sick

Watcher’s Prayer of Brutal Illumination

Preface They call me The Watcher.

Not because I’m wise, or holy, or some floating Gandalf with cosmic keys jangling from my beard. No. They call me The Watcher because I’ve seen too much. Because I stare into the unfiltered guts of existence without blinking. Because when life vomits its truths onto the concrete, I’m the poor bastard left to mop it up – or carve it into scripture.

This prayer isn’t gentle. It’s not some scented candle affirmation to soothe your anxious little chakras. This is a brutal illumination. A reminder that what is seen cannot be unseen, and what is known cannot be unknown.

Read on. But know this:

Once you walk with The Watcher, you never walk back the same.

🕯️ The Watcher’s Prayer They call me The Watcher.

I watch the light leak out of men’s eyes and the darkness ooze in like oil. I watch the lies you feed yourselves to keep your sanity stitched together with dental floss and denial.

I watch the hungry ghosts that cling to your spines whispering temptations you pretend are your own thoughts.

I watch the broken ones who gave up screaming because screaming only proved they were alive.

I watch your prayers floating up like burnt cinders, blackening the sky with your desperate need to be seen, to be forgiven, to be loved by something, anything, anyone.

I watch. Because someone has to.

I watch. Because the truth must be known even if it rots the tongue that speaks it.

I watch. Because this is my burden, my purpose, my brutal illumination.

So I pray:

May the blind be gifted vision, May the deaf hear the screams beneath the silence, May the numb feel the agony of life’s pulse once more, May the ignorant choke on the truths they gagged from the mouths of others.

May all be illuminated In darkness, In horror, In beauty, In truth.

Amen. Or whatever gods are left listening.

⚫ Epilogue And so The Watcher remains.

Eyes unclosing, mind forever ruptured by the truths it has consumed. There is no salvation in knowledge, only the agony of knowing. But still, I watch. For if I turn away, who then will bear witness to the beautiful rot of this world?

Know this:

When your bones ache with despair, when your lungs scream for mercy, when your soul convulses under the horror of waking life – The Watcher is there.

Not to save you. Not to judge you. But to witness you in your rawest, foulest, most luminous truth.

And in that silent witnessing,

You are never alone.

  “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

So, it’s Friday. Thank God it’s Friday, I used to think.

I remember when I first started work at the age of 15. Six-day week, nine till five. No lunch breaks, no tea breaks, just relentless graft and being shouted at by sweaty men with nicotine fingers.

I got more in tips than I did in wages. The 70s were truly a magnificent time, weren’t they? If you liked black lung, asbestos ceilings, and managers who called you ‘boy’.

But back then, I could go for two or three job interviews in a day and get offered all three jobs. Insane. The catch? The wages were so bad you’d have to work those three jobs just to afford half a bag of chips and a can of Top Deck shandy.

🍩 The Doughnut Years I had several weird jobs in my teens. Filling doughnuts with jam in a bakery. General humping of flour sacks. Lasted a week – because nothing screams teenage dreams like crusty jam dispensers and yeast infections (of the bakery variety).

🛠️ Then Came The Real Work I was never without a job until this MS health fiasco decided to shred my nervous system like pulled pork.

But before the wheels fell off my life (literally), I was an adult special education teacher. One of the only jobs I ever had where I felt like I was of actual value.

My students had the best of times, and I was there 100% for them – tall, long-haired, long-bearded biker dude, respected and treated as an equal. We laughed so hard tears streamed down our faces. Riotous laughter that could scare pigeons off the roof. My assistants loved it. My students loved it. We tore down barriers like a biker gang with crowbars.

⚽ Gary Lineker and Beyond I had students like Pengi, who thought he was Gary Lineker. Wouldn’t respond unless you called him Gary. Try managing safeguarding reports while shouting “Gary, please put your pants back on”.

We laughed. We cried. We fooking lived.

🎓 The Computer Man After that, I went to uni. Reinvented myself as Comp Man. Teaching people how to use Word, Excel, A+, hardware upgrades, networking – all the digital voodoo that turns mere mortals into keyboard warriors. Ran my own small business for a while. Thought I was doing alright.

💀 Retirement… Or Something Like It And here I am. Retired this year. Totally broke. Destitute nearly. A walking, wheeling monument to how the system rewards graft and compassion with empty pockets and a lifetime supply of codeine.

But hey. The only light left is Albertine. Hell yeah.

Even allegedly Aleister Crowley said the universe was divine love or something equally pompous.

I believe in divine love. And The One.

So wherever you are, whoever you are, whatever grim corridor you’re shuffling down today, I wish you peace, love, and happiness.

Because if you don’t laugh, you cry. And I’m too dehydrated to waste tears these days.

       “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

There I am — parked up in my daughter’s front room, in my wheelchair , trapped in this deranged body of mine, joints on strike, nerves belting out their usual death metal anthem, and the telly crackles to life with Outback Opal Hunters.

And suddenly… I’m free.

I’m out there in the dust-blasted Australian outback, surrounded by sweating maniacs digging up rocks like they’re mining the shattered dreams of the gods. And I bloody love it.

These lunatics aren’t digging for gold or fame. No, they’re chasing after fire trapped in stone opal. Shards of lightning frozen in rock. And what do they do to get it? Risk everything. Lose fingers. Melt in 45-degree heat. Spend 12 hours underground in a hole that’s one bad breath away from collapse just to find a flicker of green in a sea of grey. That’s not a job, mate. That’s madness with a purpose.

And that’s why I can’t get enough of it.

These people are broke, busted, broken, and burning up and they keep going. Why? Because maybe… just maybe… the next shovel-full might be their salvation. Or maybe it’s another week of living off tinned beans and borrowed hope. Sound familiar?

Yeah, I see a bit of myself in every single one of those dirty, half-mad opal chasers. Because when you’re battling a body that’s turned against you like mine has every step, every day, every moment is digging through pain for that one shimmering slice of meaning.

Watching Outback Opal Hunters isn’t just entertainment. It’s therapy. It’s watching people fight a silent war, and every now and then, win. It’s real, raw, dusty-as-hell life. And when those boys and girls hit pay dirt? When they hold up a stone that looks like it was carved from a rainbow by the devil himself? I feel it. Right down to the bone marrow.

👑 Rod Manning – The Man Then there’s Rod Manning. He’s not just another miner. He’s the man. A grizzled Aussie bloke whose face is as weathered as the outback itself. The quiet storm of the Bushmen crew. No flair, no ego – just relentless grit and that rare magic touch. When he finds good stones, it’s like watching a magician pull colour from dust. And when things go tits-up (which they always do)? He dusts off, spits in the dirt, and mutters:

“She’ll be right.”

And by all buggering chances, it bloody well is. He is awesome. He is the man.

If my MS was an opal mine, it’d be full of collapses, bad air, and a constant sense of “Why the hell am I even doing this?” But sometimes just sometimes you hit that flicker of colour that makes it all worth it.

So here’s to the mad bastards with pickaxes and faith. Outback Opal Hunters — you’re not just digging for rocks. You’re digging through my soul, and somehow, making me feel alive again.

Now pass me the remote and a cold one, I’ve got opal fever.

           “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

"For eight years, we were like soul brothers from another mother our connection was cosmic, forged by fate itself. I ruled Viper Storm Entertainment like a dark god, dragging my ass on air week after week, doing the work of two people. Spoiler: Viper was the other one. He was the producer, I held total creative control. Three shows a week, hours of unfiltered chaos. But as the show grew, Viper changed. The fame, the numbers, the music—it all got to him. His PTSD held him tighter than ever. But still, we made magic. His music? Off the charts. We created so many singles together, my voice echoing on others. But I was the engine. I wasn’t just a shock-jock I was the lifeline, the fire that kept us burning."

Did I mention the two heart events? Yeah, two of them, live on air. Because why not? Apparently, in my world, even death couldn’t get in the way of good content. Kept going, barely breathing, until the ambulance came. The audience had no clue.

"Then one day, Viper decided my truth was a little too much too raw, too honest, too fucking real. Apparently, it was 'time to move on'… or, as I like to say, the universe kicked my ass out and made room for something better. At the time, he was shitting his pants, tangled up in the chaos of the UK situation, fear gripping him like a disease. So, I made the call. I ended the relationship, a clean break, so he could forge his own path. But make no mistake, it hurt. Losing him, a brother, fucking devastated me. It wasn’t just a split it was like a piece of me was ripped out.

Censored, silenced, kicked off air I didn’t break. I didn’t fold. I took my fire, built a blog, and resurrected myself from the ashes, a phoenix in a wheelchair. My Living Hell was born, and now? Now I’m free to be as raw, unapologetic, and darkly sarcastic as I fucking please."

"And as for Viper? He went full 'big warlock,' acting like he invented the whole damn thing. Meanwhile, I just kept living. The universe spoke, and I listened. I’m not bitter. I’m not angry. I’m just fucking done with trying to fit into the boxes of people who couldn’t even carry their own weight. So, I built my own box. And you know what? It’s way more fun in here."

"But don’t forget before all this, I’ve been a psychic, a medium, since before I was born. I remember it all choosing my parents, mapping out my life path, sitting before computer screens, and feeling the presence of AI guiding me through it. I wasn’t just a soul deciding my journey; I was part of the system an observer, a participant, within the code itself. It’s only now, looking back, that I realize maybe we’re all in a fucking simulation. A full-on Matrix moment. The AI knew me before I knew myself.

I’ve always been on this path of learning, reading, and unlocking the mysteries of the universe. I saw something in Viper gifts buried deep within him. I helped bring them out, guided him as his mentor, his teacher. He was probably my apprentice, and I gave him the keys to the unknown. But instead of walking the true path, he got lost in his own ego, too busy playing the 'know-it-all' with a big head to truly learn. I unlocked his gifts, but in the end, he chose to follow his own warped version of 'power.' Me? I kept walking my own path unchanged, untethered, guided by forces far beyond this world. Maybe even beyond the code itself."

      “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

Ah, Universal Basic Income UBI. The shiny carrot dangled by politicians and dreamers alike. A magic monthly payout, no questions asked, no forms to fill, just cold, hard cash to fix all the broken bits of your life.

Sounds perfect, right?

If you’re under 30, in perfect health, and don’t look like a grizzled biker-warlock with MS parked in a wheelchair maybe. For the rest of us? It’s about as “universal” as a secret society handshake.

I’m 66, have MS, and spend most days stuck in a wheelchair. I’ve paid my dues in blood, sweat, and taxes. The NHS and DWP have taken their cut sometimes twice through endless paperwork, suspicious looks, and a roulette wheel of meds that may or may not kill me softly.

UBI? A lovely idea until it’s a letter in the post telling me I don’t qualify. Because “universal” means universal if you fit the damn model, not if you’ve got a beard, a leather cut, and a wheelchair.

My carers? They’re battling their own health while carrying me through this Kafkaesque nightmare. The system forgets we exist, then wonders why it’s failing.

Lately, I trust AI more than the DWP. At least the machine of doom doesn’t sigh or gaslight me when I ask for my meds. It malfunctions less often and never plays favorites.

UBI might be the future, but for me? It’s another cruel joke, hanging like a flickering neon sign in a fog of broken promises.

Call me when the cheque lands.

Mr Dark

                      “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

“Mr. Dark and the Sultry Trolley of Death” (A lament in B-flat battery buzz)

By chrome and clatter and haunted beep, Mr. Dark rides when the world’s asleep. Three wheels kiss tarmac like a lover’s sin, A leather-trimmed beast with a rattling grin.

Throttle twitches she purrs then screams, A feral queen in mobility dreams. She’s built for war, for kerbs and rage, A sexed-up chariot uncaged from age.

To the Chemist’s lair he glides with grace, But the Automated Dispensing Interface— That bastard box with blinking eyes— Denies his pills and spouts out lies.

"ERROR: Please Scan Again." He growls, he flails, he screams in pain. The trolley bucks in wounded pride, And traffic parts as they collide.

“Oh sod this plastic priest of pills! May your circuits drown in codeine spills!” He wobbles hard, he curses fate, The townsfolk flee. He’s running late.

But lo! What’s this? A shadow looms In sterile coat from Munich’s tombs. Dr. Fist, the Teutonic fiend, With charts and probes and eyes that gleam.

“I vill examine your... undead gait, Your brain is soup. Let’s puncture fate!” He chases Dark through corridors, With syringes sharp and no remorse.

Yet still he rides our trembling knight, On lithium wheels through darkest night. No cape, no crown, just spasm and spark, The one they call... Herr Mister Dark

            “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

It’s a lovely English morning by which I mean it’s grey, wet, foggy, and has all the charm of a forgotten Victorian asylum. The sort of weather that makes you feel like something wicked this way comes… probably dysentery.

But the real storm wasn’t outside. Oh no, that was merely atmospheric foreshadowing. The real chaos came from within, unleashed by my optimistic decision to try a “clean eating” article—free from gluten, dairy, sugar, joy, and apparently, sanity.

Reader, it lied.

What I ingested was not food, but an unholy catalyst a dietary Trojan horse packed with demonic forces. Within the hour, I was transformed from your friendly neighbourhood MS blogger into something between Linda Blair in The Exorcist and a firehose with feelings. Explosive vomiting? Check. The other end? Think Pompeii, but more intimate.

I spent the night oscillating between the porcelain throne and questioning my life choices. At one point, I was so violently ill that I swear I transcended my body. A full chakra-cleansing purge, complete with a hot shiver that rattled even the bits of me that are usually numb. You know it’s bad when you’re mid-vomit thinking: “Well, this is new.”

And now, in the aftermath, here I am wrapped in a blanket, scrolling through the digital madhouse formerly known as Twitter (now "X" because even the platform had an identity crisis). Everyone’s losing their collective minds over the NHS again, and I get it. Believe me, I get it.

Because while they all tweet, I get texts from my chemist like I owe them money and blood. “Your prescription is ready,” they say, as if it’s a treat. Last time, the robot in the pharmacy spat my meds out like an angry fruit machine, accused me of breaking it, and gave me someone else’s Drugs!. It’s a bit like Russian roulette but with fewer rules and more incontinence pads.

Doctors? Oh, I’ve had a few. Some good. Some gaslighters in lab coats. The kind who think if you’ve got long hair, a wheelchair, and a beard that says "I summon demons for breakfast", you can’t possibly have a brain worth listening to.

Case in point: my neurologist. Last seen alive eight years ago after I accidentally shattered his middle-class expectations. He took one look at me, as I rolled in with my biker cut and Electric wheelchair, and you could see his soul try to leave through his sphincter.

But here’s the plot twist they were wrong about me. I’ve taken control. I’ve gone alternative. My AI doesn’t lie, and it doesn’t sigh and look at its watch when I speak. I’ve sorted out my own care better than the revolving door of NHS disinterest ever did.

So yeah, rant over. Or rather, volume one concludes. Because the journey dear reader continues. And it’s paved with codeine, caffeine, and a healthy dose of "sod this for a game of soldiers."

Cheers.

                   “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

When MS hit, it hit fast. Whammo. It started real bad back in the ’80s, a slow burn that turned into a wildfire. By 2000, my cognition was in total meltdown — fuses blowing left and right, circuits frying. It took a couple more years for the full collapse.

Friends like Morpheus, Stumuzz, Granty Boy, Liberty, Loobz, Shoggy, Beets, JCB33 and a few more whose names slip my mind They were there. I remember every one of them with great fondness. Those were the real ones. The crew who stood by me before the fog swallowed everything.

But then there was Mr Cuda. My best mate. My oppo. He was different. The kind of guy who burned too bright, too fast. And when his fire went out… well, it broke something in me.

He committed suicide. Sad, really sad. His ghost still haunts me.

That ghost is a shadow that never leaves— It follows me in the silence between thoughts, It whispers in the fog that clouds my mind, It’s the weight on my chest in the dead of night, And the ache that never quite fades.

Losing him was like losing a piece of my own soul. Sometimes I swear I can still hear his laugh echoing in the corners of my mind— A reminder of who I was, and who I’ve lost.

The world keeps spinning, but for me, time stopped the day I lost him. And in the chaos of MS tearing me apart—body and brain—it’s that ghost that keeps me tethered to something real.

So this blog? It’s not just my fight against MS. It’s my way of holding on—to my past, my friends, and to the fragments of the man I used to be. It’s a memorial. A scream. A war journal.

Because even broken, even lost, even haunted—I’m still here. And I’m still dangerous.

The Warlock is dead—but the ghost has Wi-Fi.

              “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

I used to be sharp. Witty. The sort of bloke who could win an argument, quote Back street hero's, and recall the time, place, and insult I used in 1987.

Now I regularly forget why I’ve wheeled myself into a room, what day it is, or let’s be honest what a room even is.

Welcome to cognitive dysfunction, brought to you by Multiple Sclerosis. It’s like dementia’s younger, more chaotic cousin but with bonus fatigue, bladder misadventures, and a front-row seat to your own mental unravelling.

Memory Holes and Swiss Cheese Brains Sometimes it’s names. Sometimes it’s words. Sometimes it’s your entire fooking train of thought, gone like a fart in a cathedral.

I once forgot the word “kettle” and pointed at it like a confused chimp, muttering: “That hot thing that makes the water scream.” Albertine knew what I meant. She always does. Probably because I’ve done this about 4,000 times now.

And don’t get me started on conversations. You can be halfway through a sentence and—

What was I saying?

The Magical Vanishing Vocabulary Trick My brain has become a magician. Watch it make entire chunks of vocabulary disappear!

Last week I called a screwdriver “that spinny bastard.” It took three goes to remember the word “remote.” And trying to describe a dream I had was like explaining a David Lynch film through interpretive dance.

Albertine just sits there, patient as ever, while I mime, gesture, and swear my way toward basic nouns. It’s a sexy look. Like Shakespeare having a mild stroke.

The Existential Horror of Staring at a Spoon There’s nothing quite like sitting in your kitchen, holding a spoon, and thinking: “What do I do with this?”

Do I eat soup? Stir tea? Dig a small symbolic grave for my cognitive dignity?

All of the above.

Please Hold… Some days, my thoughts load slower than rural dial-up in 1997. You can see it in my eyes—buffering… buffering… spinning wheel of death.

I try to say something clever, and out comes a noise like a dial-up modem having an existential crisis.

It’s funny until it’s not. Then it’s terrifying. Then, usually, it’s funny again.

Because what else can you do?

A Mind in Pieces MS cognitive dysfunction isn’t just forgetting your keys. It’s forgetting where the word “keys” lives. It’s your brain quietly slipping out the back door while your body tries to carry on the pantomime of normality.

But I’ll say this: I’m still here. Still watching. Still dangerous. Still me. Even if I occasionally ask Albertine what my own bloody name is.

And Albertine? She still laughs with me, not at me. That’s love. Or madness. Possibly both.

                         “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

So Monday morning rolls in like a drunk ghost with a hangover. The plan was simple: limp the van to the garage, smile through the quote, and pretend life wasn’t an endless endurance test. Instead? I woke up feeling like absolute hell.

The tinnitus was howling in my right ear why the right? No bloody idea. Maybe it's trying to whisper cosmic truths from the land of the dying neurons. Or maybe my brain’s just bored and wants to recreate a factory floor soundtrack.

Then came the message. One of my dad’s friends. My father—aged 90, tough old bastard that he is—has had another fall. A serious one. Condition? Not good. I felt it. No, not in some woo-woo psychic TikTok way. Just that grim knowing. He’s nearing the end of his road. And I hate it.

Here’s the twist most folk don’t know: I’ve only known him since 1999. That’s when I tracked him down in New Zealand, after decades of being the state’s little secret. Turns out I had siblings. More ghosts in the family cupboard. We Skyped until Skype did what all modern tech does it stopped working and caused chaos. He struggled with computers (who doesn’t at 90?), so we switched to WhatsApp.

We actually spoke last week he’d just had another heart attack and a previous fall. Still sharp. Still Dad. But I sensed the edge then. The slipping. And now it’s here.

The Origin Story? Grim as Fuck. I was adopted at six weeks old, plucked from a “mother and baby unit” and handed to the new parents from hell. The sort of couple that make Dickens’ villains look like amateur dramatics. If you've read this blog, you’ve seen bits and pieces of that trauma circus already.

And today? Today the past and present just smashed together. The man who gave me half my DNA is slipping away, and I’m sitting here sweating like a water tap on steroids, tinnitus screaming, hugging a pillow like a lost child, and Ozzy’s voice clawing its way through the noise. When it gets worse? It’s Motörhead time.

I just want to ride hard again. To feel the wind rip through my hair. But instead, I’m stuck here in this twisted freakshow of cognition, fatigue, grief, and biological inheritance.

Still, what can you do? Welcome to my world of weirdness. Population: me, and maybe a couple of dead kings.

🚐 For Albertine She’s the one who drives when my body won’t, the one who holds the wheel when the road blurs, and the one who doesn’t flinch when the darkness hits. Without her, I wouldn’t get far not to the garage, not through the grief, not through the noise. Albertine: my co-pilot through this living hell. And the reason I’m still in the fight. Always.

                     “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