I know I don’t often comment on issues like this, but out and about today, it occurred to me how clean and quiet London’s roads were. Largely thanks to things like the ULEZ, I can now trundle around the metropolis quite safely and happily. But then it occurred to me that that risks being all undone if London is foolish enough to elect a Tory mayor later this year.

Yesterday saw me and John at the Barbican again, this time to watch Monster, a 2023 Japanese film by Kore-eda Hirokazu. I’m not sure that it would be fair to say much about it, other than that it is an intriguing, complex film. It’s the type of film which is best discussed after you watch it, rather than explained afresh to those who know nothing about it. It isn’t that the plot is particularly complex or nuanced – at the end of the day, it’s just a story about the friendship between two young boys- rather that the story is delivered in such a way that no two audience members are going to agree what actually happened. It’s the sort of film which questions truth itself; an exercise in, and meditation upon, film as a means of communication and expression. For me to say much more, though, wouldn’t do it justice, so I’ll just encourage everyone to go and watch it, and say that I would be staggered if it wasn’t one of the greatest films of the year.

Check out Mark Kermode’s much more informative review here.

Nearly all of my Friday nights over the last four years or so have been spent watching TV in my flat, so last night was quite a nice change. I went to the Barbican to watch a concert by Max Cooper, an electronic audio and visual artist. It was the first live music performance I had been to in quite a while, although how I came to be going was a little odd: poor old John had tickets to go on Thursday evening, after we had been to the cinema, but as we were leaving our film my other PA Serkan texted me to say he was ill. That left me in the lurch for dinner, so John had to forgo his concert and come back with me. Needless to say, I felt incredibly guilty. Luckily, yesterday morning, John told me that there was going to be a second Cooper concert last night; and even better he could get two-for-one tickets. That’s how I came to be travelling along the Elisabeth Line yesterday evening, to meet my friend and go to my first concert in months.

To be honest I had never heard of Max Cooper before, so I didn’t know quite what to expect. John had told me it was electronic music, so I presumed it would be like the stuff Lyn used to make, or my friend Hugh Jones. What we encountered was a bit of a shock: a highly intense bombardment of sound and visual artistry, as much to do with the intricate patterns being projected onto the screens around the auditorium as the music/audio. While much of it was incredibly beautiful, merging Italian aesthetics with mathematics and postmodernism, the truth is at times it grew too much, and the lights and lasers began to grow painful on my eyes. Frankly towards the end it also started to feel a bit more like a rave than a concert. Even so, as I rode the train home last night, it felt good to see the return of such evenings out – hopefully it will now be the first of many more.

Just to mark First Contact day

If I can just update Monday’s entry, I just got back from my second viewing of Perfect Days, this time with John. We actually managed to rendezvous at Peckhamplex today, and I certainly think it was worth it. Wim Wenders must surely be one of the most interesting filmmakers around: as I said last time, this is a lovely, slow, meditative film. It’s about taking life easy, and not getting too stressed. If doing a job cleaning public loos in Tokyo and collecting cassettes is what makes you happy, then surely that is all you need. I think that could be a great lesson for us all right now.

Mind you, if you ask me, exactly the same can be said about spending quiet afternoons watching such intriguing films with friends as outstanding as John.

I just watched another excellent Steve Shives review video, this time discussing the various film adaptations of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby. To be honest I was slightly surprised to see a piece like this coming from Shives: I had thought of him as more of a popular culture, science fiction kind of guy, so to see him delve into literature like this was kind of refreshing. Yet it must be said that, as with his other work, what Shives does here is pretty phenomenal, essentially delivering a thorough, informative essay exploring one of the great pieces of American literature and it’s subsequent adaptations into film, in the form of a Youtube video. It is certainly well worth a watch, especially if you’re interested in the relationship between literature and film.

Yet things like this often make me reflect on my own work too. I was talking about this a few days ago with John: My Master’s thesis looks into the relationship between cinephilia, with it’s written explorations of film, and fandom, which explores film more physically and creatively. Since finishing my MA ten years ago though, that relationship seems to have moved on phenomenally, and a whole new literature seems to be appearing. Fans on Youtube like Steve Shives are now reacting to film just as articulately and inquisitively as the cinephiliac magazine writers before them, yet retain the sense of fun and play found in fan output. The dynamic between the two seems to have changed fundamentally, and I can’t help wondering whether my thesis is now kind of redundant. The narrowing of the relationship between the two manifestations of filmic love may well explain why my thesis has been referenced by other people, as interest in the idea increases. Might it now be worth going back to my thesis, revising it to incorporate the new types of filmic love and fascination we are now increasingly seeing online? That is what John put to me a few days ago, and the proposition is finding it’s lure the more things like this on Youtube I come across.

When all is said and done, JK Rowling is a talentless, transphobic bitch who should never have been published. While the fact she got so many young people into reading is obviously a good thing, when viewed in the context of literature, the Harry Potter books are nothing but tacky, amateur, lightweight piffle. I never used to have any issue with them, of course – Rowling’s books are perfectly enjoyable, the same way that vanilla ice cream is enjoyable, if there’s nothing better in the fridge – but now that the vile cow has started to use her fame as a platform from which to spread blatant transphobia, it’s time to recognise her books as the utter crap they are. Rowling stole most of the ideas in the Potter series, and the rest is soap opera fluff which is barely worth reading. If she is so arrogant that she thinks she has a right to deliberately misgender transwomen, and that would presumably have included Lyn, then surely I have a right to criticise her books as the derivative bullshit they are, and would encourage others to do the same.

While I wouldn’t call yesterday a perfect day for me personally, it did involve a Perfect Day. I was supposed to meet John at Peckhamplex again: We were going to watch Perfect Days, Vim Vender’s  new film. One way or another, though, our wires got crossed and I ended up going to the cinema alone. It was a shame because the film was his suggestion, having flagged up the trailer and Mark Kermode’s review for me.

Perfect Days is a very interesting, meditative piece of work. It focuses on three or four days in the life of a toilet cleaner in Tokyo. I wouldn’t say there was a plot or narrative in the usual sense. The film is more like a portrait of a lowly but likeable man’s life as he goes through his daily routine washing public toilets, listening to music and collecting old cassettes. It is thus a complete departure from what we usually expect a film to be, but that struck me as a refreshing change more than anything. After a while I felt myself getting into the rhythm of the film, starting to see what it was trying to say: this was film being used to hold a mirror up to humanity. It tells us that the lowliest of people can often be the most content; and that those of us who live the most lavish, elaborate lives aren’t necessarily the happiest. As I rolled home last night, I decided that Perfect Days definitely deserved a second viewing, preferably next time with John. Films like this are surely meant to be shared.

I think I’ve mentioned here before how proud I am to have kept my blog going for over twenty years. I think that’s quite an achievement, and of course I have no intention to stop; but it seems to me that those two decades are nothing compared to the seventy years Sir David Attenborough has now been presenting his wonderful natural history documentaries. Last night we saw the first episode of his new series Mammals, and I just want to say how in awe I am of someone who is surely the greatest of all broadcasters.

I know I have blogged about this before, plenty of times, but Attenborough must have done far more than anyone else to open our collective eyes to the wondrous workings of the natural world. To think that he started broadcasting before most people alive today were born, and is still an integral part of possibly the best programs on television, blows my mind. The photography we saw in last night’s episode was incredible, capturing such vivid, evocative images of animals in the pitch dark, although we have probably come to expect nothing less from the Beeb’s natural history unit. Yet to be honest I don’t think enough is being said about Attenborough’s epic career; he surely is a national treasure beyond compare, and ought to be really cherished.

Supplemental to my cricket related entry last Saturday, today I went to Charlton park again to see if there was a cricket match. Unfortunately there wasn’t, so a trundled from there on to the cricket club. There wasn’t a match there either, but rather cooly I found some of the guys I know from the Mighty Eights cricket team there for training. They were sat outside the clubhouse with a large jug of beer. I spent a while there catching up with them, not having seen them in several months.

I was told that their first match will be in two weeks, so that’s something to look forward in. It seems that summer is certainly on its way. Having been watching the Blackheath Mighty Eights for over a decade now, I have got to know them, and regard many of the players as friends. Of course they recognised me earlier, and greeted me rather warmly. To be honest. outside of my visit to the cinema with John, it felt like my first whiff of social activity in a while. It was nice to catch up with them, but I better say that I left before I was offered any of the beer.

I was just watching the BBC breakfast program, and I think I ought to flag up something rather horrifying which they just informed the country of. A primary school in Scotland has apparently been issuing two different class photos which parents could choose between: one version with students with disabilities or additional needs, and one without. “A council has apologised after parents were offered a choice of class photos with or without children with complex needs in them. Parents at Aboyne Primary complained after being sent a link from a photography company offering them alternative pictures.” That strikes me as appalling, as I hope it would any thinking, politically conscious person. The photography company claim they didn’t want to offend anyone, but this is no better than offering parents class photos with all the black kids taken out. It is effectively saying that disabled kids might not look good enough to be in the class photo, and that some parents may prefer to have their kid’s class photo taken without their crippled classmates. I was stunned to hear about this just now, and find it chilling that things like this can still happen, and that some people can still have such vile attitudes.

Black hole or maniacal demigod?

I just hope the scientists have got it right!

I still keep an eye on what is going on in America politically, of course, and have recently been watching quite a few Youtube videos about Donald Trump. It honestly staggers me to realise that anyone can be so self important or up their own arse. This video, for instance, documents how Trump is a massive golf cheat: he’s actually quite appalling at the sport, but would have everyone believe that he is one of the greats, up there with Tiger Woods and insisting his name is placed at the top of club leadership boards. The impression you get is of an utterly, utterly pathetic man who deserves only to be ridiculed; it even makes the Tories look respectable and level-headed in comparison.. I suppose the more pressing question, though, is why America or any other self-respecting, serious nation would even contemplate letting such a disgrace to human civilisation anywhere near it’s government.

I never realised I was capable of almost emptying an entire cafe, but that’s just what happened today. I was out on one of my longer trundles in Bexleyheath. It had taken a while to get there, it was spitting, and I was getting hungry. I think I’ve mentioned here before that, usually for lunch, I buy a couple of pre-made wraps from Tesco, which I then take home to eat. Today, though, hungry as I was, I decided to pop into a cafe I was passing and try a wrap from there.

It was going well at first: using my Ipad I told the staff what I wanted before selecting a table and getting out of my powerchair. My lunch was soon brought to me, and looked quite delicious on its plate. The problem came when I tried to pick it up. Tesco wraps are nice and compact, holding together enough for me to lift easily into my mouth. This wrap, however was warm and floppy, falling apart as soon as I touched it.

I spent the next few minutes trying to eat as much as I could without dropping any on the floor. Needless to say, the sight must have been quite unseemly, as pretty soon I noticed my fellow customers around me starting to leave the cafe one by one. By the time I was trying to scrape the last remains of my lunch off the plate with my fingers, the cafe was almost empty. But then, I don’t think I should make any apology: at the end of the day I was hungry, and have as much right to eat what I want, where I want, as anyone else. If other people can’t stand the sight of me eating a spot of much needed lunch, it’s their problem, not mine.

I have to say, this is another great, great video by Steve shives. In it, he discusses the representation of disabled people in science fiction and fantasy TV shows. As I blogged here, Shives has touched upon this before, but some people responding to him seem to have had trouble getting their heads around what Shives was trying to say. They cannot accept the idea that those they perceive as different or inferior would want to exist in the kind of world narratives like Star Trek project. Yet I like being who I am: My CP has effected me throughout my life, causing me to meet some incredible people; it is part of what makes me who I am. I wouldn’t want to change that – I don’t want to be cured. I also relish seeing characters with disabilities appear on shows like Star Trek, because it is a statement that people like myself are just as much a part of humanity’s future as anyone else.

Wow, you can hear their howls of rage and indignation already!

Just to follow up on this entry from a couple of days ago about why the BBC should not have apologised to Reform, I really think anyone interested would do well to watch this Youtube video. The guy speaking in it is obviously very articulate and well informed. He makes many of the points I tried to in my blog entry, but goes far deeper. Reform is obviously just a bunch of right-wing bigots – it isn’t even really a political party, I just learned – but the disgraces to human civilisation who lead it get their knickers in a twist when someone calls them what they so clearly are.

I had quite a lovely surprise out on my trundle today. For a change I thought I would head over to Charlton park via a different route to the one I usually take: I headed along Well Hall road and past the hospital. I thus entered Charlton park from the opposite end to the one I usually do. Going into the park it seemed fairly quiet. But then, in the distance, I glimpsed something awesome: the criticism pitch was in use!

Things suddenly seemed a lot brighter and in my head I heard the theme to Test Match Special. I didn’t expect to see any cricket being played for at least another couple of months. It was as if summer had suddenly begun early, despite the spots of rain in the air. This was certainly a sign that the gloom of winter is passing.

Naturally I rolled a bit closer to see who was playing. Unfortunately it wasn’t my mates in the Blackheath Mighty Eights, whom I’ve spent many wonderful afternoons playing cricket in Charlton Park. I didn’t recognise either team, so mainly due to the growing wind I only stayed to watch a few balls. Nonetheless it was a cheerful, encouraging sight for me, and a nice surprise to happen upon. Of course, they may have been playing a mach before cricket season proper begins for some strange, obscure reason; but even so, the very sight of bowlers and batsmen is enough to make me feel the warmth of a summer afternoon. As I rolled away, I resolved to look up when the Mighty Eights are next going to play.

A flag is basically a sign – a symbol or image intended to impart some sort of message or information to the person viewing it. In the case of flags, that symbol usually represents a country, nation, area or place. As Ferdinand de Sasseur famously pointed out, the relationship between a sign and what it symbolises is arbitrary, so flags have no relationship with the places they represent: the Union Jack does not look like anywhere in Britain; the American flag doesn’t look like anywhere in the USA. Changing what a flag looks like won’t alter the collective personalities of the community it represents in any way. Why oh why, then, are so many people getting so uptight just because a sportswear company changed the colours of a flag on the back of the collar of the English football shirt?

It is a tiny detail which nobody will notice, but judging by the furore it has caused, you would think it was the end of the world. I was listening to people phoning in to talk about this issue this morning, and they were saying all sorts of things about it being an insult to our national identity. How ridiculous! After all, the Saint which the cross on the English flag supposedly represents, Saint George, never even came to Britain, but was Turkish! Yet the people phoning in were speaking as if someone had just spat in our collective face.

Of course, the sportswear company in question could have made this change just to cause some upset and attract some media attention, which is why I won’t name them; but I nonetheless find it staggering that people are getting so furious about this. FFS it’s just a flag you cretinous, nationalist buffoons!

I just saw this Guardian article from a couple of days ago flagged up on a Facebook page, and it instantly sent me into my usual spasms of rage. The Beeb has apparently been forced to apologise for calling thee Reform Party ‘far right’. WTF? That is utterly, utterly absurd, and I find the fact that Reform made such a demand sickening. The BBC, possibly one of the greatest, most trustworthy broadcasters on Earth, has nothing to apologise for. The group of reactionary, judgemental xenophobes known as Reform don’t want to be grouped together with the type of knuckle-dragging scumbag which comes to mind when you call someone far right, but if something looks like shit, smells like shit, and squishes like shit, it’s a shit! Reform can try to deny it all they like, but they are the kind of reactionary, intolerant, arrogant bigots which any enlightened twenty-first century society needs to outgrow, and the BBC had every right to call them what they are.

Today I just want to note a funny little correlation which has sort of been playing on my mind recently. I’m sure many people would say it was just a random coincidence with no meaning and ignore it, but it strikes me as charming enough for a blog entry. These days, I go into Costa coffee shops quite a bit: I often go there for breakfast, and I enjoy their cappuccinos. Possibly more importantly, though, all Costa coffee shops have fast, free wifi, meaning that all I have to do if I need to connect to the web when I’m out and about is pop into a Costa shop. As exciting and enthralling as London can be, it can also sometimes feel rather alienating; so it’s reassuring to know that, if I ever need urgent internet access to get in touch with someone like my parents or PAs, there’s bound to be a Costa somewhere nearby.

The thing is, the name Costa – or Costas – has an extra resonance for me: not only is it now the second middle name of my nephew Elias, but it was the name of my Greek grandfather or Bappou. He lived in London throughout my life, and I think I’ve described how, when I was growing up, we used to drive down to the capital every couple of months to visit him and my grandmother. I have thus always associated my Bappou with London.

Bappou sadly died about twenty years ago. The weird thing is, these days I see his name almost everywhere, looking for it whenever I need a coffee or internet connection. It’s obviously only a coincidence, but I can’t help reflecting that it’s as if he’s still looking out for me. My grandfather was always such a kind, caring man; in a way it feels like he’s still here in London as I make my way through this vast, alienating labyrinth he knew so well.

Just popping my James Bond fan hat on, if anyone is interested in the ‘mounting speculation’ over who will be cast as 007 next, you should go here. “Speculation over which actor will take on the role of James Bond has been mounting once again, after reports British actor Aaron Taylor-Johnson has been offered the role.” For my part, I’m pretty open minded about who they cast, as long as they do it soon. It feels like it has been ages since the last Bond film came out, and I think we could all do with a bit of martini-fuelled escapism. Mind you, as I think I’ve written on here before, after Daniel Craig and the legacy of his five absolutely monumental Bond films, whoever they select will have bigger shoes to fill than ever.

If you ever begin to suspect that all the creativity and art has vanished from contemporary American film, just watch American Fiction. When John suggested going to watch it in Peckham yesterday, I was in two minds: from the trailer it just looked like some trashy American rubbish which played with ethnic stereotypes. However, what we watched yesterday was a real fourth wall breaking treat with a hell of a lot to say about film and the entertainment industry itself. In fact I would go so far as to say it even has whiffs of the French New Wave in how it sort of plays with itself as a film. It truly is a treat for any cinephile, and I now think I’ll suggest it for this year’s film festival.

Today I just want to wish my sister-in-law Yan a very happy birthday. As I wrote a few weeks ago to mark my brother Luke’s birthday, I’m becoming more and more conscious of just how long my family all got together. We speak every week on Zoom of course, but due to things like jobs, geography and the pandemic, it has been years since myself, my parents, my brothers and their families were all in the same place. That seems a shame to me, as we are actually quite close. That aside, I hope Yan has a great day, and that she is still keeping my younger brother in order!

I was thinking about writing something political today. The problem is, I can’t choose what to write about. I’ve spent all day trying to decide which enrages me more: the fact that, here in the Uk, we have a government which is apparently more than willing to accept donations from blatant racists, and doesn’t have the honour to give the money back when that bigotry becomes clear for all to see. On the other hand, in America the republicans have selected a known conman and convicted rapist as their candidate. A man obviously totally unfit to hold any form of political office; someone so divisive that the country would be lucky to survive if he is elected. How our American friends can even contemplate allowing Trump anywhere near the White House again is beyond me.

I find both issues equally frustrating, and equally ridiculous. I genuinely don’t understand how people on either side of the Atlantic can knowingly support and vote for the charlatans at the centre of both. But then, I suppose that’s just a sign of how fragmented and polarised the whole world has become.

I just got back from a quick trip to my local B and Q store in Greenwich. It was nothing special, but Serkan had asked me to buy a specific type of kitchen sponge, and I thought B and Q might be the best place to look. A totally unnoteworthy trip, only when I came to pay, the young man helping me was so bad tempered that I had to note it here. He was muttering all kinds of nastiness under his breath about it not being in his job description as he got my cash out of my wallet, obviously assuming I couldn’t hear or understand him. It made me feel incredibly awkward and unwelcome. I really think some kind of short course in disability awareness should be mandatory for anyone applying for such jobs.

I wish that I was physically able to take photos with my iPad camera sometimes.

It was quite a grey, dank day here in east London. Luckily this afternoon the rain stopped enough for me to go out on my daily trundle. Today I decided to head to Charlton, before probably going on to Woolwich and along the Thames. Probably due to the overcast sky my thoughts were rather dark and gloomy.

About half way through my walk through, I headed into Maryon Wilson park, a beautiful little park in Charlton. It was the first park I came across when I moved to Charlton: I still have very fond memories of going through it fairly regularly, many happy and cheerful, yet now inevitably tinged with a certain melancholy. There is a tiny brook which winds it’s way next to the footpath there, and I was curious to see whether it had swelled much due to the recent rain.

Going through the wooded park this afternoon, I came across the stream in a quiet corner of it. The water, just a few centimetres wide, was bubbling over a few rocks, sparkling in what little sunlight there was. It was a stunning, peaceful sight, as if I had been suddenly transported a thousand miles away from the bustling city about me, to some wooded glade in the Scottish highlands or even the American Rockies. In that moment I wished with all my heart that I could take a picture of the happy little sight before me. I automatically felt my mood lift: such tiny pockets of heartwarming beauty, it seems, can be found anywhere – you just need to look.

I just saw on the lunchtime news that Lee Anderson has defected from the Tory party to Reform, giving them their first MP. I know that MPs don’t legally have to resign when they switch parties of course, but this nonetheless makes me very uncomfortable. Reform is nothing but a bunch of knuckle-dragging xenophobes, on a par with the MAGA fuckwits in America; it shouldn’t be anywhere near the UK parliament. After all, Anderson was elected as a Tory, and the people who voted for him did so to elect the Tory party. They did not vote for Reform, and I sincerely hope wouldn’t be foolish enough to ever do so. Thus I think we need to see an urgent bi-election in the constituency of Ashfield, as well as Anderson’s immediate resignation.

I’m sure we all remember what films from the 1970s look like, even if, like me, you weren’t born then: they have a pretty specific, pre-digital aesthetic. That’s why, when John suggested going to watch The Holdovers yesterday, showing me the trailer, I wondered why my friend wanted to watch such an old film. I also wondered why a cinema in Peckham would be screening a film which looked like it was at least forty. I was, however, wrong about the age, and when John told me it was a recent release, it instantly aroused my curiosity.

Indeed, The Holdovers is an extremely curious film. Set in a big boarding school in New England, it’s about a teacher and a student growing to know and respect one another when they’re forced to stay at school over Christmas. It is often profoundly touching, and very funny. What caught my eye most, though, was the aged, 70s aesthetic: the entire mis-en-scene, down to the choice of camera lens and aspect ratio, looks like it is from the seventies. It was so convincing that I half expected a young John Cleese to turn up as a teacher. I’m not sure why the director, Alexander Payne, chose to go down that route rather than setting the film in contemporary times, but it works perfectly. There’s a real sense of pre-digital isolation in the film, stemming from both the era and the cold, snowy New England geography the characters inhabit. This helps their reconciliation towards the end of the film all the more warming.

The Holdovers is a real treat, well worth the trip to Peckham to watch it. Part of me is still surprised that it was only released a few months ago, but good cinema should always be surprising. This is a lovely, heartwarming film, transporting us back to arguably simpler times, and reminding us what films used to be like.

As a blogger, you know you’re in quite a predicament when one of the issues you want to blog about most is the issue you’re most afraid to for fear of offending someone. More to the point, you can tell that something is gravely amiss when people start hesitating about speaking out against obvious injustices, for fear that they might be accused of discriminating against a certain group of people. It’s one of the most pressing current issues, of a kind which wouldn’t ordinarily be tolerated; yet because the powers behind it are nominally linked to one of the most oppressed social groups in human history, we feel we cannot speak out against what is obviously wrong.

I realise that this might be slightly lazy blogging on my part, but one of the first things I came across on Youtube this morning was this intriguing video about the history behind the Dune books and films. As you might be able to tell from my last few entries, it’s a series I’m now really getting into. This twenty-five minute History Hit video starts to put Dune into context, laying out where Frank Herbert probably got many of his ideas: perhaps most obviously, much of the Dune saga is based upon the politics and history of the middle east at the beginning of the last century, with Spice being an allegory for oil. I found it captivating, and strongly suggest anyone interested in what is fast becoming cinema’s current foremost franchise gives it a watch.

I am only just starting to get into Herbert and Dune. What I saw at the cinema on Sunday gave me a glimpse of an intriguing, complex fiction which at the moment I know next to nothing about. Videos like this whet my interest even further. The new adaptations really have opened up a completely new fictional world for me, every bit as interesting as my favourites, Star Trek and Lord Of The Rings. I now can’t wait to find out more.

This seemed so apt, I just had to nick it!

I think I’ve mentioned on here before how Stratford has become sort of my default destination for my daily trundles. Instead of going to the trouble of deciding where to head for an afternoon, I just catch the jubilee line up to the Olympic park and spend a couple of hours up there. I enjoy looking at all the building projects in that area, and watching it change over time. 

Today, though, I felt like I needed a change. I swapped platforms at North Greenwich and headed west to the south bank. To be honest it had been ages since I last went that way, and I was keen to see if much had changed. I remember going there quite a bit when I first moved to London with Lyn: it struck me as a vibrant, amazing area of the city which I had known nothing about previously. I will never forget going to the globe the first time with Lyn. As someone who had grown up loving Shakespeare, watching him performed like that, in that incredible theatre by the Thames, was beyond amazing.

I just got home from a lovely long stroll. Getting off the jubilee line at London Bridge I headed along the south bank of the Thames. One of my aims for the trip was to check in at the Globe theatre to see what they had on at the moment. After I had done so, I carried on along the river to Westminster, crossing it to check out parliament square before heading towards Buckingham palace and then eventually Bond Street. From there I got the Elizabeth line home, typing this very blog entry into my iPad as we went.

London never stops amazing me. It intrigues me, and I will never tire of exploring it: It’s tube stations and shops, it’s cafes and pubs; it’s winding warren of roads and wide, stately river. A metropolis which once seemed so vast, hostile and alien now feels more and more homelike. Areas like the south bank and Westminster now carry a plethora of memories for me, built up over the last fourteen years. Every time I go into it, I get to know it just a bit more, to the extent that I can’t wait to see what I’ll find in this amazing microcosm next.

Yesterday evening, I think it’s fair to say that I was reminded why I love the cinema and think that film is best viewed on the big screen. Watching Dune Part Two last night with John blew my mind: I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a more visually stunning film. As Mark Kermode says in his review, the cinematography is magnificent and really stands out. Notably for a science fiction epic set in space, this film takes place entirely on the planet Arakis. Unlike in the previous instalment, there aren’t any sweeping shots of stars, planets or space ships. Instead, we are treated to magnificent views of deserts, dunes, and people surfing on huge worms burrowing through the sand.

In terms of narrative, I have to say that it struck me as rather complex and hard to keep up with. To be honest I wish I had rewatched the first part before going to the cinema yesterday: this is a highly political text with a lot to say about religion, culture and power; it demands a lot of concentration and engagement. On the other hand it draws viewers in so that we become engrossed even if we can’t quite keep up with what’s going on: we are presented with cultures, characters and languages which seem to beg to be explored. Largely through the intriguing references the characters make to all kinds of fascinating places and concepts, you get the sense that there is much more to this narrative than what you have seen; an affect which George Lucas tried to emulate in Star Wars, but failed miserably.

You can probably say that Dune is to Science fiction what Lord Of The Rings is to fantasy. It is genre fiction at it’s best. I now can’t wait for the next instalment, of course, but I also think I need to rewatch the first two films plenty of times to make sure I get my head around what I’m being shown.

I didn’t think I’d blog today, but I just came across something so awesome that it just had to be recorded. John and I just got home from watching the second part of Dune. It’s a spectacularly good film every bit as great as the first part. Once again I left the cinema dying to explore the fictional world I’d just glimpsed. I was intending to write a full review of it on here in the morning, but there is a small detail which I simply have to note. Watching the film earlier, I noticed that the actor playing the Emperor looked familiar: he looked like Cristopher Walken, who also once appeared in the video to Fatboy Slim’s Weapon Of Choice. The reason that strikes me as so cool is because that song contain’s the lyrics “If you walk without rhythm, you won’t attract the worm”, a direct reference to Dune. I don’t know how deliberate this bit of casting was, but it just struck me as such a neat link that it begged to bee noted. I love how the film nodded to a music video twenty years before it.

The USA is genuinely starting to worry me. On facebook yesterday, I asked one of the anti-religion pages I’m on a question about how religious America was becoming, and one respondent kindly recommended that I checked out a Youtube channel by someone called Owen Morgan, aka Telltale. He is a former Jahovah’s Witness who is now making videos about his former church, religion and american politics. Naturally I did so, and what he has already revealed to me is as fascinating as it is insane. Morgan is clearly an intelligent, coherent young man, but what I’ve already learned from him about the religious fundamentalist component of American culture defies belief, if you’ll forgive the pun. Some of these so-called preachers or pastors, for example, seem to genuinely believe that Donald Trump is some sort of messiah – it would be hilarious if it wasn’t so fucked up. You can check out Morgan’s Youtube channel here; I highly recommend doing so if, like me, you’re becoming increasingly concerned about religious zealotry in thee US..

To be honest the phenomenon of Whatsapp and QR Codes is really starting to bother me. I know I have blogged about this before, but only in a passing, unconcerned way. It is a technology I can’t access, but I just let it slide. These days, however, the codes are becoming so ubiquitous that it’s really starting to get to me. Because I can’t hold my Ipad camera up to scan the codes, I have no way of accessing them. Of course, I still have alternatives like Facebook, but frankly it’s really starting to get to me. Up until now, I’ve tried to be an up-to-date kind of guy, embracing new technology and social phenomena where I can. Yet Whatsapp has excluded me completely because accessing it requires physical abilities which I as a disabled man do not have. This would be fine as there are other, more accessible alternatives. Yet this is becoming so ubiquitous, with QR codes appearing everywhere from bus stop signs to the big screen outside London Stadium, that I can’t help starting to feel a little excluded and discriminated against.

A local police officer got quite a surprise this morning. Mind you, I was surprised too. I was trundling around the Olympic park a few days ago when two boys decided it would be funny to try to wind me up by calling me all kinds of insulting things. I get it quite regularly, of course, but nonetheless I don’t see why I should put up with it. I took umbrage, and headed for the park security office to ask if they could do anything about it. They took my details, including my address, and it was left at that: grievance registered, I assumed I would hear nothing more about it.

This morning, however, I was watching breakfast tv waiting for Serkan to arrive when I heard my doorbell ring. I was surprised- who would be calling on me at that time? I went and opened my front door to see a police man there, asking to talk to me. I doubt he was prepared for the sight of a cripple in only his underwear, but I invited him in anyway. The Olympic park security staff had apparently reported the incident last week to the police, and the officer had come to ask me about it. I told him what I could remember, of course, but the episode had been so fleeting that I couldn’t give him much detail.

This might well have been an issue of box ticking and going through the correct motions, but all the same I’m glad to see that the park staff had taken what I told them seriously. Trouble making, bullying kids are all too easy to ignore. I don’t see why I should have to take the shit they give me, and I’m glad to see someone agrees.

I was in two minds about blogging about this because it is a personal matter for someone still very dear to me, yet I think it is the best way for me to show my sorrow. I have written here before about the special school I went to: it was for fairly severely disabled children aged between two and eighteen. When I was in the first year of the middle school, aged about six or seven, I had a teacher called Mrs Pilkington, a very warm, kindly lady who did her best to teach me how to spell. I’ll always remember that school year as the one my Dad read The Hobbit to me and my brothers, and I became so obsessed with it that I spent most of my free time at school trying to rewrite it on an old BBC computer. To her great credit, Mrs. P saw the benefit of this and encouraged me, correcting my spelling as I went.

Mrs. Pilkington had a son, Stuart, who at the time was in his twenties, I think. For reasons I’m not sure of, Mrs. P invited Stuart into the class to help support me and my classmates. He was a great guy: warm, caring, and someone I grew to look up to. He became something of a brotherly figure, encouraging me in my work but not afraid to have fun. I remember Stuart once pretending to tear up the print out of the story I had been working on for so long.

I hadn’t seen Stuart or his mum in years, of course – not since school. I’m in contact with Mrs Pilkington on facebook, however, and we often exchange messages and comments. Very sadly, that is where Mrs Pilkington announced the death of her son last week. There wasn’t much detail, yet I know how close she was to her son, and my heart goes out to her. I’m writing this to convey my deep, deep sorrow: Linda Pilkington played an enormous part in my childhood and education; she did not deserve this news in any way. I’ll always remember her classes as places of warmth, support and encouragement, and her son as someone I had a lot of respect for. I know how much he will be missed.