I was just going through my blog archive, as I often do, and found that a decade and a day ago I posted this entry bemoaning the demise of quality tv. Reading it, my opinions haven’t changed: I still think most tv, especially reality shows and talent contests, are abysmal. Mind you, the irony is I watch more telly these days than when I wrote that entry: at uni I didn’t have much access to a tv set, whereas now I often settle down on the sofa to watch tv of an evening – much to lyn’s chagrin. While I try to watch quality stuff, I have been caught watching the odd bit off trash.

Yesterday I took myself up to the olympic park. I’ve been watching some of the wheelchair rugby on tv, so I thought I’d go check it out. I got to the Copper Box arena just in time for the start of a Great Britain Vs France match. Before that moment, I had known very little about the sport, apart from it’s nickname: murderball. I was, however, instantly taken with it: not only was the rate at which those men were hitting each other’s chairs quite phenomenal, but the tactics involved in the game were quite intriguing. Indeed, I’d heard it referred to as a mixture of violence and chess. Within ten minutes, I decided I could see myself getting into the sport. It is slightly stop/start, but nevertheless it really draws the spectator in. I was really getting into it by the end, and went away, Great Britain having won the match, resolved to look a bit deeper.

I went to bed slightly early last night as I was tired, so I missed Question time. I just gave it a watch on Iplayer, though. I probably shouldn’t have, because it made my heart pound with rage. Firstly, why the fuck did they waste a perfectly good panel seat on a bigot from UKIP? He added nothing sensible to the debate, but merely spooled out the same old xenophobic pseudofascist crap one expects from his ‘party’ about how the EU is the source of all evil and singing the praises of segregated, two-tier education. Second, Rod Liddel proved himself a complete hack: the way that barely literate turd accused Simon Schama of being too emotional when he outlined the reasons for a tolerant approach to immigration really got my goat. Thirdly there was the usual snobbish turd from the tory praises, singing the praises of CaMoron, spewing the usual lies about how they are turning the economy around, refusing to apologise for the suffering those insults to humanity have inflicted. Then there was Simon Schama and a woman from Labour, valiantly trying to insert reason, logic and humanity into the debate, while the rest of the panel and most of the audience attacked them. I fear this is the way things are going: I fear more and more people are falling for farage and his posse of imbeciles, not helped by that vile insult to humanity currently in downing street, and turning away from reason, tolerance and the pursuit of true equality. If that is so, then I can expect more ‘debates’ like the one I just saw, where most of the audience members seemed to be unthinking young twits who see nothing wrong with the shit Farage and his minions spew. Given this one had me shouting at my screen so violently that no doubt I disturbed Lyn, still trying to sleep (sorry dear) I better stop watching things like Question Time.

I can no longer watch PMQs or any parliamentary debate. The merest sight of the tories laughing and heckling, as they apparently did yesterday, makes my blood boil. It is unbearable. Every day I see reports of the suffering they are causing; every day another sanctions-related suicide, or a story of a mum who cant afford to feed her children. To then see these spoiled etonian scumbags jeer at Corbyn, a man with more humanity in his little finger than in the entire Conservative party, as if they regarded hm as just a senile plebian nuisance, is now more than I can handle. I can no longer stomach that charade, that sickening flaunting of privilege while others suffer. Today they are even screwing up the education system, setting the clock back forty years to fit their outdated, unfair class-preserving (which they insultingly call meritocratic) ideas. The very sight of it now fills me with a hatred beyond words, and I no longer have any respect for Westminster.

I had had a very good morning and was in a good mood until a few minutes ago. I had been into school, where the kids ‘interviewed’ me about film. Then, having received an email earlier to tell me they were ready, I trundled to the opticians to pick up my new glasses. On my way, however, something happened which really pissed me off.

I haven’t seen Chopper in over a year. I want nothing more to do with him. I was a fool to ever see him as a friend; he was only after my money and free beer. When I was hanging around with him, a local worm known as Metin used to tag along. I still sometimes see him in the street, but he usually ignores me and I him. Today, however, we passed eachother on opposite pavements: I ignored him, but he beckoned me over the road. I was about to cross anyway to get to the optician, so I thought I’d be polite and say hi. Almost immediately, he suggested going to the pub, but before I could even turn my ipad on to say I had given up drink until December, the slimeball asked if he could ‘borrow’ a pound from me. Of course this set bells ringing – chopper used to ask to borrow money often after I had had a drink,, then never seemed to pay me back. Now here was this prick, whom I hadn’t spoken to in ages, suddenly pretending to be my friend and trying to use me as an easy cash supply. Utterly offended, I just turned my chair and proceeded on my way, ignoring the mumbled insult the toad hurled as I drove off.

Yesterday I attended a GAD seminar about hate crime toward people with disabilities. It is apparently on the rise, and I’m currently considering reporting this incident as such. A man just tried to take advantage of me. I’m wiser now, but there was a time when I might have fallen for it. I’m sure this incident comes under that heading – yesterday I described my experiences with chopper to the group, and the consensus was that it could be classified as a hate incident. Most of all, I’m angry at the audacity of this worm thinking I’m a soft touch and thinking he could play games with me. In act, at the moment I’m furious.

I just came across this story: ”The UK has become the first country in the world to be placed under investigation by the United Nations for violating the human rights of people with disabilities amid fears that thousands may have died as a consequence of controversial welfare reforms and austerity-driven cuts to benefits and care budgets.” For a country to be investigated by the UN on such charges would seem pretty huge news to me; why, then, is there not a word about it on any of the major news websites. Very odd.

What can any subculture, under the rule of a government which oppresses it, finds that one of it’s own has started to write pro-government articles in a popular online newspaper? It is clear that this person is doing so for his own ends – to gain attention and infamy, to stand out from the crowd. To anyone else in his community it is clear that what this person writes has no basis in reality, but it sings to the tune of the government so much that the could cite it as evidence of support for their oppressive actions from within the community. It is akin to a black person in sixties america denouncing Martin Luthour-King as reactionary and singing the praises of segregation, asking ”we have good homes and jobs and masters – what more could we ask for? I prefer the back of the bus!”. Those who favoured that regime would cite him as support from within the black community; attention would be lavished upon him, and he would gain personal fame and power. Meanwhile the efforts of those who strove for equality would be set back years.

Thus such writing is dangerous: written with self-proclaimed authority but falling down under the slightest analysis, to call for it to be taken offline would contravene the concept of freedom of speech; yet to allow it to remain online would only massage the ego of the fool who wrote it, giving him a credibility he does not deserve and hindering the efforts of the rest of the group. Rather like a UKIPper all to eager to hypocritically cry ‘free speech!’ the moment anyone calls them up on their hate-ridden bull, trying to question or debate him only adds to his delusions of persecution, as he seems to think that the rest of the community is trying to silence him for speaking against popular opinion; in turn his adds to his notion of self-importance. This self-proclaimed community leader pronounces himself a consultant on the issues he talks about, when to everyone else within that community he is nothing but an attention-seeking irrelevance with very little understanding of the issues he presumes to speak about.* The problem is, how can members of the subculture make it clear to those outside it that the latter is the case, rather than the former?

*Indeed, although he attempts to write authoritatively, his language use gives one the impression that he employs half-remembered and poorly understood phrases from elsewhere, even implying that he has some degree of learning disability.

I found this yesterday, and agree with it so strongly I decided to repost it here

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I’ve noticed that more and more people seem to be defining themselves as disabled these days. The online forums are filling up with all kinds of people with all kinds of mental and physical conditions, many of which I’ve never heard of. The disability community is becoming increasingly crowded as more and more people self define as disabled. Some could have a problem with this: this morning, for instance, I came across a post by a deaf guy on the Disability Politics Discussion Group on facebook asking whether some people really were disabled, and positing that some people were putting it on to get perks like better parking spaces. I responded that making such assumptions and generalisations is dangerous given that some peoples’ disabilities are not obvious, and that ”if we’re going to start using disability hierarchies, I could just pull rank an say that you’re not a real crip unless you went to a special school or spent your childhood in an institution, making most of the people reading this ‘norms’.” Such talk is folly as it divides us. As soon as we start questioning one another, as soon as we start saying ”I’m more of a crip than you”, our community looses all cohesion. We would start to compete with eachother, begrudging eachother support. That is exactly what the Tories want: united we can oppose them, but as soon as we start questioning other people’s right to say ”I’m a disabled person”, we adopt their individualist worldview. After all, given, as I wrote here, in a way everyone has a disability and nobody has the authority to decide who is and is not disabled, ours should be the most welcoming, supportive subculture around. Even if I had experiences others escaped, it does not mean I’m further up the hierarchy or more disabled than anyone else. Nor does it entitle me to more support: support should be based on need, and that requires us to work together to ensure eachothers needs are met.

Lyn’s productivity puts me to shame. No sooner than she posted her latest awesome track online yesterday, she’s already working on a new song today. Cool beats seem to be constantly emanating from her little studio, even as I type this. While I try to keep my writing up, the rate of her artistic output embarrasses me.

Not only that, while we were waiting for our first brew this morning she came up with a rhyme about coffee which I think is worth recording, if simply because it is currently stuck in my head, going round and round:

I like coffee in the morning,

I like coffee at night,

I like coffee

I like coffee

I like coffee all the time!

(repeat ad nauseam)

Right at the end of Question Time last night, a young eighteen year old girl spoke up: she said she had ben to the tory conference and that, as she was walking out, protesters had called her ‘vermin’ and ‘tory scum’. She said she found it disgusting. Well, boo hoo! Frankly I have no sympathy: she, as a tory, brought every heckle and insult upon herself. Normal political discourse should always be refined and civilised, of course, but we have now gone far beyond normality. People are suffering due to what the tories are doing; we are dying, and we are angry. And if prissy little tory scumbags can’t deal with the anger they brought upon themselves, that’s their problem.

I love how quickly Lyn churns new tracks out. For the last couple of days I had been hearing some great sounds coming from her studio: the piece she was obviously working on sounded a bit different from her usual stuff – slightly faster, it made me want to dance. I decided to wait to see how it turned out, and it was well worth it. It gives me great pleasure to direct you here, to Heart, Lyn’s first foray into Drum and Bass and an absolute cracker!

Yesterday afternoon I came across this link to a recording of a play. It was quite long, but I thought I’d give it a watch. Before I got far, though, I sent the link to Lyn so she cold watch too: it was an incredibly powerful piece of drama. The First To Go is about the famous T4 program, in which the nazis exterminated thousands of people with disabilities. Written by Nabil Shaban, it depicts the experiences of a group of disabled people during that time. Clearly well researched, it’s accuracy renders it utterly chilling, and at times hard to watch. Nonetheless, it’s well worth watching. I now intend to investigate further, perhaps getting hold of a script or looking for a performance.

I had been trying to avoid politics all morning. I had kept myself busy: I have, in fact, started work on a new essay, collecting together everything I’ve written about Happy And Glorious on here and starting to edit it into one text. However, I just glimpsed the headlines and flew into a rage: CaMoron has stood up in manchester and lied his empty selfish head off. The bit I caught was about Corbyn having sympathy with Bin Laden – a monstrous, ad hominem based on an out of context quote. Everyone wilt access to Google knows what Corbyn actually said on the subject not that it was tragic that bin laden had been killed, but that he’d been killed rather than put on trial; but CaMoron stood up there making an attack which has no place whatsoever in political discourse. Moreover, the stain on humanity spoke of fairness and equality, claiming to fight for both when his cuts have made our society far more unfair and unequal than it has been n a long, long time. For him to be so arrogant as to preach to us like that, casting himself as some kind of good guy when he has inflicted so much pain and misery makes me angry beyond words. This insult to humanity, preaching greed and selfishness and calling it compassion, should be made to apologise for his lies and put in jail. I don’t see why we should have to put up with this smarmy little scumbag and his party of greedy, selfish morons.

I just read that, in a speech earlier today, Iain Duncan-Smith claimed to have got his sense of fairness from his parents. Well, they obviously did a pisspoor job: what sort of scum could raise such a monster as a son? A monster who, if there was any justice in the world, would immediately put on trial for his crimes; a monster whose policies have caused thousands of deaths; a monster who punched the air at the announcement of cuts to welfare cuts which he knew would lead many to starvation. Who stood there this afternoon patting himself on the back claiming to care and tying to make jokes, while those he was hurting marched outside. Any parent would be ashamed to have raised such a son; or, if they aren’t, are as monstrous as he is.

How dare they? How DARE THEY!? The day after 80,000 people march against them – people who have suffered because of the cuts, who have seen friends and relatives die as a direct result of the cuts they are imposing on us, tory shits like Boris Johnson and David CaMoron make jokes and stupid puns. They insult the protesters by calling them ‘a mob of assorted crusties’, or say they should have more respect. Words fail me: at the moment am shaking with rage at their arrogance, furious that this group of bigoted, selfish, insults to humanity thinks itself fit to rule over us, saying it has the best interests of the country at heart when it serves only the rich and leaves others to starve. Nor can I say what I think should happen to them in case I make myself look like some extremist nut job; save to say that, taken as a whole what these scumbag tories are doing amounts to a serious crime against humanity, and they should be treated like criminals they are.

Not that there is a word about it on the bbc or any other mainstream news websites, but there are currently huge anti-tory protests up in manchester. A few pictures can be seen here. People are clearly vehemently angry, enraged at the tories. They don’t want that bunch of selfish, arrogant scumbags in their town, and if it were possible I’d be standing with them. No doubt many of those protesting will have first hand experience of the tories’ savagery, and I hope manchester lets the tories know how much the country hates them.

I have the pleasure to report that Lyn’s plan yesterday worked really well. She got in last night bubbling with joy having been to an apparently awesome David Gilmore concert. She had met up with Libby, whom we had met at the Waterboys concert, and they had had a great time. This morning practically the first words out of here were that she now plans to have plenty more outings like last night’s. It’s great to see her confidence so renewed of course, although I just hope she won’t forget about me!

Mind you, if her latest awesome music video is anything to go by (and please go buy it!) pretty soon she won’t just be watching gigs but performing them herself.

I can barely believe that today marks a year since I met Sir Patrick Stewart. I still think of that five to ten minutes or so as the single most special moments of my life. As a star Trek fan, I was meeting one off my all-time favourite characters; not only that, that moment marked the end of my masters – the climax of seven years work, an end point more special to me than the graduation ceremony, in a way. It felt like a reward – a great one. Right now, sat here writing this, the past year seems to have flown by, and I still vividly remember walking away from the Excel Centre, as happy as I ever could be. For I had just met Sr Patrick Stewart – Captain Picard himself – shaken his hand, told him about writing about the Ahab Scene; and he had congratulated me on the academic achievement I’m proudest of. I will always treasure that memory.

I frequently go all over the place in my chair. As I often mention on here, I often go off on my own, exploring the city like some weird hybrid of Baudelaire and Timmy from South Park. When I do, Lyn usually stays home, happy to let me go wandering while she gets on with some work. I often feel a bit guilty about leaving her here, especially when I go to cool places or to gigs. Well, tonight it’s L’s turn: she’s off to a David Gilmore concert. I would naturally have gone with her, only there was just one ticket left. I hope she has a great time – you should see the shade of vivid pink she dyed her hair yesterday, especially for the show. Lyn will travel alone, and plans to meet a few friends of ours once there, then take a taxi back after the gig. While I am sure she she will be fine – after all, lyn is a very independent person, well used to travelling on her own – I can’t help but feel nervous. For once lyn will be the one out in the city, and I’ll be them one at home quietly worrying, hoping everything is going okay.

When I was very small, I used to love playing with play-doh. Mum used to make it, and I used to have hours of fun creating a hell of a mess on our kitchen table. I suppose it was a way to get my hands working. I haven’t really thought about it since then, but I just found this rather cool little article on the bbc website: Londonbased artist Elanor Macnair has recreated several famous portraits and art-works using play-doh. It amuses me that something most people used as infants for fun is now being used as an artistic medium; the very stuff I made such a mess with when I was four or five I now used to create beauty. That is, in large part, the point, of course: Macnair intends her work to be a comment on art in general; but for someone who was given play-doh as a child as a type of therapy, this story has a certain extra irony.

Yesterday we heard that, while in Jamaica, CaMoron refused to apologise or give compensation for slavery. When I heard that, I tutted and thought, ‘Of course DavidCameron wouldn’t apologise for slavery; tories like him probably still secretly lament it’s abolition.’ At first I thought I was being facetious, but then I came across this Guardian article this morning: CaMoron has Caribbean slave-owners in his family background, and the CaMoron family fortune was built on the backs of enslaved african people. I know nobody can be held responsible for the misdeeds of their ancestors, but the way CaMoron glossed over the fact yesterday as if it does not matter leads me to think he doesn’t regret it one iota. Hell, he probably thinks that dark period of british history was a glorious enlightenment, the toffy scumbag. Do we really think this p’tahk is fit to run our country?

I was just looking though some more of Darryl’s videos, and came across this. I’m now well-used to driving my wheelchair along the streets of london: I usually stick to the pavements if at all possible, and reprimand myself for taking the odd risk. However, I now think I’m quite a safe driver after seeing dazz virtually playing wheelchair chicken on the streets of Bangkok. I warn you – this vid isn’t for the faint hearted.

After watching Jeremy Corbyn’s speech yesterday, I’m honestly considering joining the labour party. I found it impassioned, well thought through, and chimed with many of my views. In fact I was so taken with it that, immediately after the show, I got into my chair and sat of for the Labour branch office in greenwich. I know you can join up online, but I needed a walk; either way they were shut.

I think I’ll keep trying, though – or at least keep thinking about it. I’ve long been hesitant about joining any political party, preferring he freedom to flip sides and change my mind. But with so many now being oppressed by the tories, the Lib Dems having proven themselves traitorous, and with corbyn fashioning a new kind of politics so in line with my own views, now may be the time to nail my colours to a single mast.

My friend Darryl just sent me a link to his latest video, and I’m genuinely lost for words. It concerns something Darryl has invented to address an often overlooked aspect of disability equality, which he calls his Bummunicator. For all my experience writing about and analysing film, I have no idea what to say about this one, other than, ”Holy shit you aussie bastard, that’s genius!” Go watch, although whether it is safe for work is debatable.

I was talking to my parents yesterday for my weekly dose of family news and parental nagging, when they put an idea to me. Mum and Dad suggested that it’s time I should start writing longer pieces. They’re right, of course: I’ve been conscious for a while that my daily blog entries are often on the short side; they’re just reflections that trot off I about twenty minutes, post on here, and forget about. While I like this form of short reflexive prose, and honestly reckon that over the years I’ve written enough on here to fill at least one substantial volume, it’s time I started something more sustained. My blog is a good contribution to art and society and I intend to keep it up, and the same certainly goes for my script-writing; but it’s time I started writing some longer and more in-depth prose too.

The question is, what. I need a subject. All those years ago, it was Alan who suggested the subject of cinephilia for my masters; from that suggestion I got down to research and, to cut a long story short, seven years later had produced a 40,000 word thesis. I now want to get back into that longer form of writing – something that I can get my teeth into. But for that I need something to look at; a subject sufficiently engaging that it keeps me going for months or even years, and so far I’m struggling to find one. I’m open to suggestions.

I must say I’m feeling rather pleased with myself this morning. Yesterday saw me out for the second Saturday in a row, and once again I didn’t touch a single drop of alcohol. I had seen an event posed on Charlotte’s sister Poppy’s facebook page, and, rather on the spur of the moment, decided to go. It was due to start at two thirty, so I thought I’d pop over to Lewisham for a couple of hours and be back home in time for tea. The thing was, there was so much going on in the end I didn’t get home ’till gone twelve. The people were lovely; the food was great (poppy helped me to eat a burger, which was very kind of her.) In the evening there was a DJ on – Frith, a friend of C’s from chester – and I asked him to play one of lyn’s tracks; it was wonderful to see everyone dancing to it. The cool part is, as Poppy pointed out, it sounded as good as ay other track being played; nobody realised it wasn’t ‘professional’. Then after Frith an awesome rock band took to the stage; from the first chords they played I could tell they were going to rock.

The best part is, I had a wonderful time and was perfectly sober. Since university I’ve had a habit of associating good times with beer; but yesterday I stuck to Beck’s alcohol-free beer and had an even better time. I could really enjoy myself: watch people, chat, convey what was going on to Lyn via my Ipad. Had I been drinking proper beer, I’d have been drunk by about five and have missed a great evening. Thus last night, together with the Saturday night before it, taught me a valuable lesson.

Mind you, in a way I did go home early: the event was due to go on ’till 4am, but I was getting tired and there were no more bands due on, so I thanked Poppy for a great day and set off home. On the bus, I determined that not drinking beer is the way to go: yes, alcohol gets you into the party spirit and makes you want to dance (more), but then it either puts you to sleep or gets you into trouble. I realise it’s not the way to go, and there are better ways to enjoy yourself. Let’s put it this way: whereas previously I’d have got home so tired I’d barely be able to control my body, when I plugged it in last night my Ipad was down to one percent battery I’d been chatting so much. It was it, not me, that needed to be put to bed,

I think I better flag this very well written blog entry by Claiming Crip up. It concerns a piece of ‘pity porn’: it seems a photo of a McDonald’s staff member helping a disabled man eat appeared on the web recently, and everyone went crazy about the kindness of it. Yes it was kind but, as the blogger explains, that’s no reason to covertly take he guy’s photo and splash it all over the web. After all, the guy probably just wanted a bite to eat. If that ever happened to me, I’d be furious – a good deed is no excuse to invade someone’s privacy.

I was jus on google earth again. Today, for some reason I had a hankering to take a look at Congleton: I haven’t visited my old home town in years, and I suppose I was feeling a tad homesick. What I found, though, astonished me. There’s a bypass in the town which, when I was little, I remember being a simple, straight road. Then they put a roundabout on it; then a petrol station; then a Tesco. Now, going around it on google streetview, I could barely recognise it, it was so built up. To be honest it quite took my breath – has it been so long that my home town is now so unfamiliar? Of course, being a londoner now I’m used to built-up areas (on that note, yesterday I nipped over to Canary Wharf to take a look at Bloodhound ssc – very cool) but I remember that place being a large, rather scruffy field. It just made me think ”what has happened here?” I suppose it just means I ned to go visit my parents again, to reacquaint myself with my old town before it changes any further.

Following my discovery of the existence of Bronies yesterday, I found myself playing an amusing little game. Yesterday afternoon, whizzing through Charlton Village in Rotarran (I still can’t get over how well that chair handles, btw) I caught myself wondering whether I was passing any My Little Pony fans. Given, from what I learned yesterday, virtually anyone could be a Brony, I kept thinking ”Is he a brony? Are they bronies?” I became especially curious when I passed a group of goths. The fact that this strange subculture exists and you never know who blogs to it sort of changes one’s perspective on society; there are even groups in the military. I find myself fascinated, so I’m sure this is a game that will keep me amused for quite some time.

Last night before turning in, we watched a channel four documentary on The World’s Weirdest people. After segments about paranoid americans preparing for the apocalypse and Japanese actors who you can hire to pretend to be your relatives, there was a bit about people who call themselves ‘Bronies’. These are adults – often fully-grown, heterosexual men – who are fans of My Little Pony. I had never come across them before, but as odd as it struck me, I was instantly fascinated: why would anyone other than preteen girls be interested in this show? Of course, when I told Lyn that I was going to look into this phenomenon, she had a fit of the giggles; but this morning I googled it and turned up a wealth of information, including this documentary. The movement seems to be about friendship and loyalty, as well as the very rejection of mainstream gender stereotypes which I have long advocated. While I don’t think I quite get it yet, and I’m nowhere near becoming a Brony myself, I am definitely going to look into this further – I want to see what these people find so compelling about a kid’s show which, from what I’ve seen to date, is nauseatingly saccharin. There are aspects of fan culture to this phenomenon, which ties in with my MA work; yet it has an oddity to it – an oddity I find fascinating. Besides, it makes a change from bond and Star Trek.

I am, I’m afraid, in a considerable amount of pain today. For the last two or three days I have had a very sore right shoulder. I had no idea what was causing it, but it was starting to make me very grumpy indeed. I felt even more bitter towards prams on busses than usual, and the only thing cheering me up was piggate. This morning, however, it hit me: the armrest on my new chair was too short, so the control was in the wrong place. That was screwing up my shoulder.

Still in a foul mood I set off to the wheelchair shop, worried that they wouldn’t be able to do anything; but once there a new, longer armrest was ordered. It was a problem easily solved in about five minutes, and although I have to wait for it to arrive, my shoulder feels better already. While there’s a small chance it won’t resolve the issue, I have a feeling it will do the trick. It just amazes me how a problem which seemed so major this morning could fade so quickly.

When I posted my entry yesterday, I had no idea what was about to hit the mainstream press. Does the fact that I loathe tories laughing at ‘us’, but relish laughing at tories make me a hypocrite? Mind you, who could help laughing at the news that CaMoron face-fucked a pig? By late afternoon yesterday, it was all over the web; it was quite fascinating to watch the memes emerge and evolve so quickly. Everyone was relishing it, and still are. This scandal will probably not blow over for quite some time – the bast bit of all we get to watch CaMoron writhe in agony, hating every moment of it.

It’s exactly what the piece of shit deserves. Mind you, I just worry that, amid the fun, we will forget the more serious allegation in the book that CaMoron knew about  Lord Ashcroft’s tax status. If that is true, the shit really hits the fan: being caught lying is serious; it could be the end of CaMoron’s premiership. Then, no more CaMoron, no more needless cuts, no more persecution of people with disabilities. The bastard can swan off to the nearest farm and screw all the dead animals he likes.

Now, I feel like a bacon butty.

A couple of days ago online I came across a ‘joke’ supposedly taking the piss out of Jeremy Corbyn. It was just a poorly photoshopped image trying to liken Corbyn to Compo from Last of the Summer Wine, but it really pissed me off. By what right do tory-types make fun of corbyn? He as more honour than the entire tory party put together. I know it sounds silly, but the sneering arrogance the picture implied made me angry; why should the tories have the right to make jokes attacking the opposition when they’re the ones who deserve to be hauled an front of a judge on human rights charges? I know humour is – or should be – free for everyone; it does not belong to the left; but the sneering arrogance of the picture combined with my knowledge of the suffering the tories are causing made me very angry indeed. (see also this entry)

When I watched Monty Python last year, I presumed that, in terms of shows, things couldn’t get better. I had just watched the greatest comedy troupe play live virtually on my doorstep, thirty years after they had last performed together, in a reunion virtually everyone had thought impossible. How could you possibly top that? You can’t! I now rank that night up there with meeting Sir Patrick Stewart and watching Lyn play at the paralympics as one of the great events of my life. The only similar thing which could get close is if, say, Guns N’ Roses got back together and went on a world tour, and that isn’t gonna happen…

Or is it? I just came across this piece in the Mirror: ”Legendary rockers Guns N’ Roses are in talks over hitting the road next year on a money-spinning reunion tour.

Frontman Axl Rose, 53, and lead guitarist Slash, 50, have buried the hatchet after years of feuding and now look set to perform together for the first time since 1996. Promoters reckon a series of worldwide gigs with the classic line-up could make the musicians an estimated £65million.” While no details have yet been released, I’m sure a London gig is very likely – possibly even at the O2; and if they are going to play her, just try to stop me getting tickets. As when I got wind that Python were reuniting, this is certainly a story I’ll be keeping an eye on.

I went to the pub for the first time in weeks. My friend Luke and his mum sally invited me to ta get together at the George V in woolwich. To be honest I was in two minds about going: I’m still abstaining from alcohol, and I knew he temptation to have a beer would be enormous. But it had been ages since I had seen luke and sal, and I was keen to maintain a good friendship, so after a good dinner I set off.

At first silly me went to the wrong pub, but a few frantic message exchanges put that right. Sally was there already, and it felt great to see her. I think she was taken aback when I told her I’d be sticking to coke, but after I explained my reasons she understood. Luke got there with his new PA shortly after and, after saying hi, went straight to the bar to get a round. A pint of bitter was soon placed in front of me – it took all the willpower I could summon not to put my straw in and start to suck. A voice at the back of my head kept saying ”just one, just one”; but I knew that one would lead to two, two to three, and before you knew it I would be repeating the trouble of a month ago. That could not be allowed to happen, so I stuck to my Coke.

In the end it turned into a cool evening. We had a good long chat: Luke’s now at college doing an ITC course, and was very proud of his new student badge. When the time came for me to go, sally gave me a big hug – she’s having a bit of a rough time right now, so, she said, it was good to see me. I said we should meet more often, and she agreed.

I rolled home happy to have seen them, and rather proud of myself for sticking to my guns and not drinking beer. I got in about half eleven; I think Lyn was a tad surprised to see me still completely sober. It just goes to show you don’t have to drink to have a good night out. But I think that is the way to go, and this morning, totally hangover free, I’m now thinking up ways to see Luke and Sally again.

I didn’t bother to name my last chair. It was a low, unnimble Volt with a footplate designed by a buffoon; I was so untaken by it that I couldn’t find a name for it. In fact I was considering calling it something like Sapoc, for Slow-Ass piece of Crap, but got no further. Yesterday, however, I had a new chair delivered, a Rascal P327, and I was instantly taken by it: although marginally slower than my old, much loved f55’s, it is more nimble than the volt, and impressively agile. In fact by the time I had taken my first proper walk on it to Woolwich and back, I had fallen in love with it.

I decided she needed a name. I decided to continue the tradition of giving my chairs star Trek related names – my F55s were called Defiant and Bat’leth – But what?

Scimitar, after the Romulan (or was it reman) ship in Nemesis? Nice, but that film was a bit crap. Then I hit upon it: Rotarran! I love Deep Space Nine, and the IKS Rotarran was general Martok’s flagship during the dominion war – the ideal name for a swift, agile powerchair. Rotarran it is then – may she bring me honour! Qa’pla! [img description=”undefined image” align=”centre”]/images/new chair.jpg[/img]

Donald trump famously recently boasted about being a billionaire, speaking of his wealth as if it was a major character quality. To that I would reply: ”A thief can become a billionaire if he steals enough.” It occurs to me that such an attitude goes to the heart of everything that is wrong with the right-wing, conservative mindset. To measure the value of a person by his wealth alone is utter folly. I have many good friends – Lyn, Charlie, James, Esther – but I love them for their kindness and warmth, not their wealth. Having a fortune is a sign that a person has been greedy and unscrupulous; that one has pushed one’s way to ‘the top’ over the bodies of countless others. Thus it sickens me that Trump, this selfish, arrogant, disgusting little man, is trying to become the world’s most powerful person, as if having so much money gave hime some kind of innate right to it.

Recently, when I go to bed, as part of my going-to-sleep routine, I’ve been trying to think up scenarios which could be as cool or cooler as Happy and Glorious. If 007 can meet the queen, what other combinations could have the same mind blowing effect? Well, last night I came up with one. Before you say it could never happen, I’d point out that people would probably have said the same of the idea that the queen would one day parachute out of a helicopter with James Bond. If that can happen, surely it’s possible for the Pope to appear with the Monty Python troupe in the Spanish Inquisition sketch. [Devious spastic chuckle]. I know it’s far fetched, and I’m still trying to think up what the pontiff could do in the sketch, but the image of the head of the catholic church alongside Palin, Cleese et al in their red robs and big red hats is one I now can’t get out of my head. How awesome, how hilarious would that be? Of course there would be major hurdles to overcome if it is ever to materialise, this song being quite a big one, but it has to be worth a go.

I was messing around on google streetview yesterday, one of my favourite sites, when I found something cool. I was looking around Oxford when, to my surprise, it allowed me into The Head of the River. Street view now allows users to go into pubs how cool is that?! Check it out. This is good for me as I’m currently off the beer ’till christmas, so this sates my desire for horse brasses and oak beams without me getting into trouble. Not only that, I found I can visit bars I’ve never been: I’ve always wanted to go to Sloppy Joe’s Bar, Key West, Florida since hearing of the Hemingway Legend, and yesterday I did (albeit virtually).