Following on from yesterday’s entry, I think I need to draw this to your attention. I usually watch This Week; I missed it this week, but wish I hadn’t. Francesca Martinez was absolutely blinding on it, speaking powerfully on how much harm the tories are doing to people like myself. She kicks michael Portillo’s arse. As she puts it, the government is ”morally disabled”. It is well worth a watch.

Yesterday afternoon, Lyn and I were in the local coffee shop enjoying a drink and a snack. We were talking about this and that – our wedding, my birthday, her music etc – when the conversation got round to Lyn’s past. She is, let us say, somewhat older than I am, and has had quite a history. Lyn was telling us* about the four years or so she spent living in an institution. it sounded like some hellish cross between a school and a jail: everything was regulated and regimented; one member of staff fed four people; they had something called a ‘bath rota’. This was industrial, mechanised care; it seemed, from Lyn’s description, that she was not treated as a human but something simply to be kept alive.

It occurred to me that I have been exceptionally fortunate. You might call me spoiled. I grew up in a loving supportive family. I now have my independence, which, in a way, Lyn gave to me. Lyn had to fight for hers, as all the disabled people in her generation and those before did. And it was a long, hard fight, of the kind the crips of my generation know very little. We have grown up in a world much more accustomed to wheelchair users, and, although there are a great many fights yet to be fought, compared to those who were just shut away, I think my generation of crips have had it easy. We can choose when to eat and when to bathe; when to go out and what to watch on television.

I have sometimes been called a ‘survivor’ because I went to a special school, as if there was something heroic or brave involved in going back and forth to and from school every day. I don’t see it that way; I simply went to school and did the best I could do. It was not a case of living or dying. Lyn will probably say the same of her past, and argue that she just did what she had to do; but I think she can be called a survivor more fittingly than I can. For she did survive – she came through a situation which I daresay would have forced many to despair, and, what’s more, emerged from it as a strong, confident woman. I think Lyn, and the many people who went through such things, deserve our respect for that: after all, without the struggles Lyn’s generation of crips had to go through, we would not be free. I find myself wondering whether I could have survived in such a place.

Lyn, like people like Anne MacDonald and many others, had to fight to achieve the type of freedom disabled people these days seem almost to take for granted. We live in the community like everyone else; through the direct payment system we manage our own day-to-day affairs. It is easy to forget that this was not always so, and not so vey long ago people like me were languishing in long-stay hospitals. It is just as easy to forget how easily our current freedoms and equalities can be taken from us.

As indeed they might well be. We crips have, of late, been treated with more dignity and given more freedoms than ever before. This is because society has been relatively prosperous. I fear that could change: as this government cuts harder and deeper into budgets, I fear the freedoms we disabled people have recently enjoyed will be cut back. This, of course, must be fought. While we might not be at risk of being shoved back into institutions since it is far cheaper to fund the direct payment system, the amount of support people get stands to be cut drastically. Disability living allowance stands to be cut to the level that many people will barely be able to survive.

This must be fought as the last generation of disabled people fought for their freedom. The struggles we face might not be the same as theirs, but it struck me yesterday how much inspiration there is to take from people like Lyn. Through years of perseverance, she proved that she was able to live independently, no doubt having to overcome many doubting minds. Today we need to prove how unjust the cuts to the benefit system are, and how much harm they will do. My generation of people with disabilities can and must, I think, draw strength from what we as a community have been through. People like us are strong: people like Lyn are proof of how much we can go through, and how much we can achieve.

Lyn will chuckle when she reads this and accuse me of being overdramatic. No doubt others will think it silly to assert that my generation of disabled people can be endowed with the qualities of the previous one just because we both have disabilities. But the central fact remains, Lyn inspires me: in terms of her strength of character, her determination, her compassion and her sheer willpower, she is the greatest human being I have ever known. If we can today draw a fraction of the strength she and those like her had to use to free themselves, to live their lives as they deserved to, then we can overcome the current attacks to our liberties.

*Mitchell, of course, was with us

I’m sorry, but this story is just too amusing not to draw to your attention. the beeb has reported that yesterday, someone got six point on Countdown for using the word ‘wanker’. What amuses me is the way in which the bbc article tries to pussy-foot around the word itself, without, forgive the pun, spelling it out explicitly. I used to watch countdown with my randma and great grandma after school. I remember my great grandma being quite a ‘proper’ woman; what she would have made of that I dread to think, but I think I’ll start tuning in to it again.

Space. The final frontier. Last night Lyn and I got a glimpse of that frontier. It was not all that difficult, in fact: we just had to pop around the corner to Charlton House. There, the BBC were holding an event called ‘Stargazing Live‘, which you might have seen on TV. It is all about astronomy, and has been on the box the last two nights, with the final programme tonight. While there was no filming up at the House, they ad set up lots of astronomy based activities.

Truth be told, I hadn’t known what to expect; I’d only known about it after driving past the house one day and seeing it advertised. I didn’t know whether it would be aimed at kids, or at adults. Of course, the answer was that it was aimed at booth, with activities ranging from a table with astronomy-themed Lego to going into full lectures. The coolest part for me, however, was getting a chance to see through a telescope – I could see Jupiter, with it’s rings and satellites, in all it’s majesty, clear as day. It was absolutely beautiful. I had thought the dot, which Jupiter had turned out to be, was simply another bright star; I’ll never look at the night’s sky the same way.

We didn’t sty all that long – Charlton house is not an enormous place, and it was getting crowded – but I found what we saw thrilling. It was a great evening, an the clouds had kept away. I have always looked up at the night’s sky with wonder and awe: rather than allay such feelings, I think last night’s event will have deepened them.

I think I just ought to direct you here today, to an e-petition aimed at stopping, or at least calling a halt to, the government’s proposed reforms to the disability benefit system. As it says ”Unfortunately since then the economy has gone in to crisis and the government has simultaneously embarked on a massive programme of cuts. This has created a perfect storm and left disabled people/those with ill health, and their carers reeling, confused and afraid. We ask the government to stop this massive programme of piecemeal change until they can review the impact of all these changes, taken together, on disabled people and their carers. We ask the government to stand by its duty of care to disabled people and their carers.” please go and sign.

Lyn and I hate macdonalds, and said she would refuse to eat there. Well, we once got caught out, and started to get very hungry…

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I don’t usually just link to videos I find on YouTube, but I think everyone needs to see this. It concerns a young girl who has what appears to be very severe autism; everyone supposed she had severe intellectual impairment, until one day she went over to her Dad’s laptop and started to type. It is a very clear illustration of the importance and power of communication: all too often, such kids are condemned to the scrapheap of humanity, when people don’t realise is that all they need is help finding away to comunicate. I usually avoid such videos, as they are often too patronising, sentimental or mawkish, and this one indeed has it’s share of sentiment, but the story it tells and the message it delivers is just too important for me not too flag up.

Mucking around in tutus is all very well and good, but I should write something about this. The government proposals to ‘cut the wealthfare bill’ by trying to avoid giving benefits to disabled young people was defeated in the Lords this week. They were trying to deny young crips their automatic right to benefits if they are fortunate enough to have moderately wealthy parents. Labour said that proposal ‘crossed the line of British decency’; I’d go further – it crosses the line of human decency! Even the daily mail called the proposals callous. My proposals weren’t poor, but growing up they needed the extra money they got from my benefits to help support me. Bringing up a kid with something like CP isn’t cheap: we need support and special equipment to live. That costs money. I daresay, hard working and industrious though they were, there’s a chance that, without the extra financial support they got from my benefits, my parents would have had to put me in a home. I dead to think what impact these proposals might have on other families.

And what really gets my goat is that the Tories now intend to force these proposals through the Lords by the back door. That really does get me worked up as it smacks of arrogance – they are putting their interests in cutting the deficit before the concerns of the Lords for the needs of people with disabilities. Something really must be done to get these inhuman arseholes out of power before they really start ruining people’s lives!

I initially envisaged the videos I made yesterday as two separate short films, distinct but contrasting with each other. I think they should still be seen that way, which is why I am leaving them online. But Lyn and I were talking over dinner, and it occurred to us that, without reading my blog entry yesterday, hey might not have the impact on their own that they do in juxtaposition. We therefore decided to make a third film, which compounded he two as well as tidied it up a bit. It can be seen here.

Ever since Lyn and I made Spastic Ballet and posted it to YouTube, we have been receiving comments that suggested that we were being forced to cross dress and perform. People thought that some amoral human being had captured a pair of cripples who didn’t know what they were doing, dressed them up in dancewear, and shouted ”dance, spastic, dance!” Of course, Lyn and I howl with laughter every time we get another comment like that, but I recently came up with an idea. I decided to make a follow-up video, showing me actually changing for ballet. But then I had to decide which route to go down: was I to show a disabled man being forced to dress up, thereby conforming to the commenter’s’ preconceptions, or a man with a disability choosing to dress up, thereby showing them to be flawed. The solution is as obvious as it is great: make both.

So I did. I know they’re a bit rough, and should probably be seen as first drafts (I only wrote the scripts this morning) but Changing for ballet 1 can be found here, and Changing for Ballet 2 can be found here. I hope you like them, and don’t mind a glimpse of me in my pants. In a way they should be seen as one piece, the one in juxtaposition with the other. Anyway, let me know what you think. Massive thanks are due to Laura for being such a sport.

I think it essential that I send you here today, to a damning report, entirely funded and written by people with disabilities, which clearly spells out how concerned people are about the coalitions reforms to the wealthfare system. It’s conclusions are shocking: parliament has effectively been mislead by the government about their proposed reforms, as they hid key bits of information have been kept hidden from it. It also seems that massive numbers of disabled people stand to loose their benefits under these reforms, especially those whose conditions fluctuate. I don’t really want to attempt to paraphrase it all, as I need to read it several times first, and besides I think everyone should read it first hand.

My sister in law Yan just sent me this link. The bbc are looking for new presenters with disabilities. I think that is great news, of course: anything that increases the profile of disabled people is to be welcomed. I’m not sure I’ll be applying, though – it certainly sounds like fun, but the question is, can I communicate well enough to be a television presenter? That’s why I have always seen myself working behind the camera, as a writer or director. On the other hand, the prospect of being a presenter is intriguing: if I did apply, one day I could become the spastic version of Michael Palin or David Attenborough. And that certainly is an enticing thought. Right: time to go fill in the application for.

There is something I love about Sundays, and Sunday afternoons especially. I was reflecting on this yesterday: there is something I’ve always loved about that time of the week. It was on Sunday afternoons that dad used to drive us home from visiting my grandparents in London, nodding off in the car; it was on Sunday afternoons that we used to drive home after dropping my brother off in oxford at the beginning of every term. As a child, Sunday afternoons represented the last bit of thee weekend before school the next day; later they were about chilling out at home before a week at university, relishing my mum’s cooking, feeling her Sunday roast settle in my stomach. Sunday afternoons and evenings were when the best programmes were on tv: Michael Palin and David Attenborough documentaries, and later Top gear. I used to watch them in my pyjamas after my weekly bath.

These days, Sunday afternoons may be slightly different, but yesterday I noticed I still get the same feeling of warmth and homeliness. Now they’re about listening to Lyn compose in her studio; they’re about settling down with a book on the sofa, or mucking around on the internet. Yet there is the same old feeling of security, of home and family, I always noticed. The feeling you get when you know you have a hectic week ahead of you, so you relish being at home with the people you love.

And Sunday afternoons are still when the best telly is on.

Today I’d just like to wish Professor Stephen Hawking a very happy seventieth birthday. Given his thoughts on the necessity to colonize space, it seems only right that I simply direct you all here

I have two disability-related stories to direct you to today. Firstly, this shocking story of a wheelchair user ripped from his car and tasered by the police. He had forgotten to pay twenty pounds at a petrol station, but according to the cops that meant he deserves what sounds like a savage, brutal beating. How can they get away with such things?

Secondly, I just saw this story on the news of a young lady with autism. You know, now I come to think about it, I’m not sure why it was on the news other than to satisfy the public fascination with unusual people. The young lady is so confused by traffic that she can’t go out alone. I suppose by linking to the story I could be accused of being just as bad as the beeb, but I felt I ought to daw your attention to it so you could look at it critically.

we were having a coffee up at The Royal Standard Earlier – again a place not far from here, and geographically not very big at all, yet it has it’s own name – where Marta took the following picture of Lyn. It is just so warm, so beautiful, and for me so punctc, that I just had to post it on here.

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I have been thinking about writing this blog entry for a while, but I have not been sure how to go about it. Indeed, I am still unsure I have thought about it enough. I have lived in London for almost two years, and I think there is something about one’ relationship with space and area which is fundamentally different when you live in a city. That is to say, you see space differently in a city than when you live in a town. I grew up in a town in Cheshire; although, as a kid, it seemed a big enough place, looking back it now seems minute compared with the enormity of London.

The towns and villages of Cheshire are surrounded by countryside. Of one lived in, say, Congleton and wanted to go shopping in Macclesfield, you would have to get into a ca or onto a bus and travel the seven miles or so between the towns; there is a clear division between the two places, a definite space between them made up of fields. This is not the case in a mega-city like London. London itself is the size of Cheshire, by my reckoning, and indeed has it’s own subdivided areas, such as Charlton and Woolwich and so on. As shown on this map, which I came across a few days ago, such places were once clearly divided – before they became incorporated into London, they were towns unto their selves. That is presumably why Woolwich still refers to itself as a town with it’s own town centre, and Charlton is still referred to as a village.

The thing that I find a bit odd to reflect upon, as a writer, commentator and flaneur, is that these areas do not function in the same way that they usually do. A ‘town’ in

London is not the same as a ‘town’ elsewhere. Towns seem to occupy less geographical space in London than hey do outside of it. That is to say, the area known as Woolwich is far smaller than, say, the area known as Congleton; and although its called a village, I reckon Charlton is more akin in terms of the space it occupies to a hamlet. Areas with their own individual names are also much closer together than they are elsewhere: I can easily get to Woolwich in my chair from here in Charlton, but would be very reluctant to try driving between Congleton and Macclesfield – it is just too far. In fact, I think Woolwich is closer to us than my parents place is to Congleton town centre. Moreover, down here places blur: because there are no fields down here, no ‘buffer zone’ between places, only more houses, it is hard to say where Charlton ends and Woolwich begins.

This does strange things to how you perceive space and geography mentally. Your concept of what is near and what is far away changes. For example, my grandmother’s house in Harlesden can be no more than seven miles away from here as the crow flies, but in London terms, because the route we’d have to take to get there would be so complicated, my mental perception is that it is very far away. It is as if London is it’s own world with different geographic rules. You come to see space and area differently down here; you think less about direction and more about bus routes and traffic when considering how to get somewhere. I suppose Walter Benjamin was right when he said that living in a cit does strange things to one psychologically. I don’t thin I’m going anywhere with these mussing, and as I say they are probably incomplete, but it strikes me as odd that one’s sense of geography is so different down here.

I was just in the bath, thinking about film. Lyn and I were discussing it earlier, and I was astonished to realise how much the subject still excites me. As soon as I started to talk about watching film in terms of it’s internal structures, I felt like a schoolboy again, telling his friends about Tolkien. I have a tendency, which could be related to my cerebral palsy, to get very excited about such things.

After our conversation I decided to take a bath, where the greatest idea occurred to me. I was thinking about The hobbit yesterday: I now know how, if I was Peter Jackson, I would start the first movie. Wouldn’t it be cool if, before the whole thing began, before even the titles, we had a shot of a man at a desk, marking exam papers. Suddenly, he turns one over; we see that the paper is blank, and we hear him say ”hmm’ and start to write. Only then would the film proper begin.

I think this is a great idea, and I’m seriously thinking about writing to Mr. Jackson to tell him about it. The film is probably already in the can though, which is why I’m recording it here for posterity. It would be a lovely in-joke for he fans, and a great tribute to Tolkien himself.

While I still think that anyone should be allowed to do what they want with their lives, including ending them, I still have grave misgivings about the assisted suicide debate. The subject has cropped up in the news again today, with the publication of a new report. The thing is, while I understand that some terminally ill people who want to, let’s say, ”get it over with”, might need help to do so, I still worry that some people will be pressured into choosing this as an option. Even though the report mentioned in this article seems to stipulate some quite rigid guidelines, I’m also still concerned that those guidelines might one day be loosened. In other words, I’m now worried that people with non-terminal disabilities might one day be asked, by some old woman with a white coat an fake grin, whether they thought it would be fairer for their families if they just went to sleep and didn’t wake up. That’s probably just me being paranoid, and I can’t really see it happening anytime soon, but I am still a bit concerned that legalising assisted suicide might just be the first step on the road to something much darker. After all, what kind of message does all this send to the general public about he value of the lives of people with disabilities?

[entry deleted upon request]. go here instead

I am suddenly incomprehensibly happy: Michel Palin, one of my childhood heroes and rolemodels, is making another series. This time he is going to explore brazil. Click here for his video about it. Yay!

Today has been my first productive day of the year; in fact, it has been my first reasonably productive day for some time, in terms of my thesis. I’m still working on it: if I’m honest, I put it off and usually find something better to do, like watching tv or [obscenity deleted]. Yet, when I knuckle down and start work, when the smell of books in my nose or he feel of paper between my fingers hit me, my thirst for knowledge is reborn. My problem now is, I get side tracked: for example, earlier I was reading an article on Godard’s Le Mepris which mentioned ford Maddox ford just in passing. Instantly, I asked Dominik to look ford up in my biography of Hemingway and work on my thesis ground to a halt. Yet I suppose that is how the acquisition of knowledge works sometimes. Oh well, at least I’ve started work again. Now, I just need to keep it up.

Rarely have I read a more biased, one-sided and agenda-driven piece of journalism than ths article in the Daily Mail. It’s about how Genetically Modified crops are leading Indian farmers to commit suicide. Their crops are apparently failing, leading farmers to become more and more desperate. Never mind that all sorts of other factors could be behind the failure, most notably climate change which has been far better established but which mail readers refuse to believe in; no, this must be due to the gm seeds the farmers were apparently forced into buying, and despite being rigorously tested must be inherently evil because they are new. Such biased, narrow-minded journalism really gets my goat. And what is the article based upon? Not numerous peer-reviewed studies but a four-day journey. According to this rag, people in rural India are dying slow, agonising deaths due to GM technology. That could well be the case – one must keep an open mind to the possibility – but the way it is presented in the article would lead one to believe that it is the only explanation.

I know I should be blogging about my life as a disabled man, but things like this really annoy me. Papers like this spread hatred, intolerance and stupidity, and the Daily Mail is the worst.

I just reread the entry I made a year ago today, and I can’t help thinking I can say much the same today. Again, I have had a great Christmas; I did not see my family on Christmas day this time, but Christmas herewith Lyn was wonderful. We spent new year’s eve here too: James was with us, and it was a very pleasant evening. Mind you, I really must remember not to talk about politics with James – at one point our discussion got rather heated. Probably the high point of he evening, though, was at midnight: by then, Laura Our PA had gone home, so we had to work out how to open the champagne. If you want a laugh, give three people with CP a champagne bottle to open. The incredible bit was that we didn’t spill any, although the cork almost knocked one of us out.

Happy new year everybody!

We were up in london yesterday to pick up a few bits in tottenham court road. As we were going past Downing street, I couldn’t resist doing my usual, if slightly juvenile, salute to Mr. CaMoron.

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I know it is lazy blogging, but I just came across the following short story under the title ”Greek way o doing business”. It was written, I believe, by a guy caed Leon Georgiou, and I thought I might steal it off him as it will probably put a grin on the faces of my greek relatives. If it is accurate – and, let’s face it, I think it might be it is an illustration of why we should all be rather concerned about the greek bailout scheme.

‘Greek way of doing business

It is a slow day in a little Greek Village.

The rain is beating down and the streets are deserted.

Times are tough, everybody is in debt, and everybody lives on credit.

On this particular day a rich German tourist is driving through the village, stops at the local hotel and lays a 100 note on the desk, telling the hotel owner he wants to inspect the rooms upstairs in order to pick one to spend the night.

The owner gives him some keys and, as soon as the visitor has walked upstairs, the hotelier grabs the 100 note and runs next door to pay his debt to the butcher.

The butcher takes the 100 note and runs down the street to repay his debt to the pig farmer. The pig farmer takes the 100 note and heads off to pay his bill at the supplier of feed and fuel.

The guy at the Farmers’ Co-op takes the 100 note and runs to pay his drinks bill at the taverna.

The tavern owner slips the money along to the local prostitute drinking at the bar, who has also been facing hard times and has had to offer him “services” on credit. The hooker then rushes to the hotel and pays off her room bill to the hotel owner with the 100 note.

The hotel proprietor then places the 100 note back on the counter so the rich traveller will not suspect anything. At that moment the traveller comes down the stairs, picks up the 100 note, states that the rooms are not satisfactory, pockets the money, and leaves town.

No one produced anything. No one earned anything. However, the whole village is now out of debt and looking to the future with a lot more optimism. And that, Ladies and gentlemen, is how the bailout package works.”

I have been living in south London for almost two years now, so I have got used to the local accent. At first I really noticed it: coming from ‘oop north’, the way in which the people down here speak seemed strange and unfamiliar. Now, of course, the south London accent has faded into the background, and no longer catches my attention. The other day, however, something rather odd happened which I think I need to record.

Chopper and I were in a chippy on the road back from Bexleyheath. We were cold, hungry and I was anxious to get home. While we were waiting for our chips, two girls walked in after us. They were white, and I would guess in their mid to late teens. However, what struck me s unusual about them is how they spoke: they were using a form of English I had only rare heard before. I guess it was a type of patwa used mostly by afrocaribean black men, but the way in which they were using it made it almost completely incomprehensible. Even chopper, a native of these parts, had to ask them what they were saying.

It is only natural that languages evolve and new dialects form – and this was indeed a dialect – but there was something in the way these girls were speaking which struck me as odd. They were using phrases like ‘I is’ rather than ‘I am’; they were playing fast and loose with grammar and syntax and thinking it made them look big. When Chopper spoke to them, though, they answered in perfectly normal English. I’m not trying to be an old fuddy-duddy here going on about linguistic purity, but I must admit he way kids around here seem to be starting to use this aggressive, simplistic sounding, grammatically incorrect patwa seems to annoy me, yet I can’t put my finger on why. Mind you, it could just be because I don’t understand it. Well, that and the fact it sounds awful when I try to use it on my Lightwriter.

There is something about Star Trek first Contact that brings me to tears. It was just on Channel Four. That was a strange thing in itself really, as, lying in bed this morning, I was thinking about how long it had been since I had watched it, going over my favourite scenes in my head. I had no idea it would be on today, and shrieked with joy when I saw it coming up. Much to Lyn’s bemusement, then, I just spent two happy hours on the sofa getting reacquainted with an old friend, saying my favourite lines as the actors on screen say them, and trying to ignore the sarcastic chuckles coming from the two cynical women in the kitchen when data says things like ”I am…fully functional”.

I suppose I have a strange relationship with first contact. In a way I love it in almost the strongest sense; a large part of my master’s thesis is devoted to it. In a way it is deeply personal. There is one scene in it which I revere above all other moments in cinema – a scene where I think I can read all of my anger and emotion concerning the death of my friends on Patrick Stewart’s face. But I’ve written about that on here before, and I don’t feel like going over it again. There is something else about this film I like though: it is a kind of hope. It is a film that says that, no matter how badly humanity screws things up, we will have a bright future.

Evening is falling. Chopper asked me to go round to his after my film so iii might head out soon. On my way, I’ll look up: the sky is not as clear here as it was in Cheshire, but you can still make out the brightest stars. I still wonder, every time I see them, if we will ever explore space as we do on Star Trek. We can only hope that one day we can overcome our petty differences and together reach for the final frontier.

Oh god, DAN (the disabled people’s Direct Action Network) is gong to have a field day with this. While I must admit that it made me chuckle, the fact that comedians on both sides of the atlantic are now openly taking the piss out of susan boyle, a woman who clearly has learning difficulties, is worrying. There may be danger in taking ourselves, as a subculture, too seriously, but the fact that mainstream culture now sees minorities like the disabled as fair game for derision is cause for concern. While one could argue that it is just a result of us crips being more visible in society nowadays, you could also argue that, as society comes under more economic and thus social strain, this is a sign that mainstream culture is closing ranks and pushing out anyone seen as different; and that, if true, is very worrying indeed.

After seeing the entry I made this morning, my uncle, aunt and grandmother just came to visit, bringing with them some of my mum’s home-made christmas pudding. All is well with the world.

Sitting on the sofa yesterday evening, feeling my stomach digest a large and very delicious Christmas dinner, I reflected on the fact that yesterday saw my first Christmas day away from my family. To be honest I was feeling odd about it: I was in a strange sort of mood… I was not feeling sad, for I was with Lyn and so had no reason to be sad; yet if I’m honest part of me was missing my parent’s house. I had spoken to my family earlier in the day – my brothers were ‘home’ for Christmas, so everyone was there except me. I knew that, as we spoke, the most delicious flavours would be wafting out of the kitchen, and I could not help but reflect glumly on the fact that, for the first time ever, I would not be there to get my share.

Yet about mid afternoon, with no warning, the glumness had switched to a great feeling of positivity. Okay, so I wasn’t with my family, and I wouldn’t be scoffing down a large slice of mum’s home made Christmas pudding, but what am I? a kid? I was doing something far better, in a way: I was being an independent man enjoying his first Christmas dinner at home with his future wife. It suddenly occurred to me that I may have never have done that, and that it would not be good if I was to forever eat my Christmas dinners with my parents. In short, as we attempted to tell Mitchell how to make roast potatoes, I realised I had become an adult. And that thought felt good.

Having said that, there are some things I still miss. Shop bought Christmas pudding is not that good, and we had no brandy butter or cream, so the next time we talk possibly later today if they’re not busy – I’ll ask mum to send down too large portions of each. Independence is a very good thing, but nothing compares to my mum’s cooking.

Click here to see the queen’s speech. (note it might not be exactly the same as the one shown on the BBC).

Merry christmas everyone!

Lyn and I are spending a nice, quiet christmas eve at home. I think a couple of friends are coming over later, and, if I play my cards right, I’ll be having a wee dram or three with them. It’s nice and warm and cozy here; apart from that, I don’t have much to report. Just too get us all feeling festive, then, I think I’ll just direct you here, to a Radio Times interview with David Attenborough. There are some people whose very presence makes you relax, and sir David is one of them.

Merry christmas every one!

Two music related links to send you to today. Firstly, here’s Lyn’s summery of the Ipad’s apps for music. It is rather short, but nonetheless informative. Secondly, although I suspect it might be a hoax, Hayibo.com has a story about a group in africa releasing a song called ”Yes we know it’s christmas”, a long awaited reply to the Liveaid song ”Do they know it’s Christmas.” Growing up I had to listen to that song every christmas school disco, so it’s good to hear that Sir Bob Geldof has finally had his question answered.

Following on from Yesterday’s entries, just to complete the trilogy of my obsessions, and not having anything more interesting to say tonight, I think I’ll send you here. I know it’s a month late, but I just ought to note the next Bond film, Skyfall, has me very excited; as with star trek and the Hobbit, I greet news of it with great eagerness. Mind you, I can’t help but note this probably means I’m a sucker for big franchises.

I am not sure how it slipped under my sensor, but today I came across a documentary about Star trek fans called Trekkies. It is pretty interesting – there are quite a few very eccentric people on there, including one woman who insisted on wearing her star fleet uniform to court when she was doing jury service. There are also one or two very touching stories, such as one about how james Doohan prevented a woman from committing suicide.

But there is one thing which struck me especially, a coincidence which I need to record. I never knew this before, but the character Geordi LaForge was named in honour of a guy called Jordan Laforge, a star trek fan with Muscular Dystrophy who died in 1975. He wrote to gene Rodenberry, explaining that he attributed the fact that he had lived so much longer than he was forecast to, to the fact he watched star trek. Rodenberry decided to pay tribute to him by naming Geordie, a blind man who in the first few seasons piloted the Enterprise, after him. I cannot help but wonder whether Andrew Fox ever knew this. He had MD too, and back at school I remember talking about star trek for hours with him. He was a huge star trek fan – probably a bigger fan than I was at the time; it seemed to give him hope, to cheer him up. Who knows: maybe it inspired him to live longer too. I often think of Foxy, especially when I’m watching star trek. Part of m masters thesis is on star trek fandom, and indeed my own relationship with star trek, so Foxy gets a small mention. This fact therefore strikes me in a very weird, quite uncanny way: I was watching the documentary as sort of revision ahead of rewriting the corresponding chapter of my thesis, but it inadvertently took me back to the roots of my own fandom, back to the very reason why star trek means so much to me in the first place. This fact, minor to most people, therefore strikes me with great satisfaction: most of all it strikes me as oddly fitting, as if it completed a circle I never knew existed.

It is here! The first trailer for the Hobbit is finally here . I’ve been watching it for clues about the film, and, although there are one or two things I’m not sure about, such as the possibility of Gandalf having a love interest, on the wholeI find it rather exciting. The net will now probably be abuzz with romours and gossip as the fans try to dissect this trailer, and although I suspect professor Tolkien himself might have frowned at the frenzy, I can’t help but yelp with excitement!

I woke up several times during last night; I always do after a heavy evening of drinking, and yesterday evening was HEAVY. Smeg knows how much I drank. It was all or a good cause though: chopper said he was going t meet up with his cousins later in the evening, a combination which, by all accounts, usually results in trouble. The way in which chopper described his outings with his cousins scared me – he refused point blank to take me along as he said it would not be safe – so I decided to get him as drunk as I could so he would stay at home and go to bed instead of going to Deptford and doing something stupid. In a way, I was trying to keep him safe.

I quickly realised, however, that this was not one of my better ideas: trying to outdrink a burly south-east Londoner was foolish. I failed in my mission: chopper brought me back home at about half ten and went out anyway; smeg knows when I’ll see him again. Mind you, I did have a few good ideas for blog entries during my wakeful moments – for example, soon I intend to write one on why Political correctness is necessary – but that will have to wait until my hangover dies down.

After watching the Paxman interview with Christopher Hitchens, it occurred to me what a loss to the world his death is. He was a great writer, a great thinker – far better at both than I could ever hope to be, and a far better one than his hack brother. Some of his opinions surprised me though – I expected hitches to be a left wing liberal, but was surprised to hear he supported the iraq war, for example.

Yet, as I was thinking earlier – in something of a revelation for me – there’s nothing in left-wing philosophy that is liberal. If society took precedence over the individual, it follows that the weakest, least productive members of society should be weeded out as what matters is the strength of the community rather than the needs of the individual. That is why I cannot call myself a communist, and haven’t done so in a long time. From certain points of view, statism is intolerant and unegalitarian; yet so is libertarianism in that, if people were totally free to do what they want, where would that leave disabled people? Total individualism, ie the total withdrawal of state mechanisms like the benefit system, totally screws us cripples and those less cut out to fend for theirselves. This is a waste of talent and human potential; I firmly believe, then, that the community needs to care for all of it’s members, and that the best way to do this is via a central body – a government. I realised earlier that my long-held belief that one could be both left wing and liberal might not be possible, something which I need to reflect on.

I’m therefore a liberal egalitarian insofar as it is possible to be one, but not a communist. My own ruminations aside, Hitchens himself explored such things with far more authority than I ever can. At the same time, though, it is vital we have such debates, both in our own minds and with each other – we must always question what we believe by reading, writing, and debating. If Christopher Hitchens taught us anything, it is that.

I thought I’d share this picture of me and Lyn, which marta took when we visited a local cafe on friday. It’s nice and warm and christmassy, isn’t it? There was only one bit of cake left, so I had a sandwich and let Lyn have it. See – I can be chivalrous when I want to be! [img description=”undefined image” align=”centre”]/images/ cafe pic 1.jpg[/img]