Lyn and I went over to Bromley yesterday. I don’t recall ever going there before: it’s quite a way, but worth it for the shopping. Getting there took three busses. Because only one wheelchair can go on a bus at a time, I set off before Lyn, my travel instructions firmly noted on my Ipad. It wasn’t that hard: the 422 to Royal Standard, the 202 from there to Lee, and the 261 from there to bromley – nothing any Londoner would worry about.

The incident that got me down a bit happened as I came to get on the second bus. Things had gone reasonably well until then. I was at the bus stop, and saw the 202 approaching, so I put my hand out. It stopped and the doors opened. It was then I noticed that thee prams were in the wheelchair space. The driver put his arms up in a reconciliatory gesture, saying there was nothing he could do. He was about to drive on, but I stuck to my guns. That space was hard fought and won by my disabled forebears; it is a wheelchair space, not a pram space. Besides, I needed to get to where I was going – the next bus along would probably have Lyn on it.

I protested to the driver, who looked behind hm. The three mums were not happy,, but to my horror, they thought they had to get off the bus so that I could get on. I didn’t mean for that to happen – my need to get somewhere doesn’t outstrip anyone else’s. I only wanted them to budge up, or perhaps fold their prams.

I got on anyway, and tried not to feel guilty. After all, was I not well within my rights? I thought I was sticking up for something I was entitled to, wasn’t I? I told myself I needed to get to where I was going, and that a bit of ruthlessness was sometimes necessary, or else I’d never get anywhere. Why, then, did I feel so ashamed, as if I’d been selfish?

I can be a silly sod sometimes. This morning I resolved something I’d been fretting about for over two years with a five minute Google search. The night before I submitted my masters thesis, I sent it to my parents for one final check. They sent it back to me, the Is dotted and the Ts crossed, as a .doc and a .pdf file, the latter of which I forwarded to my examiners. I saved the .doc to my Mac as a .odt file. The odd thing was, they didn’t match: the .pdf was a page longer, and the lines didn’t match.

That made me fret. Why were they not exactly alike? Fool that I am, I decided to do a wordcount by copying and pasting the pdf into word for mac, only to find there was a 99 word difference. That made me worry even more. It wasn’t until weeks later that it occurred to me that it was counting the page numbers from the copied file, so there was no difference.

My fretting, however, went on. I asked my parents about it, who told me to stop worrying and get on with something more constructive. I tried to, but although I put the issue to the back of my mind, I couldn’t shake the thought that the document had been altered somehow. My masters thesis is the piece of work I’m most proud of, but such a discrepancy may have implied that the work was not entirely my own.

I knew that such a thought was, of course, absurd. Why would my parents have changed it? And what could they have done to alter it, yet still keep the wordcount the same. No matter how hard I looked, I couldn’t find a mismatch in the wording. Even so, I couldn’t stop worrying. It wasn’t an issue as much as a nagging curiosity. While I couldn’t be bothered to compare the two files line by line, whole paragraphs in one appeared to be on totally different pages in the other. Yet how and why would anyone have made such changes, given they had so little time and still retained an almost identical wordcount? Why indeed go to so much effort on my masters thesis.

As ridiculous as these questions were, they refused to leave my mind. And then lying in bed last night it came to me. It was simple: the conversion from .doc to odt must have caused the slight change in formatting. That would also explain why my mum and dad didn’t know what I was talking about, as they would have saved the file to PDF before my computer changed it. All I had to do to resolve the whole dilemma was Google whether such changes can occur, and sure enough I found they can. So much fretting, all because of a simple change of file type. I can be a silly sod sometimes.

Lyn and I were just in Maryon Wilson park. A small wooded area, I think I’ve mentioned it on here before. I find it enchanting: you instantly forget you are in the middle of a sprawling metropolis, and find yourself surrounded by trees and birdsong. Save for the tarmac paths, there’s nothing to tell you that you are not suddenly a thousand miles away; even the sound of traffic grows faint. I find myself wondering, why was that place left like that – so untouched by the city? What is it’s history? The signs at the entrance tell that people were once hanged there, yet it feels so tranquil, as the small brook babbles along. A truly wonderful place to walk with the person you love after a bit of a busy day, it is an oasis of wilderness amid the urban sprawl, as the sun starts to set over the metropolis.

While part of me thinks I should just let it slide (after all, who am I to criticise anyone else’s writing style?) I think I’ll flag this ‘article’ up as an example of just how appalling journalism, and especially american journalism, has become. I still get a Google alert for news of the 2024 olympics, so I found it in my inbox this morning. It is nothing but a rant about the olympics, riddled with xenophobia and stereotype. I suspect it’s writer, Dave Barry, thinks he was being funny, but he comes across as extremely arrogant. For example, he writes ”Dong Dong won the silver medal, and although he was clearly disappointed, he showed his class afterward by making a remarkably thoughtful, generous and self-effacing statement, although nobody knows what it was because it was in Chinese.” I would expect such schoolboy stuff from a personal blog, but to see it printed in the Miami Herald, which I presume to be a proper paper, staggers me. It’s as if the writer hasn’t realised he’s writing for a paper rather than ranting his xenophobic bull on facebook. What worries me is that this is very revealing of a growing arrogance in american culture: such belittling of other states is becoming increasingly acceptable; they take the stance that only they matter, hence the jibe about nobody understanding Chinese. One hears it on their talk radio. Of course there is a time and a place for all opinions, but to call this journalism, and for barry to call himself a journalist rather than the arrogant little wanker he comes across as, makes a mockery of the profession. Could this, however, be the way writing, journalism, and indeed culture, are going?

Yesterday’s trip to Brighton was rather more sober than our previous one, but no less fun. A week or so ago, Lyn mooted the idea of popping down there for the day. At first I was hesitant – channeling my father, I thought such trips need to be thoroughly planned, but Lyn just wanted to go and see what happened – but I soon warmed to the idea. A good day out was precisely what we both needed.

And it was indeed a good day out. Although there was a bit of a problem with the lift being broken at London Bridge, meaning we had to get there via another station, we got there in the early afternoon. This left us plenty of time to explore. We headed down to the seafront, which looked lovely: you could see out to sea for miles. We didn’t go on the beach but walked beside it. Lyn had brought the GoPro and attached it to her Ipad stand, wanting to take as many pictures as possible. We headed up the pier and back again. I couldn’t help but notice that they still haven’t done anything with the burned-out west pier; to see it’s timbers slowly rotting into the sea was rather sad.

We spent a good few hours walking, looking and taking pictures. The place was full of people, and there was lots of music. It was getting late – sixish – so we decided to get dinner on the pier. And what could be more traditional than fish and chips? Unfortunately, this turned out to be a disappointment: the fish was overdone, the chips mouldy. Both Lyn and I left half of ours. The saving grace of that dinner was the view: from the pier as the sun set, the city and seafront looked stunning.

It was then time to head home. By then, my wheelchair battery was getting low (I really need to get that sorted) so I got a taxi back up the hill to the station while Lyn and paul walked. A short while later, we were back on the train, relishing memories of what had turned out to be a great afternoon. Both Lyn and Paul had taken some great photos.

Back in london, I got another taxi home while Lyn and Paul got the tube and bus. My battery issues aside, it had been a great day. We might not have slept on the beach this time, but it was great fun. Lyn had taken the photos we went for. It just leaves me wondering, where could we go next.

My absences are back again Daily. Twice yesterday. Sudden spurts of disorientation and fear.

Yet they soon pass

As quickly as they come.

And then I’m back

Back with the woman I love.

Back from the brief daze,

Looking forward to the day(s) ahead;

Back to a life of optimism, hope and fun. Of refusing to let the sudden spurts of fear

Dominate my thinking.

I can’t have seen Chris Whitaker in twenty or twenty-five years, but this morning for some reason I thought about him. We were in nursery school together. He has

CP, but early on he got included in mainstream. The last I heard he had passed his Phd. This morning I suddenly got the urge to google him: I was curious about his PhD thesis, and how it squared up to my masters. (I know, I can be stupidly competitive sometimes). To my joy I discovered that he now keeps a blog, too. Personally Speaking Out is a really interesting page. Chris seems to cover a lot of the same ground I try to, inasmuch as he attempts, in his entries, to define his role as a disabled blogger, and the extent to which he should emphasise his disability. I face the same issues, torn between the urge to play down my disability and just write about things as anyone else would, and the urge to acknowledge the point of view having a disability and belonging to the disability community awards me. It’s a subject I’ve returned to quite a bit, perhaps most notably in my Us and them entry, so it’s fascinating to see Chris deal with similar issues. Given his cp is milder than mine, his perspective is slightly different, yet we come to many of the same conclusions. For me, if the internet is to truly reflect human diversity, bloggers with disabilities surely have a duty to write about the world from their perspective. At the same time, to do so risks overegging the pudding, sounding like a one-track record; someone obsessed with the things which set him apart from others rather than a regular person, as complex and multi-faceted as anyone else, who just happens to have a disability.

Chris only started blogging in june, so I welcome him to the blogverse. He still seems to be finding his feet, so I wish him luck. Having regularly updated a blog for well over ten years, I can assure him it’s a habit he’ll soon find hard to kick.

I have to say I’m horrified by what is recounted here. A few weeks ago, I came across news of how american punk band The Descendents were being criticised for using the word ‘spaz’ in their latest album title. To many, including myself, that is a term of offense. The band seemed to think they were being clever for using it. That article details the appalling abuse the makers of the petition have received from the band’s fans. It’s staggering how childish they are being, hurling insults at anyone who objects to the name. Free speech is one thing, but to deliberately and knowingly use a hurtful word quite another. To then go on to attack those you’ve offended, insulting them further and refusing to admit you’re in the wrong, isn’t ‘punk’, it’s just childish.

I still don’t see that much of either of my brothers; we all now have our separate lives. Today is mark’s birthday, and I’m thinking of him, Kat and Oliver. It feels like I haven’t seen them in ages – Oliver is two now, and probably growing up fast – but that’s what you get for having a physics geek for a brother, off smashing particles together in france. Oh well, I’ll just wish him happy birthday, ask him to give O a hug from his uncle matt, and leave him to his particle-smashing. Found anything yet, bro?

Every week or so, Lyn records a ‘mix’ and uploads it to Mixcloud. It’s like a radio show, upon which she choses the playlist. She usually selects songs around a theme or mood. Until now, though, she hasn’t spoken during her mixes, just played music. Monday’s mix was different. On it she speaks, using a voice synthesiser to introduce tracks, and to incorporate a bit of banter into the show. I think I need to flag it up, because the result is excellent, and well worth listening to. Franky it was a hell of a lot of work for her, but she says she enjoys it, so I expect she’ll do more like this. I daresay it could lead to other things, too. Fancy a game of Mornington Crescent, dear?

There was a program on the bbc last night about brexit and ‘the battle for Britain’. It was a mistake for me to watch it. Since June I had just about calmed down over the referendum, and was trying not to think about it, but last night the rage came flooding back. This decision must not be allowed to stand. Either fifty-two percent of us were deceived, or fifty-two percent of us are morons. Either way, we were mislead into voting for something not in our best interest, which would make this country an irrelevance on the world stage and leave us open to the most perverse form of capitalism. It’s clear to me that many people didn’t understand what they were voting for, duped by the laughable con that brexit would bring back some kind of heyday for the uk. For example, a few days before the vote, I was talking to a pro-brexit internet radio presenter: I told him how worried I was that, outside the eu, the rights and protections disabled people get under it would be eroded. On his show he voiced my comment, adding that such protections would be replaced with our own, British ones. No you moron! People were campaigning to vote out precisely to get rid of such human rights laws, which they saw as a hinderance to business. That was the whole point. Vulnerable people are now even more vulnerable because of such stupidity; I am still very angry about it, and will be for quite some time. The country is alone, isolated, and at the back of the queue; the capitalists will now come in and screw us all; society is already becoming more individualist and xenophobic; and all because so many people allowed their selves to be misled. Brexit must not be allowed to stand!

Through my window it feels like the city beckons. My trip yesterday only added to the effect: it’s like a vast labyrinth is laid out before me, lying there, waiting for me to explore. There is just so much of it: every time I go out, I pass new buildings and streets, and I wonder ”what’s in there?” or ”what’s down there?” Even after six years living here, I know so little of it. Going up into the north-west of the city yesterday, it really struck home just how vast and complex the metropolis is, and how little I still know of it. Sat on the tube, looking at the map of the underground system, it felt as if something was beckoning me: each station, each point on the diagram, would be something new; new places and people, and the potential for something awesome. That is what I love about this city: London is a vast microcosm – the world in one spot. And, like the world, there will always be more of it to explore. That’s what I love about this incredible place.

It has been quite a day, and I’m fairly knackered. This morning, in our weekly Skype conversation, my parents told me that my uncle and aunt go home on Thursday. They have been in London for a few weeks, staying with my Yeaya (grandma) up near Kilburn. It seemed to me that it would be a shame for me to let them go without seeing them, so after checking how to get there on the TFL website, off I set.

This proved to be rather complicated. I took as much public transport as possible in order to save my chair batteries. It took about two hours, but a bus, the Jubilee line and two more busses later I got there. The thing was, I hadn’t warned anyone I was coming as I didn’t know how I’d get on or whether I’d have to turn back, so I wasn’t sure they would be in. I was in luck though, and to her surprise at about two this afternoon my aunt Toulla opened the door to my grinning face.

It was great to see them; they’re doing well. I hadn’t seen them since Christina and Tom’s wedding, so it was good to see them. As they live in Brazil, I asked for their take on the Rio opening ceremony, but they hadn’t seen it. I didn’t stay long – an hour or so – so unfortunately I didn’t get to see my cousin alex and his young family, who were out at the time. Nevertheless, as uncle David walked with me back to the bus stop, I felt pleased I had gone. I’ll certainly have to go up there more often: it wasn’t too difficult, and I think that part of north-west London is definitely worth exploring.

In the build up to their opening ceremony, someone in Rio said ”Athens was classical, Beijing was grandiose, London was smart – ours is going to be cool”. Having just watched it, I think that prediction was spot on. I began watching it last night, but the urge to go to bed got too much (hey, I’m a lightweight) so I caught up with it this morning (I fast forwarded through the athletes’ entrance). It struck me as magnificent. I’m not going to compare it to London or any other ceremony, as it was uniquely and totally Brazilian. The stadium was amazing, the dancing incredible. I thought the best bits were the floor of the stadium which doubled as a screen, and the sculpture behind the olympic cauldron, which made my jaw drop it was so beautiful. I was mildly disappointed there was nothing comparable to Happy And Glorious – no stand-out, stunning moment to capture my imagination and obsess over – but that’s fair enough. It was a great opening ceremony, at the start of what promises to be a great olympic and paralympic games.

At last, tonight we’ll find out the answer to the question I posed four years ago: how will Rio reply to Happy and Glorious? I know I said yesterday that I was looking forward to the Rio games being completely different to London’s, and that their ceremonies would be full of latin american flair, but I’m nonetheless itching to see if they continue that meme. I seems to me that to have the queen escorted to our opening ceremony by James Bond was so original, unexpected and jaw-droppingly brilliant that it demands a response. After all, who would ever expected us fusty old brits to pastiche one of our oldest institutions in such a way? Who would ever have expected to see the queen parachuting out of a helicopter with 007, Bond theme ablaze? I hope the Brazilians take up the gauntlet that film threw down, and echo it with something similarly novel.

I must say I’m really looking forward to tomorrow. The venues are ready, the athletes have arrived; it’s time for Rio De Janeiro to take centre stage. My enthusiasm for the olympics hasn’t waned since 2012: to have been here, in London, that year, was remarkable. The entire city was abuzz – it felt so alive, like we were the centre of the world’s attention. I feel truly privileged to have been here. Simply being here was a once in a lifetime experience, let alone watching Lyn play at the Paralympic closing ceremony.

Nobody can argue we didn’t do a wonderful, wonderful job. Yet London is an old, established city. It is a safe pair of hands. The first city to host the games three times, you could even call it old hat. What excites me about the Rio games is that they will be completely different. I can’t wait to see what latin flair they inject into the games. No doubt the city will be throbbing to samba beats, and, with any luck, the whole world will follow suit. I’m looking forward to seeing something new, uniquely Brazilian, and unlike anything that has been before. I think it’s what the Olympics, as a worldwide sociocultural event, needed – fusty old European cities are so 2012, it’s time to go somewhere exotic.

Whereas London was a safe choice, rio is a risk. I don’t mean that in a derogatory sense – although questions have been raised over whether the city is ready – but in the sense that it has an edginess to it: a new world edge that London lacks. It has a completely different history and culture to us. Seeing that culture, that contrast, reflected in the way the Brazilians put on their games, especially the ceremonies, is something I’m really looking forward to.

Mitchell worked his socks off yesterday. While I was out in Woolwich, he changed the furniture in my office around. Since moving in with Lyn six years ago, my computer, books and stuff have been set up in what had been her old studio. I left the desk where she had left it, and everything had basically stayed in the same place for six years. When I got home yesterday, though, everything had changed: my wardrobe is where the filing cabinet was, and my desk is where the wardrobe was. It was such a great surprise to get back to; the room feels so much more airy and light. I usually dislike change, so I opposed the idea at first, but this I could get used to. Today, to add the finishing touches, I plan to buy a book-shelf. Believe it or not, most of my books are still in boxes; I think this is the perfect time to at last sort them out too.

It has been another great tuesday afternoon. As I was last Tuesday, I was in woolwich for a film production group. I may have written tens, if not hundreds of thousands of words over the years about the finer points of film semiotics, but at last I am getting to grips with how to use a camera. It’s fairly basic, but by the end of the course I should have a couple of films to my name, and, perhaps more importantly, some good new contacts. It was, however, good to hear someone use the term ”mise-en-scene” for the first time in years. In fact, it began to feel so much like being back at uni that, at the end of the afternoon, when it was time to leave, for the briefest of moments I expected my old LSA Esther to help me with the door.

Although it is a bit deep for first thing on a Monday morning, let me just flag this short Tom Shakespeare talk for Radio Four up. In it, Professor Shakespeare discusses recent advances in prenatal screening, and their ethical ramifications. It might soon be possible to accurately screen for conditions like Downs Syndrome and Muscular Dystrophy, opening the possibility that far fewer babies will be born with such disabilities. In doing so, we enter a labyrinth of ethical dilemmas: while life with a disability can be harder than others, and the severity of any disability can vary hugely, most disabled people live full, productive lives. Most of us are happy as we are; we wouldn’t want to wish away our disabilities. I certainly don’t, as I believe it would take away a fundamental part of what makes me, me. While eradicating disability might at first glance seem like a good idea, in doing so we would strip society of part of it’s diversity: like skin colour and religion, disability adds to the variety of humanity. Thus, Shakespeare raises some interesting questions; questions which, as he says, we are increasingly having to deal with as medical science advances.

Something happened yesterday afternoon which I thought briefly about recording, then decided not to. However, after just coming across this, I think I will. It’s a letter from a disabled man to the anonymous person who called him a ‘window licker’. Opening it ‘Dear John’, he writes about how deeply hurtful it was, and how insulted he and his wife felt. Sadly, though, it’s something ‘we’ have to put up with.

Yesterday afternoon, Lyn and I were out for a walk. We weren’t going far – just enjoying a stroll before dinner. We were going past the hospital when a car came by and the guy in the passenger seat rolled down the window and shouted something like ‘oi, spastics!’ at us. I don’t think Lyn heard it, but I turned and shouted back. The guy saw I was insulted, and drove away, as if surprised I could feel his insult. Like the guy writing the letter, I’m a proud person; like his wife, I have a degree and a Masters. Lyn is an accomplished musician, capable of playing before the world. Yet this is the type of thing we are increasingly having to put up with.

Perhaps the most troubling thing is, had I not come across this letter this morning, I would probably have let it slide. After all, there wasn’t much to write about. The letter gave me a context to put it in. Such incidents are small, fleeting and easily brushed aside; yet, put together, they form an increasingly alarming picture of discrimination and abuse directed towards people with disabilities. The guy in the car yesterday might have thought he was just having a laugh, but I fail to see why people like Lyn, myself, or the guy who wrote that letter, should have to put up with being the butt of other people’s jokes.

Today I would just like to wish my brother Mark and his wife Kat a very happy fifth wedding anniversary. Can it really be six years since I wrote this entry? Time has flown, but I still remember that being a great day. I’m still rather proud of my best man speech, too. Of course, much has happened since then, not least the birth of Oliver. I hope all three of them have a great day, and that oliver gets lots of treats.

The final competitors have now been established for the American presidential race. Of course, it practically goes without saying that I’m backing Hilary Clinton for President; the last thing the world needs is a megalomaniac like Trump in charge of it’s most powerful nation. And yet, one must raise an eyebrow at Hilary’s selection: out of such a vast nation of so many millions of people, isn’t it rather dubious that the new presidential candidate is the wife of a former president? The same question applied to George W. Bush becoming president after his dad. In a so-called land of opportunity, where in theory everyone should have an equal chance of becoming president, isn’t it rather dubious that power seems to run in families? Nonetheless, I’m hoping – as I’m sure most thinking people are – that Clinton wins the election. The world can ill afford a person like Donald Trump in charge of it’s most powerful country; and, as pointed out here, Clinton is unafraid to ask the questions America needs asking. It is more patriotic to point out a country’s problems than to just fall back on jingoistic rhetoric. I just hope americans realise this, and aren’t fooled by a sweet-talking con-artist. No matter who Hilary is married to, she is vastly more suited to be president.

Sad git that I am, I still follow news about Olympic bids, and google alerted me to this story this morning. The boston globe is patting the city on the back for ‘dodging the bullet’ of the olympics a year ago today. I must say that strikes me as odd: if you opposed hosting the olympics in your city, fair enough, but why mark the anniversary? Why point out that a year ago you chose not to do something, instead of just forgetting about it? The article makes it out to be some kind of great victory, a slap in the face to the olympics; but I still think, as I wrote here, that in turning down the olympics boston chose to remain normal. It’s as if boston’s still justifying the decision to itself – why else bring it up, and why be so dismissive of an event other cities around the world are fighting tooth and claw to host? I think this is quite telling of the bostonian – and American – mentality.

Lyn made another quite monumental step yesterday. While I was in Woolwich, she took herself all the way to Lewisham, bought a top, and got the bus back. It is the first time she has made such a solo trip, at least while I’ve been living with her. Lewisham is quite a way; I haven’t been there by chair alone yet – I take the bus. Thus I think what L did yesterday was quite incredible. As I wrote here, she is fast becoming very independent and outgoing. Before she got her powerchair, she rarely went out unless she had to, as she had to rely on a PA to push her. Now she’s discovering the joy of exploring for it’s own sake, you can barely keep her in; that’s bound to be even more pronounced after finding she can get on the busses unaided. It truly is wonderful to see her independence and sense of freedom blossoming like this.

I just got in from a very promising afternoon. The centre in Woolwich I got in touch with about my drinking habits runs sessions about film making. When I mentioned to the guy there about my Masters, he invited me to come along. I was somewhat skeptical, but went anyway, and I’m now glad I did. It’s only a small group of two people other than me, but the guy running it knows what he’s doing. This afternoon he took us through the basics of photography – most of which I remember from uni – but the things he said we will move on to have me quite excited. He also said he runs a production company, so I’m hoping I can segway from this into other, bigger things. He showed us his website, 1000 Londoners, a collection of films about London Life. I was very impressed, and would now love to contribute my own. A great afternoon of networking and potential, then; together with the film festival stuff, things really are looking up.

I’m really pleased with how today has turned out. You might recall me mentioning I am currently working on a presentation for this autumns Charlton and woolwich film festival. Until today, the presentation had been written, as well as the words I intend to say alongside it, but I wasn’t sure how I was going to deliver the speech. Today, though, Kathryn emailed me from school, calling me in. She put a new app on my iPad, and dropboxeed over my speech. All I have to do now is press the corresponding buttons for each of my slides, and hey presto I’m presenting. Kathryn couldn’t have made it easier. All I have to do now is practice.

After writing my entry earlier I was in a very Trekkie mood, so I decided to go see the new film, Star Trek Beyond. Until now, I must admit I’ve been rather resistant to the reboots; the change of style and the creation of a new timeline put me off. Like many fans, I wanted Trek to continue as I knew it. Yet having seen many videos arguing for the validity of the new films, and pointing out the ties between them and the original series, I thought I’d go give it a watch.

I’m glad I did. I should not have been so dismissive. It may not have been the Trek of my childhood, but as others have pointed out it wasn’t supposed to be. These films do not try to compete with or replace what went before; they pay homage to it, play with it, and explore it. I had thought Abrams was hijacking Star Trek, but he is just taking it in a new direction, and in so doing he breathes new life into it. Rejecting the new films because they differ from the old is like rejecting Moore’s Bond because he differ’s from Connery’s. There is room for both. At the same time, this new film is tied intimately to the old trek: there are countless references, countless tributes, including one towards the end, involving a photo found in Ambassador Spock’s belongings, which brought a tear to my eye.

This is not, then, the trek I grew up with, but it is trek. It’s makers clearly know and love what went before, but they clearly realised the franchise would stagnate if it was just allowed to continue in the same vein. In creating this alternative timeline, they have given themselves room to explore new paths, to go back and reexamine old characters, without blotting out what went before. Kirk, Spock and McCoy may be played by different actors, for example, but there is still the dynamic we love between them; to see that once more, not replaced but echoed and commemorated, is truly touching, especially given two of the three original actors are no longer with us. This film, then, is a wonderful revival which both takes one back to a franchise I love and also extends and refreshes it. I might be glad that the new series will be based in the original timeline (the one where Vulcan was not destroyed) but if these films continue down their own path, that’s cool too; there’s room for both. Star Trek is far from dead: it has now been expanded upon and refreshed, but it remains the same group of characters and stories, the same optimistic vision of the future, that I, like so many others, fell in love with.

The trekkie in me just got very, very excited. To update you on this entry, I just came across this news from startrek dot com. Executive Producer Bryan Fuller recently announced to a convention in San Diego that the title of the new series will be Star Trek Discovery. Fuller was rather unforthcoming on detail, but he apparently confirmed that the series takes place in the prime timeline, which is quite a relief. While we still don’t know anything about the captain or crew, nor indeed when it is set (I’m still hoping for post DS9) at least it’s a start. Mind you, the CGI in the trailer still looks rather computer game-ish for my liking; and the title is bound to raise a few eyebrows: as one comment put it: ”Also…. Star Trek: Discovery…. STD?! ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!

Yesterday I had the first proper meeting about my drinking problem. A guy came from a centre in Woolwich, and we began discussing my relationship to alcohol. It was a necessary, indeed vital step: since uni, I’ve used beer as a wind-down or relaxant; I feel the urge to drink to have a good time. The guy began to suggest how I can avoid these urges. The problem is, one drink always lead to me wanting two, and two to three, and so on. It was becoming an uncontrollable urge, and Lyn was clearly getting fed up of me getting drunk. The last time I came home drunk out of my head, she insisted I went and got help.

It was a good meeting yesterday, and a lot was discussed. The guy will come back next Friday to continue the process. He also recommended I stop drinking alcohol altogether, at least for the time being. I cannot disagree that that is a very good suggestion, yet, at the same time, part of me feels bitter about it, and I must admit I had quite a short temper for a while yesterday afternoon. You see, while I know full well the dangers of drinking too much and the problems it can cause – I have a nasty scar on my forehead to attest to that – I also associate it with freedom. I cherish the ability to go into a pub and have a couple of beers. Everyone else can do it, so to have that right removed from me fees like a freedom has been taken away, and like I’m being treated like a child.

I suppose it’s analogous to smoking. People know smoking is bad for them, but if a government tried to ban it completely, there would be an outcry. People would say that their freedoms were being taken away, and that they have a right to decide what they did with their body. The very fact they were being controlled and limited, even if they knew the health risks, would cause huge resentment. Similarly, part of me feels resentment towards this; even though I know full well the wisdom of it, I no longer feel totally free. I may be safer and more cooperative, I may sleep a lot better, yet part of me feels like I’m being treated like a child by overprotective parents. As a disabled man, perhaps I value such freedoms even more, given I know how precious they are. Of course I have no intention of breaking this ban – after all, in this city there are so many better things to do than drinking beer – but I just wanted to get this side of the story off my chest.

Last night I dreamt I could play the drums. I tried to play them when I was young, but was never any good. In my dream, though, I was excellent: I suddenly got the ability to produce the perfect drum roll. I had no idea where it came from; all of a sudden I found I could use the drum-sticks with ease, hitting exactly the same spot on the drum in a blur. In my dream I wondered where the ability came from – why was I suddenly so dexterous, and why did this dexterity only apply to drumming? Then I woke up, and my questions were instantly answered – it had just been a dream. Oh well, I thought, perhaps I should take up the drums again – perhaps I could actually get that good.

Watching your wheels turn ahead of me

Following you as we wind our way through the city, exploring the streets together; getting lost, then finding ourselves, I feel

So lucky, so content.

With you in your chair and me in mine,

We roam as one. Discovering it,

And ourselves, finding our way

Through the city; through the world; through life.

Exploring the streets together,

Watching your wheels turn ahead of me

Following wherever they might lead.

Into life; into love.

Last night was one of those unexpectedly cool (well, not so cool – the temperature was at least in the high twenties) evenings which come along from time to time. The day before, Lyn had suggested going for a walk yesterday afternoon, but it turned out to be so hot that we decided to put it off to the evening. That way we could have dinner at the dome. The stroll up there is pleasant one: We bumped into Sally having a drink outside the Anchor and Hope, before continuing along the south bank of the Thames. It was beautiful at that part of the day, just as the sun was beginning to set. Lyn was in a wonderful long dark blue dress which I hadn’t seen her wearing before, but which I couldn’t keep my eyes off.

Once at the Dome, we had a little look around for places to eat. L fancied pizza, but having had one on Saturday I was in the mood for something meatier. We settled for Frankie and Benny’s where we had an excellent meal. I had a single pint, having resolved to teach myself that one is enough, and then we set off back home. The river looked even more glorious at that point, the sun having set; the lights of the city were just starting to twinkle. Lyn took a stunning picture on her Ipad – she’s becoming quite a photographer – then it was back home to Charlton. The day was rounded off with a little stargazing in the back garden, and I went to bed, content. Yet another great day with the woman I love.

If a musician or band used the N-word in one of their album titles, I thin there would rightly be an outcry. Such language is no longer acceptable, at least when it’s not used ironically. The same should apply for the word spazz: now and again I use it to refer to myself, but if someone called me a spazz, or I heard someone use it derivatively in the media, I’d be insulted. Stay up late reports on an american punk band called Descendents calling their new album Spazz Hazard. They report that the group seems to relish being politically incorrect, and have launched a campaign to get them to rename the album. Such language is becoming increasingly acceptable, it says, with people starting to relish the controversy. I fear they are right: In these extreme, perverse times, minorities of any kind will find theirselves increasingly outcast. With politicians like Trump and Farage starting to take centre stage, extremist views will become more and more tolerated; the idea of political correctness will become increasingly derided, and it will become ‘cool’ or bold to use words like these. Thus I fear this band’s choice of title is a sign of things to come.

[img description=”undefined image” align=”centre”]/images/buffoon.jpg[/img]

I knew it was only a matter of time before images like this began circulating, but this one is too awesome for me not to stick on here.

Just to elaborate upon yesterday’s entry, on thursday evening I got a message over facebook from Charlie asking if I wanted to meet her yesterday. She was coming for a flying visit, and the plan was that I’d go to Peckham to meet up with her friend Emma*, who would then take me to wherever C was. I thought ”why not” and agreed. As I said yesterday, I thought it would be a house party or small get-together of some kind. I initially thought I’d go alone in my powerchair, but I don’t know that neck of the woods very well, so I asked Dominik if he wanted to come with me. He said Ok, and I went in my manual chair, Dom pushing me. Looking back, I’m very glad I did that.

Neither of us had any idea what we were in for. We met up with Emma as planned, who then took us on to another bus to Brixton. Things were getting interesting.

Once off the bus, she lead us down some winding paths and into a park; and I suddenly entered the biggest festival I had ever seen. We were in the Lambeth County Show, and it was huge: the air thronged with music; people – tens of thousands of them – were everywhere.

Once in the park, Emma left us to go find Charlie and her friends, returning not long after. She then lead us across the field through the crowd (again, I was glad I hadn’t taken my powerchair) to where my old friend was. She was having a whale of a time, and greeted me with hug. Lots more of her friends were there, and I spent the next hour or so socialising and listening to the music on the main stage. My only regret was not bringing lyn: had I known this was what C had had in mind, I would have brought her along.

A while later, though, I needed the loo, so I asked Dom to push me to the bogs. We then decided to take a walk to see the stalls. It was massive, and took us ages to get around. At one point we got slightly lost. When we got back to where C and her group were, then, they were gone: Dom looked, but couldn’t find them anywhere. A while later, we were told they had moved on.

With that, we left too. It had been a great afternoon; it was good to see C, of course, and also great to be invited to such a wonderful event. I hadn’t even known it was on. Dom pushed me back to Peckham, where we got a great pizza (I was famished) before heading home. Charlie had done it again, and I made a mental note: when she invites you somewhere, be prepared for anything.

*Not the one from university.

Dom and I are heading home from Brixton. A couple of days ago I got a message from Charlotte, asking if I’d like to meet up with her today. I said yes, thinking she just meant to have a small get together. I was wrong. I’m now on my way back from my first proper festival. Old Charlie, it would seem, has done it again: it has been an incredible afternoon of music; there were at least two stages, plenty of stalls, and thousands upon thousands of people. I just wish I had known what she had had in mind as I would have brought Lyn. Oh well, there’s always next time.

I know I said yesterday that I no longer care about politics, but I think I’ll flag this article up today. It explains why much of the current mess we find ourselves in can be placed at the feet of George Osbourne. If that nitwit hadn’t made such a pig’s-ear of the recovery, people wouldn’t have been so discontented that they voted Out. Thanks largely to him, the country is a shadow of what it was; not to mention the suffering caused by his draconian cuts. I would say, ”thank zark he’s gone,” but I’m now worried the new chancellor will be just as bad, if not worse.

I’m not even gonna try today – things are getting too fucked up for words. We have left the EU; we have a completely unelected right-wing bitch for PM; and now we have a man who, despite his act of joviality is a nineteenth century throwback who thinks reviving colonialism would be a good idea, as foreign secretary, Would someone please tell me what the smeg is going on. On second thoughts, don’t: I’m passed the point of caring. I don’t even want to think about it, as the moment I do, I know I’d fly into a rage, or else sink to abject despair.

I’m worried about the future – who knows what will happen next. Yet, for now at least, the sun is out. On another level, I’m actually quite happy: Lyn has a mix going; there’s a music event later at school I’m planning to go to; we’re also planning to get tickets to see the Greenday musical up in the west end soon. I don’t have to check the news if I don’t want to, so sod it. On one level things are getting screwy, but on another they are perfectly fine.

I never thought I’d be sad to see CaMoron go, but part of me is. The guy has wrecked the country. His needless austerity policies, born not of economic necessity but of the politics of greed, have brought misery to millions. The guy has ruined the country by holding a referendum we didn’t need. He thought by holding it he would shut the euroskeptics in his party up, but he didn’t think the country would be so foolish as to vote out. He thus transformed the country from being a prosperous and important participant in world affairs to an irrelevent, inward-looking island off northern europe, simply to satisfy his party’s internal affairs. The outists told the people that Europe, not the current government, was to blame for their suffering, and they fell for their lie.

I hate CaMoron, then, but I wish he wasn’t going. If the country hadn’t been so idiotic last month, he’d still be in downing street and none of this would have happened. We wouldn’t be in this mess; we’d still be in europe, our future safe; we wouldn’t need to worry about what happens now, or feel so vulnerable. But we did. CaMoron’s gone, the county’s ruined, and I hate him for it.

My old friend Steve met me, via Facebook, with some amusing news this morning. I was on telly. Go to bbc breakfast on Iplayer, here, and wind back to 08.43. Who else do you see but yours truly. It’s the briefest of shots in a montage about the legacy of CaMoron, but worth flagging up.

Addendum: It’s no longer available on bbc iplayer, but thanks to Steve, here’s the proof

[img description=”undefined image” align=”centre”]/images/bbc breakfast.jpg[/img]