchair control stick. Going through nearby Maryon-Wilson Park, it flew off into the bushes as I was going down a slope. I spent over half an hour looking for it, but it was nowhere to be found. Fortunately, having two chairs, I could just take the knob off my spare powerchair and put it on to my main one, but Lyn had a better solution. Rolling up to me as I was looking for my knob in the park, she immediately got on her Ipad and ordered a golf ball for me. The lads back at school always used golf balls on their chairs, but up until now I’ve used the knobs the chairs came with. I’d always thought they were just ordinary golf balls my mates had had holes drilled into, but obviously there’s a market for wheelchair control knobs which look like golf balls.

I just got back from the cafe to find my new control knob had been delivered. It’s now on my control stick waiting for me to try out. Well, here goes…

I think I really need to flag this video up. The Young Turks panel discusses the recent story in The Guardian about school boys who, told they weren’t allowed to wear shorts to school, opted to wear skirts. I love it! Not only does the story chime with my own views on clothes, that people should be able to wear whatever they like regardless of gender, I also love how these americans react to it in an odd, slightly bemused way. It’s as if it’s the last thing they expected from a group of british school boys, but nonetheless they fully support the ethos behind it.

I’m still just as angry as when I wrote this entry a year ago yesterday. My frustration with the way things are going in this country hasn’t calmed down one iota; in fact things seem to be getting worse. I’ve written many times on here about how stupid this country was to vote for brexit: it was a vote for xenophobia and isolationism; a vote which, more to the point, essentially denied reality. How long do these fools really think we can survive outside the EU? It just did not make sense to leave our biggest, nearest market. As I wrote the other day, I think people will soon be changing their minds in their droves – I think they already are, as the truth becomes clearer and clearer.

The problem is, it’s very hard for people to admit that they were wrong, or that they were deceived, when it comes to matters like this. They will thus try to cling to fantasies for as long as possible rather than face the truth and own up. Even when the truth becomes blatantly obvious, brexiteers will still be claiming they were right. This mess will therefore take a long, long time to sort out. A year on and I’m still angry, but I fear this farce has some way to run yet.

Just to pick up on another of my fandoms, Michael Palin was awarded an honorary doctorate from the University of St. Andrews, Scotland this week. I read earlier that it was ”n recognition of his contribution to the understanding of contemporary geography issues.” Programs about so-called celebrities going on journeys are tena-penny these days, but as far as I am concerned, Palin virtually created the genre. The current copycat series, with Joanna Lumley and so on, all stem from Palin’s Around The World in Eighty Days, Pole To Pole and Full Circle. As someone who has loved his programmes since childhood, it’s good to see Palin’s contribution being recognised.

As a cricket fan, it saddens me to read that the great Henry Blofeld has announced his retirement. Listening to test matches just won’t be the same without him; to many, he’s the quintessential voice of cricket. ”Henry Blofeld will retire from BBC Radio 4’s Test Match Special after 45 years in the commentary box. The 77-yearold will broadcast on the show for the final time when England host West Indies on 7 September.” I love the way he brought a strange quirkiness to listening to cricket commentary, as though you were listening to someone from a totally different age while still being homely and strangely comforting. Mind you, I’ve always wondered whether he was related to the famous Bond villain. Oh well…farewell Blowers – you were great.

I was just looking through my blog archive – something I do from time to time. Ten years ago today I wrote this entry. Freshly home from finishing my final undergrad year at university, Dad had just set my computer up on my old desk. I dashed off a quick blog entry, no doubt wanting to get on with other stuff, about how much uni had changed me. I had indeed changed over the previous three years: my experiences on campus really brought me out of myself. But I didn’t realise then that that was just the beginning, and I had barely scratched the surface of the change. I remember writing that very entry, but at the same time it seems an age away. So much has happened since then, not least meeting Lyn and moving to London, that it staggers me to think how much my life has changed. I’ve created so many awesome memories, had so many great adventures, since I wrote those words; the very geography of the world where I exist is completely different. To continue the metaphor I use in that entry, the ship slipped her moorings, cleared the dock, and sailed into a vast ocean full of adventure and intrigue.

Helm, hold her steady, and prepare for excitement.

I’m becoming a bit more hopeful when it comes to brexit. More and more people are starting to question whether it will actually happen. I get the sense that, behind the scenes, the political class is waking up to reality and realising that, if brexit continues, it will be a car crash of epic proportions. Last night I watched a bbc documentary on it. As usual it had me shouting at the screen, especially when the lying criminal Farage appeared – how that xenophobic scumbag can be allowed to express his baseless, moronic views on tv rather than rotting in a jail cell where he belongs really pisses me off.

Yet at the end of the program I was left feeling quite optimistic. May did not get the huge tory majority she called the election for; her master plan backfired, so basically they’re more up shit creek than ever when it comes to negotiating with the EU. It is a slick, well-oiled diplomatic machine reluctant to give away any concessions, and here we are demanding all the perks with none of the disadvantages, with a considerably weakened hand. It’s looking more and more absurd. The tories are insisting brexit will go ahead, but I would not be at all surprised if, behind the scenes, they are desperately trying to find a way out of this mess.

As the economics of all this begin to bite, I think more and more people will start to agree. Socially the country is still divided between those who voted to remain and those who voted to leave. There seems to still be a lot of animosity between the two camps. I think that is at least partly because, as reality begins to dawn, as the suffering becomes more and more visible, those who voted leave will feel increasingly guilty. But they won’t want to admit culpability, or that they were fooled into voting for something so patently stupid, so that guilt will turn into anger. They will feel they are being blamed by remain voters, rightly or wrongly, and they won’t like it. I fear this will lead to a lot of social friction; we are already seeing the beginning of it.

I just hope it doesn’t last. Part of me wishes we could all just forget last year ever happened, but I know that is not possible. Whatever happens now, these tensions will continue, this mess will continue. The wheels really are starting to come off brexit, and it’s only a matter of time before it is reversed and the country starts to pretend it never happened. Yet as optimistic as I try to be, for the time being at least, it really is a sorry state we find ourselves in.

It is often noted that nothing ages quite as badly as science fiction. You can always tell when a science fiction film was made, not only from the ideas in the plot, but from the mise en scene. This is especially true of Star Trek. Each individual Trek series is a product of the period when it was made, and the characters within them can be shown to represent contemporary values. By and large, each crew reflects society when each show was made and first aired. The Original Series thus reflected cold war America: it had a strong, white male leading figure; around him there were a variety of figures from diverse backgrounds, trying to present a future where barriers of gender and race, so dominant in the sixties, were no longer such a social force. But the crew were nonetheless always subordinate to the white male, reflecting the racism and sexism of the time; the utopian vision of the future still held in check by the dominant values of the day. The dynamic between the impulsive captain and the cool, logical science officer reflected the tensions between head and heart in sixties america, allowing the show to enter into and comment on contemporary debates. The show thus reflected the concerns of the day, the crew playing out social tensions, with the domineering Klingons a constant menace.

The Next Generation likewise reflected the time when it was produced. It was very much a product of the eighties and early nineties: old enemies had become allies, but there was still a tension there. There was still a strong white male central figure, but he was less dominant and more likely to accept the opinions of others (although the occasional ‘Make it so!’ wasn’t out of the question). The crew reflected the social values of that period; women were in positions of authority; hell, they even had a counsellor on the bridge. There were still threats, but they were more prone to be overcome through diplomacy, reflecting an eighties optimism and belief in the power of negotiation.

Similar things can be said of the next three Trek series: Deep Space Nine was all about political intrigue, backstabbing, and not knowing who to trust. It was a lot more interested in political complications, the relations between peoples, and an america which was no longer quite as secure about it’s place in the world. Voyager, I feel, was less overtly political and less complex, yet still about re-finding one’s place. Both these series, it must be noted, had captains who were not white male. Sisco was a strong, complex leader, war-weary and grieving the loss of his wife; Janeway, I must admit, never really chimed with me, and frankly just struck me as inept.

I never really got down to watching Enterprise, so I don’t really think I can comment on it much. I was at university when it first aired. I have seen a few episodes so I know roughly what it is about, but I don’t know it as well as, say, TNG or DS9. However, I know that in one of the later seasons of Enterprise, earth was attacked unpovoked, and the rest of the series was largely a response to that attack. Obviously this arose out of a reaction to 9/11; earth is a stand-in for America and the conflicting urges and dilemmas it went through after the attack.

Thus we can broadly see how the various trek series reflect the times at which they were being made. This begs an obvious question: how will Discovery reflect our current epoch? It was recently announced that the new Trek series will start airing on Netflix in September. I would be fascinated to see how it mirrors our own time how will it handle Trump, for one? What will it say, if anything, about america’s diminished role in the world? How will it’s crew reflect contemporary America as it now sees itself? If Trek series do indeed reflect the times in which they were created, then it will be intriguing to see how america currently sees the future, especially it’s own future where it is trying to retain fading glories, trying to stay the world’s foremost superpower. How will reflect it’s current leader, and what will it say, if anything, about being lead by a buffoonish egomaniac? I suppose we just have to wait for it to come out, but it will be fascinating to see how Trek changes, once again, to reflect these modern times.

A couple of days ago I wrote of the magnificent view one gets from Oxlea’s wood, up Shooters Hill road. Lyn and I went that way again this afternoon, where she took this awesome, awe-inspiring picture.

You must be able to see for miles from there, far into Kent. It just goes to show that, even in the metropolis, you don’t have to go far to find staggering beauty.

I came across this story late yesterday, and thought it worth flagging up. The gaming community, it seems, is starting to become politicised. Computer games are being made with definite political themes; they are starting to have motives and messages behind them. For instance, one game, called Cat in a Hijab, is ”a point-andclick mini-adventure that has you playing the role of a cat (in a hijab) who boards a subway train. You’re then faced with a barrage of comments. Some aggressive, others naively ignorant – and it’s up to you to defuse the situation (or not) with your response.” It’s fascinating to note how game design, as an art form, is starting to come alongside other artforms as a means of political expression.

There is something I want to flag up today, simply because it’s so stunning. Lyn and I were out and about in my powerchair yesterday, exploring near Shooters Hill and Oxlea’s Wood, when we came across this view It’s a gap in the houses which lets you see all the way across London, and I found it magnificent. I was trundling along behind Lyn and it took my breath. Unfortunately you can’t really appreciate the full awe of it on Google Streetview, but I will be heading that way again soon to see if I can see more; you must be able to see at least fifteen kilometres from there. Oxlea’s wood itself struck me as having a mysteriousness and mystique to it which captivated me. I love the way the metropolis sometimes throws you these surprises: as I wrote here a couple of days ago, the magnificence of this city lies in it’s diversity, and while it’s a great pleasure to go up and explore it’s mighty centre, you can also find spots of wonderousness here in the suburbs.

Just a week ago, discussions like this one were all the rage. Pundits were speculating about how long May would last; people were saying she was ”a dead politician walking” and that she wouldn’t last ’til the new year. Such talk was everywhere you looked after the election. Now, you barely hear any of it: all the news talks about is the North Kensington catastrophe, as if they have forgotten all about politics. May’s position is secure, it seems, as she recasts herself as a great, decisive leader in a horrific crisis. Sorry to sound cynical, but does not that strike anyone else as odd? As I mused a couple of days ago, people seem to be using this situation for their own ends. Look at the tories and you can’t escape the feeling that something deeply wrong is afoot: they needed a distraction to take our minds of the flimsiness of their government and the dubiousness of the people they were forming a coalition with, and that’s exactly what they got.

Yesterday was another cool day which made me reflect on just how awesome my adopted hometown (perhaps that should be ‘home metropolis’) is. I hadn’t been to the South Bank in ages and was wondering what was currently on up there, so the sun beating down, at about eleven I set off. I got as far as the dome, though, when Lyn messaged me to ask whether I’d signed Kirsty’s timesheet. I hadn’t, and, knowing such matters are too important to neglect, set off straight back home.

When I got in, I signed the sheet and then dashed off a quick blog entry, but the sun was still shining and the south bank was still there, so I set off back out. This time, I headed to woolwich, hoping to get the Thames Clipper there rather than at the dome. The problem was, once I got there I discovered that the clippers only sailed from woolwich in the evenings and at weekends.

At that I was about to give up. The south bank could wait; something obviously didn’t want me to visit it today. I headed back to charlton park for a coffee, thinking I would then head home. But then, something about the brew made me think again – why should I be defeated by such matters? After all, there was still plenty of time left in the day.

Soon after that I found myself sailing up the river from North Greenwich, the city looking magnificent before me. By boat you get a better idea of the geography of the metropolis: it ceases to be a labyrinth of roads and becomes more of a landscape, stretching endlessly out in all directions. Passing the Georgian townhouses and Elizabethan palaces, you also get the impression that this place has a history which goes back centuries. Never is that more so as when you sail past Shakespeare’s globe. It looked as grand as ever yesterday afternoon, and I promised myself I would pay it another visit soon.

Yesterday, however, I had another target in mind: I had decided it was high time I visited the British Film Institute. I had heard so much about the BFI southbank: that it was a kind of Mecca for british cinephiles. But, before yesterday, I had never been. Getting off the boat, then, I headed straight for it, and was instantly blown away.

Here at last was my church, my holy place where I could go to worship. I picked up a couple of leaflets, and they have so much cool stuff on in the coming two months that a few return visits were clearly essential. Speaking to a guy at the reception, I also managed to get a couple of emails addresses which could prove very useful for my own film making.

By then, though, it was getting late; more to the point I was getting hungry. I set off again, heading through the crowds on the southbank, by then just getting started on their Friday evening frivolities. It felt amazing to be among them, out and about in this great world maelstrom. In recent weeks it has suffered, as the country has. We are going through a rough patch at the moment: tensions are high and there is still a lot of devision. Today, the tv informed me last night, is something called the Great Get Together, a weekend of events where we celebrate that which unites us. It marks the anniversary of the murder of Jo Cox, the MP killed in the lead-up to the referendum. It’s a great idea, if you ask me – we need to calm down and come together again.

Yet last night I saw no sign of any such devision: people were out, together, having a good time. This is a great world city. It has a kind of spirit, a feeling to it. The world saw it in 2012, and I felt it again last night among the crowd, then on the tube home. This city is one – we are one people, one london, huge, sprawling, and magnificently diverse. And history shows that, no matter how bad things get, it always comes together.

Not that I want to sound hard-hearted, but does anyone else sort of get the feeling that this Grenfell fire tragedy is being blown out of proportion? Don’t get me wrong: what happened there is utterly horrific. But it’s currently taking up the tv bulletins like world war three had broken out – it’s all they’re talking about, completely forgetting the current political chaos. And now that worm Simon Cowell has announced he’s making a charity single to ”help the victims”, I can’t help feeling the entire situation is being used by certain people for their own benefit.

Today I’d like to wish my mum a great sixty-first birthday. I think my parents returned from visiting their grandchildren in france yesterday, so I don’t know when I’ll be able to speak to them next, but I hope mum knows I think about them regularly. It’s great to see them getting into their new grandparent role: mum and dad seem to have taken to it like ducks to water, going to visit Oliver and Elise at every opportunity. Those kids are gonna be spoiled rotten! Hopefully I’ll get to speak to them later today, to catch up with all the family news and to wish my mum a very happy birthday.

I know I haven’t mentioned it in a while, but in case anyone is interested, the IOC just decided that it will announce the host cities for the 2024 and 2028 games at the same time. This entire story has been quite intriguing, to me at least: basically the olympic bods have to chose who they wanted to host the 2024 games, LA or Paris. Both cities are important world cities, and they both had their eyes on 2024. To both, it was 2024 or nothing. Neither city would bear the ignominy of being rejected yet again; Paris especially is still licking it’s wounds from what happened to it in 2005. The risk was, reject either city and the IOC would have shunned an important world power, yet again.

The solution it has come up with, it would seem, is to award the 2024 and 2028 games at the same time. That way, it avoids the risk of being seen to reject either city, and nobody will be offended. No city gets shunned, and it avoids the risk that the loser will loose interest in hosting. More importantly for the IOC, it keeps the interest of both – reject either and a major world power would turn it’s back.

The thing is, this seems like a giant cop-out to me. Neither america nor france could bear to loose the competition, so the IOC pandered to them. Fearing either country would throw it’s toys out of the pram, it came up with a solution – pander to both, award both at once and you retain the interest of both states. The thing is, this sets a precedent; many cities will be asking why the committee didn’t do this before – why do Paris and LA get saved from losing, while other cities, such as rome are forced to endure rejection. If such cities had known this was an option, they would have stayed interested rather than dropping out of the bidding process. They therefore feel shunned – it’s as if the IOC does not feel they are as important as Paris or LA.

You can thus see why I find this so interesting: both countries want the prestige of having a city which has hosted the olympics three times, and the IOC can’t afford to upset either. You can thus read a lot of politics behind what is going on here; the interplay between nations, competing for the favour of an international body, stuck between a rock and a hard place, yet determined to retain its status as gatekeeper of the worlds foremost sporting and cultural event.

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After seeing them for sale a couple of times in the market at Woolwich, today I decided to investigate Finger Spinners. Perhaps this was a new art form or sport I could look into, a new discourse to explore or even inaugurate. I was however, wrong: finger spinners are just things to fiddle with. You can’t do any tricks with them, you can’t compete with them or use them as a means of expression; and there’s not much you can write about them. That is all.

I might be willing to do a 180 on 2009’s Star Trek. Like many Trekkies, I was very disappointed when I watched it eight years ago: I didn’t like the way it rewrote or did away with what most fans see as Star Trek cannon. Yet having watched it subsequently, and again on TV last night, I have found I’m more comfortable with it. Yes, it changed Trek as we knew it, but film is art, and like all art must be open to reinterpretation. One must be able to take franchises in new directions, otherwise they stagnate. At the same time, I saw many glimpses of the franchise I love last night; it was clear Abrams loved the source material he was working with and knew it back to front, but wanted to breathe new life into it.

I now think I’ve been too dismissive of the Trek reboots. When thinking about them, I’ve had my hardcore trekkie hat on, rather than my film writer hat. They take the franchise in a new direction, but that was precisely what it needed. In a way, Abrams did trekkies a favour in keeping their franchise alive: without him, it would just have passed into history. Inaugurating the so-called Kelvin Timeline was a vital step. What I need to do now is rewatch the subsequent films before waiting for the next one. After all, taken in a new direction, anything is possible: I’m secretly hoping Picard might make a comeback.

I just got in from a nice long walk, and need to record something. It’s a beautiful day – the sort of day which makes me want to explore the city. I first headed down to Woolwich, taking in the rich, vibrant culture of it’s famous high street. From there, I crossed the road to the old arsenal, the new Crossrail station there now nearing completion. Still in exploration mode, I went along the road a bit, towards Plumstead, following my nose and hoping to find my way back for a coffee in Charlton Park. But then, going along quite a leafy, suburban road, I came across a sign which made me do a double take, and then yelp with amusement. This sign, naming a short cul-de-sac, bears the name of the town where I grew up. I was amazed. Congleton is such an inconsequential little place I never thought anywhere would be named after it, but here was such a place, not far from where I now live. I was thrilled. I wonder how it got it’s name. As silly as it may seem, I love such little coincidences: It’s as if part of my past has suddenly, unexpectedly, cropped up in the present, a little reminder of where I came from.