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.

I came across this video yesterday, and I would urge anyone even remotely interested in American politics to watch it. It’s a summary of Donald Trumps comments concerning women, particularly suburban women, and I found what it highlights so repugnant that I felt I had to flag it up here. Donald Trump is an utterly disgusting person: He thinks he has a right to act how he wants and say what he wants, which includes boasting about going into women’s dressing rooms, spying on them and groping them. He is shown speaking about women like they are just there for him to abuse. Granted, the guy who made the video may have cherry picked the comments and clips, but nonetheless it exposes a sickening, juvenile, arrogant individual, utterly unfit to be allowed anywhere near the government of any self respecting state. Frankly, I find the notion that America is even considering letting Trump anywhere near the White House again absolutely bewildering.

I am, of course, thinking about my brother Luke today. Today is his birthday, and his first as a father. Apart from on Skype or Zoom, it has been ages since I last saw him, and I’m becoming increasingly eager to go and see him and his family. I especially need to meet my nephew Elias. To be honest it feels like such a long time since my whole family has been together, I think we need to put that right pretty soon. For now, though, let me just wish my little bro a great day, and ask him to give Elias a cuddle from me.

Just for the record, I think I better note that John and I just got back from rewatching Oppenheimer. After the farce of last week, we thought we would give it another try. The cinema had kindly given us tokens for a free screening. It is a very interesting, perplexing film, definitely worthy of a second viewing (at least). As I wrote when I first watched it, ultimately it is about the American decent into McCarthyism and the intense paranoia brought about by the creation of atomic weapons, although I must admit we both found it slightly sluggish this afternoon, particularly in it’s second half.

These are very good questions, asked in order to make a point which is far too true.

Having just heard about Lee Anderson’s disgustingly racist, Islamophobic slurs on Sadiq Kahn, I felt creating this was necessary.

What Anderson said was disgusting, claiming that Islamists had got control of London and that Kahn had given it away to his ‘mates’. He is nothing but a racist thug who probably thinks he can get away with it because of all the right-wing, anti-woke, ‘proud to be a bigot’ nonsense around. Parliament is no place for intolerant, obnoxious vermin like him.

As many readers will know, I’m a huge Star Trek fan. Since I was very small, I’ve seen the exploration of space as the next great adventure for humanity. It is our collective destiny to go out and explore the final frontier. Part of why I adore Star Trek so much is because it showed us a future where we have overcome our petty differences and capitalist cravings to create a society in which everyone works together for the good of humanity – or at least, that’s how the producers spun it. However, it now seems that mankind is turning away from that noble future: Last night, the first privately owned, commercial spacecraft touched down on the moon. It may have had a lot of backing and assistance from NASA, but nonetheless it was created by a private company whose ultimate aim will be to make money rather than explore; and who say that they eventually intend to mine the moon for resources like water.

To be honest I find that sickening. Space does not belong to anyone; it is not there for us to exploit. More to the point, American capitalists have no particular right to it just because they got there first. Thus, as eager as I am to see people walking on the moon again later this decade, this is a step in the wrong direction. Space is there to explore, not exploit; opening it up to shortsighted, commercial interests turns humanity away from a far greater, more noble destiny.

In these days of global trade, travel and communication, I think it’s likely that most people would assume that everyone knows about everyone else: that, no matter where you come from, we’re all aware we’re part of a global society, and that the days of people living on remote islands, using bows and arrows, totally unaware of the outside world are long gone. Well, it appears we would be wrong. I just came across this Youtube video, and it made my jaw drop. According to it, the people living on North Sentinel Island in the Indian Ocean have had very little contact with the outside world. They use iron age technology, and their language has yet to be deciphered. Most attempts to establish contact with them have not gone well as they have reacted with hostility, and the consensus seems to be they should just be left alone.

I’m honestly amazed. I had assumed that such situations were long gone. Of course, there would still be native or indigenous communities living on remote islands, but by now they would all be using mobile phones connected to the internet. That anyone could still be so isolated is incredible. I have only just watched a single Youtube video about it, so I don’t think I ought to comment much further, but I certainly think this warrants looking into more: how, exactly, has this community survived in isolation for all this time? How aware are they of the rest of the world?

The guy narrating the video relates how an American Evangelical Christian once went to the island to try to convert the islanders to Christianity, and was brutally murdered. I must say, the arrogant prick got what was coming to him. That said, North Sentinel Island is so intriguing, perhaps I should try to convince John to take me there next.

This can only be classed as an ‘epic fail!’

Needless to say, I just love the idea of a missile going ‘plop’!

I think I better make one thing straight about what I wrote yesterday. I have not started to believe in god, the afterlife or anything like that. I still view religion as an utterly repugnant, oppressive social force, as evidenced by the fracas I had with a street preacher in Greenwich this afternoon. It’s just that, I must admit I rather like the idea that Lyn and all the other friends I have lost might somehow continue to exist and be observing all the messes I get into. It’s a warm, comforting thought, far more reassuring than the notion that they have simply been obliterated from reality. Yet that, I suppose, is how religion works: how it ensnares so many people, manipulating and controlling them, to the extent that they can’t bare to contemplate that it might just be a lot of baseless nonsense.

To be honest it has been a total car crash of a day. Frankly, it all started yesterday with that utter failure at the cinema. Then, this morning, Serkan messaged me to say he had suddenly been taken very ill so I would have to get myself dressed and breakfasted. At around lunchtime I was feeling very low indeed, worrying about whether I would have help with dinner this evening. Then, to cap it all off, as I was trundling along the road this afternoon, I almost crushed my Ipad: my hat suddenly flew off in a gust of wind, I suddenly halted my powerchair, the Ipad slipped down from my lap and landed in front of my right wheel before the chair jerked forward a bit more.

For a few seconds I honestly thought I’d crushed my Ipad. I started to panic, picking it up. Yet my Ipad is in a protective case, so to my utter astonishment I noticed it wasn’t damaged at all. The rubber of the case was a bit twisted, but even that could be put back into place. I could hardly believe my luck.

All being well, in a few minutes John will arrive to get the evening sorted. I messaged him, and he kindly offered to get an early train back from Cambridge to come and help me. When I read that my relief was literally palpable; it felt that all my concerns of the previous few hours had suddenly vanished. I’m not a religious person, but sometimes it feels like Lyn or someone is ‘up there’ looking down, making sure I don’t muck up too badly. Today could have been a complete catastrophe: I could have smashed my Ipad, I could have starved. But somehow, right now everything is back to normal, and hopefully Serkan will feel better in the morning.

Theres only one thing for it. Time for some of this. All together now…

Forget about vicious dogs or anything taking up the wheelchair space on busses. Most annoying of all is when, having planned to meet John at the cinema, and having him come to Eltham specifically, your screening is called off at the very last moment due to a problem with the projector. Fortunately we were planning to watch Oppenheimer, which I have seen before, but it was nonetheless bloody annoying: that film definitely warranted a second viewing. It has never happened to me before, and frankly strikes me as utterly pathetic. The Vue, Eltham, has definitely gone down a few notches in my estimation today.

At the suggestion of my parents after they read yesterday’s entry, I just googled what an Invalid Carriage is. It turns out it’s not some sort of anachronistic euphemism for a wheelchair at all, but some kind of three wheeled car. According to Wikipedia, “Invalid carriages were usually single seater road vehicles, buggies, or self-propelled vehicles for disabled people. They pre-dated modern electric mobility scooters and, from the 1920s, were generally powered by small gasoline/petrol engines, although some were battery powered.” Well, that’s me put right, although you can rest assured that I’m still not going anywhere near any dual carriageways.

Whenever I see this sign, usually riding the bus on my way home, I can never decide whether to be insulted or amused. It’s at the entrance of a dual carriageway, and announces that “No pedestrians, cycles, invalid carriages, animals or motorcycles under 50cc” are allowed beyond that point. What I find strange is why they call it an Invalid Carriage rather than a wheelchair: who would use such anachronistic term these days? Everyone calls them Wheelchairs! More to the point, I resent being referred to as an invalid – I am perfectly valid, thankyou very much! Calling disabled people invalids is rather Dickensian. Call me a cripple or spazz if you want, but do not question my validity. Besides, what kind of cripple in their right mind would try to drive their wheelchair down a dual carriageway? The suggestion that anyone would even try is enough to make me chuckle.

I seem to be fast developing a thing for tube and train stations. Anyone who knows me will know that I’ve always had various fixations or obsessions. It’s usually something in the media, like Star Trek or James Bond. Recently though I have started to get excited about railway stations, especially here in east London. Of course I use systems like this DLR and jubilee line fairly regularly, and I have begun to notice how each station on the various lines is different. They all have their own architecture, so they must all have been designed separately. Some of them are astonishing feats of engineering. For example, now that the Elizabeth Line is open, Bond Street and Tottenham Court Road stations are nothing less than three-dimensional labyrinths of corridors, lifts, escalators and platforms; to have that all going on under Central London is surely incredible. To be honest I find it mind blowing that such an elaborate public transport system could ever have been created, and it only adds to my love of, and fascination with, London in general.

I made quite a discovery coming home from my trundle this afternoon: There is, in fact, something which irritates me even more than prams taking up the wheelchair space on busses. That’s annoying enough, but I can just about live with it. However, I came across something even more perverse today. Coming home from Woolwich, I was unable to get on a bus because the wheelchair space was already occupied by a wheelchair, but nobody was sat in it! An empty manual wheelchair was in the zarking space. It could easily have been folded and I could have got on, but instead the driver just closed the door and drove away. Needless to say I was furious. It seemed so shortsighted and inconsiderate. I don’t know where the owner of the wheelchair was, or whether they were even on the bus. All I could do was sit at the bus stop and wait for the next one, instantly resolving to note what had just happened in a blog entry.

Coincidentally, an hour or so ago I asked on one of the Monty Python Facebook fan pages what everyone thought the best way of keeping the legacy of Python alive might be, now that we’re unlikely to see those guys make any new films or shows. A few moments later, I checked the BBC News Culture page and found this story reporting that “Monty Python actor Eric Idle has said he is still working at the age of 80 for financial reasons.” Idle says that he has been unable to retire because the money he expected to get from his comedy and media career has run dry. “I don’t know why people always assume we’re loaded. Python is a disaster. I never dreamed that at this age the income streams would tail off so disastrously.”

If that is so, then I can’t help wondering whether Python really is dead after all: those guys are all over eighty, so we’re unlikely to see them make any new films or shows. Yet, if they have a financial incentive, perhaps the five remaining Python members will find a way to keep the legendary comedy series going. Who knows: perhaps it will now somehow evolve into something new, with fresh talent taking up the reins. Of course, I know the original cast can never be replaced – the Parrot Sketch with anyone other than John Cleese or Michael Palin just wouldn’t work – but if we draw inspiration from Star Trek or James Bond, franchises which have both had multiple manifestations, surely anything is possible.,