How perfect she looks as we sit here in our garden,

The woman I love. She taps away oh her iPad,

Deep in concentration. All is silent save for the birds.

I watch her scowl with effort and thought

Then smile with success. A smile perfect and pretty

Utterly unique, utterly special.

I stay silent, just watch,

My beautiful woman in our beautiful garden

I remember how lucky I am to be here.

And all is silent save for the birds.

I went out on one of my usual rolls this morning. Lyn was not yet up, but the day was sunny so I thought I would bead up to toe O2 to see if there was anything going on. I often head that way just for a wander, but today I found something great. There was an event on there, with stalls and tents, music and dancing, food and drink. They called it an Urbian Village Fete, and indeed it was very like the country fairs I remember going to as a child – there was just slightly less mud. I was intrigued. I had a little look round before heading back to tell Lyn about it. I’m currently heading back up there to see what more I can find. Meanwhile check out the website here

I sometimes exaggerate on my blog. I was very angry when I wrote my entry earlier. I meant what I said, but I have taken myself to the park where there’s a cricket match on. There’s at slight np in the air, but when the sun emerges from behind a cloud it’s fairly warm. Sitting here I have time to think, and, as dad pointed out over Skype earlier, I still have so much to be cheerful about. I have a wonderful girlfriend, a loving family, so many great memories and so much to look forward to. I don’t really feel like Ahab; I don’t really hate the Tories. I’m just frustrated and worried. But here, sat in the park watching the sport I love, thinking about run rates, remembering visiting Sydney and Melbourne for the ashes, the woes of politics fade away. Ahab obviously never went to a cricket match as it gives you a completely fresh perspective; its slow pace lending one the time to recall that no matter how dire things might seem, there will always be some good left in the world.

There is a hell of a lot of anger in my heart this morning. Watching the news, whenever I see that smug shit CaMoron or any of his party, I feel an anger like one I have never felt before. What Ahab felt for the whale is but a child’s tantrum compared to the rage I feel. I know what they stand for and what they will do: their greedy worldview means that the poorest in society will suffer and starve, but they and the shits who voted for them don’t care. The NHS, the one truly great british contribution to the world, will be torn apart by these neoliberal zealots. They don’t give a fuck about anyone but themselves. Such shits are unfit to rule, but now they rule over us. Knowing the suffering they will now cause, but watching the turds celebrate their victory, makes my entire body spasm with rage.

Some things in life are bad

They can really make you mad

Other things just make you swear and curse

When you’re chewing on life’s gristle

Don’t grumble, give a whistle

And this’ll help things turn out for the best

***

And always look on the bright side of life

Always look on the light side of life

***

If life seems jolly rotten

There’s something you’ve forgotten

And that’s to laugh and smile and dance and sing

When you’re feeling in the dumps

Don’t be silly chumps

Just purse your lips and whistle, that’s the thing

***

And always look on the bright side of life

Always look on the right side of life

***

When the tories have got in and you’re heading for the gin

You just know dark times lie ahead At least Farage was kept out his party now in doubt

So focus on the good stuff instead

***

And always look on the bright side of life Come on!

Always look on the right side of life

***

For life is quite absurd

And death’s the final word

You must always face the curtain with a bow

Forget about your sin

Give the audience a grin

Enjoy it, it’s your last chance anyhow

***

So, always look on the bright side of death

A-just before you draw your terminal breath

***

Life’s a piece of shit

When you look at it

Life’s a laugh and death’s a joke, it’s true

You’ll see it’s all a show

Keep ’em laughing as you go

Just remember that the last laugh is on you

***

And always look on the bright side of life

Always look on the right side of life

All together now

Farage is gone, thank fuck. While I am still furious that the tories have five more years with which to inflict their ideological cuts on the poorest in society, I am incredibly relieved that the people of thannet south saw sense. Had that happened, had that xenophobic leader of morons been made an MP, this nightmare would have become a catastrophe. I watched the result with marta, and, Lyn not being up yet, just had to give her a hug, I was so relieved. Now, however, Farage has resigned as leader, and without their fhurer with any luck that group of scumbags will fade away, slipping back into the obscure cess-pool from whence they came. All I can say is, at least this very dark cloud has a bit of a silver lining.

I got up slightly earlier than usual this morning to check the election results, and as soon as I turned on the tv flew into a rage. I must apologise to poor Lyn, who was sill trying to sleep, as I started yelling at the screen. I was, and still am, furious: how can we have been stupid enough to elect the tory turds? The insults to the human species responsible for so much suffering. The sight of that shit CaMoron and the whore he calls his wife is too much to bear, for I know what is to come: through tory greed and arrogance people will die,left to starve or take their own lives, despairing at reduced care packages. How can the people of this country have been that stupid, that short-sighted, that selfish? I curse every tory, and every piece of shit who voted for them. There are no words for the rage I feel this morning.

Not that I read the mirror, but since I can’t put it much better…

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It feels like day after day these last five years, one story of hardship has crossed my desk after another. Day after day I saw stories of hardship caused by tory cuts; stories of despair, starvation and suicide. Each time my heart was filled with rage. All of those stores could have been avoided; they did not have to happen. The Tories had a choice in what they cut. They could have spared people the suffering, but instead they chose to hit the poorest hardest. They picked on people who could not defend themselves while cutting tax for their rich friends. That tax could have contributed to the economy, so the suffering of others could have been less. That is why, in all earnestness and without a shred of hyperbole, I feel that what the tories have done is tantamount to a crime against humanity. They try to absolve themselves, saying they had no choice but to inflict these cuts. But they did have a choice; they chose to make the poorest people in society suffer needlessly as they cut tax for the richest. The blame lies wholly with them and their politics of greed.

Evening is drawing in. I await the dawn with both hope and fear. The new dawn must, surely, bring the start of change. Could we be foolish enough to let this continue? Will the Tories get back in? Am I to get more stories of despair, suicide and death. With all my heart I hope not. Only the dawn, or the one after it, can tell: but I hope the setting sun takes with it the hurtful, disastrous tory government.

I would like to send my congratulations and applause to BBC4 and the beeb in general for airing All aboard! The canal Trip last night. It really was a remarkable piece of television, quite unlike anything I’ve ever seen aired. In stark contrast to the boom, bang and eek of normal tv, it was a calm, relaxing journey down a canal, filmed almost entirely from the stern of a barge. I must admit I didn’t watch it all, but rather darted between the tv and my computer. Yet it truly was a brave decision to air such a film: it was virtually one two-hour shot, no music, and the odd caption. At points they merged the shot seamlessly with archive footage. The bravery and beauty of it made my jaw drop; I really must take my hat off to the people who thought it up, made it, and had the guts to put it on air.

Last night when I turned on the news, I gave out a yelp of anger so violent that Dominik came running, thinking something was wrong. I had turned on the 10pm bulletin to see footage if CaMoron asking how labour dared to lecture them on economics. Frankly his words hurt as if the bastard had struck me directly. Labour have every right to lecture the Tories; they have every right to point out the unfairness of what CaMoron and his buddies have done. Their cuts have already lead to countless deaths. Thus when I heard the unelected scumbag try to assume the moral high ground and arrogantly accuse his opponents of causing the suffering his party alone caused, I almost threw something hard at the TV. Labour has every right to cry foul, and the Tories deserve the lectures they receive. CaMoron’s arrogance in claiming otherwise, his refusal to recognise the suffering he and his party have inflicted, boils my blood.

I got up this morning to the then breaking news that two gunmen had been shot dead after they had attacked a conference about cartoons of the prophet Mohammed. The story has me in quite a curious position: at first, I thought ”what did they expect?” Not that I condone such violence, but the conference attendees were being deliberately inflammatory. On the other hand, given my overall stance on religion, part of me thinks I should support the right to lampoon it. After all, one of my favourite films is Life of Brian; what is the difference between the Python classic p-take on christianity and these cartoons?

Yet there is a difference – an important one. Python was a group of middle class guys making a film about the absurdity of religion in general. It was made by men born into the christian world who poked fun at christianity. From what I hear, this conference was a deliberate attack by one group on another: it was organised by american right-wingers, and people like gert vilders were involved. It was entirely provocative. Thus, while I support the lampooning of religion, and don’t think any religion should be out of bounds, this conference troubles me.

Yet I’m not totally sure what to think, or where I stand. Religion is absurd and deserves criticism, but I also think this conference was unwise. No doubt, too, that the people attending were the type of american conservatives who object to people taking the pee out of christianity. Indeed, earlier I was struck by the absurd thought that it might have been some kind of inside job organised by the conference to gain attention and stir up tension, but not even the christian right could be that mad. Then again, what muslim would do such a thing, knowing full well it would play into the right’s hands? Either way it’s very troubling, and will probably only divide communities even further. This is a long way from python and the rereading of preexisting orthodoxies I cherish. There is no looking on the bright side, only the hatred caused by religious difference.

Through the winter I came here, to this square of grass edged with trees

Taking the paths that skirt it, on my way here and there.

Every time it was barren, often covered in frost.

Yet yesterday, the grass green again, I came across a glorious sight:

White frost was replaced with men in whites;

The air, so long silent, resounded with birdsong, and chatter

The sound of ball on bat, claps and cheers.

Sound of life, Sounds of summer, sounds I love

The sound of a thousand happy days, of so many memories

Yesterday, I came across summer in the park.

I checked the news this morning to see that the duchess of Cambridge was in labour. I know I shouldn’t care about such things, and indeed was quite unaware that she was pregnant, but I can’t seem to help feeling touched. I know it’s irrational: the monarchy is an utterly undemocratic institution which feeds off tax payers money which could be better used elsewhere. As at least a quasi-socialist, I should be watching the news with loathing. And yet, at the same time, it is part of our national identity; the continuation of the national soap opera. The truth is I kind of like the monarchy, especially since the olympics – part of me wonders whether 007 is behind the scenes somewhere – so part of me feels quite warmly about this news. Paul our PA today is in a similar position: he is, I think, just as left wing as I am, yet earlier we were discussing what they are going to call her. It’s a funny, ambivalent and contradictory position to hold, but hold it I nevertheless do. I thus both congratulate the royal couple, and despair at having one more royal mouth to feed.

Roaming around south-east London in my wheelchair, it’s hard to escape the impression that the city, or at least it’s construction industry, is flourishing. There are so many new construction projects around it’s incredible. The building around the crossrail site in Woolwich particularly amazes me. The other day, passing by it, I caught myself thinking ”Perhaps I’m mistaken; perhaps there is something to praise the Tories for after all.” But, thinking about it, the recovery began long before the Tories got into power. We were famously feeling the ‘green shoots” of the return to prosperity before they got in. Given that construction projects take so long to develop, the building I see would have either been started under labour, or shortly after when their policies were still in place. Thus we are now feeling the effects of Gordon Brown’s wisdom: it was he, not that barely-numerate p’tahk Osbourne, who protected us against the worst effects of the global financial crash. Without brown, I once heard, the credit crunch would have become a depression as bad as the one in the thirties.

Thus, we are recovering despite rather than because of what the tories are doing. And, while I see all these fancy buildings going up, many people are still lining up at food-banks or re being driven to suicide because of tory cuts. While it may look like things are getting better, it’s only an appearance. Building in London may be booming, and that is indeed cause for optimism; but walk down the streets of Woolwich a few metres, and you’ll see shocking poverty – the real effects of the tories’ economic ‘plan’.

I was just n our local co-op picking up a few supplies. I have been going there quite regularly since I moved to London five years ago, but today something happened which puzzled me. I am quite well known there, and the staff often help me go round and get what I need. They recently took on new staff, and today one of the more senior ladies was instructing a new lad on how to help me. That was fine by me, but one of the phrases she used struck a raw nerve: ”He understands most things.” She said to the boy, as if I couldn’t hear. The implication being, of course, that she thinks there are things I don’t understand. Of course, there are indeed gaps in my understanding: I struggle with certain aspects of Lacanian theory, for instance, and the maths behind special relativity baffles me. Yet I got the impression that that was not what she meant: could it be that, even after five years of going there, they still think I have some kind of learning difficulties? I was a bit troubled to hear that. The assumption that people with cp also have learning difficulties obviously runs deeply. I will have to try to out that right.

I certainly think this very clever piece of journalism is worth flagging up. It is a spoof report about riots by white men shown on CNBC. It highlights how american media is biassed towards reporting certain race-related stories in certain ways. To do this, it discusses riots by white men a though it was discussing riots by black men. They thus talk about ”white culture”, ”white parenting” and ”white history” in the same way that mainstream American media talk abut ”black culture” etc. The clever part is, none of what they say is untrue: there are indeed riots by white men around Saint Patrick’s day which could be attributed to precisely the reasons they state. It thus brilliantly reveals the double-standards in american (and probably British) news coverage by turning the paradigm on it’s head. My only criticism is, he rather spoils it at the end by overtly stating it was a spoof, as if the viewer was too dim to have clocked that.

Just o update everyone on something I touched upon in this entry, my postal vote was waiting for me when I came home from school. After having to whip to the shop to buy a black pen, it was duly filled in, sealed and popped into the post box down the road. Yay democracy!

I met someone incredible at school today. I still volunteer at the local special school, currently going every Wednesday to help at their radio club. Today, they had a special guest: the students were interviewing a woman, currently volunteering at school, who had recently piloted a boat from North africa, across the Mediterainian via Lampaduza, through the rivers and waterways of France, across the Channel to london. She did this, alone in a small boat, to draw attention to the plight of refugees from Libya.

I found her story incredible. I wanted desperately to ask her more, but sadly didn’t have chance. I don’t think the students grasps the magnitude or importance of what she was telling them, but as soon as I realised my jaw dropped. What a film her story would make I thought, as she described her voyage, her encounters with the French people and their small villages as she made her way north. Unfortunately, I didn’t have chance to talk to her much – I didn’t even hear her full name – but I rode home inspired. It just goes to show that, in this city, you never know what amazing thing you are going to encounter next.

Stephen Hawking keeps getting cooler and cooler. On top of being one of my all time heroes from childhood, he first stars in the 2012 paralympic opening ceremony; then he surprises me by cropping up in monty python. Now, rather awesomely, he has spoken out in support of Labour in the coming elections. He has famously been very critical of the tory privatisation of the NHS; he also supports Labour’s stance on science funding. CaMoron may have his fake letter, but Miliband has the backing of one of the most respected people in the country, and indeed the world.

Creating this yesterday just had to be done. It didn’t take long, but it got lots of attention on Facebook…

It would be remiss of me not to flag this Pinknews story from america up. It concerns a dance troupe comprised of transwomen, who decided to continue to march in parades, perform despite vehement homophobic opposition. As they put it, they just want to be themselves and do what they love, marching in spite of the narrowminded crowd. They make the very good point that what they are doing, in defying hatred and opposition, is not that different to the actions of rosa Parks or Martin Luthor-King. I must say that is an attitude I wholeheartedly support, and indeed try to echo in my own small way.

Just to update everyone on this entry, huge congratulations are due to Charlotte’s father. Mr Jones ran the London marathon yesterday in four hours thirty minutes.

That is quite a phenomenal achievement. I had intended at one point to go watch the event, given that the marathon route is so close, but in the end I just stayed home – crowds did not appeal to me yesterday. But it sounds as if the jones family, along with everyone else, had a great time. Congratulations everyone!

I almost never watch countryfile, but feel today’s episode needs flagging up. It has been a busy day: I had an idea for a film and was working much of the afternoon.

More on that soon. I just flipped the box on, to chill out before dinner, and came across quite a brilliant article on wheelchair access to places like the Peak District. When I lived up north, I always felt hard done by because I couldn’t always go where I wanted. According to the report I just saw, though, that area is now being made accessible to wheelchair users. More people with disabilities can go to that beautiful area of the world, following improved paths with adapted gates. I think that is great, and definitely worth mentioning. Check out the story on iplayer if you can, even if you don’t usually watch countryfle.

Just for he record, I still hate being patted on the head, although it does not happen much these days. I was just checking my archives. Mum and Dad came to visit earlier: we had a lovely time, and it made me feel slightly nostalgic. I can hardly believe it has been ten years since I wrote this entry, a rant written after one of the canteen staff at uni patted me on the head. I remember the event vividly, as well as how angry I felt. At the same time, so much has happened since that moment that it makes my draw drop: the lad from cheshire, so fond of the fields, became a firm urbanite; the resigned bachelor became happily coupled; the boy reliant on his parents now looks forward to their weekly Skype conversations and occasional visits. However, one thing remains certain: I still hate being patted on the head!

I was just mucking around with my masters playdraft again today. A few days go, it occurred to me that I could have mentioned that Picard actually misquotes Melville when he recites moby-dick. The original two sentences are in chapter 41, and are slightly longer and more archaic. For example, picard says cannon when Melville uses ‘mortar’ etc. Hardly worth mentioning, and I don’t think my thesis suffers too much for it’s absence. However, when googling for the text, I found this fascinating website devoted to the book. It has all kinds of fascinating background info on the book, Melville and so on, as well as the full text itself. Definitely worth a look for literature buffs.

I just got in from my daily stroll, and think I should note something odd. Today, having a question to ask at the council offices – I still haven’t received my voting papers, but was assured they are on their way – I took myself over to Woolwich. It’s a bright, sunny day, so after I went for a roll. I usually just look around the market and high street when I’m in that area, but today I decided to explore a bit. Crossing the road, I suddenly found myself in a quieter, stiller area. Although there were a few cars, the murmur of traffic, constant in London, suddenly seemed gone. Something about that place, with it’s long buildings and wide, deserted streets made it feel very different to the rest of Woolwich and London. This place seemed old, and indeed it was: I had entered the old arsenal, the site of the old munitions factories for which Woolwich is famous. They had restored most of it, and the area was shiny, clean and modern; yet there was a feeling of ancientness to it, an uncanny, unhiemlich feeling, as if the place was once, many years ago, teeming with life but now was dead. The faces of victorian and edwardian factory workers peer out from photographs dotted about the place. This place once supplied the empire with it’s guns, but the empire is faded. What remains, despite the restorations, are ghosts.

I just heard on the bbc lunchtime news bulletin that scope has reported people with disabilities still have major problems when they try to access polling stations. Many stations still do not have ramp entry, and wheelchair users have been turned away. This utter disgrace is why I opt for a postal vote – that way, I can put the cross in the box sitting at our dining table with plenty of room. Yet the story reveals a major problem, though: this has been an issue for years. To deny a group of people the vote, for whatever reason, is an affront to democracy; but that is precisely what is happening. Whas makes me even more angry is that media, including the beeb, say nothing about it; and when they do they have it in the ”and finally…” slot at the end of the bulletin when it should be the headline story. That implies it does not matter to them. There is also not a word about it on their website. I find that disgusting, frankly.

Just a quick note today to say I just reading yet another book on James Bond, 007. My masters may be finished, but I’m still intrigued with film. Reading books like ‘The Cultural Politics of 007’, a collection of essays looking into the books and films which I noted I was reading a few entries ago, only deepens that interest. I won’t even attempt to summarise the essays here, but what astounds me is the sheer breadth of perspectives they employ, from history to politics,from freud to marx. For instance, the final chapter, the one I just read, looks at Bond’s relevance in the era of the war on terror, pointing out some very interesting parallels between Blofeld and bin laden, both actual and symbolic. it would be fascinating to see if the upcoming film, Spectre, picks up on something similar. One or two left me with a bad taste in my mouth: after all, as they point out, Bond is essentially a fascist figure, a relic of the cold war and of Empire. I should hate him, and be repulsed by his appearance at the olympics. Yet, as I noted here, precisely the opposite is the case. 007 fascinates me still, and the more I read, the deeper I go, the ore intense that fascination becomes.

I’m sure most of you will be aware that a new star Wars trailer came out last week. I was pondering star wars last night. It struck me that one could broadly say that there are two types of film franchise in terms of structure: there’s what you might call an ‘open’ franchise, where self-contained episodes are played out in an overarching fictional world. Examples include Star Trek, where individual films stand alone, and James Bond, which I’d say is very episodic with individual films have almost no bearing on one another save for the odd reference. Of course, there are a few narratives running throughout Trek, such as the federation’s relationship with the Romulans, but they aren’t fundamental to it. You could come into trek at any point and still understand it. The same goes with Bond: I don’t have to have seen Goldfinger to enjoy Casino Royale. The narratives of each episode combine to gradually build up a fictional space which can be further built upon, a world in which a variety of stories can take place provided they stay within the rules of that world.

The second type of structure can be called ‘closed’. This is where all the films in a franchise join up to form one overarching story. A good example is The Lord of the Rings, composed of three films which tell one story. I’d say, here, that it would be more difficult – although not impossible – to watch the two towers without knowing what happened in Fellowship of the Ring. It’s more like a Soap opera, with one installation leading directly into another. I’d say Harry Potter is in this camp too. When the overarching story is told, when the one ring is destroyed and Voldimort vanquished, the narrative ends: there is no more; the characters have served their purpose and are allowed to rest.

The question I wonder about is, which camp does star Wars belong to? Here I’m only referring to the mainstream cinema-released films. I know there is tons of peripheral stuff, but most people are not familiar with that. Taken on it’s own, I’d say that Star Wars belongs in the latter, closed camp. It tells one overarching story basically the birth, rise and fall of Anikin Skywalker. He died in Return of the Jedi, quite an emphatic poignant death, so under my framework, star wars should be over. That’s why I still have my doubts about the seventh film; it just seems a money-making exercise with no artistic merit. If JK Rowling wrote another harry Potter novel, no doubt people would cry ”Isn’t she rich enough already?” That narrative is complete, as is star wars.

Yet part of me is asking why. You could say that, in terms of my categorisation, star Wars has room to manoeuvre, an ambiguity to it. The original 1977 film, a new hope, was originally conceived as a stand-alone film, and then the franchise was expanded into three, then six, films. Why shouldn’t it go further? I’m sure many star wars fans would argue that if you take into account all the non-cinematic stuff, the ‘extended universe’ and so on, my categorisation is wrong and that the narrative is far from closed. My task, in that case, is clear: time to go find out about all this other Star Wars material I’m only vaguely aware of. Perhaps there’s more to this than I thought. Perhaps star wars could be swapping positions.

Until then, though, I’m afraid my initial assessment stands: I cannot shake the idea that star wars 7 is nothing but a money-making exercise. Given that episodes one two and three were so abysmal, and that these new films are being made by Disney, I cannot help thinking that this seventh film will be cliched, childish pap, but that the fans will enthusiastically and uncritically lap up whatever bull they churn out. Vader is dead, so the story is complete: resurrecting him, as I fear they somehow will, would just be an insult to viewers’ intelligence and film as an art form.

I am just watching the news. I now think that Nigel Farage needs to be sectioned. Reading that, I’m sure many would tell me not to be silly: just because I disagree with him does not mean he is insane. However, the BBC just covered the tragic story of migrants from Libya, and for some reason they invited the ukip leader to comment. Using very debatable logic, Farage claimed that the situation was caused when the allies bombed Libya. According to him, we destabilised the country, and everyone lived happily with gadaffi in power. Farage thought we should stay out of the issue.

Such a proposition is of course absurd. How can we cut ourselves off from the world, turning a blind eye to tyranny? More to the point, it is dangerous to have the bbc use this fellow as a go-to guy, a trusted source of information or opinion. His opinions are destructive; he blames everything on our European neighbours, and would leave refugees to drown. As such, he is a destructive, harmful influence who would destabilise society. He would turn us against our European neighbours. Given that insanity can be termed as a delusion which poses a threat to ones self or others, Farage can be termed insane. His delusion is an irrational hatred of Europe, as evidenced by his attempt to blame it for everything, which is very reminiscent of a person with schizophrenia trying to link all their misfortunes to the focus of their delusions. Further, he is clearly a danger if the BBC continues to allow him to spread his views as they just did. In all seriousness, then, I call for Nigel Farage to be committed, before he can cause any real damage. As absurd as my call may seem, he is a destructive dangerous influence intent on distorting reality and causing great harm to others.

I discovered something rather spooky yesterday; it’s just a small detail, but one I’d like to note. Inspired by Thursday’s epic gig, Lyn and I decided I should go and try to get tickets for a Paul McCartney gig shortly to be held at the O2. I set off back up there, only to be told they were sold out. While I was up there, though, I thought I’d just pop over the river to the Excel exhibition centre to see if there was going to be another Star Trek show there this year – with any luck, I could meet Sir Patrick Stewart again. It turns out, however, that that event was a one-off, and that they aren’t going to have a star trek gig there again (this yea it’s Dr. Who). That fact strikes me as really uncanny. What are the chances? The year I finally pass m MA after so long is the year I met the very person I had been writing about, and indeed it turns out it was the only year I could do so. That, I must say, strikes me as really uncanny. Not that I believe in the afterlife, but it is as if my school mates I mention in my thesis were looking down and decided to give me the biggest treat ever. The way in which events came together like that is really, really odd.

I missed the debate last night, so I can’t comment on it. We were, however, dong something much, much better: last night saw us at our second great gig of the year. Lyn and I went to see Paul Simon and Sting at the O2, and I can honestly say it was a wonderful, wonderful evening. My head this morning is filled with tunes we heard last night, from ‘Ceceilia’ to ‘Roxanne’ to the mighty ‘Bridge over Troubled Water’, which they left for their encore. They did a mixture of both mens’ tunes, varying them, alternating them, playing with them and mixing them up. I had no idea that they would go so well together, yet they did. The result was quite wonderful. They Played The Boxer too, reminding me of the time my friend Steve had to learn it for a performance at uni – a great, great song thus summoned a great, great memory.

I have been a bit of a fan of both men for quite a while, since I was first able to control what I listened to on my computer, although not as passionate a one as Lyn; Thus, seeing both these musical legends on stage was awesome. It made me feel very close to Lyn, sat next to me, a great big smile on her face; most of the time I wanted to lean over and hug her – after all, I wanted this to be her evening. To see her so wrapped on the music, concentrating so hard, yet so happy, was great. The finale, though, melted my heart: to have seen Paul Simon play Bridge Over Troubled Water live is a great, great privilege, and something I can now look back on with fondness.

In all, then, it was an incredible evening. I must say I’m becoming very fond of the O2 arena: I was once quite dismissive of it, but having come to know it, it seems to me a fabulous place where all kinds of wonderful things happen. Last night added to that perception. The combination of both mens’ repertoires, both mens’ voices, was magnificent. As usual, it left me thirsting for more gigs; but after last night I doubt anyone would blame me.

I really did not think things could get more awesome than watching Stephen hawking sing the Galaxy song at Monty Python Live last year, but the pythons have taken it a step further. According to this, Hawking has lent his voice to Monty Python’s famous Galaxy Song as part of Record Store Day 2015. They have also released a video to go with it, and, best of all, a version of the game asteroids, which involves Hawking spinning around shooting asteroids with the faces of the monty python team on them. To me, that is simply awesome. Go play, sing along, and smile!

I just have to draw your attention to this, given that it appeals to my sense of humour on so many levels. Lawrence Clarke, one of my favourite crip-comedians (perhaps that should be cripedians?), sits in the street with a collection bucket shouting ‘kill the puppies’. As he’s sat in a wheelchair and has CP, people put money in his bucket regardless of the violent cause he is collecting for, and even when Clarke objects, saying ‘you want to kill puppies, you bastard!” after someone puts a coin in his bucket. The point he is making, of course, is that pity for disability trumps anything else; people will feel sorry for ‘us’ no matter what. It’s odd to think how deep that pity goes: people see our chairs before they see anything else. Thus Clarke makes a very good point. I also love when one old dude comes up to him and asks ”are you a cripple of some sort?”

Now, if you’ll excuse me I’m off to collect money for my next pub trip; where’s my bucket?

I just turned the tv off. I usually watch the 11am news bulletin, mostly out of habit, but the bbc just decided to cut to Farage and his bunch of idiots launching their ‘manifesto’. Even the merest sight o that piece of scum has me flying into a rage. He’d take us back to the fifties; no doubt ukip would have people like Lyn and myself put into homes to save taxpayers money; they would cut us off from europe, clinging to outdated ideas of empire. Indeed, a few days ago, our PA Marta – a wonderful, gentle, kind person – told us that she feels very uncomfortable as an immigrant, because of the rise of ukip. Freedom of speech is all well and good, but I’d rather xenophobe like farage be kept off our tv screens: airtime only encourages them, giving them a sense of importance and validity they do not deserve.

I just got back from one of my walks. It was quite a lengthy one today: I followed my nose to Lewisham, caught the dlr up to Canary wharf, then rode the jubilee line one stop to North greenwich and caught the bus home. I am always stuck by the variety of landscapes there are in London – no two areas look alike. There is the village atmosphere of Charlton; the market town feel of Woolwich, so reminiscent of the Northern towns of my childhood. There is the wide open space of blackheath, and the ornate refinement of greenwich park. There’s Canary Wharf, london’s allusion to New York. There are the heady pleasure centres of the O2 Arena and Stratford, so built up and bright. All these varied landscapes in such a small space; I have just named a few – those i know in the east of the city – but I get the impression that this variation extends across the city, so that there will always be more to see, more areas to explore, the area around Richmond, Kew, and the southwest, for example. I realise this could be said of any city, but I, personally, have never known such a varied, vibrant space, and it’s all waiting for me to go out and explore.

Our t.v is on, and I am currently watching a truly bizarre program. Michael Portillo presenting a program about the role trains played in the First World War strikes me as very odd indeed. I was fine with his previous shows about the various systems of Europe, but this program just seems like Portillo trying to shoehorn his personal hobby into an unrelated subject. Granted, trains were important in that era, but no more than any other mode of transport, and certainly not as vital as Portillo seems to be claiming. The result seems crass: the BBC indulging the hobby of a trainspotter pretending to be a historian, ending up with something I might just dismiss as odd, or an insult to real history, depending on my mood. These stories can certainly be told in a far better way, without the self-important Portillo trying to relate everything to trains. Indeed, the entire premise seems laughable given that the war was a famously stagnant one, fought between trenches.

I know you’re wishing I would just shut up about the olympics, but this morning I read that Paris city council has voted in favour of the city bidding to host the 2024 Olympics. It takes their bid a step closer. This excites me somewhat, although I’m not sure why; I should probably be ranting about the election instead. Yet the events of 2012 inspired me somewhat: I would love to see Paris shown off as London was; I’m curious about how they would handle it. Also, since coming across Ernest Hemingway via Michael Palin in 1999, I’ve had a curiosity with Paris of the twenties. Given that the french capital last hosted the olympics in 1924, this bid seems a nice invocation of that era, a strange, coincidental form of time travel. Thus, as I wrote here, I’m a strong supporter of the Paris bid. At least, Im keeping a close eye on it: not only does there seem a certain justice to it, but my hunch is that in such decisions one can read quite a bit about the mood of the world. So forgive me if I post entries on this subject every now and then: I know it’s nine years away, and nobody really cares, but something in this process, in London 2012, in competing bids, in great cities shown off to the world, has captured my imagination.

Reading another essay on Bond earlier today, I came across a reference to Blades, the gentleman’s club to which M is supposed to belong. It caught my attention, so naturally I Googled it. Blades, it turns out, doesn’t actually exist, but is a creation of Fleming’s based on two real clubs, Boodle’s and Whites. Both are in St. James’s, both are over 200 years old, and both are extremely exclusive.

An idea popped into my head so delicious I can’t shake it off: what if I was to go up there and ask to go in? What would they say? would they let a drooling guy in an electric wheelchair in? Never mind that I would not be dressed properly or would not have the entrance fee, I’m just curious what they would say. After all, such places are remnants of a passed age; they are what remains of an empire upon which the sun has indeed set. They are highly conservative places where only the ‘right type of people’ are allowed entry; thus they cling to a class system and worldview which badly needs subverting. Part of me wants to go up there and demand to be let in.

Of course I’ll do no such thing. I daresay all that would happen is I’d go up there, kick up a bit of a fuss, get nowhere and come home; it would be a complete waste of time. I’d just embarrass myself. Yet the idea persists: what if, for some reason, they let me in? What if, to avoid causing controversy, they lend me a blazer, ask me to wipe my chin, and usher me quietly through the door? Think what an adventure that would be; think what I’d find in there; think of the exotic food and drink perhaps I could get a martini. Think of the mess I could make! What an idea! that’s it – I’m going clubbing.