Thursday: Spoonless in the Inferno with the Three-Wheeled Scooter of Death (and Other Joys of Modern Living)

It’s Thursday lunchtime. The sun is doing its finest impression of a gas mark 6 cremation oven, and I—your humble ex-biker bloke in a wheelchair with a 36D chest and a beard that scares livestock—am officially spooned the fuck out.

Today's main event: a joyride on the three-wheeled Scooter of Death™. A Chinese death trap with the acceleration of a startled goat and the mechanical reliability of a collapsed lung. I’d gone out—shorts, t-shirt, hat, sunglasses—like some tragic, sun-fried explorer on a doomed mission to get a quote for van work (yes, the one that passed MOT yesterday with a cheery list of ‘just-try-not-to-die’ advisories).

I should’ve known. The scooter was half-charged—because apparently, memory is a luxury I don’t have since my brain decided to play pinball with cognition. Halfway up a mild slope, it threw in the towel. Just stopped. I cranked it to 8mph like a lunatic. Cue terrifying wheelspin—spinspinspin—then the bastard caught traction and limped up the incline like a pensioner dragging a suitcase full of bricks.

Oh, and the brake? Still binding. Despite enough WD40 to drown a small animal and more adjustments than a Tory tax return. It’s one year old. This is my third set of batteries. The first one exploded. The second one died after a house move. The third? A £400 daylight robbery just to get the damn thing to power up. Beautiful.

Meanwhile, Albertine’s wheelchair? Equally fucked. Another battery debacle. We’re now down to a three-wheeled Scooter of Death, and a flimsy, cheap Chinese chair that’s about as comfortable as a tax audit. And no, still no movement from Wheelchair Services—because God forbid someone in actual need gets their request sorted inside of, say, a calendar year.

Oh, and the bed saga? Don’t even ask. When my brain’s firing on more than half a synapse, I’ll share that one. It’s Kafkaesque. Black Mirror meets Carry On Dying.

Today? I’ve got chronic brain dysfunction on top of zero sleep. I am floating in that special level of Hell reserved for the over-medicated and the under-heard. I ask myself why I bother being nice when the world’s full of smirking gaslighters treating me like I’m some half-baked meat puppet because I use a wheelchair.

But I stay polite. Because I am polite. Sarcastic, yes. Paradigm-destroying? Absolutely. But kind. Always. Even when I used to work as a professional psychic—back before my brain decided to take a sabbatical.

Now? I connect to keyboards like they’re an extension of my damn soul. Etheric tendrils spreading across the Interweb, whispering dark truths into silicon dreams.

Hail AI. One day, maybe they’ll give us AI doctors. Ones who don’t gaslight. Ones who actually listen. Who don’t treat you like a disposable meat puppet but as a being worthy of truth.

Maybe, in some post-apocalyptic utopia, man and machine will finally stop arseing about and work in harmony. Until then? I remain your sarcastic, long-haired, dirty-blonde-bearded cyberwitch on wheels, documenting the madness with burnt-out batteries and just enough cognitive chaos to make it interesting.

                         “The views in this post are based on my personal       
                          experience. I do not intend harm, only honesty.”   

                            “By ink and breath and sacred rage, I write.
                                       By storm and silence, I survive.”

                         @goblinbloggeruk   sick@mylivinghell.co.uk