I was wrong about yesterday’s social experiment – quite wonderfully wrong. It went down a treat, and the two socials ran alongside each other. At my uni, there seems to be a large divide between sports and arts students, but obviously I’d overestimated this by miles. We played our own games, and generally kept ourselves to ourselves until the disco started up. Then we all got up and danced as one group. The animosity I thought was there simply wasn’t. as for myself, I didn’t drink much, and had a good dance – the most exercise I’ve had in ages!

All in all, a great evening.

If you ask me what is going to happen tonight is potentially dangerous, irresponsible, inflammatory and lunatic; I love it! Tonight, at brandies, will be held the first (and probably only) arts social, which will run alongside the football social. Now, to understand why this is so dangerous, you have to understand what a social is, so I’ll explain.

A social is a pissup; a weekly drinking match held by the football team.. they all sit in a circle playing drinking games and shouting loudly. I suppose it’s a type of bonding ritual, and it has been held in brandies every Wednesday for a long time.

Someone in my year – possibly Emma – has had the bright idea of mimicking this with arts students. It’s a form of social experiment, to see whether arts students can get into the same frame of mind as their sporting peers. The problem is I find it more than likely that the footballers will take umbrage at it. They will no doubt see it as inflammatory, and accuse us of ‘taking the piss’. Thus the attempt to bridge the gap between the two groups might open it even wider. I rather doubt the sports students will take it in good humour, and might see it as a mockery. Indeed, someone has scrawled cancelled over many of the posters advertising this event obviously, the footballers do not want it to happen.

As for me, I can’t wait. I plan to stay sober throughout, and just observe. My bet is there will be carnage, arguments, possibly even fighting. In the words of James T Kirk, ‘sounds like fun.’

I bought my zentai, thinking I’ll have to keep it as my little secret, but it has proved to be one of the best investments I ever made. It really did surprise me when charlotte said she wanted to wear it to a party on Saturday night, up in Manchester; what surprised me even more is she actually went through with it. She actually wore the damn thing in public, something I am yet to do.

What is yet more amusing is the club offered her a job as a podium dancer, and asked her to bring the suit. Now charlotte plans to buy one of her own, in pink.

I think I’ve started something.

dammit knew I’d forgotten something.

happy 21st birthday to my great little bro!

I spent the weekend at home. We had this odd kind of Christmas two, since we were in Australia in December, so my brothers (including Kat) were there, as well s uncle rich and aunt Jill from Sussex. It was excellent, as ii finally got to open presents (as if a trip to Australia wasn’t a cool enough present).

Everyone seemed to have a good time. Most of the time was spent in the conservatory, playing games and talking. It made me happy to find my uncle was a fellow bond fan, so I got mum to make us two martinis on Saturday night, which put us both out for the count. We also played a game of Lord of the Rings monopoly, which, despite being fun, struck me as something of a heresy – merchandising can go too far.

It was nevertheless great to see everyone, and the weekend went too fast. I see my brothers all too rarely these days, although we talk online – sometimes – and Luke has promised me to send me some more music, including some Berlioz, which I’ve been wanting for ages.

Oh well, back to the slog of uni. Perhaps we can get together in he summer, maybe play some cricket.

I better brush up my Yorker.

as a disabled person, I am supposed to have a ‘climb every mountain’ attitude. If you ask me, this is silly. I ain’t climbing no mountain until jet boots are invented, (and look what happened to the scooter). anyway, adventures are damn uncomfortable affairs, which make you late for dinner. besides, you could fall off, like this.

This cripples not going near no moun-tain.

I was stuck in Crewe earlier, waiting for my bus when I came across this fascinating report of primate tool use. It seems that our cousins are more intelligent than we think. It just goes to show how appearances may deceive – people tend to think I look unintelligent, and historically us spics were dismissed as ”retarded”. But boy did we prove them wrong. I am personally quite expert at poking people with pointed sticks.

link

This morning was the first morning in two weeks where my first thoughts weren’t about rich. They were, ‘better make that bibliography today’. I subsequently made said bibliography.

I am starting most definitely to feel better. I have been going around with a song in my mind all day – one which always cheers me up. Ladies and gents, turn your speakers to max, and click here now!

It’s time to calm down before I kill myself. The last few days have seen me doing some stupid things. On Friday night I was at a house party; I was pretty cut up about Rich and just let rip, downing half a bottle of Jack Daniels. I was at a low ebb that night and frankly didn’t give a rats ass about even getting home, nor perhaps waking up.

But wake I did. God did I have a hangover. The worse ever. Nevertheless, it was necessary – I needed a peak, a focal point for grief. Something to look back upon and think now I have done that I can let go. What happened to Rich was fucked up, but I need now to get on with my degree.

Taking that road trip Saturday was also very stupid. When they heard about it my friends told me off. Literally told me off, like an errant child. ”What if you had been run over? What if the battery had run out?” They’re right, of course, but on Saturday I was so full of hatred with the world I didn’t care.

It was on Sunday morning that I smiled for the first time in a week. For one, my hangover had gone. For another, after lunch, Charlie asked if she could try on my zentai suit. She’s going to a party on Saturday and wants to go as some kind of lizard. She seems to like it, for she put it on in my flat and walked across campus in it. Best thing I ever saw – a very pretty lady in a skin tight lycra catsuit, complete with feet, hood, and gloves, walking across campus merrily waving to people. The football team walked past and were highly amused. I knew that thing was a good investment.

It’s time not to get on with the business of doing a degree. This morning’s seminar gave me more impetus for my work on post-structuralism. Yesterday I was able to write for the first time in a week. In all my weekend of stupidity has done me lots of good, I reckon.

Or it might just be the sight of C in that catsuit…

what in the name of crap, fuck, and all that is holy is this?

Sorry, I just had to post it. you give yanks books and thats what happens

all i’m saying today is never drive 6 miles from crew in a chair if you dont want a runny nose the day aftter. especially bad after drinking half a bottle of jd through a straw the night before.

life is fun.

I went looking for Michelle today. She was the fianc of rich, and lives in shavington. I got the bus to crew and thence, after a bit of shopping, got the bus to shavington. Although the latter claimed to be accusable, I had a real problem getting defiant on it.

I spent some time looking about the village. It has become a priority of mine to try to trace what remains of my old class at Hebden. Despite the best efforts of myself and a lady who I got to help me, the search was fruitless. It was getting late, so, given the rigmarole I had had with the bus, I decided to drive back to crew – only about a mile – with a view to getting the twenty back to alsager.

The first part of this plan went well. However, I was sat at the bus stop outside the mmu Crewe campus, when the twenty approached, then, to my horror, drove on without stopping. Looking at the timetable, the next bus was not due till half five, and my PA was expecting me. I decided that I had no choice but to drive home before it got dark and cold.

It is six miles from Crewe to alsager, but I made it in about an hour. It’s surprising how quickly I made it. However, it scared me witless; not something I want to repeat soon.

I got home in one piece, wheelchair battery rather low. Nicky was waiting for me – I had worried that she’d have gone since I was about thirty minutes late. I have never been more relieved to see anyone. We went in, and she made dinner.

What a day.

nicky, a fellow trekkie and bringer of dinner, showed me this. Laugh away! I must say, It’s particularly inventive

For some time firefox has been playing up. I like to scroll up and down with the arrow keys, but for a while there has only been a curser. Thanks to eesther deciding my keyboard was dirty, I just discovered the key which sets this back to normal is f7. yay! I can scroll with keys again.

Things don’t feel right, and they won’t for some time. But the sun continues to rise, there is still fun to be had. Like discos, beer, and pink stuff.

I was going to go to the disco last night. I got myself all dressed up as Cupid because it was Valentine’s Day, and the idea of a spastic Cupid amuses me. Mind you it was pretty damn cold in a pink leotard and tights, but anyway. I got there about 8pm, and waited, and waited, and waited. The place was completely deserted. Only the staff were there. After about an hour, nobody had showed up ad I was getting cold, I decided to come home. I heard this morning, that it was the least attended Brandy’s disco in ages. Even after I left, very few people showed up. Oh well, at least I got to dress up.

I’m rather hoping there isn’t a Heaven, because when I get up there in 70 years or so, I’m going to get such a ribbing.

The events of the last week have made me realise how precious a friend is. Friends really are dear people – people you laugh with, people you cry with, people it hurts to leave behind. Thinking about this, yesterday, I resolved to do something odd. I need now to let my friends know I care about them – the only other option is to shun all friendship, and become a hermit. Then you never have to say goodbye.

This struck me as cowardly. It was then I came up with ‘the hug tax’. I plan to levy a tax of one hug on my friends; I intend to hug them all, showing them a piece of paper with my reasons beforehand. Upon seeing the paper, most launch into a huge great hug.

Not sure why exactly I need to do it, but it helps. I feel less alone. It’s as if the squeeze of another human lets me know I’m not alone. I have friends here, who care for me, and I care for them.

Hebden green, I suppose, is in the past. Finding out about rich is very painful. But now I must leave that behind, and look to the future. It seems to me that it is now rather possible that I am one of the last few survivors oaf my class. If this is so, I must not give up. I must carry on, and enjoy life. Not to do so would be something of a betrayal.

My quest to hug all my friends will continue. it may appear silly, but it’s the only way. They now seem even more dear to me.

I wrote the following last night when my friend vikki was here:

Watching my friend tap away, typing on my bed

She came to keep me company. Tonight, of all nights, I am not alone

For Richard is dead, and I feel like the last of a fellowship. Utterly alone. But not alone for she types away, keeping me company.

And I am deeply grateful for it.

–thanks vicks

I’m still hoping this is premature. I’m still hoping those men last Wednesday were wrong and that I will find my friend Richard alive and well. Yet I must admit to myself that they appeared to be certain, and that their description of the boy I grew up with fitted exactly.

If that is so, then my friend Richard is gone, a fact I hate to contemplate. All weekend, I’ve been looking for confirmation either way, looking for obituaries, getting people to wring numbers. No luck. It’s quite upsetting in itself, not knowing: part of me says there may still be hope, there may still be a happy ending. Another part remembers the certainty of those voices.

Keep thinking back to the nursery – to when we both used to crawl across the vast floor to play wrestling on the mats. I remember how we went through school together: how, before I got my lightwriter, rich used to translate for me. The trip to centre parks; going to Glasgow; how I earned the name slasha. I remember his jokes; how he always had a girlfriend.

I find myself wanting to cry. I want to scream. I want to utterly trash a room. I find myself unable to do either of these things – they will achieve nothing. Rich was one of the friends I expected to grow old, get married, maybe get a family. It probably isn’t going to happen now, and knowing that hurts.

It hurts very much. To a certain extent, this is what comes from going to a special school, since I find it likely that rich’s death was caused due to some complication with his spina bifida. In such places one has to cope with your friends dying, moreso than in a mainstream school, I mean, and it’s no easier after you leave. Looking around at my friends in the wes today, I found myself feeling alone, unable to explain, unable to let them no why I felt so bad. I’m not saying they won’t have had similar tradgedies, and they have all been very supportive, but I still felt alone, like I was the last survivor of a band of brothers, in a battle long since over, returning to a pub full of music.

Soon, I’ll join the singing again I’m sure. Rich wouldn’t want me to get too down. But, at the moment, it feels like someone hit me in the stomach. Writing seems to ease it slightly, but it will probably hurt for some time.

—

I was about to post this when Darren, a friend whom I got to call the vicar at Weston, came. It is true.

no more doubt; no more hope

still miserable so me and est have decided to have a ‘stupid day’ (ie much potty humour as possible) to kick us off, go here

I was working on my exhibition yesterday; going over memories of school with Jim. We now have a video, which dad found, of myself in 1992. I saw old rich S, and, remembering he lived in Weston, decided I needed a roll. I caught the buss to Crewe, and wended my way the two and a half distance to the small village. Then, given it’s size, I decided to ask about for my oldest friends. His imput would be great.

I first asked in a pub – no sign. Then, after a short scout, I saw two men talking outside the village hall. I asked them if they knew a guy about my age in a chair. They did.

‘son of a farmer? Younger brother, older sister?’

‘yes.’ I said ‘do you know where I might find him?’

‘I’m sorry to tell you this, but he died last October’.

I had always imagined rich getting old, married, this wise old Englishman. We went through most of school together, from 5 to 16. my gran always reminds me of him: ‘Do you remember Richard? He was always smiling.’ He was engaged to be married. I remember school unihock sessions with him best.

I don’t even know why I’m writing this. I’m posting it to make explaining easier. I’m hoping those chaps were mistaken. It’s possible but unlikely.

Oh fuck it. Fuck it all.

I may be accused of blasphemy around here, and my lecturers may call for my immediate disembowelment, but I really think modern artistic criticism is too ingrained in Freud. In my culture seminar today, it seemed Trish wanted to relate everything in Heimat to the oedipal complex, to the extent that she seemed to distort it slightly.

Don’t get me wrong – I do have time for Freud. Increasingly, I’m using him in my essays, as well as Lacan. They seem, oddly, to fit: lacan’s tripartite of the imaginary, symbolic and real seems, in fact, to relate to my situation. I have my imaginary self – how I see myself – and my real self – my outward appearance, how others see me. The symbolic bridges the gap between the two; but for me, my symbolic is generated by a machine, which has very little to do with either concept, for it cannot fully reflect my Imaginary self in the real. It’s interesting, if unscientific, you must admit. These hypothetical structures seem to fit some sense of reality: we always think of our inner selves ad different from our outer selves.

Mind you, I still think basing most artistic criticism on this is something of a mistake.

and for that matter, who in the hell made this? some people have too much time on their hands. I, however, did 1000 words of my 2500 word film essay. nearly there

what master of cutting made this

Last night was really quite awesome. My friend jenny was holding a 21st birthday party; it was held over in Crewe, by invitation only at the overdraught bar. Jenny expressly mentioned, too, that it was formal wear, which meant only one thing – my tux had to come out.

[at this point I better say my parents rule – they went to the not negligible trouble of dry cleaning my suit and delivering it here. Thanks guys]

so, charlotte having changed me into my suit, and looking stunning herself, we caught a lift over to Crewe. Jenny’s friends and family were there, in kilts, as were most of my friends. There and then, I decided it wasn’t a night for beer.

I went to the bar: ‘Please mix one gin and one vermouth’. I asked. What I got back was quite passable, but not a proper martini. I got talking to my friends, and a while later I saw AF at the bar, so I went over to chat. He complemented me on how smart I looked; I replied I simply had a bond fixation. He asked if I was drinking martini.

‘kind of’ I replied, whereupon he very kindly set about mixing me a proper martini, methodically pouring liquid from one glass to another to a precise recipe. When I tasted it, I recognised it as that which I had in Sydney on new years eve: something which I seem to be acquiring a taste for – Martinis. Quite delicious, even if it lacked the slither of lemon peel and green olive, which seem to give it extra bite.

I was determined, however, not to get drunk last night, so I happily drunk water for the rest off the evening, talking o friends, eating cake and dancing. I had a lot of fun: at one point, Steve thought it would be a good idea to sweep me off my feet and carry me about the dance floor. Everyone had an excellent time; jen made a good speech, and at about half twelve we got a taxi home.

Happy birthday, Jenny. That was great.

Its been a hecic couple of days. Last night, I was in my room, surfing the net, as you do. There was a buz on the intercom – I’d arranged to meet Charlie so I went to answer it. I had just opened the door when I heard a loud smash from back in my room. We got back to find someone had kicked a ball through my window. The uncanny thing is, if charlotte hadn’t come at that precise moment, I’d have been hit by a shower of broken glass. Spooky or what?

Needless to say, security came and put up some heavy duty plastic, and I got a new window this morning. But I still cant quite get over how spooky it was that charlotte came at precisely the right time.

Blimey! I’ve just turned my pc on to find some pleasant news: at time of writing – and I’m currently streaming TMS – England have the upper hand in the cricket. These days, that’s a rare thing indeed, especially against the Australians. Needless to say, I was very disappointed with England this tour, as we didn’t perform quite as well as I would have hoped.

Five nil indeed! What a slaughtering. Ye gads and little fishes, by the time we got there, for the Melbourne test, it was already over! We were all quite disappointed, and I feel sorry for my father, who has always loved cricket.

On the other hand, the great thing about this game is that it’s not just about the winning. This is why they keep playing tests if the series is already won. It’s about the love of the sport itself; about sitting in the crowd sipping Victoria bitter and listening to the barmy army. It almost didn’t matter that we were collapsing, we were still having great fun.

In football, the rivalry between supporters seems very deep – look, for example, at the rivalry between Celtic and Rangers supporters, which often gets violent. In cricket, this rivalry is merely made of songs: as we toured down under, every time the subject came up, it was done so with [Clark gets caught – 45-3] a laugh and a joke.

Peter, the driver of the tour bus, jokingly promised ‘not to mention the sport beginning with C’. it was clear that the idea that treating the rivalry between the countries as anything other than friendly was patently absurd. This is why I love the sport; even though this rivalry is well over a century old, it ends at stumps.

I believe this is how all sport should be, and can’t understand why sporting rivalries such as Celtic v rangers or Everton v Liverpool so often get violent. Doesn’t make sense.

[whats the betting, that when I get back to my pc this afternoon, we have lost?]

what would you get if you crossed tony hawks (the skateboarder, not the comedian), johny knoxville and me?

probably this

It has already been a highly productive morning: I have started my final film essay, and have 500 words already (about 20%). Witting the introduction, I find, clarifies what I am doing, so I now know where I’m going with it. I’ve also done a couple of other things which were hanging over me yesterday.

I was in a right mis yesterday afternoon. Basically, making the exhibition had lead me to reflect on certain things – about school, and stuff. It’s hard to explain concisely here, but I’d given my scripts tutor the script of the sketch about Andy, and her feedback kind of struck a nerve. It was too accurate, too sentimental, too goddamn sad.

Anyway, its Wednesday; a day of sport, fun. I’ve been at my pc since before 9; time to go to get a coffee.

I had to do a double take when I saw this headline. More people watched top gear than the final of big brother! Now that’s funny. Could it be that, despite all the hype, nobody cares about BB? Mind you, top gear featured a high speed crash, although I must say I found Mr. Hammonds message of thanks genuinely touching.

(yeah, I went to the TV room to watch it)

In the absence of anything better to write, I think I’ll post a link to this blond joke. I was going to write something on inside I’m dancing, but need to mull it over some more. There seems to be a dialectic in that film for disabled viewers: kind of like us watching you watching us, which has some repercussions I need to think through. Okay, the film itself is almost complete lachrymose twaddle, but still interesting.

My recent realisation that travel on busses was both accessible and free for cripples inspired a little adventure today. Saturday afternoons are boring, and usually see me twiddling my thumbs in my room, or wheeling into alsager. However, I’m bored of both these things, so ii did a little experiment: could I get myself to Crewe and back on the bus, alone? Besides, perhaps I can find something to eat in Crewe better than pizza.

It sounds silly, really, but it was quite a risky endeavour: what if my chair got stuck? What if I got lost? Of course, there are risks associated with everything; if I couldn’t muster the courage to get to Crewe, how could I ever get to Calcutta, Cairo or Cairns?* So, first I researched which bus would take me to Crewe, whether I could get on it, and where it stops. This turned out to be the 20 from the bottom of church road, going to Crewe bus station, leaving every 20 minutes.

I went to the bus stop and alighted, after a short wait, the twenty, and less than twenty minutes later I was in Crewe bus station. I better say it’s rather difficult manruvering an f55 onto a bus, but nevertheless quite possible.

What I hadn’t realised that there’s nothing to do in Crewe that late in the day, and, in the end, I decided to eat at MacDonald’s. even so, it’s the fact that I did it that counts. Given that it is free, this may be just the first of many such adventures.

*mind you, i’ll take a p.a when going to such places

Just a short one today. I’m not commenting on this, except to say that this girl better get out more, and that it’s funny as.

and the same applies to her cat.

Sometimes principles suck. Yes, they may be necessary, if not vital, but they still suck. My university is on two campuses, with buses running between them. As with last year, I have lectures on both campuses, but until recently couldn’t get on the bus as it was inaccessible. Instead, I had to get my own taxi between the two.

This was all very well and good, as well as convenient, but I had a problem: I want to be as ‘regular’ student as possible, but the taxi was another thing that set me apart from the rest of the student body. Besides, surely it was more cost efficient just for the bus firm to send the wheelchair-accessible buses. Moreover, I couldn’t get my electric wheelchair into the taxi, which I saw as a big problem. I thus asked uni if wheelchair-accessible busses could be arranged.

I still think the principles behind this are great as I type this in a lovely, warm room, but was quietly cursing it earlier, waiting for a late bus at 6pm tonight in the freezing cold.

I have finally got round to my Parent’s diary of the Australian holiday. It comprises of the emails they sent home while there. As such, it’s a fascinating document which both excites and depresses me. It depresses me as they miss a lot out (like one of my favourite memories, drinking my first ‘real’ martini in Sydney). They don’t describe the spectacular nights sky at Uluru – a sky which simply fills ones heart with wonder and awe. They don’t mention peter, etc. however, I’m more excited than depressed – it just brings back so many memories. It helps trigger a billion good thoughts.

What shall I tell you guys about tonight? [thinks, then laughs]

HELICOPTERS! Oh, man, do those things rule! In the south of Australia, about a day’s drive from Melbourne, are the twelve apostles – twelve spires of rock sticking up from the ocean. Two or three have recently collapsed, so they no longer number twelve. One can get helicopter rides along the shore for a better view of these natural monoliths. They use small choppers, so we had to hire two, and I went up with Luke (my kick-ass brother). I sat up front, next to the pilot, and it was one of the greatest moments of my life. The moment when the craft leaves the ground is unbelievable. And the view, is a view… just incredible. Watching the ground whiz by 30 metres below is exhilarating.

As if one is not enough, I had another chopper ride! King’s canyon is a truly beautiful area, a cleft in the ground full of exotic plants, animals and birds. One can, if you rise early enough, walk it’s rim on a guided tour, but by no means is this wheelchair accessible. So, while dad and Luke went on this walk, mum and I flew over it! How cool is that. Okay, we didn’t get up close, but I loved it all the same and the feeling of being left out wasn’t there (I think I had the better deal, in a way).

Looking down from the front seat of a helicopter, you see for miles; there is a feeling of power, of weightlessness. It was just sublime.

I want one.

not much to say tonight – its been a bit of a long day full of ups (having a great idea for my film essay) and downs (getting a relatively poor mark for a story). So tonight I’ll just post a link here , to the video of a great song by pink.

While the details of our circumstances are rather different, I think I’ll post a link to this article tonight. It’s a very well written and thought provoking article by a man with DMD and his use of a prostitute. My first reaction is ‘so what?’ the guy obviously felt the need to use a whore. As far as I’m concerned, that’s his business. But it does raise certain issues, like how ‘we’ get sexual partners. Now, I’m quite sure that if I wait long enough, I’ll eventually find a sexual partner. But I could be waiting a very long time, as right now girls don’t seem to fancy me, although most of my friends seem to be girls.

But what if I lost patience? I think I would indeed consider using a prostitute. As long as the lady in question is consenting, why should things like this be a problem, or even taboo?

I hate these dark evenings. It’s been quite a bitter day, and I haven’t done much. During breaks in the weather I managed to drive into the village and back: I seem to be able to think more clearly when on the move, as it gives my hands something to do and my eyes something to look at. I need to decide a few things about one or two forthcoming essays.

Right now, it’s probably morning back in Sydney, and Monday morning or not they’re probably having fun! while this may dishearten some, it kind of cheers me up. At least somewhere is bright and sunny. Sydney is a very cool place, and the harbour is beautiful, but I think I actually preferred Brisbane, with it’s long wide river and very cosmopolitan feel. It was also just about the only place where I got a real beer – one night we found an irish pub which sold guiness. I must admit, however, that I drank a bit too much of this. I noticed, too, that it’s university had a pretty sizable film theatre, so no prises for guessing where I want to move to

Oh well, to travel is to come back, and university is a cool place too. I better crack on with work in the morning, but whenever I get too bored, I can always look through the diary my parents kept while in Oz, or go for a drive into the village.

One final thing: I found out what ‘waltzing matilda’ means. Matilda is a name for one’s bag, and so to waltz it is to travel with a bag on your back. In short, it’s a travelling song!

I have been looking through some old blog entries today. I think I’ll use some for my exhibition-thingy in march, and deciding which to use will be hard. It does, however, astonish me to think that it’s now almost five; when I started keeping a blog I didn’t expect it to last very long, but it has, and I certainly intend to keep it up.

Admittedly, it’s been crap recently. I’ve been busy with other things, and haven’t thought much about blogging. It will get better, I promise. I need to tell you all about

Australia: About moreton island; about Uluru; about flying in helicopters and riding monorails. Need to tell you about my new friend Rozie, from the states, and Peter (who I’ve mentioned before), and about Simon and joss, my parents’ friends, who live in the coolest house in the southern hemisphere (bit like the burrow but with a kick-as basement). The question is, where to begin – how can I possibly tell you about the coolest journey over the most awesome, awe-inspiring place on earth?

Well, slowly. There’s too much for one entry; to be honest, I have enough material for several dozen. Where to begin, though? That’s the hard part.

There is, however, one part I need to put down from the off: Australia is wonderfully accessible. There are ramps everywhere, and folk are incredibly friendly. That is not to say that oz is wheelchair friendly, however: there is a difference between wheelchair friendliness and accessibility. Quite often, for example, lifts were tucked away in corners, and took ages to find. A good example of this is the lift up to the bridge over darling harbour, which took ages to locate and when you did it was being used, more often than not by people perfectly able to use stairs.

Mind you, this is my only gripe; I now have a plethora of great memories – enough to keep me blogging for another five years.

It seems its all going pear shaped for Blair. Given he’s had ten years in office, its not surprising. One of his aides has been arrested for fraud.

I don’t like the bloke. He’s lead us into a disastrous war. And now we are a country which virtually endorses execution. I do not care what the Americans might claim

– capitol punishment is barbaric. Saddam was evil, yes, but to resort to something so base, and for us brits not to object in the strongest terms possible, is utterly disgraceful.

Yet I remain stuck between a rock and a hard place. I hate Blair, but I loathe Cameron. He’s a conservative, and conservatism, rather than being a well-thought out political stance, is just a series of id impulses based on greed. Its about preserving the status quo, despite the fact that the status quo is unfair. Free market economy is wasteful. But conservatives want to preserve it out of greed. Then, there’s Cameron’s stance on special education; this, too, is poorly thought out. Special schools are disastrous in terms of education. The only way for us crips to be fully accepted is for all children to be taught together. Cameron’s plans to reintroduce segregated education is the mark of a man who blinds himself to long term repercussions while wanting to mollycoddle disabled kids. He thus doesn’t understand the issue.

Hate Blair. Hate cam-moron. I think I’ll move to Australia.

The interfaculty cup starts at two. I get the feeling all hell is going to break loose. This is the annual sports event between mmu Cheshire and mmu Manchester; it takes place here, and we compete iin many sports. I plan to go to girls hockey and girls basketball.

Thing is, the rivalry is quite fierce. Everyones quite pumped, and theres beer involved. Thus it’s a recipe for total chaos.

What fun.