My electric wheelchair is broken, and has been all week. Normally It would just mean a week on the sofa, but, as luck would have it, this week has been the busiest lyn and I have had in ages (see the latter half of tonight’s Paralympics show to see why). I’m rather tired, but oddly happy. I’ve walked everywhere: to begin with I dreaded it, but somehow I feel fitter. Today, for instance, has been a long active day, but I don’t think I’m as knackered as I expected to be. It reached a point where I actually began to enjoy being on my legs, especially getting to face forward on busses. That doesn’t mean, of course, that I don’t want my chair back: you should have heard the string of obscenities that came out of my mouth this evening when, getting onto a bus, nobody gave up their seat until after the damn thing started to move.

It has often been noted that adversity and struggle inspires the greatest art. Many of the best novels ever written, for instance, are those that argue against injustice or expose wrongs. This is also the case with the disabled people’s movement, especially now that we are being placed under so much pressure due to the current financial environment. I’d like to send you here, then, to a recording of a song by Dennis Queen. It was originally by Alan Holdsworth, and tells a story which is becoming alarmingly familiar. Such protest songs are now vital if we are going to expose what the cuts are doing to people with disabilities; the same goes for any other art form. The danger lies in our stories going unsaid, and thus unheard.

I do not have much to say today, but given that I commented briefly on this case a week ago, I’d like to extend my sympathies to the Nicklinson family. Tony Nicklinson died this morning of natural causes, having lost his case to be legally allowed to be assisted to commit suicide. I must say, though, that it does strike me as a bit odd, and I can’t help but smell a rat given that he died so soon after the case. That implies that he was quite close to death anyway: if so, why go through the stress of the case? However, given that the police aren’t treating his death as suspicious, the issue probably best be left alone, and I’ll just say my thoughts are with his family.

Sorry to resort to ad hominen bitchiness, but I think I need to note this. Having watched I’m Spazticus last night, this blog entry seems all the more ironic. The article I cite in it is by one of the actors in the show. In it he berates others for using disability a a ‘lifestyle choice’, but hypocritically exaggerates his own condition. On the evidence from last nights show, he can talk clearly yet insists on using a lightwriter, and can walk much better than I can but insists on using a chair. That alone I wouldn’t mind, but the fact he is so prejudiced against people he sees as pretending to be disabled, and then parades himself on channel four as a paragon of disability culture, really is hypocrisy beyond the pale. The rest of the show I did not have a problem with – infact I found it quite funny – I just cant abide either hypocrisy or prejudice.

Yesterday was another of those awesome days which were indeed awesome but I can’t blog about as it would give certain surprises away. It’s much too hot for sitting in here writing blog entries anyway. I will just say that we were with the sort of people who refer to the London Philharmonic Orchestra as the LPO, as if hanging around with such an illustrious organisation is just something one does, and that, if you can bear to buy a Murdoch paper, things will all be clarified in next week’s Sunday Times. Things right now are so exciting I really want to say more, but can’t. my urge to write must be suppressed, which is difficult, but it’s made easier by the knowledge that, when eventually you do find out what Lyn and I have been up to, which you will not long from now, you’ll all be blown away.

After my two glorious days in Middle-Earth, it’s back to the real world and far less comfortable things. I think I ought to just direct you here, to a blog entry by Miss queen concerning the case of Tony Nicklnson, who yesterday lost his case to be allowed to ask a doctor to kill him. While I’m not sure I agree with everything Phoebe says, she makes some very valid points, especially about self-pity and the perception of disabled people in general – it’s definitely worth a read for anyone interested in crip politics. As for myself, I do not know what to think, but on the whole I guess that I’m glad that the murder of cripples was not effectively legalized yesterday.

I have just finished doing something which, believe it or not, I had never done before. Yesterday morning I was struck by the urge to watch all three parts of The Lord Of the rings in one go. It had been an age since I’d watched it last, so I decided that there was no other thing for it than to sit down and watch it. The problem is, all three volumes of the extended edition come to eleven and a half hours long, so in the event I had to split it over two days, and even then I began to worry about neglecting Lyn. While I did enjoy it, and now feell a sense of accomplishment, the fact that I simply could not view it in one go as I would any other mainstream film begs the question, can Lord of The Rings be seen as a film in the conventional sense? Of course, on the one hand it is a piece of mainstream Hollywood cinema, conforming to many of its conventions (including the overuse of introducing reinforcements when any battle seems lost). But on the other hand, this film is not just another part of mainstream post-classical American cinema: when viewed as one text, as I’m sure both Tolkien and Jackson intended, it is too long to be a mere entertainment, or a distraction. Films usually last ninety minutes, at the end of which everyday life resumes. This film demands a special effort to watch: it is too long to be classed as entertainment – it almost demands too much effort and time to be entertaining. Thus it struck me that, given that to condense the plot any more than Jackson did would make a mockery of Tolkien’s book, the old maxim holds true that the lord of the rings is unfilmable. It cannot be translated into film as the word is conventionally used. Remarkable though it is, and, as an adaptation it could have been far worse*, Jackson could not render Tolkien’s work just as an (entertainment) movie: it demanded to be rendered as something more, something special, and that, in my opinion, is what we got. But on the other hand it strikes me, that in a way it ceased to be a pure piece of entertainment in the process; a great story became more of a work of art, in a way changing it’s status to something Jackson might not have intended. After all his intention was to entertain.

*Tolkien purist have reservations about Jackson’s many changes from the original, as do I, but just imagine what a car crash it would have been had Disney got the rights and decided to make a ninety minute version.

As well as being a musician of the highest order, Lyn seems to be fast becoming a great director. Today she finished her latest music video, which can now be found here. I think it’s great, of course, but I am also quite interested in the elongated transitions. You will see what I mean when you watch the film, but it’s a technique never seen in the mainstream. Cutting is almost always invisible, but here Lyn has drawn attention to them by making them longer, so for a while you have two separate images on the screen, two things to look at, one slowly seeping over the other. I find that cool because it makes you realize how much of film editing is stylized artifice. Anyway, enough of my babble, go watch!

I don’t always agree with Mark Mcgowan, the artist taxi driver, but his video about Atos and the paralympics is surprisingly well informed about disability politics and absolutely spot on. It is also very very funny. It is great to see we crips have such an astute, eloquent ally unafraid too pull his punches. Just watch This!

Given that I wrote about the Olympic opening ceremony on here, I should probably blog about the closing ceremony last night. The problem is, I did not find it that inspiring. It was okay, I suppose. I think it was more oriented towards music this time, which is fair enough, but I found it less spectacular than the opening  ceremony: there was less humour in it – no bits with bond or rowan atkinson. Also, to my ear some of it was out of tune and/or distorted. I found the inclusion of Eric Idle singing ‘Always Look on the Bright Side of Life‘ a good touch, but apart from that I wasn’t that enthused. Oh well, at least we still have the Paralympic ceremonies to look forward to.

I just created a Facebook group called brits for Paris 2024. Boris Johnson recently joked about London hosting another Olympiad within the next twenty years. Such a suggestion is, f course, quite mad: no doubt london now has both the infrastructure and expertise to host the games, but we simply could not afford it. It also struck me that, while part of me does like the idea of living in an Olympic city during the Games again, if london were awarded another olympics in the next twenty years, you’d have to feel sorry for the french. After all, they bid for the games of 2012 too; therefore now that the first part of london 2012 is coming to a successful end, I say we brits should get behind the paris bid for the 2024 olympics. It seems only fair, given their bid for the 2012 games lost to us (much to their chagrin, having also had their bids for previous olympics turned down) and that, by then, it will have been a full century since Paris last hosted the Olympics in 1924. So given that we can’t really expect to host another olympics for another fifty years, and that we had so much fun with these ones, we might as well get behind the bid of a city which we can get to easily, but whose games we won’t have to pay for. And anyway, if we had to put up with this shit, so should the french!

Today is my brother Mark’s 31st birthday. Happy birthday bro! Mark is a physicist, always joking about one ay making a warp drive and exploring space. It is in his honour, then, that I share this astounding picture. It is a view from Mars; the three dots are Jupiter, Venus and Earth. Never before has humanity in it’s entirety looked so small and irrelevant, and never before has an image amazed me as this one does. Anyway, Happy birthday Mark. I hope this picture inspires you as much as it does me.

Our PA Marta has recently learned to drive, so today Lyn and I went for a short trip with her. We just went to one of the local parks, but one where we don’t often go because it is rather out of the way. The park in question, Oxleas Wood, is on a hill and has an amazing view of south London: I reckon you can see beyond the M25 and into the farmland beyond. When we got there, we settled down outside the cafe there to admire thee view; I noticed a few army trucks behind a ringed fence and, assuming it to be some kind of fair, paid it little heed.

A little while later, though, I noticed there were some heavy duty guns there. ”Holy shit,” I thought ”what is this about?” Half aghast half excited, I pointed it out to Lyn, who stated what I should have realized: these were the defenses for the Olympics. No less excited, I spent a while watching the antiaircraft gun swivel automatically, robotically following planes across the sky. Call me a big kid, but part of me wanted the thing to suddenly fire, yet I know, of course, that had that happened, it would herald something far from cool.

Lyn finished her latest track, flying On Sound, today. I heard it for the first time this morning, and if you ask me it sounded magnificent. It can be found here – let us know what you think.

Just to follow up on this entry, here is a quick but helpful discussion of why the third Hobbit film is necessary, and why most Tolkien fans, myself included, are jumping with joy at the news. As Peter jackson himself says, in a quote cited in this very article, ”The richness of the story of The Hobbit, as well as some of the related material in the appendices of The Lord of the Rings, allows us to tell the full story of the adventures of Bilbo Baggins and the part he played in the sometimes dangerous, but at all times exciting, history of Middle-Earth.” Again: Yay!

I was out for a stroll again today. I don’t like taking the same walk twice, and always try to vary my route. Today I thought I would take a look at woolwich barracks where they are holding some of the Olympic events. I was hoping to brag myself An Atos lanyard, for reasons that I hope will be made apparent soon. Anyway, it was a pleasant enough role, but the sight was almost deserted so I thought I would press on. I turned down a road which I had never explored before. It was a wide enough road, running between the barracks and Woolwich, but about halfway down I came across something which fascinated me.

I found a church, or what remained of one, by the road. It had no roof, and it’s walls were crumbling. Yet there was a beauty to it: you could still see the ornate decoration on it’s inner wall. According to a plaque on the back wall, this church had been hit by a flying bomb in the war and, being consecrated ground, had been left as it was. There was thus something ghostlike to it, something ethereal; not frightening, but timeless. It was as if on this spot, time had stopped.

I was struck too by the way I had just happened upon it. London has that habit – it surprises you. Every now and then, this city springs something on you, something beautiful and fascinating. It is a strange mix of old and new, beautiful and depraved, which has caused me to fall in love with this city. There is also a timelessness to it: you can walk along streets lined with ultra-modern shops selling the latest fashions, yet somehow you are also aware that those streets were once trod in Elizabethan and Victorian heels. You can never forget this place has a past: modern apartment blocks loom over ancient terraces; walk up one street and you find an office building, walk down another and you find the burned out shell of an ancient pub, where the last pint was pulled a century ago but which still bears it’s signs.

Such juxtapositions, such contrasts of modernity and history, fascinate me. I used to think I loved the country. Coming from a small town in rural Cheshire, I loved the fields and woods and rivers and small winding lanes. Part of me still does. But where I was once intimidated by cities, fear has become curiosity, and curiosity has developed into love. There is so much here to explore, so many contrasts, an almost endless variety. I can see now how one can love a city.

I completely forgot that NASA was due to land a rover on mars today, but when I got up and went to the bbc news website this morning, I was greeted with this incredible story. Amid the sound and fury of the Olympics, such events seem to have been eclipsed, if you ill forgive the pun. Yet, in terms of human history, I find such landings much more important, and impressive though the Olympics have been, I am much more impressed with the fact that NASA got this machine down in one piece. I can’t wait to see the pictures that will soon come back from mars and the results of the experiments: I find the prospect of at last establishing whether there was once life on mars far more captivating than any race or competition. Mid you, this landing brings the possibility of teraforming and colonising Mars one step closer, so as our PA Dominic wryly quipped earlier, maybe one day the Olympics could beheld on mars; now that would be cool.

Remind me not to go to Greenwich for the foreseeable future. I was just on a walk over there, and even on a Sunday afternoon, the place is bedlam. However, as often happens, while I was on my walk I got round to doing some thinking, and began to mull over something which I think I’ll sketch out here. I was pondering the Olympic opening ceremony, and the sketch with the queen and James Bond. When you think about it, some quite interesting things are going on there: we all know that James bond is a fictional character, created by Ian Flemming in 1952. Yet last week we saw him interacting with a real person, the queen, at a real event. Of course, it is testimony of the impact of the Bond Phenomenon on our entire culture that they chose to use this particular character in such a prominent way, but on another level something weird is going on. The queen is real, and she addressed bond as if he were a real person. Does this mean that bond is a real person too? If that is so, why would the queen need escorting to the Olympics by such a highly trained government assassin? Why would they film such an event, presumably breaking his cover? Most worryingly, if bond were real and double o agents do exist, then that implies this country has a highly secret group of government assassins running about the place who are above the law – something totally undemocratic and very, very scary. On the other hand, if bond is indeed fiction, would that not imply that her majesty is fictional too? The only things which usually interact with fictional characters are other fictional characters, after all. Yet if that is so, it implies that the Olympics is not real either, at that was the event this entire sketch was a precursor to. When you think about it, there are some very complex rhetorical structures in play here.

What we have, then, is a strange postmodern blurring of fiction and reality, where real people have entered fictional spaces and fictional characters are treated as if they were real at the highest level. Does that not strike anyone else as odd? I might be slightly crazy, but it fascinates me. As I say, I’ve sketched out the bones of the debate here, but I think I’ll continue to ponder this and return to it in other entries. I wonder if there are any other instances of such blurring. I’m sure there probably are, but has such a device ever been used at such a high level, and what does it say about British culture, royalty, power, the bond franchise, and everything else?

I was speaking to my parents yesterday; my brother Luke is up there too at the moment, so I was able to catch up with him as well. Luke mentioned a guy called Zach Anner, recommending that I google him. To be honest I’m now puzzled over how I had not come across him before: Anner is an American comedian with CP who posts travel guides on YouTube. He and his able-bodied friends travel from city to city, asking viewers of the show what they should do in each stop; they then record their exploits. I must say that is a great idea, and a good way of highlighting accessibility issues – I had been thinking about doing something similar myself, but it looks like I have been beaten to it. I suppose I’ll stick to writing about such matters on my blog, but you can watch this excellent and very funny crip travelogue here.

I realize I’m a bit late in reporting this, but I found out with glee this evening that David Attenborough’s new three part series, marking sixty his years on tv and concerning the history of natural history o tv, will be broadcast in october It will be called ‘Attenborough, 60 Years in the Wild’. Click here for more info. Yay!

I feel I need to say something about Atos. I have been feeling fairly positive about the Olympics on the whole: to be honest I never thought I would have a chance to live in such a great city as it hosted the games, and there is something awesome about living in London right now. Yet, at the same time, I have a very, very nasty taste in my mouth. The Olympics is being supported by Atos, which, as you may or may not know, is a highly controversial company that assesses people’s capability to work.

From what I have seen, both on Monday’s Panorama and through the internet networks of activists, Atos is the closest thing to an organisation of pure evil I know of. They are brutal in their judgements, taking no heed of the hurt they cause or lives they ruin. There are reports of amputees being deemed fit to work and stripped of their benefits. The company has no sympathy – it’s staff are trained to force people off benefits at all costs, working to quotas (despite the barefaced lies of Chris Grayling to the contrary). Through their judgements, people have been forced to suicide, just so that the government can slash the wealthfare bill.

How can I be so enthusiastic about an Olympic games propped up by such barbarity? The government seems to have something against disabled people: on panorama, it became brutally apparent that Grayling believes too many people are being deemed fit to work and that doctors are somehow being too soft. How can I support an Olympics at whose end such fascists get the credit? Indeed there’s a question in the first place over how I can support an Olympics which has cost the country billions when everything else is being cut.

When I think about it, the whole thing sucks, yet I cannot help being carried away by it. Earlier I squealed with joy as Britain won it’s first gold: Lyn looked at me with a mixture of bemusement and scorn – she is far more cynical about this whole farce than I am. Yet it always happens! I say I loathe sport and jingoism, yet never fail to get sucked in. but now the stakes are higher, and things are far more political and more relevant to me personally. Can I still cheer when Britain wins gold when I know that the company whose name is on the lanyards of the organisers is responsible for so much suffering? As I watch double oh seven parachute in with the queen for the umpteenth time, can I forget that the money used on carrying out such a stunt could have been used to buy countless new wheelchairs, communication aids and so on, at a time when budgets for such vital things are at their lowest? Yet somehow I do cheer, and I do forget. I think most of us do. I feel so conflicted about it, angry at myself for cheering. It feels as if I am being a traitor, betraying principals far more important than the outcome of a few races.

Closely following his appearance at the olympic opening ceremony, James Bond can be seen in the new skyfall trailer, available here. what a busy guy bond must be?! this new trailer looks excellent; they seem to be continuing the themes started with casino Royale and Quantum of Solace, making for a grittier, more realistic bond. Definitely something to look forward to, although, as I wrote here, I’ll probably be squealing over the sight of 007 jumping out of a helicopter with the queen for quite some time.

[img description=”undefined image” align=”centre”]/images/aniversary 1.jpeg[/img]Today marks the first anniversary of my brother Mark and Kat. It does not seem a year since I wrote this entry. Anyway, happy anniversary, and have a great day guys!

A few weeks ago I wrote that there was a rumour that Peter Jackson was going to make three hobbit films rather than two. At the time it struck me as daft – given that the hobbit is a single book, making two films rather than just one seemed overkill. Yesterday it was confirmed a third film is to be made, and I must admit it seemed to make more sense: he has too much material to just put into two films. Moreover, I suppose you could have written the same of Lord of the rings: that is a single narrative which only ended up as three due to the printing restrictions of the fifties. PJ may have made a single film that, or two, as was the plan at one point. Then again, the hobit is shorter and more straightforward dramatically than it’s sequel, so it will be interesting to see what material he has mined from tolkien’s appendices and notes.

I was sent this last night by my friend Johnboy. It’s a very well written blog entry looking at the daily mail’s racism and hatred of the NHS in the wake of the olympic opening ceremony. The mail is a paper which already pisses me off intently – every time I see anyone picking it up at the co-op or carrying it in the street I have to fight hard against the urge to shout Prepare for ramming speed! – and so to see it spewing so much bile about things I am very proud of fills me with rage. I won’t comment further as the entry can speak well enough for itself, other than to say ‘go read’, but be prepared to be appalled at what hateful racism one of our most popular papers is spewing these days.

The American right are not happy about our opening ceremony. They’re calling it propaganda because it sang the praises of our NHS. Apparently, we have no right to be proud of having universal access to free healthcare; their draconian system where, if you can’t pay for care you are fucked, is so much better. They found it ‘appalling’ that we should praise a system with death panels, and we just supported it because our media (presumably a reference to the beeb) is ‘controlled by the government’.

As a man who has many friends who owe their lives to the NHS, and who lives in the comfortable knowledge that, should he or his loved ones ever fall ill, he need not worry about paying for first rate care, I say this: stop parroting the mindless gibberish you hear on Fox, stop just assuming your way is better and look at the facts. We have good reason to be proud of the NHS, and if you just stopped swallowing the capitalist shite you are fed every day like the sheep you are for one moment, you would realise why. I am proud of that segment of the ceremony; for you to call it propaganda only goes to show how ignorant and arrogant you are. The NHS is our legacy, of which I am bloody proud. Insult it, and you insult my country; insult my country and you insult me. Keep your unfair, barbaric system if you must, but do not for one moment think it better than the British National Health Service.

I must say I found the olympic opening ceremony truly remarkable. Of course, my favourite bit was the sketch where James Bond collects the queen from the palace. I had worried that the rumours of Bond’s involvement were a hoax, but it is testimony to the british sense of humour, and indeed the queen’s, that I can now send you here. I find the idea of the queen being accompanied to the stadium by 007 a masterstroke, and this clip will probably have me squealing with glee for a few weeks.

Who knew that her majesty could parachute so well?!

Genius!

KC has a point: in a reply to my entry about our trip to Brighton, she asked me ” why do you make such a big thing having a average time?” her inference being that we were not doing anything particularly extraordinary in having a day trip. That is certainly true: many people, disabled or not, go on such trips all the time; I suppose a few of them wake up on beaches far more exotic (and less stony) than bighton’s. that is all part of regular, normal life – there is no reason to make such a big fuss about normality.

Yet, at the same time, there is. I need hardly lecture KC (if those initials correspond to the name I assume) about disability history. I may never have woken up on a beach, but in a long stay hospital bed, day after day. Thus to me such events are worth celebrating, worth writing about. That is especially so given it was my first ever night out. To me it is essential to record such things, to show others that our lives can be just as normal as any other. I get great joy from being able to sit here and describe my life – somehow it makes the experience whole, more complete. Mind you, part of me worries what Lyn feels about me broadcasting almost every part of our lives to the world.

How can I blog about the events of last night without giving too much away? Part of me is even loathe to tell you where we were, as I’d have to explain why Lyn and I were there, which is a secret. I’ll just say it ruled, and you’ll all see what we saw last night tomorrow.

(god I love being mysterious)

The last few days have been crazy: crazier than Paris, crazier than Newquay, crazier than ever. Lyn and I seem to be going through a particularly hectic period, with almost every day filled with something new, some new great adventure. I can honestly say I have never felt so alive, and the best part is there is no sign of it stopping.

As I reported yesterday, on Monday we went to Brighton. That, mind you, was after we had come back from a friend’s house the night before, where we had been since Saturday afternoon. Basically – and this is worthy of a blog entry in itself – Lyn and I went to a house party in Blackheath and decided to stay the night. I woke up Sunday morning wondering where the devil I was. We did not get home till about ten, and then in the morning we set off for Brighton.

What a place Brighton is! I had been there before, but I had not had chance to see it properly in the rain. Within minutes of getting off the train on Monday, I was contemplating moving there. I fell in love with the windy little streets, so different to those of London. Our principal aim in going there was to buy a didgeridoo (what else?!) John needed to buy one for Dominic to replace the one he broke, and us two crips just went along for the ride. That aim was soon completed, and we set off to explore. As soon as we found a fancy dress shop which sold zentai suits, I knew I was going to like it there. Dom said it was best not to buy one though, as we would probably find somewhere cheaper.

We wound our way down through the streets to the beach. My first sight of the sea in what felt like an age took my breath away: clear blue water under a cloudless blue sky, it was simply beautiful. We walked along the seafront, taking it all in, watching at one point as john and dom took a swim. Trying to account for everything that happened thereafter seems pretty pointless, as it would simply form a list of events. However, at about eleven we decided not to go home, except for Jikki, Dominic’s mate, who needed to return to London to see his girlfriend. Little did I know we had began the longest, coolest night of my recent life.

We bought some supplies and walked on. The plan was to stay up for a bit then find a hostel to sleep. We shortly came to the park outside the famous pavilion, where we found a group of Spaniards. They were students I think, probably here for the Olympics. Lyn, john and Dominic played them some music, and they took an interest in Dom’s Didgeridoo. So it was that I came to see one of the most random events of my life: a polish guy teaching a Spanish guy to play the didgeridoo outside Brighton pavilion at about three on a Tuesday morning.

Some time later we walked on. By then it was about four in the morning, and the sun was rising. We needed somewhere to sleep. We looked around a bit, at one point asking a man who professed to be a Jedi, but by then the hostels were all shut. I was tired and irritable. We eventually went down onto Brighton’s stony beach, and, using wheelchair cushions for pillows, slept there.

I woke up some time later, the sun beating down and the beach filing with people in swimwear. Lyn lay next to me asleep. I was sore, hungry, and needed a poo, and yet happy: I had just spent my first night under the stars. Had I been in a bed, I would have slept on, but given how busy the beach was getting, I felt it wise to wake everyone up. It turned out it was about ten, and, after a poo and a coffee on the pier, I felt surprisingly refreshed. We then spent the day drinking pimms on the pier, in no real hurry to head home. At about four, we headed back into town, eating at the Bath arms, a pub serving excellent food where we had eaten the night before. Then, stopping only for me to a last buy my suit (a red one this time), we made ur way back to the station and then home.

I cannot describe how alive I feel. The past two days, and indeed the past few weeks, have been packed with so much fun. I feel utterly exhilarated. I never thought it possible for me to live this type of life – me, a VOCA using spazz. Yet now, the adventure seems never ending. Mind you, I suppose it hasn’t actually stopped since my first day at university. This summer has been packed with great times, and now that the sun has come out, a if some deity had just realised she had forgotten it was july and finally flipped the switch marked ‘summer’, it seems they have only just began.

[u][/u]this is my first entry made onn my ipad. lyn and I are sitting outside a pub in bbrighton, about to enjoy one last meal here before heading home. its been a crazy oouple of days – what started as a day trip turned into a full two day visit. my battery is getting low, however so the full account, including the tale of how dominik taught some spaniards to play the didgeridoo, will have to wait.

I have never felt so alive!

We got home rather late yesterday after quite a mad weekend. I popped onto facebook to relax, only to see my friend Paula had written this:

[quote=”Paula”]can anybody help my neighbour in charlton plz her motability scooter was stolen in the early hours of sunday morning ..anyone with any information can you please get back to me asap[/quote]

I think I know this woman – a nice lady who always waves in passing. what sick person would steal a scooter. If anyone can help, please contact me or paula.

[img description=”undefined image” align=”centre”]/images/lincoln pic.jpeg[/img]

I suppose I ought to post an account of the events of yesterday on here, but the question is, where to begin. How does one summarise what in the event turned out to be one of the best, craziest days I have had in a long time? The irony is, I thought yesterday was going to be one of those quiet days I spend on the sofa with m head in a book or watching TV. Lyn, however, had a much better idea.

At about noon she proposed we go out. The volume control on her Ipad was broken, and she wanted to go to the apple store up in Oxford Street to see if anything could be done about it. I thought it was a great idea: the sun was finally out, and I was in the mood for an outing. So off we went, myself, Lyn and our PA John, setting off for what I presumed would be a routine outing into London and back.

It always takes a while for us to get up there. We go to North Greenwich, take the tube and walk from Westminster. It is a pleasant enough trip, especially on a day like yesterday, and we stopped on the way for a coffee. When we finally reached the Apple store, however, we were told that the Ipad was out of warranty and so could not be replaced or repaired. Save for the volume control, it is still a fully functional machine, but, given that Lyn uses it as a communication aid, as well as for a host of other activities, we felt she needed one in pristine working order. There was only one thing for it, something I had been thinking about for some time anyway: buy Lyn an Ipad two. It was a great idea, especially since it meant I could use her old Ipad – something which, truth be told, I’ve had my eye on for ages. My lightwriter is wearing out and badly in need of repair, and given how tight money is right now, this seemed a great solution. We therefore went halves on the Ipad, and both left the store happy.

By then, however, I was hungry, and quite fancied a beer. Lyn, though, had other udeas, taking us first to HMV then to another apple store in Covent Garden, in search of headphones. I swear, headphones are to Lyn are like shoes are to other women: she has to try them all on. To be fair, john was not much better, but to cut a long story short by the time we had finished it was well passed dinner time.

That, however, was easily remedied, and in some style too. We found an Italian place not far away, where I had what must be the best pizza I have eaten in a very long time. It was delicious, as was, they told me, Lyn’s and John’s. I washed it down with a good glass of Hogaarden. But then there was a problem, as the place we were at did not serve Bells, which, mixed with coke, is the only alcoholic beverage Lyn likes. We had a choice between calling it a night – which, given how late it was, I expected we would do – or going to find another pub. We chose the latter, and it was at that point that the fun really began.

Bellies full of pizza, we headed off into the London nightlife. I felt alive, and couldn’t help reflecting to myself on how long it had been since my last outing into soho as ‘Becky’. After looking around for a while, we found an accessible pub. It was late, and we had not been there long when the bell for last orders sounded, but by then we had been befriended by a couple, an English man and a Spanish (I think) woman. They were friendly enough, and we chatted until closing time.

As we left the pub I expected we had began the journey home. I was mistaken – London had other ideas. It was rather nippy, and Lyn needed her coat on, but as John was helping her, we heard a voice, strong and commanding. We had been spotted, it seems, by a woman, who, seeing Lyn struggling with the coat, decided we needed her help. What happened then I cannot really describe: the woman, her rather bemused date in tow, invited us to a club with her. She was very excitable, middle-class and had a powerful, persuasive voice; frankly we didn’t have a choice other than to go with this loud, seemingly crazy yet somehow endearing stranger. The woman, whose name was Elsa, by turns annoyed me intently and fascinated me. I’m just glad john was with us. Yet to be honest we had great fun with her: we went to a LGBT club, and had a drink together – it turned out she had been born into a military family but now worked in the film industry. She struck me as that unusual type of person: obviously very intelligent, highly articulate, yet somehow different to the rest of us. She annoyed me, yet I somehow enjoyed being annoyed by her because I enjoyed her company. Her date, a much more down-to-earth guy called Edward, was also very knowledgeable about film.

We left about two hours later, finally getting home just before four. I had not had a night like that in a very long time. It was the type of night when anything went, and you never knew what was going to happen. For me the best part was that Lyn was with me: I think we both needed a night like that. I certainly hope we have more nights like that. I woke up this morning desperately wanting more sleep, but then the thought struck me that I have an Ipad to get to know, and Lyn has her Ipad two to explore. I also wondered if we would ever see Elsa again; she annoyed the hell out of me, but the strange thing is, I really hope we do.

I still volunteer at the local special school – I find it rewarding and insightful. Today was the end of term meal for the class I’ve been working with. We went to an old Jacobean barn which has been converted into quite a nice restaurant; definitely somewhere I intend to take lyn. I got home just after three, surprisingly tired: I must be getting old or something, as I used to be able to take such days with ease. Working with school kids is not as easy as it seems. It was all I could do to pop on an episode of Game of Thrones on my computer and settle down. I haven’t watched it in a while, and was wondering why I hadn’t seen it on telly – I’d prefer to be able to watch it while lying on the sofa in the front room. Of course, I remembered as soon as I saw the first nude body. That’s something I almost certainly won’t be telling the kids at school about, although I did become interested at the prospect of a character who cannot walk becoming involved somehow. Anyway, you can’t beat a bit of ned stark after a long day.

I would like to turn my attention today to a subject I have not looked at in a while. Over the weekend I started to think about disability again, how disability is defined and what constitutes the disability community. This was occasioned by my online discussions with my friend James: we had both read the views of a man who calls himself a disability activist and consultant, positing that the disability rights movement and disabled community has become infiltrated and saturated by people with ‘minor impairments’ who ”define themselves as disabled and regarded themselves as opposed by the benefits system for failing to accept they are disabled as they fight with obsession against the welfare reforms” but who have ” turned illness into a lifestyle and by failing to cope responsibility, they create the disability they clear find some sense of comfort from.” In other words, to him there are people in the disability community who he thinks do not belong in it, people whom he condescendingly and arrogantly terms as using their ‘minor impairments’ to garner pity and political leverage.

Of course most people rightly ignore such baseless gibberish, but I cannot. The guy is a loon, and part of me thinks I should get on with something else. But given this guy calls himself an activist, there is a danger that others might confuse these views with those of the mainstream or think they have some sort of validity. They emphatically do not, but to make such a statement I need to examine why not. To do that, however, I need to put forward a definition of disability, which, as I once wrote here, is not that straightforward.

Since I wrote my ‘us and them’ entry, my views have, of course, evolved. Disability, according to the social model, occurs when social constraints mean that, due to an impairment, one cannot act as you otherwise would. Having an impairment does not mean you are disabled: I use an electric wheelchair because I can’t walk far, but that in itself is not my disability. What disables me is when I cannot go where I need to because of the lack of lifts and ramps. Thus in this sense disability is a result of constraints on those with impairments imposed by a society reluctant to adapt, and can be framed as a form of oppression.

The disabled community can therefore be described as a loosely-affiliated group of people prevented from functioning ‘normally’ by social constraints of whatever form. These can range from the obvious physical constraints wheelchair users face to public signs written in language that a person with learning disabilities might not be able to understand. I must admit, however, this does strike me as problematic in some senses: where does one draw the line? Can smokers now be said to be disabled – they have a physical addiction to nicotine but are currently prevented from sating that addiction in public places. Under such a model, a cynic could say that anyone who feels prevented from acting as they like by a social rule could define themselves as disabled.

I think that that is, in part, what this writer is getting at. He is, however, still dangerously wrong. Yes, disability is now a broad church, and yes it is open to abuse, but I would ask upon what basis does he exclude those he terms ‘wannabe’ disabled people? He writes ”These people hide themselves in the social media where their true identity remains a mystery despite the media attention they received, but I have looked at the information they purport to have in terms of being disabled as it does not always add up.” In other words, he has made himself arbiter of who is disabled and who isn’t, who is a valid member of our community and who is not. Forgive me an ad hominen attack, but I find such a notion utterly arrogant and distasteful. As soon as we do that, as soon as we start trying to arbitrarily divide up the disability community from the inside, we start down a very dangerous road. Who is he – who is anyone – to tell someone they aren’t disabled? To seek to divide disabled people into subgroups – say, those with severe conditions and those with milder impairments – would irrevocably weaken what political power we, as one united group, may have. It may be a semi-self-selecting group but unless it stays united it is nothing but a group of cripples bickering over who is in and who is out. Frankly, to get Freudian for a moment, the fact that this blogger seeks to stratify disability while insisting on the severity of his own condition might suggest a certain insecurity on his part – he might be more able than he wants us to think. But then, never having met the guy, that is just speculation. Nevertheless, such a stratification is essentially as baseless as the attempt I made three or four days ago to stratify the blogsphere, although whereas the arrogant gibberish I spewed about blogs was harmless, I see great danger in putting forth the idea that some disabled people are merely wannabes, and cannot let it go unchallenged. Such tosh smacks of thatcherism, even social darwinism. Indeed, the idea that some people choose to be disabled as a ‘lifestyle choice’ is an insult to those whose conditions might be less obvious but who are no less oppressed. Coming from a person who calls himself a disability rights activist, this horrifies me, as does the absurd insinuation that some disability rights activists are actually able bodied people who merely have an obsessive grievance with the welfare reforms.

The disability community is blossoming at the moment. As I wrote here, there is a need for disability arts. Indeed, with the Paralympics and the Paraorchestra coming up, disabled people will soon tae centre stage. Part of the best parts of this wonderful community, though, is it’s vibrancy, variety, and acceptance. As soon as we stop accepting people for who they claim to be, as soon as we start questioning the rights of others to term themselves disabled because their conditions might not be as severe as ours, then we have lost our way. Smokers might not be disabled, and some may scoff at my example, but the incontrovertible fact remains that oppressed people, no matter the form of oppression, must stay united. Variety must be welcomed, difference accommodated, xenophobia, upon whatever basis, fought. In this era of cuts, with money tight and people with disabilities, no matter how minor, being seen more and more as an inconvenience, we must always be able to fall back on each other.

Yesterday afternoon I finished reading From Hobbits to Hollywood, a book of essays looking at Peter Jackson’s film adaptation of The Lord Of The Rings. I would have finished it long before now, but it has been a busy few weeks. It is, however, an excellent collection of essays: as a student of film, I was glad to see this trilogy treated with such a degree of academic rigour rather than being completely ignored. I always said Jackson’s was a remarkable achievement.

Now, as with any collection of essays, some are better than others. However, overall, the quality of these essays was very high. Of course, I was mining the book for material I could use in my never ending Master’s thesis, and I am pleased to say I think there are one or two useful bits. Surprisingly, an essay of the architecture in these films by Steven Woodward and Kostis Kourelis might be the most useful for my purposes, as it explores background details, something which links nicely into Cinephiliac Moments. There is also an essay by Murray Pomerance exploring the dramatic aspects of disappearing in relation to cinema history. Pomerance, who also edited the book, also wrote The Horse Who Drank The Sky, a fascinating text about filmic love. Also noteworthy is Golum as Golem by Tom Gunning, the essay which took me the longest to read: I was not that enthusiastic about it, and I kept getting distracted, but the last few pages proved interesting. It examined the philosophical aspects to CGI, which might also be useful in relation to my thesis.

There are about twenty individual texts in this book; summarising all of them would take far too long. I found most of them quite fascinating even if they were not relevant to my thesis, although it was clear from some that their authors, having been asked to write an essay for this book, had merely watched the films once or twice and dashed off something general.

I’m currently keeping a keen eye on Jackson, the release of the hobbit being only months away. He did a superb job with Lord of the Rings, and my liking for those films has only deepened since reading these essays. That’s why I’m quietly optimistic about the hobbit, although the current rumour that he’s now making three films rather than two seems rather odd. Mind you, I don’t think one should ever underestimate Peter Jackson.

The official Paraorchestra blog is not yet up, so I think I better record this here. It’s very cool anyway, and definitely blogworthy. I don’t remember feeling as

intimidated or out of my depth as I did yesterday since my first day at uni; I felt like I should have been wearing my suit (or, perhaps, my best evening dress). Lyn and I were at the meal welcoming the Paralympic team: the Paraorchestra played during the event, so we were backstage rather than at the meal proper. Nevertheless, I was rather awe-struck: we were at a posh venue in central London; big guys in suits were everywhere; the British Paralympic team were all there; Jeremy Hunt was due to give a speech. And there was I, wondering how on earth I had stumbled into all this.

The performance itself went well, and I’m pleased to say was very well received. Charles gave a short speech introducing the orchestra, and I watched from the wings as the group played a short version of their ‘Greensleeves’. There was huge applause at the end, but I think the audience was expecting them to play another song, as then there was a sort of expectant silence. I think they were surprised to see the orchestra leaving the stage, and indeed disappointed. I think I’ll mention the idea of expanding the repertoire to Lyn and/or Charles.

All the same, it was a great event; I don’t know about Lyn but I got home shattered. There were apparently a few A-list celebrities there, but I didn’t notice any – I was too busy resisting the urge to go and have a firm word with Mr. Hunt. Mind you, at one point during the build up, I wondered if Boris was coming – now that would have been fun.

Yesterday was quite a day; a fantastic day! It started ordinarily enough, but when she got up, Lyn proposed we go to the current 007 exhibition in the Barbican. Bond usually isn’t her thing, but I had been yearning to go for a few days, and I think she thought it best to get it out of my system. So off we went. I have such a great girlfriend!

I must say I was quite impressed with the exhibition. It focuses on the stylistics of the bond films – the sets, the locations, the cars, the costumes – and it was interesting to see such things deconstructed. You might say it was about the mise-en-scene of the bond films. I felt like a child in an amazing new playground: I got a thrill from seeing Scaramanger’s infamous Golden Gun (made from a pen and a cigarette box, apparently), but sadly I don’t recall seeing any jetpacks.

To round it all off, they had a martini bar, where I enjoyed my first authentic martini for a while. It reminded me of the one I had in Sydney, and I was able to say ”one medium dry vodka martini, shaken, not stirred” for the first time without the barman looking at me like I was some kind of freak. Lyn did not like hers, so I finished hers off. I then thought, perhaps foolishly, that I would try a Vesper, which I found I preferred. After that, feeling rather light headed, we started for home. I was thrilled at having seen this fascinating exhibition, and would highly recommend it to any bond fan or film student.

Bloggers seem to carry more and more weight these days – it’s quite an interesting phenomenon really. I as just reading this article about the Hobbit, where I saw Peter Jackson mention the influence of the so-called blogsphere: ” There is a huge audience waiting to see ‘The Hobbit,’ and any positive press from Comic-Con will truthfully have little impact on that. However, as we saw at CinemaCon earlier this year, with our 48 frames per second presentation, negative bloggers are the ones the mainstream press runs with and quotes from.” Reading that, it suddenly struck me how much power bloggers now hold. Writers have always held power, of course, but historically that was an art form reserved for a select few with publishers and editors acting as gatekeepers. These days, anyone can write and have their musings read by a potentially vast audience.

Yet I don’t think this has brought about the democratic parity you might think: not all blogs are equal. A few blogs have risen to the top, and their authors have become very influential, reaching vast audiences. Below them are a vast amount of blogs written by guys like me, harping on about anything that interests them; they usually have their own domains, and moderate readership (mind you, apart from my immediate family and maybe a few friends, I have no idea who reads my entries.) They are also written by people who call themselves bloggers..

Lowest in the blogsphere hierarchy are guys who write stuff on things like Livejournal or Blogspot. I don’t think they should be called blogs as that connotes a specific personal site. While no doubt some of the writing on those can be brilliant, most constitute the inane rantings of hormonal adolescents. There are too many of them for any one to stand out, so I tend to see them as a mass of irrelevant drivel. They usually aren’t updated frequently, aren’t written by people who call themselves bloggers – ie writers who specifically intend to impart their world view to others – and so I don’t think should be taken as seriously as other blogs.

But that’s only my view. I suppose I am spoiled by having my own domain. Yet I do think there’s a certain blogging hierarchy which is part of web culture, and that interests me as a student of culture in general. Nevertheless, it is fascinating to note how much power the blogsphere now holds, and especially the new type of miniblogging on twitter.