If anyone is wondering what the Americans are saying about yesterday’s heatwave, watch this. Believe it or not, they noticed what was happening here, although this guy does make some dodgy comments about Bangers and Mash, Spotted Dick and warm beer. More seriously, between witticisms, he also makes some very valid, pertinent points about global climate change: this is a problem which now clearly is effecting the entire world, and something we all need to do something about.

I just tried going out. Having spent yesterday at home out of fear of something going wrong in the heat, I was getting fed up of YouTube and Facebook, so I chose to risk going for a short walk. I have described on here before how much I like to get out and about, but the problem is there’s a lot that can go wrong: I fear my powerchair motors could overheat, or my iPad, which I keep strapped to my lap, could be permanently damaged in the sun. Yet there is only so much I can take of these four walls; and besides, I had shopping to get.

As soon as I went out of my front door I could feel the heat: it was quiet astonishing. Before I left I checked with John: the temperatures we experienced in India got to around 45 or even 46, compared to the 38 or 39 we’re currently experiencing. Yet somehow today felt hotter, as if a wave of heat hit me as soon as I opened my door. I instantly regretted my decision, but decided to persevere: I still had things to do, and still didn’t like the idea of staying home all day. As uncomfortable as it was, life had to go on.

In the end I got home in one piece. I first went to The Depot again for a cool, refreshing Coke, then up to Eltham for my groceries. I tried to be as careful as I could be, driving in the shade wherever possible. It wasn’t a particularly long trip, but when you know that there is a chance that your powerchair could suddenly cut out due to the heat, or your communication aid could burn out leaving you effectively voiceless, it leaves you almost constantly on edge. Of course, in the grand scheme of things these are relatively minor problems when it comes to climate change; yet if the temperatures we have experienced over the last two days are indeed a sign of things to come, I think we should all be very concerned.

The long fight to retake our rightful place among our neighbours has begun.

I probably spoke too soon on Friday. Judging by the weather forecast and feeling how hot it already is, things are about to get very uncomfortable indeed. I can already feel a kind of horrible humidity in the air. Yesterday was bad enough, but it looks like it’s going to get even worse in the next couple of days. Probably the best thing I can say on here would be to advise everyone (if you’re reading this in the UK or Europe) to try to stay cool, stay in the shade and drink plenty of water As it is, I think I’ll need to avoid going out for fear of my chair overheating. This isn’t going to be pleasant.

I remember Florida. I remember, in about 1995 or ‘96, my parents took me and my brothers to Florida on holiday. A couple of years before, my dad had more or less been forced to promise to take me there after I had refused to leave Disneyland in California, jamming my wheelchair breaks on until I was sated with the prospect of a return visit. That’s how we came to visit Florida

The main thing I remember from that trip is the heat. The heat from the Florida sun was unbearable, at least for people like us, used to much milder British summers. I think the problem was the humidity which came with it. I remember feeling desperately uncomfortable as soon as I left anywhere which was not air conditioned. That was real heat.

Going out trundling today, I thought about that trip. It is hot, of course; yet the heat isn’t stifling like it was in Florida, or India for that matter. I could bear it without feeling the urgent need to return to somewhere cooler.  What concerns me, though, is what may be to come: if this is just the beginnings of a trend which sees temperatures get hotter and hotter, year on year, it won’t be long until things are indeed unbearable, and the hot weather poses quite an overt obstacle in how we live our lives.

Just in case anyone is wondering why I haven’t written anything about the Tory leadership election yet, let me say that I probably won’t be blogging about it. I hi no intention to get myself worked up about a contest between a group of people who I basically loathe. As I’ve explained before, I oppose everything that the Tories stand for. They are people who dress greed, arrogance and intolerance up as virtues, and do not care about anyone less fortunate than their selves. Their advocacy of an unregulated, low tax state is nothing but a pathetic little conscious-soothing euphemism for their desire to create a society where the privileged can manipulate the underprivileged at will, inherent social inequalities are left unchecked, and the rich are allowed to hoard their wealth while the very fabric of society, including mechanisms which people like me rely on to live, is left to fall apart. I thus have no interest in commenting on a contest between people, each as abhorrent as the other.

This morning I had brunch in a nearby place called The Depot. It’s one of those new pubs which sells good coffee in the morning, good beer in the evening, and decent beer all day. Long story short, I was dying for something to eat earlier, so the first thing I did when I got through their door was to type into my iPad that I wanted a cappuccino, a pint of orange juice and a bacon sandwich. I then went to set myself up at a nearby table.

My order was duly brought to me – and very good it was too. As I was eating my brunch though, it occurred to me that I had asked for a ‘bacon sandwich’ rather than a ‘bacon butty’. Growing up in the North-West of England, I had always heard them referred to as buttys; yet these days, after over ten years in London, ‘sandwich’ seems to be my default name for them. That is what they are called around here. Yet as I was tucking into my brunch, it struck me that ‘sandwich’ just didn’t seem right: of course, things like cheese sandwiches and jam sandwiches are fine, but somehow, grilled pieces of bacon between two thick-cut slices of bread should always be referred to as a butty.

With that, I determined to make it my mission to convert the capital. I want to get everyone calling bacon buttys, buttys or butties. Telling someone that you had a bacon sandwich for breakfast just doesn’t sound right. London seems to have so much of a say over the rest of the UK culturally, it would be good to see the metropolis adopt something from The North.

I think it would be wrong of me not to note the sad news of the death of Monty Norman. Huge Bond fan that I am, I see his theme for Dr. No as one of the defining features of the series. As soon as anyone mentions James Bond, that theme automatically comes to mind; it’s as integral to Bond films today as it was in 1962. And of course, Norman wrote the themes for many other films, including The Two Faces of Dr. Jekyll (1960), The Day the Earth Caught Fire (1961), Call Me Bwana (1963), and the TV miniseries Dickens of London (1976). It seems we have lost yet another great of classical Hollywood cinema.

I just saw this and burst out laughing. I’m sorry, but it was just too funny not to nick.

Quite an uncanny yet cool thing happened this afternoon. A couple of days ago I was thinking about trying to find the Grapes again. It had been a while since I visited Sir Ian McKellen’s pub, and I wanted to try to find in again. On Saturday, then, I trundled down to Greenwich and took the foot tunnel under the river. I remembered it was on the north shore of the Thames, west of Canary Wharf, but further than that I would be following my nose.

Rather predictably, I didn’t manage to find the pub. After quite a long, good walk, I decided to return home and check where it was on the web. I had intended to go back that afternoon, but of course I got bogged down with other things and promptly forgot all about it.

Today I thought I would go up to Stratford for a bit. I still like it up there. These days, I like how I’ve seen the area change and develop over the last twelve years: you know you have been living in an area for a while when you start to reflect on how much it has changed. I especially like the waterways up there, and the accessible paths beside the rivers and canals.

I have a couple of favourite routes I enjoy taking in that area. I usually follow the Lea down to Star Lane, from where I can take the DLR back to Woolwich. Today, though, I opted to explore the Limehouse Cut, a long straight canal from just south of the Olympic park to the Limehouse Basin, a small dock on the Thames. I had seen the route on a map, but had never investigated it. It took quite a while to go along, but rather cooly the path is built on a wooden platform suspended just above the canal. You would have been able to hear my wheels rattling the planks for miles around, but nonetheless it was impressive how well maintained it was. especially for a footpath.

Getting to the Cut, I realised I was in quite a well-to-do area, obviously housing the bankers for nearby Canary Wharf; yet it also had an aura of history to it, as though you could feel a lot had gone on there in the past. I looked around, but soon began to wonder how to get back to my side of the river. Not to worry: there was bound to be a DLR station nearby. Just when I was beginning to wind my way east in the direction of Canary Wharf, though, I spotted a pub. And which pub do you think it was?

I had found the Grapes again! Of course, today being Monday, a beer was out of the question; but as I started to hover around the doorway, the barlady spotted me. The sixteenth-century doorframe was too narrow for my powerchair, so she came out to me. To my great surprise she recognised me from the last time I visited in January, and we began to talk. Sir Ian was apparently away filming, and is very busy these days, although she couldn’t give me any details. She kindly offered me a coke, which I was very thankful for, and I was soon on my way again.

It had just been a short visit, but as I caught the DLR back to Greenwich I resolved to go that way again soon. Sir Ian goes to his pub quite regularly apparently, and the possibility of meeting another of my favourite actors is too tempting to pass up. The afternoon had turned out to be rather a good one. I’m finding my way around London, especially East London, with more and more ease; and the best part is, you never know what – or who – you might find around the next corner.

I don’t think I’ve mentioned liking Frasier on here before, but it was one of the big TV programmes of my youth. If memory serves, my mum was especially fond of it. I just came across this intriguing news that, after almost twenty years, it is going to get a reboot. “In a yet-to-be-aired interview on CBS chat show The Talk [via Deadline], the actor [Kelsey Grammar] confirmed that they’re “in the final stages of the final script for the first episode,” adding that it “looks pretty good”.” They will apparently shoot the first episodes of the new series in October, so we’ll probably see Frasier’s return sometime next year. Something to look forward to at least. Frasier was one of the most witty and intelligent comedies of television, so it will be good to see the return of some of that zeal.

I couldn’t agree with this more. All tories are just as despicable as Johnson, no matter how much they may now try to distance theirselves from him.

Something odd happened yesterday which I think I ought to note here. I use the Emirates Airline quite a bit. Public transport nut that I’m fast turning into, it’s one of my favourite modes of London public transport. Yesterday I wanted to go and explore the area around Millennium Mills, which had been in the news the day before because it is due to be renovated. It’s on the other side of the river from me, so I decided that the best way to get there was via the cable car – something I’ve done plenty of times before. However, rolling up to the gate, I was stopped by the lady there, who asked me if I had anyone with me. Before I could explain that I didn’t need a carer with me and was perfectly fine on my own, she started to talk to her colleague about me as if I wasn’t there.

This immediately annoyed me. It happens quite a bit, but nonetheless it strikes me as highly patronising. I have a Master’s degree, for zark’s sake; yet they treat me like I’m five.

I tried to roll towards the lift hoping to make my intentions clear, but they still wouldn’t let me on. They kept telling me that I needed someone with me. Becoming more and more pissed off, I tried to ask to talk to the manager – I wanted these patronising bitches fired! Yet they still wouldn’t listen.

I think they could see I was getting angry though. Eventually a man who I assume was the manager came out. He explained that, due to a change in regulations, I now needed someone who could speak clearly into the communication system with me, in case there was an emergency. This, of course, struck me as utterly stupid: if the cable car broke down, I would be just as stuck as anyone, 300 metres above the Thames. Yet the rules were now the rules, he insisted, and offered to accompany me himself.

At this I gave in, not wanting to cause too much of a scene. I use public transport alone all the time; that I would suddenly need someone with me just to ride the cable car is utterly inane. Yet I wanted to press on with the day, and I was soon in a cable car carriage crossing the Thames, accompanied by a short bald guy I had never met before.

We may have eaten breakfast to the outstanding news of Johnson’s departure, or at least I did, but we shouldn’t forget that Johnson was only the head of the snake. The Tory party is still in power, and they were the ones who made Johnson prime minister in the first place. The Tory party put the country through a referendum it didn’t need to have, and then forced brexit upon us just to save its own skin. The Tory party is nothing but a group of self-serving, duplicitous charlatans, categorically unfit to govern this or any other country. I still firmly believe it ought to be broken up. As much as they try to weasel out of it, the Tories and their low tax, small state policies, not to mention Brexit, are the primary reason why the country is in such a mess right now. Thus while we can all celebrate the departure of probably the worst prime minister in history, we have to remember that we can’t truly relax until we have a proper government, composed of people who actually care about those less fortunate than themselves, in place.

Given that I got so worked up about Kier Starmer yesterday, I might be expected to write something about Boris Johnson today. But what can I say? What on earth can I write about the utter shitshow that is British politics? I watched more or less the first half of PMQs earlier, before it got too much for me to bear and I had to turn it off. Johnson blatantly refused to answer any question put to him, instead replying with bluster and accusatory bullshit. He should never have become prime minister in the first place, but is now clinging to power as if it was his birthright. His performance this afternoon was so full of pomposity and arrogance, and the underlying stench of someone who believes that his opinions trump everybody else’s simply because of who he is, that it quickly became unwatchable.

I cannot offer you anything more than this. I can’t offer any special analysis or insight.  Politically, the country is in a dire, dire mess, lead by a charlatan who refuses to face the consequences of his actions, or even admit, least of all to himself, that he even made a mistake. The fact that Johnson is still clinging to power this evening is a national disgrace. Yet at the moment there’s nothing any of us can do about it but sit back,  watch events unfold, and try not to get too worked up about it.

Following on from my pre-breakfast entry earlier, now I’ve calmed down a bit, I just came across this Youtube video in which the dude argues that Starmer is, in fact, playing a longer, more tactical game. His first priority right now is to get Labour re-elected, before he can even start to think about doing anything about Brexit, and the only way starmer can do that is to make sure Labour’s appeal is as wide as possible. The party is therefore going to shut up about Brexit, stop overtly opposing it, and let the wreckage it does speak for itself. Then, when the time is right, the campaign to rejoin the EU can begin. I really, really hope this analysis is right.

As I’ve written on here many, many times, I passionately oppose Brexit. Humanity should be coming together, not re-erecting ancient borders and re-enforcing outgrown divisions; and while it had it’s faults, the EU was one way of us doing so. Brexit to me is a crime designed to rob us of our human and consumer rights. It must be resisted at all turns, as passionately and vigorously (albeit nonviolently) as we would resist an occupying army. I am thus very, very pissed off at what Kier Starmer said yesterday. To state that the Labour party now backs Brexit and will not campaign to rejoin the EU is nothing but a betrayal of everything we on the liberal, internationalist left should stand for. Opposing Brexit should be our top priority: we are already seeing the vast damage it is doing to the UK economy; British citizens can no longer live and work in Europe just it is now much more difficult to attract migrant workers from Europe; and the Tories are about to put a match to our rights. Yet Starmer wants to attract voters, or rather, he does not want to deter the kind of barely literate, barely conscious morons all too easily duped into voting Leave from voting for Labour, so he’s trying to placate them by abandoning the fight to rejoin, spouting bull about “making peace with Brexit”. The problem for him is, that is an utter, utter betrayal of what most Labour voters believe in, and will turn many of us against him. I for one am now furious, and can never forgive the traitorous scumbag for this.

Yesterday was quite an interesting day, if a bit of a long one. I had been thinking about trying to go to Wimbledon for a few days: the tennis championships are on TV, of course, and it’s an area of London I’d never visited before. The thing is, it seemed rather hard to get to: unlike when I want to go to Stratford or up to Wembley, there is no direct tube line, and the tube line which does serve the area, the District Line, isn’t very convenient as it would require changing at least twice. There was, however, another option: the tram.

I’d tried out the trams before about eight years ago, but that was just a short trial run and since then I had sort of left them alone. Even getting down to the track takes quite a long bus ride. Yesterday, however, was the sort of day which made me feel like exploring. At about noon, I trundled over to the Royal Standard, then caught the 54 to Elmer’s End. I knew it was going to be a long trip, but such excursions are good for thinking, and if I was back in time for dinner I’d be ok. There is something about long, quiet rides on public transport which make it easier for me to ponder all kinds of things.

The 54 isn’t a very fast bus, weaving it’s way through Lewisham and across south-east London. In what felt like about an hour, we reached Elmer’s End Interchange, a quiet little corner of the city. After finding my bearings, I got down to the tram station, and was soon aboard probably London’s least well known form of public transport. When you hear the word ‘tram’, you might think of somewhere like Blackpool, with it’s decades-old carriages trundling along the seafront. London’s trams, though, are modern, sleek vehicles: London’s tram system is essentially a tube line for the south of the city, built on the surface rather than having to dig more tunnels.

I must admit it was a lot of fun. As the tram wound it’s way across south London, I got to see so much more of the city, from bustling high streets to into people’s back gardens. The tube might be faster and more direct, but you don’t get very good views. It felt like a pleasant, Sunday afternoon tour of a part of the metropolis I’d never seen before. Every thirty seconds or so, we stopped briefly at a station, but between them it felt like we were whizzing across the city.

The only problem was I couldn’t see a map, so I had no way of knowing where we were or how much further we had to go. It came as something of a surprise, then, when the automatic voice on the tram announced that it had reached Wimbledon. I was there, and the real exploration could finally begin.

By then, of course, it was about half three or four in the afternoon, and I knew it wouldn’t be too long before I would need to start thinking about getting home. Leaving the station, I tried to get my bearings, looking for directions to the tennis club. It was obviously a well-to-do area, with high-end stores and gin bars lining the street. Turning the wrong way at first, I eventually found the way up quite a long hill and down a lane bustling with spectators and security people. It all looked very prestigious.

I reached the All England Tennis Club about three hours after leaving home. It had been a long journey, especially given that my only reason in going was to see if I could get there. Yet I had made it; and, having got there and having looked at all the posh looking people outside the club, it was time to start my journey back.

Fortunately I realised there was a special bus from the club back to Wimbledon station, and from there it was just a case of getting the tram and bus home. Strangely, the journey back felt quicker than the journey there, but then I knew where I was going and wasn’t so concerned. I must say, though, that I really like London’s trams: they are sleek, modern and accessible; faster and less dependent on traffic than busses, but without the obvious costs of building a new tube line (or risking disturbing any balrogs). Yesterday afternoon I began to wonder whether the tram system could ever be extended, perhaps up to Woolwich to connect with the Elisabeth Line. Yet that is an entry and exploration for another day.

This probably refers to the state of affairs in America, but I’m sure it applies here too. Churches are essentially giant organisations for social control and exploitations. They pressure people into donating, and grow obscenely wealthy because they don’t have to pay tax. Well, it’s time they made a real contribution to society.

Time for a bit of Friday evening music. I was just restoring a few links to my old blog entries, and came across this bit of awesomeness. It’s an electric guitar/rock/metal rendition of the Star Trek TNG theme mixed with the theme from First Contact, but trust me, whether you’re a Trekkie or not, it’ll get your head banging.

I couldn’t agree with this more!

The next addition to the Bond franchise is at least two years away, according to this Guardian article. Following Daniel Craig’s departure, Barbara Broccoli and Michael G Wilson are apparently now working on a complete reset of the series, although, apart from a vague reference to some kind of TV series, there isn’t much detail yet about what that might entail. To be honest that isn’t that surprising: as I touched upon here a couple of months ago, the mark Craig made on Bond was so profound that the only way he can possibly followed is to start from scratch. I mean, not to belittle any of his predecessors, but Craig took 007 to another level: for over fifteen years, Craig gave us a gritty, realistic Bond who it was a thrill to watch. Craig really cemented Bond’s position within our culture, breathing new life into the franchise. I can’t see how any actor could follow that: the weight of expectation will be almost suffocating. The producers are thus right to wait a while to let the cultural dust settle, and then approach the franchise from a completely new direction. According to the article, they have no script yet, nor have they made any choices about what direction to take the franchise.

Yet at least one thing is certain: James Bond will return.

I sometimes have difficulty communicating with people who don’t know me. If people are not used to the way I speak or communication aid users in general, it can take a bit of time to realise that what I’m typing into my Ipad is what I’m trying to tell them. Today, though, I needed a haircut. I hate haircuts, and had been putting it off for quite a while. Yet it had grown so long that this morning I decided it was time to bite the bullet and get it cut. Luckily there is a decent-looking barbers just down the road from me, so this afternoon I set off there.

I’d never met the guys in there before, let alone spoken to them, so I was feeling a bit apprehensive. When I reached the shop, I stopped my powerchair outside as there was a small lip in the doorway. I then waved to the two men in there to get their attention. Fortunately they weren’t busy, and soon came over. Before I turned my Ipad on to tell them what I needed, I pointed to my messy, overgrown hair, hoping that they would see the problem. And what d’ya know? They cottoned on almost immediately, helping me out of my chair, into the shop and into one of their barbershop chairs. I didn’t have to say – or type – a word. Pretty soon my hair was cut, no longer in my eyes or blocking my ears, and I was on my way again. The ability to communicate is a fine, fine thing, but some things are so obvious that sometimes you don’t need it.

I really, really don’t like Nicola Sturgeon. I think that, for all her left wing pretences, she is just a power-hungry bitch no better than Farage. I have written on here before about how much I oppose the prospect of Scottish independence, and why: I don’t want to repeat myself too much today, but I passionately believe humanity should be coming together, not re-establishing ancient borders and dividing itself into smaller and smaller groups. Thus as I wrote here before the first Scottish independence referendum, I oppose Scottish nationalism for exactly the same reason that I oppose Brexit; and I do so with equal vigour. Both boil down to the same simplistic, arrogant, tribalist mentality.

Sturgeon argues that Scotland voted to remain in the EU Referendum, and is therefore being taken out of the European Union against it’s will. Yet you can argue precisely the same about London: London also voted Remain, by an even bigger margin than Scotland and even has a bigger population. Should the metropolis declare independence from the rest of the UK?

Of course not. Even if we had that option, the only way through catastrophes like Brexit is to remain united. For one small group to break itself off from a larger whole in order to save their own skin, while abandoning the rest of the group to a fate which they too would like to escape but don’t have the option, is nothing but an act of betrayal. I therefore see nothing but treachery and vindictiveness in what Sturgeon wants Scotland to do: it’s as if, having failed to have been granted the power she clearly craves the first time, she now intends to ask for it again, and will obviously do so until she gets what she wants, wannabe despot that she is. In her we can see the same self-importance, the same vainglorious desire for power and authority, that we find in Farage, Trump and Johnson.

If that’s the case, two can play such games. I personally think that, if Scotland declares independence, all NHS infrastructure should automatically be moved out of Scotland south, back into the remaining parts of the UK. After all, the NHS is an institution of the United Kingdom, payed for by UK taxpayers. It should not be usurped or stolen by other, separate nations. Thus, if it is stupid enough to do so, as soon as Scotland divides itself from the rest of the UK, all NHS infrastructure, from ambulances to equipment to hospital beds, should be returned to the UK. And I don’t care how childish or petty that may sound: nationalism is nationalism, and aught to be outgrown. The Scots need us just as we need them, so re-erecting ancient borders in order to claim a right which they would deny the rest of us, is nothing but folly.

Coming home from Greenwich on the bus today, having had to cut my trundle short due to a torrential downpour, I was struck by quite an interesting question.Back in Cheshire, I used to drive my powerchair down old, winding lanes heading off into the countryside. The one I remember best was called Giantswood Lane, which ran from Congleton to Swettenham. It was a quiet, pleasant road: the kind of road which comes to mind when you hear the word lane.

The odd thing is, these days I come across roads called lanes all the time; Greenwich seems especially fond of them: roads with names like Anchor And Hope Lane, Charlton Lane or Old Post Office Lane. None of them, though, is what I would call a lane. They are not very long and do not really meander. Yet I can’t help wondering if they once did. Did these so-called lanes now running between houses, shops and factories, once run between fields? And if any of them did, what might they once have looked like? What was this area like before it became a metropolis? I get the impression that the vast, urban landscape around me wasn’t so different to the landscape I knew as a child, not that long ago; and that you can perhaps glimpse that past like a palimpsest in the layout of the roads and the names of places. It’s as if, below this vast, sprawling, hectic maelstrom lies a quieter, more peaceful past which can still, just about, be glimpsed if you look hard enough.

I just watched the first episode of Man Vs. Bee on Netflix. I’d heard a bit about it recently, and thought I’d give it a go. I like Rowan Atkinson from his Blackadder days, and the notion of one long film-length narrative divided into ten minute segments sounded interesting. However, having just watched the first such segment, I only have one thing to say: No. Just No.

It astonishes me to contemplate why anything like Man Vs. Bee was ever made, let alone why anyone would want to watch it. It is utterly stupid. A man, played by Atkinson, is hired to housesit for a wealthy couple while they go on holiday. What follows is a series of totally cringeworthy yet completely predictable set of ‘accidents’ which we are meant to find funny but which see the house wrecked. There is no plot or character development, just awful accident after awful accident. I gave up after the first episode, but I could see it just becoming more and more contrived and inane as it went on. There is nothing funny about watching a man get himself into more and more trouble, and becoming more and more desperate. Frankly, I have better things to do with my time than watch such shyte.

(We may joke, but I wouldn’t put this past the entitled, arrogant p’tahk.)

Surprisingly perhaps, there isn’t that much I feel I want to say today. Obviously I’m very pleased with the local election results in both Tiverton and Honiton and Wakefield. When I got to my computer this morning and checked the headlines, I gave out a small whoop of joy. Perhaps the tide is at last turning against the Tories, and the country is waking up to the damage these arrogant charlatans are doing to the country. Yet we must remember that these were only bi-elections, and that it would be slightly dangerous to get too excited about these results. This could be the result of a protest vote, and things could swing the other way come the next election.

I hope with all my heart that they don’t though. I hope that the country has indeed woken up and is now seeing the Tories for what they are. Of course, Johnson and co. will try to deny that these results are a reflection of their government – they always do: we’re already seeing Johnson trying to frame these results as merely a message telling him to listen to people but carry on, rather than as a damning indictment of his entire administration. Yet it is blatantly obvious that the people in these small towns have spoken for us all overnight: we are sick to death of Johnson and the tories running roughshod over the law, and treating the UK like it is theirs to play with; we are sick to death of Brexit and the catastrophic damage it is now undeniably doing. The country is waking up, and the tide is turning against the Tories.

At last!

I’m afraid America just got even more scary. According to this BBC report, “The US Supreme Court has struck down a New York law restricting gun carrying rights. The law required residents who want a license to prove ‘proper cause’ to carry concealed weapons and that they faced ‘a special or unique’ danger.” After all the trouble they have there with guns, and with people going into schools and massacring students, you would think that American society would be desperate to tighten it’s firearms regulations. Surely the only logical way to curb gun violence is to severely limit who can own a gun. You can’t drive a car without passing a test, so why should people have the right to use a far more dangerous, lethal object such as a gun, totally unvetted and unregulated? Yet today, the American Supreme Court has loosened the restrictions on who can carry guns there, so you don’t even need to justify carrying one. I fear this will just lead to an even more murderous, violent society in America, where a human life can be extinguished upon a whim. I’m glad I don’t live there.

I’ve forgotten who it was that suggested it, but yesterday I heard an idea which I think is worth repeating here. Now that, strikes aside, Crossrail is up and running, perhaps it’s time to move the country’s focus north and start work on a new railway between Liverpool, Manchester and Leeds. The new line would run overground between the cities, but go underground, Elisabeth Line-like, when it reaches the cities themselves. This way, trade between the three northern powerhouses would be boosted, and they could potentially start functioning like one large financial district.

I think this is an excellent idea. It’s becoming more and more obvious that colossal amounts of money are being spent on London’s redevelopment, but the rest of the country is just being forgotten about. Perhaps because it’s a famous world city and cultural hub, London gets all the attention to the detriment of anywhere else. Maybe beginning work on a new Northern Crossrail, the focus might shift north a bit, and parts of the country which have been relatively forgotten about compared to London might begin to boom.

To that end, I would like to add something to this idea: It has been a while since I wrote anything on here about the Olympics, but I’m still interested in it as the world’s biggest sporting and cultural event. If Liverpool, Manchester and Leeds become linked by a high-speed, high-capacity railway, why don’t they launch a joint Olympic bid, perhaps for the 2036 games? While I’m not completely sure how it would work logistically, it seems to me that it would be an awesome way to celebrate the new northern powerhouse. London got so much attention ten years ago in 2012; just think how much of the world’s attention and and esteem the three great northern cities could get, with athletes, spectators and media commentators whizzing between them on a brand new railway.

These are just ideas, of course: whether they actually have any legs or not is anybody’s guess. Having been born in Cheshire though, I’d love to see my old home area get the attention I now see London receiving. Whenever I ride on the tube or DLR, I wonder what things are like outside of the metropolis, especially for guys like me. Now that London has it’s fabulous new Elisabeth Line, it’s time for the so-called ‘levelling up’ to really begin.

As much a pain in the arse as rail strikes are, I support workers’ rights to take them. We need to stand up to the government as the cost of living rises higher and higher, while the tories lower tax rates for their rich friends. Without the right to strike, the proletariat is powerless. I doubt I’ll be going anywhere for most of the week, at least on the tube; but I stand wholeheartedly with those striking today. We are currently being bullied by a government of megalomaniacs, seemingly intent on taking British society back to the seventies, and treating the working class and public sector like shit. The tories must be reminded that society does, in fact, exist, and can stand up for itself.

I heard in the news this morning that the Emirates Air Line cable car now needs a new sponsor. The ten year contract has now run out, apparently. The cable car is still one of my favourite modes of public transport, and as coincidence would have it, today was the day I went on it with my mum, dad and aunt Toula, visiting in celebration of the events I mentioned yesterday. It was a lovely little trip which we all enjoyed: I love how you can see for miles across the ever changing metropolis as you sort of float, suspended about three hundred metres up, across the Thames. When you follow it, as we did, with a lovely family lunch at the O2, you realise that things like the cable car are part of what makes London special. It may not be that popular or make much commercial sense; it may now be struggling to find a new sponsor. Yet I can’t help loving this iconic piece of modern London.

Today, of course, is father’s day, and while I didn’t note it here this year, it was my Mum’s birthday on Wednesday, so I would like to use this blog entry to tell my parents that I’m thinking of them both. Although we talk over the web quite regularly, I don’t physically meet mum and dad that often these days: I have my own life here in London, just as they have theirs. Yet I know they think of me regularly; I know I often worry them, just as I always have. I’d therefore like to assure them that I’m fine, that I love them both immensely, and that I’m looking forward to seeing them really soon.

Yesterday on YouTube I came across a video of a young American woman attempting to do the eleven plus practice exams. To be honest, if you ask me the Eleven Plus should have been consigned to history long ago: streaming children at the age of eleven is obviously just a way for the Tories to perpetuate class divisions. They have obviously reintroduced these exams in order to take us back to the dark days of social stratification. Under such a system, only kids who have parents with the time and resources to teach them, to make sure they are up to speed with english and maths, will have any chance of passing the test and getting into a decent school. It’s just a sickening way to set in stone the social inequality which lies at the heart of conservatism.

Watching the YouTube video yesterday, though, it became clear just how fucked up the Tory education system now is. The questions were staggering; there was no way I would expect a normal eleven year old to know such things: stuff like quite complex algebra, which I didn’t come across until I was fourteen or fifteen at least. Of course I’m not an expert in such things, so please take a look at the video I’ve linked to and tell me if I’m not being realistic. But surely streaming kids at such an early age according to whether they know such advance things only reinforces class inequality.

Why should we all have to sit back and watch as the Tories turn our society into a neo-Victorian hell where the rich, spoiled few oppress and exploit the disenfranchised many? I say again: none of these arrogant Tory arseholes are fit to be anywhere near government.

Just a short entry today, and I think I simply direct everyone here. Baz Luhrmann’s Everybody’s Free To Wear Sunscreen was one of my favourite songs when I was a teenager; I remember listening to it on the way to school. It popped into my head this afternoon for perhaps obvious reasons. It’s sweltering out there, and to be honest I’m starting to go a bit red, so a song about the necessity of wearing sun cream seemed rather apt. Mind you, it’s also a weird yet interesting piece of music which is probably worth listening to again.

I’m not the kind of person who gets embarrassed very easily, after all the ridiculous things I have done over the years, but I must say I’m embarrassed to be a UK citizen right now. More specifically I’m embarrassed by our government. What they are doing in trying to deport refugees to Rwanda is appalling. These people are coming here looking for help, but the Tories want to deter them by threatening to send them to Africa. It’s a move obviously designed to appeal to their heartless, brainless voter base, relishing the opportunity to treat immigrants as inhumanely as possible. As an open, tolerant nation we ought to welcome whoever comes here looking for help; yet the Tories would turn us into a society of hate-filled xenophobes, suspicious of anyone who looks new or different. It’s an absolutely disgusting, truly embarrassing place to be in for any country, and only renews my already solid conviction that none of the people currently governing the country has any place being where they are.

Kate Mulgrew really is a jealous bitch, isn’t she? The actor, who played Kathryn Janeway in Star Trek Voyager, is now talking about creating her own live action Star Trek spin-off series. Mulgrew is obviously jealous of Sir Patrick Stewart. She clearly thinks that if Picard got his own revival show, Janeway should have one too. But she’s oblivious to the fact that Janeway was not half as good as Picard: she didn’t have his gravitas or depth, and was frankly just an annoying cow. As an actor, Mulgrew had none of the pathos or depth Stewart brought to Trek: Where are her equivalent of episodes like The Inner Light or The Best Of Both Worlds? I also doubt she had anywhere near as much impact on fans, most of whom were, by the final seasons, frankly just watching Voyager to ogle Jerri Ryan, it had become so crap. Star Trek The Next Generation had episodes which stood with you and you remember; and included a cast which was lead by a captain who was three dimensional. Picard had flaws, but we admired him. The same could be said of Captain Ben Sisco in Deep Space Nine, especially by the latter three or four seasons. Yet Janeway and Voyager had none of that depth: both series and character were poorly written and lightweight. Thus as a Star Trek fan I think Mulgrew is being both arrogant and presumptuous here: if she thinks Janeway has the status of Picard, Kirk or even Sisco, she is gravely mistaken.

This may sound a bit controversial, but people like Martin Hibbert really irritate me. He is a wheelchair user, badly injured in the Manchester Arena bombing, who has now climbed Mount Kilimanjaro for charity. Don’t get me wrong: that is a remarkable achievement and I have every respect for it, but does he have to sound like he’s the first cripple ever to do anything great? Or like he has been appointed leader of all disabled people and is now speaking for the rest of us? It could be my imagination, but to hear Hibbert talk sounds like he thinks he’s the first and only disability rights campaigner. He talks about sending people ‘a message’ and ‘showing people ‘we’ can do anything’, forgetting that there have been disabled people achieving things since long before he started using a wheelchair. To be honest this is typical of people I’ve heard called ‘New Crips’ – those who become disabled later in life, instead of being born disabled. Without having grown up around other disabled people, they, perhaps unconsciously, retain society’s condescending attitudes, and think that, having once been able-bodied, they are now best placed to represent the rest of us. Thus we see the stoic, brave Martin Hibbert climbing the African mountain (or being pushed up it, more like) to benefit the rest of us. Yet that is to forget that we already know what we are capable of: we know we can achieve anything we put our minds to, and don’t need someone who has experienced comparatively little of the prejudice, discrimination and social exclusion we have had ti deal with since infancy, trying to speak for us.