Last night saw the concluding part of Michael Palin’s series, Brazil. I thoroughly enjoyed all four episodes, and it was great to see Palin back on our screens. Programmes like his certainly make a change from the usual superficial dross broadcast these days, and at least we get to see parts of the world we otherwise might not. After last night’s program, all I wanted to do was get out there and explore – to go see the wonders of the world for myself.

The problem is, I discovered yesterday that I have very poor navigational skills. I needed to go to a dentist in Kidbrooke, which, on the map, doesn’t look too far away. The sun was out, so I decided to just go in my chair. I knew roughly where I was going, and had a map and an Ipad, but could I find the damn place? Could I heck! I ended up having to ask about five people for directions, and in the end one woman had to lead me to the place. In my defence, though, the place was rather hidden away under a car park. It was a good thing I didn’t have a proper appointment but just needed to go in and check something, as I would have been very late.

Getting home was not much easier, though: I ended up halfway across Bexley heath before I realised I was going in entirely the wrong direction. I got back well after dark, knackered, pretty teed off, and wondering if Michael palin’s next series should be set in south London. He never seems to have these navigational problems: mind you, this could have something to do with having a camera crew following him everywhere.

For once I feel sorry for Teresa May. I usually loathe the worthless Tory bitch, but over the Abu Hamza deportation fiasco, I have to side with her and her predecessors. I am a firm supporter of immigration, which I see as enriching our society, but however you look at it, Hamza is a nut. He is a religious loon apparently intent on blowing us all to kingdom come: the further he is from us, the better. The danger, of course, is that this plays straight into the hands of the far right, who will now use this to tar every Muslim immigrant, and indeed all immigrants, with the same narrow-minded brush. Moreover, I do also agree that human rights must be sacrosanct – even those of religious nutters. The moment we start to ignore human rights, we lose something very important indeed. Thus, hamza may be a dangerous loon whose presence here puts us all at risk, but I understand why the decision was made yesterday to allow him to stay. I just hope we don’t all come to regret it.

Yesterday turned out to be quite a cool day. A week or two ago, Lyn and I were invited to be in a short film which is going to be shown at conferences about disability and technology. It was only a small piece: the only problem was that it was on the other side of town. So at about one yesterday, off we went: it’s easy to forget just how big London is, and hard to get one’s head around. We spent well over three hours getting to the place in Acton town, by which time we were both fairly cranky.

In the end, though, it turned out ok: Lyn and I did what they asked us to – I’ll post a link to the finished film when I get it – and the producers very kindly paid for a taxi home. The three hours on public transport I think we had all been dreading turned into a nice, comfortable one hour taxi ride. It kind of made me reflect, though: there must be an easier way for two cripples to get around town. I thought back to our trip to Australia, and it occurred to me that what we really need is a helicopter. One of those babies certainly would speed up getting across London: I worked out that we could have gone from Charlton to Acton within twenty minutes. It certainly makes sense when you factor in the trouble we have getting on and off busses and in and out of tube stations, not to mention the delays we crips sometimes cause. Mind you, I rather doubt Lyn and I could afford one on the mobility component of our DDA.

Joking aside, while it is true that public transport in London for disabled people has come on a lot recently, there is still vast room for improvement. Yesterday, for instance, an out of order lift added about half an hour to our journey on the tube, and it was a good thing it was in my manual chair as about half the stations marked as accessible are not. Getting around London is not as easy as it could or should be, and there is still a long way to go, especially when you have, er, a long way to go.

The question for Boris, then, is which is cheaper: giving everybody with a mobility disability a helicopter, or making the entire London rail network completely accessible.

While I am a little wary of poppy wearing as I fear it feeds into right-wing jingoism, I just thought I’d share this with you

[img description=”undefined image” align=”centre”]/images/poppy hypocracy.png[/img]

This entry will really be two entries in one, touching on two unrelated topics. The only thing they have in common is that they both occurred this weekend. Firstly, I should have mentioned in yesterday’s entry that it was great to see Sir David Attenborough return to our TV screens on Friday night. The bbc does not seem to be getting much right of late, but one of it’s better moves was to decide to screen a season of films celebrating Attenborough’s sixty years in the business. In today’s fickle world of internet memes where a YouTube video can propel someone to worldwide stardom for a week or so, after which they are forgotten about (Warhol, it seems, was only slightly off) it’s good to see that one or two of the old guard are still around, doing their thing and fascinating the country as they have always done. Indeed, Attenborough was introducing us to the wonders of the natural world before my parents were born, and is still going strong; that too fills me with awe and admiration.

Attenborough seems to have been everywhere, but one of the wildernesses I don’t recall him ever visiting is the wilds of south-east London. Intrepid explorers that we are, Lyn and I were out and about yesterday. We went over to Deptford to see the market. By the time we got there, though, it was starting to wind down, so Dominik kindly invited us to his place nearby for a cup of coffee, and then we set out to find some dinner. Of course, I had a pub in mind, and some good old stodgy pub grub, but what we eventually found was something far more unusual: a bus! Believe it or not, in Deptford there is an old red routemaster bus which has been converted into a bar and restaurant, called, appropriately enough, The Big Red Bus. It is, to be honest, kind of weird: half the place is an old parked bus and the other half is essentially a courtyard covered with a makeshift roof where the bar and a few extra tables were. Most people ate on the bus, but we sat outside as it has steps. I honestly think it was one of the most unique eating experiences of my life, and could well be included on my list of favourite meals. The pizza I had was top notch, and the IPA was well above average. I was an intriguing, fascinating place, if a little cold at that time of day and this time of year, and I suspect we’ll be going there again.

In all, then, quite an interesting weekend thusfar, at the end of quite a cool week. Next week, though, promises to be even cooler, but I can’t go into that just now.

I was going to flag this up a few days ago, but somehow other things got in the way. I’m quite sure that I have described on here before how, when I was growing up, it was a family tradition of ours to drink tea and eat chocolate in my parent’s bedroom every weekend morning. I remember those times with great fondness and warmth. When my brothers and I were small, T ad C time was a matter of playing of course, but when we got a bit older, on Sunday mornings Dad used to put on Letter From America for us to listen to. That is how I was introduced to the late, great Alistair Cooke: I loved listening to him – he was always so well informed, at once invoking an American world which seemed so similar yet so different.

I remembered those Sunday mornings when I came across this last week. The beeb have put an archive of cook’s letters on their website, presumably to coincide with the American election. What Cooke, the most unflappable and level-headed of commentators, would have made of Obama and Romney and the current deep divisions in American society I cannot say, but I would have loved to hear his thoughts on it.

As it is, though, this archive stands as a record of a man’s reflections of American life spanning over fifty years: Mr cook recorded them every week from 1946 until his death in 2004. That in itself fills me with awe. It occurs to me that Cooke’s letters aren’t all that dissimilar from blog entries, causing me to reflect on my own activity as a blogger: on Wednesday Steve told me how he always tried to read my entries. I was flattered, of course, and his words spurred me on to keep writing. I do try to keep it up, write regularly and vary my subjects, just as, I suppose, Alistair Cooke did. I suppose I just ramble on about whatever I find interesting on any given day, but if I have but a fraction of his ability to captivate people I would be a very happy man. Mind you, I also find myself wondering if I will be able to keep my blog going for fifty-eight years: if Mr. Cooke could do it I can certainly give it a go!

If you want to see something cringe-enducingly stupid yet hilariously funny, or you just want to laugh at american republicans overreacting to Obama’s Re-election, go here. Interesting how fast these things spring up.

My friend steve came to visit yesterday. He was in the capital visiting his brother and popped by for the afternoon. It was great to see him, and I’m pleased to report he and Jenny are doing well. They now live in Aberdeen, but steve says that, because of his work, he should be coming to the capital quite often. He’s now a social worker, having taken a second degree, but I didn’t have the heart to go into all the politics of how, for us crips, social workers are dangerous and evil.

Anyway, we had a great afternoon together: I just took him to a couple of the local pubs, and we just talked. I had forgotten how astute Steve can be: I always remember the steve who was forever climbing on things at university and being generally vulgar, but not the astute, highly intelligent steve with whom it is fascinating to hold a conversation. I was with the latter yesterday, and our discussions ranged from Scottish independence to bond films. It was a great couple of hours, and ended all too soon. Once I got back, I realised that it had never occurred to me how much of a good man steve is, and how much I value his friendship. Of course, I keep writing about my friendship with charlotte on here, but forget to say that my friendship with steve is of a similar nature. They are both kind, warm people with whom I have had a great many adventures. After all, it was through steve, if memory serves, that I got into that large group of mostly drama-student friends in the first place; and it was with steve that I went to Paris on a film studies trip with, upon which we both got absolutely drunk on Leffe! I realised this last night, once I got home having just seen Steve start the journey back to his brother’s, and really hoped I would see my fine old Yorkshire friend again soon.

I got up relatively early today to check the outcome of the American election. I had considered staying up last night to watch the results as they came in, but I chickened out and went to bed: the suspense was killing me – it would be better, I reasoned, to turn in and get the results in one go in the morning. I turned in, but Lyn stayed up, and it was she who told me the amazing news when I kissed her good morning.

When she did, I couldn’t quite believe it. When you factor in the economic situation in America, Obama should not have stood a chance. Under any other circumstances, he would have been wiped out; yet, when I turned on the TV, I found out that the amazing had indeed occurred. Obama had won, and convincingly enough for Romney to concede. I’m not quite sure what this means though. Did Obama’s ethnicity play a part? Did people give him a second chance because of his skin colour, or was he elected because the people could see the folly in Romney’s economic plan? Either way, what is clear is that the so-called tea-party movement the biggest collection of idiots the world has ever seen – has lost. It was decisively rejected last night, demonstrated to be powerless. It cannot be said to reflect mainstream American opinion in the way it says it does. That is quite a relief. Of course, it would be naive to think that it will now start to fade, but the world can see it has no power and does not reflect American values. They, and the republican party they so mindlessly support, must be feeling pretty bitter this morning. As for myself, however, it feels as if my faith in America and in humanity has been renewed.

And so we wait. We wait for a country to make a decision for the world; we wait for a people we have increasingly less trust in to decide the fate of us all. We hold our breaths, hoping that the redemption, the miracle, we saw four years ago will hold true, fearing our friends might slip back into darkness, and the simplistic politics of selfishness, jingoism and intellectual binaries will return. The world’s many are powerless to Americas few, knowing that a republican government would doom us all but lacking any power to intervene. We cannot dictate to our American friends – we cannot tell them how to vote; we can only sit and wait, fearing that they will abandon hope to greed and lies, and elect a madman who will doom us all. And so, tonight, we wait.

As I mentioned yesterday, Lyn had a gig last night. It was just another of the small, intimate open mic sessions organised by Gus. They are quite cool little events: they happen every month in a small local restaurant, and are the type of gig where everyone who wants to can get up and contribute. What is impressive, though, is the sheer variety of the music: contributions range from Lyn’s Ipad-based electronica to dom’s didgeridoo to someone reciting ancient ballads to sixties rock. It really is an eclectic mix, something quite wonderful for such a small event. There were people from all over the world there; that, to me, is one of the best aspects of life in modern London.

Turning on the tv to find Nigel Farage spewing his idiotic bile is not a good way to start the day. Perhaps it has something to do with my cerebral palsy, but whenever I see him or someone of his worthless ilk appear on the screen, I cannot help but fly into a rage. What he says is so blatantly wrong, so bereft of any intellectual foundation, that it even pisses me off that he is even allowed on the box, as it gives him a credibility he does not deserve. When you look at what the man actually says, despite his attempts to pretend otherwise, his views merely boil down to xenophobia: his arguments about renegotiating britain’s international trade deals on our own terms simply do not hold water, for a Britain outside of the EU would be bypassed and ignored by America, India and china. The real reason why this moron wants to quit the European union is he does not like the level of immigration coming from Europe: pure, unthinking xenophobia, ultimately leading to the isolation and the ruin of the UK.

All this went through my mind as I drank my first coffee this morning. I had got up late and, ironically, had been in quite a good mood. Lyn has a gig tonight at a local bar which I am looking forward to, and last night I headed to bed having just found out that David Attenborough’s next TV Program, Attenborough: 60 Years in the Wild will be broadcast on bbc two on November the sixteenth. There is nothing like knowing an ever-present source of benign authority and comfort in one’s life is about to return to put one’s mind at ease. I’m sure I’m not alone in this: for most of us, Attenborough has been on our TV sets all our lives, and he seems to hold a unique position in our culture. We can depend on him for the facts, rely on him as a sort of universal father or grandfather figure.

It strikes me that such a concept juxtaposes quite starkly with events elsewhere. Attenborough, rather like the queen, I suppose, or even James Bond, is kind of cultural constant amid uncertainty and discord. America goes to the polls on Tuesday, and I’m frankly shit scared of Romney becoming elected. The last thing the world needs is another george bush; the last thing America needs is for the progress obama made towards a fairer society to be undone. In a way, Romney and farage are the same: they both share the same far-right politics; they both share the same kind of selfish stupidity which more and more people, on both sides of the Atlantic, are becoming infected with. Such people ignore reality, distort the statistics; and when the truth is pointed out to them, they accuse their opponents of bias and distortion (this is exactly what happened in the Farage interview, and it had me shouting abuse at the telly). How such bigots an think they have any right to hold office is beyond me, yet they seem to think they do, and that their ignorant rantings represent a truth the rest of us are too stupid to see. It is their arrogance I cannot abide; their belief in the automatic superiority of their views, their culture. Having such people in power is the last thing we need, yet increasing numbers of people are allowing themselves to be conned by them.

I suppose, given the current economic situation, this has to be expected, and yet I despair at how people can abandon liberal tolerant values for the selfish circular logic of the right. How can people be fooled by the dissembling of people like farage, Romney, and indeed CaMoron? Given their hatred for the wealthfare state it is clear that such men don’t give a damn whether we disabled people live or die, as long as they can lower taxes. They see legislation to lower carbon emissions as inconvenient to their interests and therefore try to deny the reality of climate change. They have utterly simplistic views on crime and punishment. They are afraid of any other kind of people, be they gay, disabled, black, transsexual or whatever. Were we to encounter such an ignoramus in any other walk of life, we would either ignore or pity them, so why are their views becoming mainstream? Why are fools like farage regularly getting airtime when he spews such baseless hate? I find it all very frightening, and it is no wonder that I find comfort in such ever-present figures as Michael palin and David Attenborough if, when I change the TV channel, I find bigots like Farage spewing such hatred, denying almost everything I hold dear, and indeed trying to threaten my future with my fiancee because he does not like paying taxes toward the wealthfare state. I suppose some could call such retreats childish, and I agree: trying to ignore reality by watching television is no answer.

But at least it serves to remind me that there is still truth and beauty in the world, even if the lies of the political right are becoming scarily poular.

Mind you, I suppose the best thing is simply to turn the tv off altogether and go hug Lyn!

Although I think there may be one or two mismatched shots in it, and disagree with some of the outcomes of the matches, today I would just like to send you here, to another fine bit of bond-related editing. My brother Mark sent it to me yesterday, and it was waiting for me in my inbox when we got home last night, so I have not had chance to look at it in any great detail. However, at first glance the editing looks superb, and it’s great to see all the Bonds duke it out.

Lyn and I were just at a Paraorchestra meeting. While Lyn and the guys do their thing, I usually make myself busy by helping however I can, reading a book, using my Ipad and so on. Today they were recording and thus needed silence, so I took myself into a back room. There, I got chatting to one of the other helpers about love: I said I wasn’t sure what love was because I couldn’t describe it. As a writer I like to find words for everything, or else how can one be sure it exists. She replied that love is one of those things beyond words, beyond the Lacanian Symbolic: nobody can describe love but we are all sure it exists.

I thought about this for a while. Love must indeed exist, I’m sure of it. Later, when we had gone back into the main hall or lunch, I looked at Lyn and the following came to me: ”Love is waking up at three a.m and, seeing Lyn sleeping peacefully beside me, rolling over to hug her.” I might not be able to define love, but I know what it is – perhaps that’s the point of it.

I know I have mentioned this before, quite recently, but it’s worth repeating that the British Paraorchestra, in which Lyn plays, is now looking for new members. I can’t go into detail, but it has one or two fairly enormous things in the pipeline. It will soon be holding auditions, so if you’re a musician with a disability aged eighteen or over, go Here or head to their Facebook page

While I have my newer chair back, for which I am now very, very grateful, I’m sorry to have to report that my older chair had to be scrapped. It was a purple Quickie F55 which I called the Defiant, after a small agile ship on Star Trek, and I must admit I was rather attached to it. She was my first chair: before I was about thirteen or fourteen, when we went out I had to be pushed everywhere in my manual wheelchair. One Saturday, however, my parents and I were walking down chester Road in Macclesfield when we passed a mobility shop, and I suddenly had an idea. I convinced them to take me in, and, to cut a long story short, a few weeks later I had my first powerchair.* To be honest it was a very logical step, as I was getting older and would soon need more independence.

At first, though, I treated it as little more than a toy: we kept her in the garage, and I just used her to ridde around the housing estate. But my excursions gradually got longer: soon I was able to go into the town centre on my own for the first time ever. My favourite trip, however, was up Giantswood lane, to the north of Congleton. This is a long country lane heading towards the tiny village of Swettenham. It is a good distance, but not too long for a cripple taking his first steps into a brave new world. I still remember that lane with great affection, winding through fields and over streams, passing ancient cottages with barely a car in sight. It took me about an hour to get to Swettenham on Defiant, and it was in the ancient Swettenham arms that, one day, I ordered my very first beer.

I also have fond memories of using defiant at university. At first I didn’t dare use my electric wheelchair on campus, but, of course, it soon became the obvious option. I have written here before about how uni was very much my awakening – in large part that was down to the fact I had Defiant. In the secure environment of campus and the safety of Alsager village, I began to find out what I was capable of, and thus a timid home-loving boy became…well, me. It was on defiant that I made my first trip into crewe, and it was on defiant that I one day decided to go looking for my friend Richard. I have many memories involving that chair, some good, some not so good, but just as my communication aid freed me by allowing me to communicate with others, my first electric wheelchair freed me by allowing me to move around.

In a way, then, that chair helped shape me. Of course, I have it’s replacement, the Bat’leth, and it will soon be time to look for a replacement for that too. Yet defiant was always the sturdier, more reliable chair – the one I was less nervous of breaking down; I suppose you could say I have a soft spot for it. It was getting old and decrepit, and I had probably crashed it one too many times, but I will miss her. She was the chair upon which I truly found myself, what I was capable of: on her it was as if, for the first time, I felt if I needed to go somewhere all I had to do was get on my chair and go. What the enterprise was to Kirk and the Stargazer was to Picard, what the DB5 was to Bond, what Endeavour was to Cook, Defiant was to me. May she rest in peace.

*Incidentally, there is, or was, a dancewear shop on the same road, so that’s also how I got my first leotard. That, however, is another story.

This amazing picture was apparently taken this morning in manhattan. After the storm, peace returns to the battered city.

[img description=”undefined image” align=”centre”]/images/manhattan rainbow.png[/img]

I have my chair back! After about three months of being chairless, dad dropped my fixed electric wheelchair off here this morning, no mean feat as it meant an eight hour round trip on his part. I didn’t think I missed it: I stayed in more, of course, but that’s no hardship as I have a wonderful girlfriend, the internet, plenty of books to read and films to watch. The last three months haven’t been that bad, especially given Lyn and I have been so busy. However, I just took my chair for a short test drive, and the moment I hit the pavement, the wind in my face, I realised how much I had missed the freedom my chair gives me. The simple freedom to follow ones nose, to meander around the area seeing what there is to see. That’s what I missed.

Of course, I also missed it on days when I could have really used it, such as the day of the Paralympic closing ceremony. On the other hand, having it then would probably have meant I would have decided to go wandering off around the Olympic village, which may not have been useful for Lyn. In other words, in a way there were advantages to being chairless. I certainly have relished staying home with Lyn more, which is why I resolved to use my chair a bit less, even now I have it back. I will use it when I need to, of course, such as when Lyn and I go out, but I don’t need to go out on so many of my solitary walks, and there could be times when it is easier for me to go in my manual chair. I think that is one of the lessons of the last few months, or rather, that’s what I thought before I went out on my test drive. The moment I cleared our threshold, this started to play in my head, and I thought ”Fuck I’ve missed this!”

Have you noticed that the guys who make the bond films always talk about making it more relevant or realistic, or clam to be ‘updating bond’ or some such crap? Well, I think that they have finally succeeded this time. I went to see Skyfall last night: I was rather apprehensive at first, but a short while in I realised I was watching a real film, by which I mean a film with believable, fleshed-out characters and a good, solid realistic plot. It was still Bond, but bond taken seriously. Even the baddie has a grievance you could believe in; as Mark Kermode pointed out in his review, you can even see he has a point. As I wrote here, I really think Daniel Craig is bond as Fleming intended; what I saw last night certainly cemented his standing as one of the best Bonds ever. His acting was superb: stripped of some of the cartoonish aspects of some of his predecessors, what we have here is a real man, damaged, angry, and even vulnerable. The same goes for Dame Judy Dench: M gets much more to do in this film, and she obviously relishes it.

I want to say a lot more: I want to write about the part that made me cry (gravestone) the part that filled me with glee (car) the joke that made me chuckle (health and safety) and the part I agree with Dr. Kermode about, but I better not. I don’t want to spoil it for others. I will just say it is a great film, and a great addition to the bond franchise. As a cinephile, however, I must also note that there is an incredible shot in this film – possibly one of the greatest tracking shots I have ever seen – in which two people move independently through a crowded room while the camera keeps them both in focus. It truly was a masterful bit of film-making, quite artistic, and completely unexpected in films like this. Again, this is bond being taken seriously, and it’s great.

It seems I have broken the tradition of going to see every new bond film with Charlie. With a cinema just down the road, I just couldn’t resist temptation, especially after listening to Kermode’s review yesterday morning. Oh well, I suppose that just means I’ll have to arrange to watch it again with her (and indeed Lyn, who decided to stay home yesterday). What a pity!

Last night was a hoot. It was our first proper night out in a while, and it was a special one. Together with Dominic and John, Lyn and I went to see a group called Dead Can Dance at the Royal Albert Hall. I had, I must admit, never heard of them before: they play slow, melodic music, using all kinds of musical influences from all over the world. It took me two or three songs to get into it, but after that I was engrossed. Toward the end they played a song I recognised, I think from a TV ad; I don’t know it’s name but it was rather reminiscent of Karl Jenkins’ Adeamus. It was utterly mesmerising – I loved it.

All in all, then, a great night out. They even did three or four encores. Once again, we got home tired and happy. I think that will teach me not to be so gloomy – in London, it seems, there is always the possibility of being whisked off on an adventure. I love it!

It is amazing how quickly and suddenly one’s mood can change. I started today feeling quite grumpy, for some reason. Lyn had a woman coming to see her at eleven – I can’t go into details, but we were both rather apprehensive about it. And when I turned on the news I was greeted with this story of the despicable abuse of adults with learning difficulties. In short, it looked like we were in for a rainy, miserable, humdrum Friday: the afternoon at my computer, a ready meal for dinner, maybe a beer or two this evening, Q.I then bed.

When the woman came, then, I opened the door with hostility. However, I need not have: the meeting went well, lasting only fifteen minutes, and leaving Lyn far less worried. She then suggested we go to the cafe for lunch, and I thought that was a great idea. However, before we went, our PA Dominik had an even better one.

Dom had been planning to go to a concert this evening. Mitchel was going to come at four to take over his shift. However, dom is the type of personal assistant who likes to take us places. The problem was, when he last checked, all the tickets had been sold. Just before we set out for lunch, then, he said he would check one last time. Of course, he would have been well within his rights to say ‘sorry guys’ and leave us in the capable hands of Mitch. Yet kindness beyond kindness, luck beyond luck, a few phone calls later and we had a night out on our hands! My mood instantly flipped from one of gloom to one of excited joy. Life seemed to regain it’s vibrancy in a fraction of a second.

I’ll let you know how this episode finishes tomorrow. It will soon be time for us to get ready to head out. I think a Friday night out is just what Lyn and I both need. Now, the question is, what to wear?

After watching a Culture show special on James bond last night, I decided to rewatch octopussy today. As I wrote here, when I systematically went through the Bond franchise, I didn’t like roger Moore at all – he seemed too unlike the other bonds. However, many critics seem to like him, so I thought I would give him the benefit of the doubt. To my surprise, I found it much better this time: I was able to follow the plot much more easily, and I found Moore far more believable, deeper, if sill a tad cartoonish. I think my mistake was watching the franchise in such quick succession; it clouded my judgement. After all, this franchise spans fifty years, so they cannot be all alike. Bond films come in vintages, so expecting moore to be like, say, Connery is like disliking a cote du rhone because it doesn’t taste like a Zimphandel, when all you have had recently is Zimphandel and think that is what wine should taste like! Thus I think I need to rewatch the Roger Moore Bond films, perhaps a little more slowly this time, and without the preconceived ideas of what constitutes James Bond I got from the other films. After all, he made seven of them, so he can’t be that bad. Mind you, I might skip Moonraker – I suspect that film will be crap no matter how many times I watch it.

From time to time, it occurs to me that, if you put aside all the political bullshit, things really area awesome. The last couple of months, when I think about it, have been among the greatest in my life. My girlfriend Lyn has brought me a type of freedom and happiness I never thought I would enjoy; living with her, in this homely little bungalow of ours, makes me feel complete. I have someone to share my life with – even better, I get to share hers! Lyn is an amazing person, and seeing her on stage in her performances this summer, not last at the paralympics, was incredible.

I am also getting to indulge all of my obsessions too. It is quite remarkable, really. I noted the imminence of the bond and hobbit films the other day, but, best of all, yesterday I got to finally share my oldest passion with Lyn. I don’t know why, but I have always loved the travel shows of Michael Palin. I remember watching Shows like Full Circle with my parents on sunday nights, in my pyjamas after a bath. For me, there is a homely quality to them, as if Palin shows us a world which is exotic and colorful, yet also safe and friendly. There is something in his voice and style I find incredibly comforting, yet also possessed of the promise of adventure. His shows make me want to travel, and I cannot watch his shows without thinking of all the family holidays we went on – to america, to germany, to Australia.

Palin’s programs are special to me – very special. Watching the first episode of his new series about Brazil with Lyn earlier felt like a part of my childhood had finally been reconciled with the here and now, or that Lyn had finally been introduced to one of my best friends. Of course, I didn’t explain this to lyn at the time, and she probably just thought it was just another tv show, but, in a way I cannot quite express in words, watching Michael Palin with Lyn made me very happy indeed. As the credits rolled, an incredible feeling of warmth and security came over me: the feeling I felt on those sunday nights as a child combined now with a love for my girlfriend and the joy life with her has brought me.

Just a website to flag up today: Disability Horizons was founded by its co-editors, Srin Madipalli and Martyn Sibley who both have a physical impairment called Spinal Muscular Atrophy. As usual I stumbled onto it when I was looking for something totally unrelated, but it’s mixture of disability culture and travel took my fancy. Moreover, it seems to be written by people around my age, and I can easily see myself getting involved with it, perhaps as a writer. Check it out here.

this glorious photo was taken yesterday by our friend charlotte white. I just had to share it!

Lyn and I got back from the ITV studios a short while ago. It’s not on there yet, but when it is, today’s episode of the alan Titchmarsh show will be available here. It has been an extraordinary day, beginning early with a taxi ride; then there was the madness of the studio – long periods of waiting followed by bursts of frantic activity. Such places are truly mad when you think about it, running according to deadlines on a constant basis. I loved it!

I got to sit in the studio audience until the segment Lyn was in was over. She was there on behalf of the Paraorchestra, with fellow member charlotte. They did a fine job talking about music and music technology. Before their bit, however, they had a segment about Bond’s suits and drinks, so I was in seventh heaven. What an amazing, incredible coincidence – for a moment I wondered whether Lyn had actually organised it somehow, to give me a treat! Anyway, we got home tired and hungry, but I think neither of us can wait for more days like today. Nor can we wait to see the actual programme, but for now I can send you here to the Paraorchestra documentary, finally online. I must add, too, that the orchestra is now looking for new members, so if you are an experienced musician with a disability age sixteen or above, or you know such a person, please go here.

Following on from my entry yesterday, I would like to direct you here and here. The first is footage of a speech by sue marsh, made in Hyde park, (I think) detailing the sheer horror of what Atos is doing on behalf of the government and their cuts. The second is footage of disabled protesters outside Hyde Park blocking the road. I think it’s great stuff, and now wish I was there, although I daresay I would probably have tried to decapitate the moronic prick who came up an called the protesters ‘freaks’.

When I stumbled upon the first clip earlier, though, it planted an embryonic idea in my head. These days, the disability community is hugely diverse: the title ‘person with a disability can be used to mean anyone from a person with cerebral palsy to a person with bipolar disorder. I’ve always thought that this diversity was one of the communities strengths, but it begs the question, what do we all have in common? A person with bipolar can do things I cannot, just as I can probably do things they cannot. What is the common ground between us; why can we say we belong to the same group?

The answer, of course, is that under the social model of disability, we are both constrained by disabling factors imposed on us by society. Yet it occurs to me that this model might be broadened: we are now both impaired, too, by what the government is doing. Atos kills disabled people, irrespective of whether their disability is cerebral palsy, bipolar disorder or whatever. In a way this gives rise to a new political model of disability. Of course, the idea of a political model has been suggested before, and by greater brains than mine; but what I mean is that a ‘disabled person’ could, in a sense, be defined as a person with an impairment who fights against the cuts. They who see themselves as impaired by the government.

I realise that, strictly speaking, this is not a model of disability. It is more akin to a model of a culture, one to which anyone who feels impaired by government cuts can classify themselves as belonging. Thus this model is also time-dependant – given that it only applies to this current epoch, it is not a model of disability in the truest sense, and will expire when things return to the way they were. Yet in a way it holds true, and at a time when those with impairments and disabilities are the hardest hit, I think we need it as a mechanism to unite our community.

In a way, of course, this model implies that one cannot classify oneself as disabled unless one feels impaired by and fights against the cuts. From a reductionist, biological perspective, that is absurd: one can be disabled irrespective of one’s politics. While it is not my aim to create devisions in our movement, which as I wrote here, are counter-productive, I do not think one can at present legitimately hold oneself to be a member of the disabled people’s movement or an activist if one does not oppose the cuts, or try to argue, (utterly without foundation, I might add) that the disabled people’ movement is being overrun by ‘fake’ disabled people who complain about Atos for the sake of it. How can such arrogant, ignorant twerps call themselves disability rights activists when the only rights they care about are their own? Clearly, such people do not rank among ‘us’; they do not feel the constraints being imposed upon us by the current government, and deny others feel them, so how can they be said to belong to our community? Under my model, can such people really be Disabled?

I whish to convey my solidarity with DPAC and all the other groups that marched against the cuts today. I still don’t have my electric wheelchair, so I’m pretty immobile. Lyn and I also have a new p.a starting work today, and it would have been rather harsh to have thrown her into such a deep deep end. Nevertheless, I would have really liked to be there in order to show my disgust at what this unelected posh-boy government is doing. From what I’ve seen, they don’t give a damn about people with disabilities and other disadvantaged minorities, as long as they and their rich friend can pay less tax.

About an hour ago I was feeling quite pissed off. Marta and I had just got back from the dentist, who had said that, while my teeth weren’t bad, I better go have them cleaned under sedation. Needless to say, I don’t like this idea – it seems a lot of fuss and bother just for my teeth. I asked if she thought it absolutely necessary, and the dentist naturally replied ‘yes’. Frankly the thought of being sedated scares me, but I suppose if it needs to be done then I better do it. However, when we got home I thought I better check with Lyn and then my parents.

Predictably, Lyn said it was a good idea. She has undergone such procedures herself, and assured me that I had nothing to worry about. We were talking in the kitchen, and, after the conversation about my teeth was over, Lyn informed me of something that cheered me up instantaneously: I have the pleasure of announcing that she will be appearing on the Alan Titchmarsh show this Monday at three. She will be accompanied by other members of the Paraorchestra. Looks like we’re in for a busy weekend!

With that, I popped into my office to Skype my parents. Now I needed to tell them about my teeth and Titchmarsh. I caught mum in her kitchen, sitting at the very table I grew up at. She was fine, and we decided, once dad had joined her, that having my teeth cleaned was probably a good idea. I told my parents that I’d start to make the appropriate arrangements, and it was then I should have told them about Lyn going on TV again. However, dad had just been listening to Mark Kermode’s film review show on radio five; he had apparently just seen Skyfall, and had praised it highly, although he couldn’t say much as he is due to give a full review next Friday. From the sound of it, Bond 23 is a doozy! Hearing this had me squealing spastically with glee, in my usual manner upon hearing about anything bond, Trek or Tolkien, so much so that I totally forgot to tell my parents my main bit of news.

Oh well, I’ll tell them soon enough. In the meantime, I have plenty to spaz out about: the bond team have learned the lessons of Quantum of solace, and it sounds like we have another cracker coming; the first Hobbit film is due out imminently, and the first part of Michael Palin’s next travelogue, Brazil, airs next Wednesday. I don’t know why I get so excited about such things – it bemuses and amuses Lyn no end. Best of all, Lyn is going to be on tv again! These really re great days for fans of bond and Tolkien, as well as boyfriends of megastars! How can I worry about my teeth when so many cool things are coming up?

I just want to say, tonight, that I welcome this decision. What I don’t understand, though, is how the couple running the B&B could argue that they are the ones being discriminated against. After all, if you don’t feel you can welcome everyone, why open your doors in the first place? Is it not arrogant to demand others conform to your rules, based on your beliefs which are not shared by everyone? And is it not even more arrogant too demand that your right to be prejudiced comes before a couple’s right to share a bed?

What a day it has been. I don’t think I can write much because, to tell you the truth, I’m absolutely knackered. Lyn and I went to Naidex today, an exhibition for people with disabilities where the newest equipment is shown. We had a great time: I am looking for a new electric wheelchair, and while I didn’t see one which my gut demanded I get, I picked up a few brochures worth looking at. However, I did see one chair reminiscent of a land rover, which had back wheel drive and front wheel steering: I was impressed, but I would need to give it a thorough test drive. Other than that, to be honest I can’t say I saw much particularly worth reporting, although Lyn had a great time talking about speech apps for the Ipad, and we saw the new neater eater, which is automatic (the guys vetoed getting this, insisting that I must at least do some things for myself). Mind you, I was surprised not to see many communication aids there – there wasn’t even a stall by the guys from Toby Churchill.

We came back across the river on the new Emerates cable car, the first time Lyn and I had use it. The views, I must say, were fantastic, the ride was amazing, although part of me was just glad of the chance to sit down, having been on my feet for the past few hours due to lack of wheelchair. In all, then, a pretty cool day, and I suspect I’ll sleep soundly after it.

Given that I’m not a Scot, I’m not sure whether I have the right to express an opinion on Scottish independence. After all, how would it effect me personally if the scots broke away from the UK or not? I doubt my life would change much. Yet I have always had an instinctive feeling that nations should be coming together, not splitting apart; that humanity as a whole should be uniting, not dividing along essentially arbitrary lines. Granted, each nation of the world is different, and these differences have value. But if we are ever to solve our problems – global warming, depleting fossil fuel stocks, food shortages etc – we must work together as one people. That is why I see Alex Salmonnd as akin to the likes of Nigel Farage, perceiving things in the simplest of terms, valuing one group of people over another. To me, all groups of people have value, but we are also one group. Thus we should be working together, pooling our talent and resources, not reviving territorial divisions which last stood three hundred years ago. I know the scots are a proud people who have long suffered the barbarities of the English; that is why I will, of course, respect their decision either way. But I still see the bigger picture: we must work to come together, not divide and re-divide. As we are, we are just a bunch of (usually) bipedal primates squabbling over arbitrary territorial boundaries, but as one, we can go boldly where none of us could go before as individuals.

I, Matthew Goodsell, hereby declare my intention to give up alcohol. Well, maybe not completely – I’m too partial to a good real ale to do that – but I have decided to adopt a new attitude to alcohol. Instead of drinking a beer or two every night, just because I felt like it, I think from now on I will drink only when the occasion arises, such as at parties, or when one is at bond exhibitions where drinking martinis is obligatory. That way drinks remain special – you appreciate it more. I decided this on Saturday, when it finally sank in that my absences were linked to my alcohol intake. To be honest, my parents had been hinting at that for years, when an online friend of mine showed me this. My absences have been playing a lot on my mind recently; it’s not that I think they’re getting worse, just more irritating. Time, therefore, to take action: more vitamins, less booze. Besides, there is more to life than beer, and I think this way I will get more to life with Lyn. The beer-swilling days of my life, a remnant of university, are now over, and I already feel better for it.

Holy crap he did it! Austrian Felix Baumgartner has broken the record for the highest ever skydive by jumping out of a balloon 128,000ft above New Mexico. More importantly, he didn’t turn himself into pate in the process. Lyn and I have been spending a brilliant afternoon watching Peter Gabriel and Bob Marley concerts on Youtube, after putting the plan to go to Brick lane on hold (long story) so I only just got back to the headlines. While the very childish part of me is slightly disappointed he did not go splat all over the New Mexico desert, I am full of admiration for Baumgartner and what he has done today. We may not have an interesting new way to make pate, but we dew have a great new hero.

(ever the witty DJ, Lyn just played this on our sound system.)

Just a house-keeping type entry. It occurred to me that I have written blog entries concerning watching each of my three main filmic fascinations, Star Trek, James Bond and the Lord Of The Rings, in one go. I decided to collate them in one entry, just to make referencing them more easy (that, and I don’t have much else to write about today). Thus, my entry on the star trek series can be found here, the one on Lord of the Rings here, and the one about James Bond here. I’m quite proud of all three entries, although I could have gone much deeper in all three; it seems logical to group them together in one entry.

Yesterday was quite a cool day. It was one of great kindness. Mitchel was working with us, and one of his friends had offered to come and build Lyn a new desk. To be honest I’m not sure how this arose, or how he came up with the idea of building Lyn a desk, but nevertheless he did. Thus yesterday they came here bright and early, tools in one hand, bottle of rum in the other, and by yesterday evening, Lyn had a stunning new custom-built desk in her studio.

I’m not exaggerating when I write that the results of dave and mitchel’s labours yesterday were truly impressive. While we still need to varnish it, Lyn now has a serious piece of furniture under her computer. I reckon that if we were going to commission such a thing from a carpenter, especially one in London, he would have asked for at least five hundred quid. Dave only asked for a bottle of vodka! I think we have to pay him back somehow, but in the meantime I hope Dave comes round more often: we barely knew him before yesterday, so I think the least we can do for such a kind man is become his friend.

Blah, blah, Tory prick, how much bull do you speak?

A great deal, and these sheeple swallow every bleat.

Lying about the nhs, destroying the wealthfare state

Misleading us all about the jobs he’ll create. —

Blah, blah, Tory prick, what untruths you tell:

Advantaging the wealthy, the poor can go to hell

‘Compassionate’ you claim to be, but do you really believe

That without state help the poorest can achieve?

—

Blah, blah, Tory prick, basking in the acclaim

Of the very people we should all blame How they applaud you for cutting taxes

While so many workers face so many axes.

—

Blah, blah, Tory prick, my how your sheeple chuckle

At the jokes you tell while others around fires huddle

Trying to keep warm in this climate of cuts

For the wealthy doors open, for others every door shuts.

I just watched Boris Johnson’s speech to the Tory Party conference. This might sound harsh and juvenile, but I find myself wishing every person in that hall, every selfish, self-centred arrogant fop, a slow, agonising death. Of course, I don’t actually mean it, deep down, but it goes to show the revulsion i now feel for this party. I find myself thinking they deserve it for the pain they are inflicting on the less fortunate of this country; they deserve it for arrogantly believing they are doing the right thing; they deserve it for driving so many people with disabilities to suicide by forcing them into work. The number of horror stories I have heard is staggering, but what appals me about the tories is that they don’t give a damn. As long as they can lower taxes and decrease regulation so their rich friends can get richer, people like Lyn and me can starve. Thus to see Johnson, like Osbourne yesterday, stand there in Birmingham, patting himself on the back trying to legitimise and justify what they are doing, chilled me to the core. While it was right to praise the Olympics as a great success, and while Boris may amuse us, we must not forget he is a member of a party currently inflicting great hardship on the most impoverished and needy in this country. I cannot forget that, and that’s why I can’t help wishing that bunch of arrogant snobs such ill.

I think it is fair to say that I do not like maths. I have always had trouble with it, so much so that I had to take my GCSE maths twice. This is kind of ironic, given that I come from a family of scientists and mathematicians. I don’t know why but numbers, especially large ones, confuse me: I tend to get all mixed up between thousands and millions. While I am a bit more confident these days, I used to get terribly confused in my youth. I used to feel embarrassed when I heard people talking about maths and I couldn’t follow he conversation – I felt like such a dunce. Mind you, the irony is these days, instead of counting sheep, I ponder mathematical problems in my head to get myself to sleep.

I was thinking about this over the weekend. It would seem that I’m not alone in having issues with maths: many people with disabilities do, and a friend of mine had raised the subject on facebook. Is that any wonder, though? Most of us would have had the most cursory of mathematical educations; many people with disabilities don’t often need to think numerically. Thus, when we do need to do maths, it takes us so long for us to get our heads round the issues at stake that we feel like something is wrong with our ability to calculate. Of course there is no reason to feel that way, and we shouldn’t blame ourselves for the failures of the special education system, yet we invariably do. I was, however, relieved to see that I was not the only cripple with such mathematical issues.

Like all great girlfriends Lyn frequently surprises me. She just put on an absolute gem of a film for us to watch, called Victim (alex phillal, 2011). At first, I just dismissed it as just a run of the mill gangster flick, glorifying crime and violence. In fact, I was beginning to wonder why L would put such film on, when I suddenly noticed a building in the background that looked rather familiar, then another. Then I noticed street crossings and junctions that looked like ones I had used. I then realised that the film was set in south east London, and suddenly began to pay attention. It’s funny how things will take on another layer of resonance when they contain details which are familiar to the viewer: often, such details are things like shared interests or experiences. Films about love, for instance, speak more to those in love. I suppose the same applies to place.

Lyn and I had a great time, then, pointing out places we knew. The film also struck me as rather familiar culturally: I have been living in south-east London for three years now, and the film makers seem to have got the local mix of urban, west-indian, African culture down to a tee. Their use of local slang and spelling was especially striking, not to mention some of the local patriarchical attitudes. I was reminded of my first year of university cultural studies, where we looked at Walter Benjamin’s work on the urban maelstrom: there was the same sense of alienation and disenfranchisement – indeed of victimhood – in this film that he spoke of. Moreover, I soon realized the film was not a glorification of crime and violence, but an exploration of it. Thus a film I had at first casually dismissed turned out to be an unexpected gem on two levels. In a way you can say it bridged the gap between my university life and my life as a south Londoner. It was strange to see places I now know rather well portrayed on screen, especially in quite a pessimistic tone (mind you, pessimism seems almost endemic around here these days), but it was fascinating to see the local culture being interpreted filmically. All in all a great watch, and one well worth a second viewing: full marks to Lyn for putting it on.