sick

So I’ve been thinking — I know, shocking — but let's face it, MS really does blow chunks.

You walk into a doctor’s surgery, tell them what's going on, and they're glued to their computer screen like they're checking the footie scores or writing a memoir. You wait for the questions, but it’s just nodding. Half-arsed. Then they look up at you like you’re the inconvenience.

Let me paint the scene:

I rock up in my wheelchair, scraping the doorframe because apparently, accessibility is still a mythical concept in parts of the UK. It’s one of those surgeries that's older than most of the patients — falling apart, steeped in the smell of wet plaster and resignation. I apologise for the door. It's that bad.

I wheel in and the doc looks at me like I’ve just insulted his nan. I’ve found that neurologists in particular have a real flair for hating me — probably because I ask awkward questions that don’t come with a neat textbook answer. Their reaction? Condescension, mostly. “This is how you should feel,” they say. Oh, should I? How enlightening.

To be honest, I didn’t want to be there. Waste. Of. Time.

I’m sitting there trying not to blow a fuse while they judge me like I’m auditioning for Britain’s Got Neurological Issues. These days, though, I’m lucky. I moved. New docs. Better vibes. Now I hand over a list — symptoms, patterns, the works. I sit back and let them squirm.

Still, I suffer from white coat syndrome so I’m already stressed the moment I see the antiseptic blue of NHS decor. But hey, the list helps. Unless you get that one GP who glances at your entire medical history like it’s a Wikipedia article they can’t be arsed to read.

Everything, apparently, is caused by MS. I could sprout a second head and they’d say “Ah yes, classic MS.”

So what have I learned?

Being me — unapologetically, sarcastically, chronically ill me — is actually kinda liberating. I say it like it is (within reason… ish). I watch the world spin, watch my life fade out into this mad oblivion — and I keep fighting, whether it’s through brain fog, pain, or a poorly designed doorway.

I’m sick as fuck, but such is life. And I’ll keep going — until my last breath or brain cell. Whichever taps out first.

looking to buy a second hand q100 wheelcair or similar in the devon cornwall area as mine has gone completely to the breakers yard in the sky ... many thanks sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

          “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.”

"MS blows chunks. I keep fighting."

It was over 30 years ago — but this horror never really leaves you. Like an ex with teeth, it's always in the background. This is my catheter initiation, and yes, it’s every bit as bad as it sounds.

So, picture this: it's a hot, stressful afternoon. I'm self-employed, sweating it out, holding together life with string and sarcasm. Fast forward a few decades — now I languish on Universal Credit. MS (Multiple Sclerosis) does that. You ramble. You lose the thread. Your bladder decides it's not on your side anymore. And you get a visit from... The Bowel and Bladder Nurse™.

She came in like Judge Judy's meaner cousin. Silent, judging, late middle-aged, seen it all, smelled it all. I’m a tall bloke with tattoos, piercings — basically a walking episode of "What Not to Bring to Your Urology Appointment.” She didn’t like me. That was clear. It was mutual.

Fired questions at me like she was being timed by MI5. Eventually scanned my bladder and declared, “Go on, have a wee.”

Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever tried peeing on command under pressure — but it’s up there with defusing bombs. Naturally, nothing came. She looked disappointed, like I’d failed some secret test. Her solution?

Her solution? “You’ve not emptied. We’ll have to catheterise.”

She pulled out a tube — a foot-long medieval torture device. It looked like it came from the same catalogue as plumbing snakes. I looked at her. She looked at me. No gloves, no chat, no dinner first.

Panic. Stress. Dignity out the window. I insisted on doing it in private. She reluctantly agreed, still glaring like I’d stolen her cat. So into the lav I go. Now imagine pushing a thick plastic cable down the eye of your penis while sweating and crying inside. It didn’t just hurt — it screamed. Blood. Pain. Liquid betrayal. I returned to her like a war veteran holding the remains of my soul.

“Oh,” she says. “Wrong catheter. You’ve got an enlarged prostate. Should’ve been a curved one. That size’s a bit thick.” Cheers for the heads-up. You couldn’t have led with that?

(For the record — I used THC/CBD oil, prostate back to normal. Do your own research, obviously. Not medical advice, just bitter experience.)

I never went back to her. But years later… the next nurse made her look like Mother Teresa. That, my friends, is a story for another post.

looking to buy a second hand q100 wheelcair or similar in the devon cornwall area as mine has gone completely to the breakers yard in the sky ... many thanks sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

            “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.”

In the season they call SAD, when the clouds refuse to blink, And rain is just sky sweat with delusions of grandeur, She came like a banshee on a Bonneville, Tyres hissing spells in the petrol dusk— A woman? No. A prophecy in leather and eyeliner, Named Albertine, Long-suffering wife of Death himself, Who sulks in a wheelchair and smokes cloves ironically.

Her hair: a demi-wave abyss. Her smile: pure tarot seduction, One glance and even the moon blushed, Then wept behind cirrostratus shame.

Oh, Albertine! You ride like prophecy, Read palms with a sneer, And throw cards with such venom They hit truths no therapy ever could.

She is palmist, astrologer, Tarot priestess of all things doomed, With a Motorhead patch sewn onto her soul And eyeliner sharp enough to open portals.

By her side, in his wheeled throne of bone, Death groans through another solstice, Wearing a “Don’t Talk To Me I’m Mourning” T-shirt. She calls him Mad Moon Ms. in public. He hates it. We love her more.

They arrive at Ritual Panic, That sacred sabbat of forgetting where you put the damn wand. She lights incense that smells like resentment and rosemary. He levitates just to show off. She tells your future with a flick of the wrist And a voice that sounds like bourbon-soaked prophecy:

“You’ll fall in love with a ghost and regret everything but the kissing.”

Full Moon Tantrum follows, When the skies go hormonal And witches cry glitter. She dances. Oh gods, she dances. The kind of dance that ends marriages and starts cults.

You ask,

“Albertine, are you a goddess?” And she just laughs, Blows smoke in your face, And says, “No love. I’m worse. I’m aware.”

Post-Script from Death (dictated, not written): “If you see her again, run. She’ll read your birth chart, your palm, your doom, and your libido. She’ll burn through your soul like it’s a sage bundle on discount. But gods... what a sexy ass.”

looking to buy a second hand q100 wheelcair or similar in the devon cornwall area as mine has gone completely to the breakers yard in the sky ... many thanks sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

          “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.”

Let’s face it: the original Wheel of the Year is lovely and all, but it never quite captured the true essence of seasonal British existence—grey skies, passive-aggressive weather, and the looming existential dread of another trip around the sun.

So I’ve created My Wheel of the Year, reimagined with all the grim hilarity and dark sarcasm you’ve come to expect. No fluffy bunnies or overenthusiastic flower crowns here. Just raw, seasonal truths filtered through a bottle of gin and a Spotify playlist called “Witchy Vibes & Regret.”

The Sabbaths (or, “How I Learned to Hate the Sun”) January – “The Month of Lies” New Year, New You? Please. You’re still eating Christmas chocolates in your dressing gown and pretending it’s meal prep. This is not a fresh start—it’s an overhyped Monday with fireworks.

February – “Cupid’s Fever Dream” Valentine’s? More like Singles Awareness Month. Light a red candle, write your ex’s name backwards, and curse the Hallmark industry. Repeat while crying into heart-shaped pizza.

March – “Spring Tease” The equinox allegedly brings balance. Lies. It’s still raining sideways, your SAD lamp’s judging you, and you’re debating hexing the weather gods.

April – “The Festival of Allergy” You awaken the land, and in return, it fills your sinuses with tree sperm. Bless the earth with antihistamines and sarcasm.

May – “Beltane Burnout” Fire festivals? Yes. Bonfires of all your ambitions, mostly. Frolic responsibly, with one eye on the bail money.

June – “Solstice of Delusion” The longest day of the year—and somehow, it’s still overcast. Celebrate the triumph of light with SPF 50, rain boots, and an existential scream into the hedge.

August – “Lammas of Regret” The harvest begins. You reap what you sow. Which, let’s be honest, was mostly anxiety, bad decisions, and a dying houseplant.

October – “Samhain or Bust” Ah, spooky season. Finally, an aesthetic you relate to. Dead leaves, dead people, dead hopes. Light your candles, talk to ghosts, avoid your family.

December – “Yule Fuel” Pagan Christmas before it was cool. Stockpile mead, fake joy, and ritual candles like it’s the apocalypse. Because, let’s face it, it probably is.

In Conclusion: Spiritual? Yes. Cynical? Absolutely. This is a wheel that turns not with divine grace but with the sarcastic grinding of a society clinging to ritual and wine in equal measure. Join me. Or don’t. Time is a flat circle and I’m late anyway.

        "SAD Season," "Ritual Panic," "Full Moon Tantrum"

🧌 @goblinbloggeruk — Witchy, Weird, and Just a Bit Unstable 🔮 Read the blog, question your life.

looking to buy a second hand q100 wheelcair or similar in the devon cornwall area as mine has gone completely to the breakers yard in the sky ... many thanks sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

         “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.”

It’s funny, isn’t it? You’re in a room with one other person. Just the two of you. You speak. Your mouth moves. Actual words come out. But somehow… nothing lands. It's like you're a ghost, a passing breeze, or worse — background noise to someone else's ego monologue.

Welcome to my reality: Selective bloody hearing.

Let me paint the scene. You're fighting off a brutal illness, spasms hit like a freight train, your brain fogs up like a broken kettle left out in the English drizzle, and then comes the cherry on top — people don’t listen. Not can’t. Won’t. They avert their eyes, mumble condescending clichés, or — the fan favourite — promise they’ll “call you soon.” (Spoiler: they won’t.)

Is it the wheelchair? The drooping face? The occasional dribble? Or do they just prefer their disabled friends silent, motionless, and conveniently non-existent?

Maybe They’re Just Uncomfortable? Oh yes. Heaven forbid they feel awkward while you’re being eaten alive by something terminal and nightmarish.

I started calling them out. Can you imagine the chaos? Apparently, honesty from the terminally ill is too real. It makes dinner parties awkward. And honestly, I’m well past the point of caring. If I’m going to be ignored, I might as well scream in Black Sabbath and let Ozzy do the talking.

Paranoid? Nah. At first, I thought maybe it was just me. A bad day. A misread signal. But no. There’s a pattern. The looks. The empty promises. The slow fade-outs. The way friends evaporate like cheap aftershave. You become a "thing," a problem they can't fix and don't want to look at. I didn’t ask to be a medical freakshow — but here I am, feeling like the last carnie in a ghost-town circus.

It's Raining, I'm Buzzing Brain fog is a beast. Been digging into DNA research (who was I before this monster arrived?), but my head’s a bag of wet socks lately. Tingling lips. Numb tongue. Probably allergic to the air again. And that damn straw — it always goes missing, like some household Bermuda Triangle.

Wrestling Is My Religion Say what you want — yes, it’s “fake” — but pro wrestling is realer than most people I know. There’s truth in the ring. Pain. Theatre. Keyfabe. Art. The ghosts of the squared circle still dance under the spotlights in my head. And let’s be honest, “Real life is fake. Wrestling is real.” That’s my gospel. That’s truth.

📢 Follow me on X/Twitter: 💀 “If you like your humour dark and your truth darker, come hang out with a chronically ill goblin on a ranting mission of mayhem. Pro wrestling, spirituality, weirdness,disability, sarcasm, and survival served raw.”

🧠 @GoblinBloggerUK 📍 Because somebody's got to say it...

              “REALITY IS FAKE. WRESTLING IS REAL.”
                            — @GoblinBloggerUK

looking to buy a second hand q100 wheelcair or similar in the devon cornwall area as mine has gone completely to the breakers yard in the sky ... many thanks sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

         “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.”

So I’ve been digging through the digital attic of my mind—aka my ancient text files—and it turns out I’ve been documenting my strange little existence for quite some time. Lucky you.

Expect a handful of funny, weird, and possibly unhinged blog posts coming soon. There's going to be everything: chronic illness, unbearable despair, overcoming adversity, and that one time I almost became just another gravestone in the plague pit thanks to a brush with COVID.

Spoiler: I survived. Obviously.

Now, I don’t like to brag (I love to brag), but MS has never managed to take me down. I’ve clawed, dragged, and side-eyed my way through everything life has lobbed at me. From the murky dungeons of fatigue to the unholy bureaucracy of the NHS, I’ve stood tall (ish) and refused to go quietly.

Then COVID showed up. It was hell. And not the “bad curry” kind. The “gasping for air, praying to every god you don’t believe in” kind. I was this close to joining the worm buffet.

But I fought back with what I like to call Kitchen Alchemy and Sheer Bloody-Mindedness.

Trusty onion – peeled like a warrior's weapon. Ever smelled like a casserole while crying? That's strength.

Colloidal silver – controversial, yes, but so am I.

Vitamin C and D – so much C I nearly pooed myself into another dimension. Worth it.

Ginger shots – made me feel alive and like I was being punched in the throat.

Turmeric, black pepper, and coconut oil – aka The Golden Bullet. Sounds like a mystical remedy, tastes like regret.

But I made it. Again. Because the moral of my life is simple: never underestimate someone who’s already been to hell and keeps receipts.

More soon. Possibly with more onions. And fewer near-death experiences.

looking to buy a second hand q100 wheelcair or similar in the devon cornwall area as mine has gone completely to the breakers yard in the sky ... many thanks sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

         “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.”

Monday morning. Staring out the window, I thought “It’s not that bad out there.” And then I remembered: it’s hot. Not just "nice weather" hot — it’s "sweaty in places you didn’t know could sweat" hot.

But I had to go to the chemist. Because of course I did.

Now, a trip to the chemist isn’t a charming little jaunt through town. No, it’s a full-blown episode of chaos, like being dropped into a live-action version of a supermarket sweep hosted by Satan. I sighed, gritted my teeth, and retrieved the “Trolley of Doom” from the back of the van — my noble steed for the day. By steed, I mean the three-wheeled scooter of questionable engineering and malevolent intent.

I trundled along from the car park into town, trying not to run over children or pensioners, and that’s when it happened: the dreaded squeaky wheel. The kind of squeak that turns heads and makes dogs bark. I was now the main attraction in this circus.

Stopped in a shop. Bought a hat. Why? Who knows. A Bart Simpson brain-fart moment, probably. Sat down. Wanted to go back. But no — the mission had only just begun.

Scooter Olympics: Downhill Edition Then it happened. The scooter hit the steep part of town. The brakes? Decorative. I went full Bond villain escape mode, teetering on two wheels, praying to every minor deity I could think of. Somehow avoided launching myself into oncoming traffic — gold star for me.

After regaining what’s left of my composure and dignity, I attempted to return to the van. Easy, right? Wrong.

At the bottom of the hill, my scooter did a dramatic “Nope” and refused to climb back up. Wheel spin. No traction. I was now the proud pilot of a large, expensive, stuck plastic tricycle. Put my full weight over the front to force traction. Eventually made it. No applause.

Still Waiting for My Ticket to Freedom Six months I’ve been waiting for a new electric wheelchair. Six. I might as well carve days into the wall at this point. The current beast I’m riding is like a vengeful mobility ghost. I do own another chair — but replacing the battery costs roughly the same as a small car. Conveniently, no one tells you these things until you’re already deep in the system.

I just want a Q100. Nothing fancy. Simple. Effective. But no — I’ll probably be given another oversized monstrosity that corners like a barge and eats doorframes for fun.

Bonus Round: The Curse of the Mower Got home. Sat down. Exhaled.

Then I looked at the garden.

The lawnmower is dead. Not used, not abused, just dead. It’s just there, glaring at me like a green-flecked tombstone. So now we need a new one. Again.

Me? I vote for artificial grass. No mowing, no weed-whacking, no broken machinery. No soul either, but I can live with that.

And the kicker? It’s only midday.

My speech-to-text software has also decided to have an existential crisis — typing gibberish like it’s been drinking all morning.

looking to buy a second hand q100 wheelcair or similar in the devon cornwall area as mine has gone completely to the breakers yard in the sky ... many thanks sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

         “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.”

Well, it seems the annual hayfever apocalypse is upon us. Hooray. Yes, I’m now on three antihistamines a day (or however one spells it—frankly, the packaging is too blurry through the eye-itch haze to tell). My eyes currently feel like they’ve been rubbed with Sahara sand and rage. They itch. They burn. They are deeply offended.

As if that weren’t spiritually enlightening enough, apparently we’re also entering a solar storm spiral of doom. Some sort of sunspot nonsense for the next two days. Space people says "all hell could break loose." I say, bring it—what’s one more intergalactic inconvenience when your nervous system is already hosting a personal light show?

Speaking of which—hello, tinnitus, old friend. Oh, and welcome back, numbness on the left side. My hand’s gone stupid again, as if it’s auditioning for a B-movie about haunted limbs. Meanwhile, I continue to dribble down aloe drinks like some sort of spiritual juicing monk, in the vague hope it helps something. Anything.

Apparently Monday brings better weather. Brilliant! Time to roll out the Wheelchair of Death™ and hunt down some "fresh air" (or at least a breeze not laced with pollen and doom). Provided it’s not raining. Or boiling. Or both.

Today was a weird one. I actually managed to get loads done on this blog. Going forward, I’ll be writing more about strange bits of my past, and of course, the winding, faltering path of my MS journey—as it meanders toward the inevitable: death. Or as I prefer to call it, a return to the Source, the Creator, the Great Mystery.

As above, so below. As below, so above. The Emerald Tablet said it best. We are stardust, spirit, and sarcasm walking each other home. Through numb hands and dusty eyeballs. Still, I smile. Because blogging makes me weirdly happy. It helps give meaning to all that’s been lost.And so, along this road—I tread.

looking to buy a second hand q100 wheelcair or similar in the devon cornwall area as mine has gone completely to the breakers yard in the sky ... many thanks sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

        “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 Stumbles onto X (Because apparently living with MS wasn’t hard enough without Elon’s algorithms) Right then. Let’s get this out of the way: We’re on X. Twitter. Whatever dystopian rebrand it’s hiding behind now.

After a minor battle with verification, vanishing posts, and the creeping suspicion that this platform doesn’t like disabled, outspoken spiritual types... we’re still here. Because giving up isn’t really an option when your entire existence already feels like a test of cosmic patience.

This blog — My Living Hell: Multiple Sclerosis — isn’t for the faint of heart. It’s for those of us navigating chronic illness with brain fog, nerve pain, and the quiet rage of someone who’s been told to “try yoga” one too many times.

We don’t sugar-coat. We don’t do toxic positivity. We do truth, grit, spiritual resilience, and a hefty dose of sarcasm — often from a bed-fort with a heated blanket and a cat judging us from the pillow.

So if you’ve ever felt invisible, exhausted, or like your soul is screaming in a language no one hears — welcome home.

🔗 Read the latest: The Fizzy Girl’s Lost Milk Stand Spellbook (A spiritual guide for surviving MS with sass, soul, and no apologies.) The Fizzy Girl’s Lost Milk Stand Spellbook

looking to buy a second hand q100 wheelcair or similar in the devon cornwall area as mine has gone completely to the breakers yard in the sky ... many thanks sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

          “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.”

Dedicated to the quietly powerful, the fiercely intelligent, and the deeply spiritual souls navigating chronic illness with grit, grace, and a middle finger always charged.

There’s a kind of magic reserved for those who walk through fire daily — the ones living in the shadows of chronic pain, yet refusing to be defined by it. This is for the women who ride invisible engines through invisible battles, who carry storms in their veins but speak with soft fire.

Welcome to The Fizzy Girl’s Lost Milk Stand Spellbook — part grimoire, part rebellion. A collection of raw spells, rituals, and sharp-witted curses for living with Multiple Sclerosis (MS) — from the soul of a spiritual outlaw, with sass, depth, and zero apologies.

This isn’t about wellness wrapped in pastel lies. This is about owning your journey, commanding chaos, and turning pain into power.

✦ Spell One: The Banishing of Bullshit For when ableist optimism and unsolicited advice cross your path.

Ingredients:

One black candle (or any tea light that’s been through hell and back)

Salt, preferably from your own tears

An old NHS letter (burn it if your soul says “yes”)

A fully charged middle finger

Incantation: “By the prickle in my spine, by the twitching of my toes, Let your nonsense turn to silence, may your wellness wisdom decompose. I walk a twisted path and know my pain, So shove your yoga plan right up your brain.”

✦ Spell Two: The Ritual of Slightly Less Misery For days when the pain won't loosen its grip, but neither will you.

Requirements:

A bed-fort of doom pillows

Microwaved heat pad, warmed with the quiet rage of a thousand midnight rides

A mug of something hot and angry

Cat (optional, but spiritually advised)

Playlist of thunder, witches, or doom metal

Chant: “May the storm outside match the one in me, But may it pass with mercy and one good pee. Spasms, settle. Thoughts, uncoil. I soak in stillness, wrapped in foil.”

✦ Spell Three: Invisibility to Muggles When you just need the world to back off and shut up.

Steps:

Cloak yourself in black layers — armor against clueless questions

Wear your walking aids like the badass medals they are

Spray perfume with a whisper of danger and “don’t ask”

Whisper under your breath:

“Ignore me. Avoid me. Don’t you dare ask, ‘What’s wrong with you?’ I’m wearing my mask. I am a fog in the shape of a witch, Try me, Karen. I bite — and I twitch.”

✦ A Final Word This spellbook isn’t about curing the incurable — it’s about reclaiming power in a body that doesn’t always obey. It's a sacred, snarky, soulful grimoire for the ones who walk with fire in their bones, love in their hearts, and rebellion in their blood.

Fizzy Girl is my sexy, beautiful wife — a wild outlaw biker witch who laughs in the face of limitation. I’m a warlock forged by shadow and fire, and I ride beside her in my three-wheeled electric chair of doom — chrome-clad, spell-fueled, and built for storm-chasing.

Together, we defy the rules. Together, we ride magic into the storm.

looking to buy a second hand q100 wheelcair or similar in the devon cornwall area as mine has gone completely to the breakers yard in the sky ... many thanks sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

       “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.”