Yesterday I had the first proper meeting about my drinking problem. A guy came from a centre in Woolwich, and we began discussing my relationship to alcohol. It was a necessary, indeed vital step: since uni, I’ve used beer as a wind-down or relaxant; I feel the urge to drink to have a good time. The guy began to suggest how I can avoid these urges. The problem is, one drink always lead to me wanting two, and two to three, and so on. It was becoming an uncontrollable urge, and Lyn was clearly getting fed up of me getting drunk. The last time I came home drunk out of my head, she insisted I went and got help.

It was a good meeting yesterday, and a lot was discussed. The guy will come back next Friday to continue the process. He also recommended I stop drinking alcohol altogether, at least for the time being. I cannot disagree that that is a very good suggestion, yet, at the same time, part of me feels bitter about it, and I must admit I had quite a short temper for a while yesterday afternoon. You see, while I know full well the dangers of drinking too much and the problems it can cause – I have a nasty scar on my forehead to attest to that – I also associate it with freedom. I cherish the ability to go into a pub and have a couple of beers. Everyone else can do it, so to have that right removed from me fees like a freedom has been taken away, and like I’m being treated like a child.

I suppose it’s analogous to smoking. People know smoking is bad for them, but if a government tried to ban it completely, there would be an outcry. People would say that their freedoms were being taken away, and that they have a right to decide what they did with their body. The very fact they were being controlled and limited, even if they knew the health risks, would cause huge resentment. Similarly, part of me feels resentment towards this; even though I know full well the wisdom of it, I no longer feel totally free. I may be safer and more cooperative, I may sleep a lot better, yet part of me feels like I’m being treated like a child by overprotective parents. As a disabled man, perhaps I value such freedoms even more, given I know how precious they are. Of course I have no intention of breaking this ban – after all, in this city there are so many better things to do than drinking beer – but I just wanted to get this side of the story off my chest.

Last night I dreamt I could play the drums. I tried to play them when I was young, but was never any good. In my dream, though, I was excellent: I suddenly got the ability to produce the perfect drum roll. I had no idea where it came from; all of a sudden I found I could use the drum-sticks with ease, hitting exactly the same spot on the drum in a blur. In my dream I wondered where the ability came from – why was I suddenly so dexterous, and why did this dexterity only apply to drumming? Then I woke up, and my questions were instantly answered – it had just been a dream. Oh well, I thought, perhaps I should take up the drums again – perhaps I could actually get that good.

Watching your wheels turn ahead of me

Following you as we wind our way through the city, exploring the streets together; getting lost, then finding ourselves, I feel

So lucky, so content.

With you in your chair and me in mine,

We roam as one. Discovering it,

And ourselves, finding our way

Through the city; through the world; through life.

Exploring the streets together,

Watching your wheels turn ahead of me

Following wherever they might lead.

Into life; into love.

Last night was one of those unexpectedly cool (well, not so cool – the temperature was at least in the high twenties) evenings which come along from time to time. The day before, Lyn had suggested going for a walk yesterday afternoon, but it turned out to be so hot that we decided to put it off to the evening. That way we could have dinner at the dome. The stroll up there is pleasant one: We bumped into Sally having a drink outside the Anchor and Hope, before continuing along the south bank of the Thames. It was beautiful at that part of the day, just as the sun was beginning to set. Lyn was in a wonderful long dark blue dress which I hadn’t seen her wearing before, but which I couldn’t keep my eyes off.

Once at the Dome, we had a little look around for places to eat. L fancied pizza, but having had one on Saturday I was in the mood for something meatier. We settled for Frankie and Benny’s where we had an excellent meal. I had a single pint, having resolved to teach myself that one is enough, and then we set off back home. The river looked even more glorious at that point, the sun having set; the lights of the city were just starting to twinkle. Lyn took a stunning picture on her Ipad – she’s becoming quite a photographer – then it was back home to Charlton. The day was rounded off with a little stargazing in the back garden, and I went to bed, content. Yet another great day with the woman I love.

If a musician or band used the N-word in one of their album titles, I thin there would rightly be an outcry. Such language is no longer acceptable, at least when it’s not used ironically. The same should apply for the word spazz: now and again I use it to refer to myself, but if someone called me a spazz, or I heard someone use it derivatively in the media, I’d be insulted. Stay up late reports on an american punk band called Descendents calling their new album Spazz Hazard. They report that the group seems to relish being politically incorrect, and have launched a campaign to get them to rename the album. Such language is becoming increasingly acceptable, it says, with people starting to relish the controversy. I fear they are right: In these extreme, perverse times, minorities of any kind will find theirselves increasingly outcast. With politicians like Trump and Farage starting to take centre stage, extremist views will become more and more tolerated; the idea of political correctness will become increasingly derided, and it will become ‘cool’ or bold to use words like these. Thus I fear this band’s choice of title is a sign of things to come.

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I knew it was only a matter of time before images like this began circulating, but this one is too awesome for me not to stick on here.

Just to elaborate upon yesterday’s entry, on thursday evening I got a message over facebook from Charlie asking if I wanted to meet her yesterday. She was coming for a flying visit, and the plan was that I’d go to Peckham to meet up with her friend Emma*, who would then take me to wherever C was. I thought ”why not” and agreed. As I said yesterday, I thought it would be a house party or small get-together of some kind. I initially thought I’d go alone in my powerchair, but I don’t know that neck of the woods very well, so I asked Dominik if he wanted to come with me. He said Ok, and I went in my manual chair, Dom pushing me. Looking back, I’m very glad I did that.

Neither of us had any idea what we were in for. We met up with Emma as planned, who then took us on to another bus to Brixton. Things were getting interesting.

Once off the bus, she lead us down some winding paths and into a park; and I suddenly entered the biggest festival I had ever seen. We were in the Lambeth County Show, and it was huge: the air thronged with music; people – tens of thousands of them – were everywhere.

Once in the park, Emma left us to go find Charlie and her friends, returning not long after. She then lead us across the field through the crowd (again, I was glad I hadn’t taken my powerchair) to where my old friend was. She was having a whale of a time, and greeted me with hug. Lots more of her friends were there, and I spent the next hour or so socialising and listening to the music on the main stage. My only regret was not bringing lyn: had I known this was what C had had in mind, I would have brought her along.

A while later, though, I needed the loo, so I asked Dom to push me to the bogs. We then decided to take a walk to see the stalls. It was massive, and took us ages to get around. At one point we got slightly lost. When we got back to where C and her group were, then, they were gone: Dom looked, but couldn’t find them anywhere. A while later, we were told they had moved on.

With that, we left too. It had been a great afternoon; it was good to see C, of course, and also great to be invited to such a wonderful event. I hadn’t even known it was on. Dom pushed me back to Peckham, where we got a great pizza (I was famished) before heading home. Charlie had done it again, and I made a mental note: when she invites you somewhere, be prepared for anything.

*Not the one from university.

Dom and I are heading home from Brixton. A couple of days ago I got a message from Charlotte, asking if I’d like to meet up with her today. I said yes, thinking she just meant to have a small get together. I was wrong. I’m now on my way back from my first proper festival. Old Charlie, it would seem, has done it again: it has been an incredible afternoon of music; there were at least two stages, plenty of stalls, and thousands upon thousands of people. I just wish I had known what she had had in mind as I would have brought Lyn. Oh well, there’s always next time.

I know I said yesterday that I no longer care about politics, but I think I’ll flag this article up today. It explains why much of the current mess we find ourselves in can be placed at the feet of George Osbourne. If that nitwit hadn’t made such a pig’s-ear of the recovery, people wouldn’t have been so discontented that they voted Out. Thanks largely to him, the country is a shadow of what it was; not to mention the suffering caused by his draconian cuts. I would say, ”thank zark he’s gone,” but I’m now worried the new chancellor will be just as bad, if not worse.

I’m not even gonna try today – things are getting too fucked up for words. We have left the EU; we have a completely unelected right-wing bitch for PM; and now we have a man who, despite his act of joviality is a nineteenth century throwback who thinks reviving colonialism would be a good idea, as foreign secretary, Would someone please tell me what the smeg is going on. On second thoughts, don’t: I’m passed the point of caring. I don’t even want to think about it, as the moment I do, I know I’d fly into a rage, or else sink to abject despair.

I’m worried about the future – who knows what will happen next. Yet, for now at least, the sun is out. On another level, I’m actually quite happy: Lyn has a mix going; there’s a music event later at school I’m planning to go to; we’re also planning to get tickets to see the Greenday musical up in the west end soon. I don’t have to check the news if I don’t want to, so sod it. On one level things are getting screwy, but on another they are perfectly fine.

I never thought I’d be sad to see CaMoron go, but part of me is. The guy has wrecked the country. His needless austerity policies, born not of economic necessity but of the politics of greed, have brought misery to millions. The guy has ruined the country by holding a referendum we didn’t need. He thought by holding it he would shut the euroskeptics in his party up, but he didn’t think the country would be so foolish as to vote out. He thus transformed the country from being a prosperous and important participant in world affairs to an irrelevent, inward-looking island off northern europe, simply to satisfy his party’s internal affairs. The outists told the people that Europe, not the current government, was to blame for their suffering, and they fell for their lie.

I hate CaMoron, then, but I wish he wasn’t going. If the country hadn’t been so idiotic last month, he’d still be in downing street and none of this would have happened. We wouldn’t be in this mess; we’d still be in europe, our future safe; we wouldn’t need to worry about what happens now, or feel so vulnerable. But we did. CaMoron’s gone, the county’s ruined, and I hate him for it.

My old friend Steve met me, via Facebook, with some amusing news this morning. I was on telly. Go to bbc breakfast on Iplayer, here, and wind back to 08.43. Who else do you see but yours truly. It’s the briefest of shots in a montage about the legacy of CaMoron, but worth flagging up.

Addendum: It’s no longer available on bbc iplayer, but thanks to Steve, here’s the proof

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I don’t know what to think this morning. On the one hand, I’m glad we have a new prime minister; I’m glad CaMoron is gone, and I’m glad it’s may and not that crazy bitch Leadsom. At least we didn’t get the drawn-out leadership contest we were all expecting. On the other hand, May is still a tory, and we are still leaving the EU. She might not quite be the draconian nutcase Leadsom is, but she is still quite right wing and utterly unelected. I would be calling for a general election if the Labour party wasn’t in such a mess. It’s all screwed up: what May will do in power worries me. She will probably swing to the right, to try to appease her party. Things will get even more repressive, the cuts even crueler. The best I can say is, it could be worse, even if it’s hard to see how.

While fortunately I don’t think Lyn and I have been effected too badly by the changes (yet), this Guardian article reveals the true horror behind the implementation of the Personal Independence Payment (PIP) and the degree to which the Tories are screwing up disability benefits. It’s horrific when you look at what is going on: people with very severe conditions are being forced off benefits and into work, often after being assessed by people who are completely unqualified to do so. People all over the place are loosing their mobility and means to live; many have been left totally isolated and vulnerable; there have been starvations and suicides. But where is the media attention? Where is the outcry? That’s what gets to me: disabled people are suffering because of what the tories are doing, (a situation now bound to get even worse with the removal of european human rights legislation) but nobody seems to care.

Alcohol is becoming a serious problem for me again. I now have a nasty cut on my forehead as a result of yesterday’s stupidity. I went to the cricket match in the park, and once again got carried away. What’s worse is it happened last friday too; on saturday morning I swore to myself that I’d never let that happen again, only to go right back to it a week later. I’m so angry at myself – this isn’t fair on Lyn, who deserves more than a two-bit piss-artist. It’s time to stop; time to cut drink out completely. Let this entry be formal notice of my intent. After all, there’s more to life than beer.

I’m not sure exactly where Lyn got the idea (she says she saw it in one of the local pubs) but yesterday afternoon, after my parents went home, Lyn instructed Marta to get a roll of fake grass she’d ordered online, cut it to shape, and staple it to our garden table. I was slightly bemused at first: I had never seen anything like it, and thought it was a bit of a mad idea. But once Marta had started, I suddenly saw what lyn was getting at. The effect is stunning; it adds a shock of vivid green, not just to the table but the whole garden. Marta put it on the bench too, and the garden now feels somehow more natural and soothing. The green of the fake grass blends with that of the real grass and leaves behind it; the brown of the table echoes the wood of the trees nearby, giving off a natural aesthetic. It really was a great idea, odd though it may sound. The worn out old table and bench have a new lease of life*. Not that I’m asked for gardening tips very often, but it’s something I’ll certainly recommend.

*How it fares when we spill, say, coffee or beer on it, however, remains to be seen.

We just waved my parents off, once again. They popped down for a visit. We had a good, long chat, then dad, noticing the overgrown bushes outside our front window which Dom was supposed to cut yesterday, went out to do a bit of gardening. My parents like being helpful, and there is now much more light coming into our front room, so it was greatly appreciated.

I really enjoy catching up with my parents. They can nag sometimes, and I know I can annoy them through my laziness, but this time wasn’t like that. It was a good, productive catch-up: I gave them a progress report on my various projects, and in return they gave me some welcome advice and encouragement. Mum mentioned how much she enjoyed reading my blog entries every day, spurring me on to keep it up. We also discussed my presentation in the local film festival in September.

They left about half an hour ago after hugs all round. It’s always hard to see them leave. They are great parents, and without them I wouldn’t be here. But I have work to do – a presentation to prepare. Time to crack on. I do wonder, though, what Dominik will say when he sees someone has already cut that bush down.

I have recently been clinging on to the idea that, in four or five years, we will have all realised what a huge mistake we made two weeks ago and will be begging to rejoin the EU. Yet, that’s a false hope, isn’t it? In five years, society will have changed. Society will have become used to the supposed freedoms being outside the eu will bring us: the freedom to exploit the vulnerable; the freedom to be greedy; the freedom to care only about yourself. By that time, most people will probably be doing okay and won’t want to go back to a more regulated system, leaving those of us who value fairness and cooperation, and who see the bigger picture, lamenting what could have been and despairing at the rise in inequality.

I really don’t want this to sound condescending or patronising, but I really must record how thrilled I am with something Lyn did yesterday. Last night, for the first time, she went to the shop on her own. It was simply a case of finding ourselves short of milk. Ordinarily I would have gone, or we would have sent our PA, but Lyn, still in her powerchair after a nice walk to woolwich with me, said she wanted to go. I was a bit apprehensive at first: L is still getting used to her powerchair, and while it is now quite a mundane task for me, she had never done something like this without a PA with her. Off she went, though, having typed what she wanted into her Ipad and leaving me and dom at home.

The experiment went without a hitch. About half an hour later, Lyn returned with the shopping and smiling broadly. She was obviously very pleased with herself, having just discovered that she could do something she never knew she could. She later proudly recorded on facebook that she ”Bought milk and washing up liquid from the co op on her own”. I love to see her like this; since getting her new powerchair, Lyn’s independence has come on in great leaps. It reminds me of when I got my first powerchair, and the inordinate amount of pleasure I got from cruising down to Congleton town centre or up to Swettenham on my own; or that first night, back a university, when I found I could take myself to the bar.

As monumental as last night’s trip was, though, I have no doubt that this is just the tip of the iceberg. Now Lyn knows she is capable of such things, and that she does not always need a PA with her, her confidence will grow and grow and pretty soon it will be hard to keep track of her. I could tell by the smile on her face when she got back last night how much this newfound ability means. She is finding out what she’s capable of. Getting to watch such a beautiful thing is truly special.

I suppose I have a bad habit of trying to belittle anyone who does not agree with me, especially when it comes to things like politics. Whenever I come across someone I don’t agree with, I tend to get all worked up and start questioning their intelligence. This is especially true of the recent referendum. I feel particularly aggrieved whenever I see an outist try to claim they weren’t motivated by xenophobia – that just feels like a barefaced lie. Yet, of course, I know I shouldn’t react like that. Fifty two percent of the country are not xenophobes; nor are they stupid, moronic, inbred, or any other insult I care to hurl at them. As angry and frustrated as I currently feel, I need to frequently remind myself that we live in a democracy, and that people are entitled to hold opinions which differ from mine. The problem is, while I know the world has not ended, whenever I hear of how much harder things are going to get or how much more intolerant and right wing society is already becoming, that often seems quite difficult to accept. How can I come to terms with the decision of the majority, when I feel it is an act of utter folly? That is a question forty eight percent of us now face.

Truth be told, I have no idea what to say about this film. I saw The Fundamentals of Caring flagged up by someone on facebook, and thought I’d give it a watch. It strikes me as cliche and profound, welcome and unwelcome, in equal measure. It concerns a guy with md who has recently moved to the states with his mum from the uk. They need to hire a ‘caregiver’ for him, and from then on the film is sort of an exploration of the dynamic between the two. It is a roadtrip film come attempted insight into disability.

I can see what the film is trying to get at. The guy with md is portrayed as balshy, sarcastic and adversarial. He has a lot of issues which the carer dude tries to break him of. It is thus an attempt to break free of the ways in which disabled people are usually presented. Yet, despite itself, the film ultimately slips back into sentimentality and cliche. I therefore both relish this film and find it highly problematic. There are some great moments, and there are points which really struck a chord with me as a person who employs personal assistants; but equally there are points which made me want to vomit at the stereotyping, or the ignorance of what disabled people’s lives are actually like. Parts of it struck me as awesome, other parts had me scratching my head.

I suppose that’s always going to be a problem with films about things like disability: it’s so hard to get right. On the whole, though, I really liked this film. It is funny, and struck a chord. I can’t wait to hear what Lyn makes of it, and would really like to show it to our personal assistants, too.

Lyn and I occasionally eat dinner in Weatherspoons, but as a rule I avoid them, preferring more quirky pubs*. I take some pleasure, then, in directing you here. The founder of the chain, Tim Martin, pumped thousands in to the Leave campaign, but has now lost millions due to brexit. The economy has crashed, taking prices with it. If you asks me, it serves the p’tahk right: first he ruins pubs by tuning many into a bland chain, then he contributes to the ruining of the country.

*Although after what happened on Friday I better avoid pubs altogether for a while. The less said about that, though, the better.

I’d just like to express my solidarity with the thousands currently marching against brexit up in central london at the moment. I’d like to be there with them, only I’ve left it too late. Mind you, it’s hard to see what good it’ll do. The referendum, although narrow, is decided. It would be very hard for any government to ignore it. And imagine the stink Farage and his bunch of scumbags would kick up if the result was somehow ruled invalid. Thus I’m afraid this march has no hope of achieving it’s goal, as passionately as I want it to. I’m just glad to see that I’m not the only one who thinks this country has just taken a step in completely the wrong direction.

Just when you thought things couldn’t get any worse…

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You may recall me mentioning that I’m involved with the local film festival this autumn. As part of that, school have asked me to introduce the film they intend to screen. The film they’ve chosen is Shaun the Sheep, so yesterday, in order to take my mind off other things, I popped to Woolwich to pick up a copy of the DVD. I just gave the film a viewing. I’d expected it to be just an average kids film, but what I found myself watching just now was quite an intricate filmic text ripe for analysis. As you’d expect from Aardman, you can read the film on many levels: for one, there is no (spoken) dialogue whatsoever, so the film can be seen to play with and comment on the conventions of storytelling. It’s also about a group of sheep going to look for their farmer/master lost in the big city, so there’s a lot of our old friend Walter Benjamn in there too: pastoral vs urban, tradition vs modernity etc. I can also see why it is such a good text for a special school to screen: devoid of dialogue, it draws one’s attention to the very mimesis of film, the structures of storytelling and communication.

Introducing it, then, will be most interesting. Before I decide what to say, though, I’ll need to rewatch it a couple more times. I better go get some guidelines from school too: I can see myself getting carried away and doing a full lecture involving Lacan, Benjamin and who knows what else on it. Frankly I’m relishing this opportunity to get back into film analysis again.

For the last few days I have been feeling very, very unhappy indeed at current affairs, but perhaps I better start looking on the bright side of life again. The world has not ended: I still lead a wonderful life; for now at least I’m safe and secure. I still have many happy memories to think about, and lots to look forward to. I’m told our coming out of the EU probably won’t effect our day to day lives that much anyway. Thus, as worried as I am about this country’s future, as angry as I am at my countrymen for allowing theirselves to be fooled by the lies of xenophobes and the horrifying rise in the abuse of immigrants, I still have lots to hold on to and be happy about. What else can one do? Either I smile, or I let fear, bitterness and anger destroy me. After all, who knows what the future holds? Things may even turn out for the best. Thus there’s nothing else to do but to send you here.

I just watched that abomination of a human Farage speak at the emergency session of the european parliament. I was hoping that he would be magnanimous and civilised for once, but I was wrong. I am now shaking with rage at how that utter waste of a human life just stood there insulting the whole parliament. He’s got what he always wanted; he has lied and mislead the nation into utterly screwing itself, yet he still acts like a total prick. He belongs in jail for what he has done and the damage he’s caused, yet he rubs everyone noses in it. I know no words that express my loathing for this man; I begrudge him every breath he draws.

I wonder where they are going to build the concentration camps. Before you tell me to stop being silly, I’m being deadly serious. The UK changed not only politically on Thursday, but socially as well: it took a huge step away from inclusivity and tolerance and towards hatred and xenophobia, We’re already seeing attacks on immigrants up; people are now being abused in the streets by thugs who think the referendum result gives them free reign to express their moronic views. It’s just a matter of time now before such xenophobia becomes the status quo. Pretty soon, any minority will become eyed with suspicion. Disabled people will now begin to be spoken of in terms of being ”burdens to society”; we’ll then start to be ”encouraged” to move into institutions, where we can be ”looked after properly”. This will become even worse after the economy falls through the floor. Isolated and alone, it’s people suffering due to their own stupidity, the country will start destroying itself. And, as ever, the first to go will be those who cannot defend theirselves. Independent living will be a thing of the past, as will be the support I got to go to university. It is only a matter of time before I get wheeled into a gas chamber.

I’m writing this on a train back to London from Manchester after a crazy but much needed weekend. A few weeks ago my old friend Charlotte involved me up for a party, and never having been able to say no to C, I went. Dom put me on a train on Friday, and from then the weekend has flown by, I must say, charlottes timing couldn’t have been better: I needed a big bash to take my mind off things – I think we all did. It was a hell of a party last night, but before then we had spent a great day in a local market, where I had chance to buy some souvenirs. Then it was time to get dressed up and get the party started.

What more can I say? Nobody throws a party like Charlie, and it was awesome meet a few of her Manchester friends. The music was awesome, the food delicious, and you should have even some of the outfits people were wearing. I went to bed at half midnight, and was surprised to find it still going, more or less, when I got up eight hours later. i honestly think it was one of the best parties I will ever go to, a sentiment echoed by most people there, and as my train winds its way back to London, I really hope it’s not too long before I make this journey again.

I used to love this country. I loved it’s green fields and winding lanes; its culture, music and comedy; its quirky little pubs. I loved its quaint towns and mighty capital, which I once thought the greatest city on earth. But how can I love it now? Now its people have turned their back on the world, in an act of mindless stupidity. I cannot. The fields as I pass them now seem tainted; its people, once so aimiable, now seem suspect. Who could love a literature written in the toungue of liars and con men? I once loved this land, but no more!

Words cannot express how angry I am right now. Unable to sleep for most of the night, I got up early to check the news. How the fuck could the people of this country be so stupid? I am literally shuddering with rage, and hold each and every moron who voted Out in contempt. My faith in this country is lost: to me, the UK is now no more than an irrelevant backwater, full of xenophobic halfwits.

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If anyone was wondering what the americans are making of the referendum, I would like to direct you to this excellent New York Times article. Like just about anyone else capable of thought, the writer says we would be insane to leave. It would greatly diminish our status in the world, turning us from great Britain to little England; and the consequences of leaving will be dire, both economically and socially.

With just about everyone bar the outist xenophobes saying such things, it beggars belief that the polls are so close. I am very worried indeed that we will do something stupid tomorrow, to the extent that I’m now losing sleep over it. Could we really be that foolish? Could we really be so inward looking that we’d cut ourselves off from our neighbours, removing ourselves from our biggest market. Could we really throw away something so progressive and hopeful? I’m now really worried about it; the fear of what might happen tomorrow is agonizing.

A few days ago, I got an email from my colleagues at GAD about a seminar on effective political campaigning for disabled people. I initially discounted going: as interesting as it sounded, this week would be mad enough as it stood. But then I thought it might be a useful distraction from fretting about the referendum, it wouldn’t be that hard to get to and I might learn something. So I went.

I’m just on my way back from what proved to be a fascinating afternoon. Five other people, all much more experienced activists than me, attended. It was hosted by a very knowledgable former civil servant, and was basically a presentation cum discussion on the best ways of lobbying members of parliament. Most of the time I just sat and listened, trying to remember as much as I could. I did AS level politics, but this was stuff from an insider who knew the ins and outs of Westminster. Most interesting for me was the idea that social media is becoming increasingly important: when that came up, mentioned my blog, and the others seemed pretty interested in it.

What’s more, I made some pretty valuable contacts up there this afternoon, including the speaker herself. I’m very glad I went. I learned a lot and made friends. I sometimes feel pretty impotent politically; this afternoon helped assuage that feeling a bit. And while it didn’t stop me fretting about thursday completely, it calmed me down and made me feel a little less like the world might end come Friday morning.

I have always said Nigel Farage is a fascist. That word is bandied about so flippantly these days, though, that I wasn’t sure if he actually qualifies as one. However, according to this Independent article, as a schoolboy, the insult to humankind was said by his teachers to have ”fascist” and ”racist” views, and marched around singing Hitler youth songs. These accusations were on channel Four news. I knew the guy was bad, but I didn’t realise he was that far gone. If true, I find it sickening that this man should have anything to do with british politics, let alone currently feature so prominently in it. From the sound of Farage’s comments towards the end of the article, he tries to make light of it, making out he was only winding people up and didn’t mean it. Well I’m not laughing. There is nothing funny about the murder of six million innocent people; this is nothing to joke about. Spare me the act of joviality and respectability, Farage; you’re nothing more than a snivelling little fascist.

The problem with having an EU referendum and an international football competition on at the same time is that, when I’m out and about and I see cars and houses with flags on, I can’t be sure weather it’s a show of anti-EU nationalism or just a show of support for the English football team. Should I be suspicious that the people flying the flags are outists, or just want to show their support for Messrs rooney et al? At the moment it could mean either. I think I better just keep calm and assume that the flags are football-related. With the number of English flags there are currently about, I don’t think doing otherwise would be good for my blood pressure.

I think I’ll just flag this fascinating new blog entry by Lyn up. While I can’t say I completely agree with all of it, I think she is spot on on a lot of stuff. She writes how it is our perception which moulds our sense of reality, and about how that is shaped by things like the media and education. That’s why we must always question everything, she writes. I totally agree. It’s a fascinating insight into how the way the woman I love thinks; something which, due not only to this but our recent conversations, I’m finding increasingly interesting.

I just want to record quite an awesome thing which happened yesterday. Lyn seems to be really flourishing with her new chair. She now goes out in it almost daily, weather permitting. Yesterday, late in the afternoon, we went out together, leaving Dom at home. We firs headed to the chemist to pick up some supplies. We then headed down the road to Blackheath, just for a stroll. When we got there, L said she wanted to go into the Royal Standard pub: she wanted to see if she could get served. I sad ‘sure’, and we went in, heading for a table near the back. Lyn then went up to the bar and typed a request for two juices into her ipad speech app, explaining that we both needed straws and telling the girl where she could find the money. Soon after that, we were both sipping glasses of OJ.

I asked L when she last did that. For as long as I have known her, she’s always had a PA with her to help with such things. I get drinks at bars quite frequently – some would say too frequently – but I’ve never seen lyn do it solo. To my utter surprise and astonishment, Lyn answered that that was her first time ever, and she had never bought a drink like that before. My heart instantly swelled with pride. I can’t tell you how wonderful it is to see my fiancee blossoming like this: becoming more and more confident, more and more independent. Getting a new powerchair has changed Lyn, bringing her out into the world, and allowing it to see the lively, vivacious woman I know her to be.

I’m beginning to hate this referendum; it should never have been called. It has become so corrosive and damaging to our society, bringing out the worst in people, that it’s hard to see us recovering from it for a long while, whatever the outcome. Yesterday, an MP was murdered: while it’s too early to talk about motive, there are reports that the attacker was shouting ”Britain First”. The growing consensus seems to be that the attack was referendum related. If that is true, then you have to wonder, what have we become? What has this thing turned us into? A UKIP van is going around with a poster ‘accidentally’ mimicking nazi propaganda. I used to think it was just me being hot-headed and immature, but the whole nation seems to descended into something approaching savagery. Sibling is turning against sibling, friend against friend, parent against son, in a mutual hatred which goes far beyond normal, civilised political discourse. And all for a referendum which, at the end of the day, we did not need, and was only thrown because CaMoron wanted to shut his euroskeptic backbenchers up. What a horrible, fucked-up state of affairs. All this worrying, all this rage and hate, for such a petty thing.

I am not sure how telling this is, but while out and about these last few days, I’ve noticed more and more posters and signs for the Remain campaign in people’s windows, but none for Out. I find that rather encouraging. Of course, that may only be this little corner of South-East London; if I went further afield, I might see more evidence of Outism. Yet I really hope it is a sign that things are not as worrying as the opinion polls would lead us to believe, and that most people have sense enough to vote remain. It’s only a small observation, but an encouraging one.