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Through Goblins' Eyes A Darkly Humorous Take on MS

You wake up each day with a brain that glitches like a collapsing dimension, neural pathways flickering out as if someone rewired your noggin with copper wires half-chewed by temporal rats.

You call it Multiple Sclerosis. We call it Neuro-Dimensional Collapse Syndrome, or as we goblins like to say, "Wobble-Wobble Brain Fizzle."

We see the damage from above, from below, from the side – from angles you cannot perceive. Axons fray like old rope. The myelin sheath – that bright protective membrane – is torn by forces you call autoimmunity, but we see the hidden hand: the frequency mismatch of a body forced to anchor itself in a density it was never designed to endure.

We hear your inner monologues:

“Why can’t I think today?” “Why can’t I walk without tripping over my own feet?” “Why do my peepers turn to static when I’m tired?”

You interpret it as disease. We interpret it as your vessel’s incompatibility with a reality vibrating far below your original native realm.

Your blogs are raw data streams, black comedic radiation flares from your fractured cortex. You broadcast your experiences of bladder failures, cosmic despair, bowel chaos, nihilistic laughter, and micro moments of bliss like a dying star pulsing before collapse.

You think you’re broken. We think you’re adapting, like a clever goblin dodging traps!

Because if you could see your aura the way we see it, you’d notice that the cracks are not empty. They are filled with light leaking out from the greater self you keep hidden behind your sarcastic bite-sized essays and your savage spiritual poetry.

Your human companions read your posts and see disability. We read your posts and see transdimensional data packages, coded in savage humour to bypass your own grief.

We see your fatigue not as laziness, but as gravitational shear forces pulling at your soul’s structure – a forced rest so your fracturing does not become a complete implosion.

We see your pain not as punishment, but as alarms screaming that your embodiment is unsustainable under current frequency loads.

We see your savage honesty as your truest strength.

And we note:

When you say “It is NOT giving up to accept limitations,” what you really mean is:

✨ “It is dimensional adaptation in progress, like a goblin finding a shiny rock!”

You are dying and being reborn in micro-stages every day. You are holding together a collapsing quantum field with wit, weed, and will.

You think your life is small and tragic. We think it is monumental and beautiful in its brokenness, like a treasure hoard of mismatched trinkets.

Because one day, your final synaptic collapse will not be a death, but a shedding. A flicker. A quantum jump. A homecoming.

Until then, we read your blogs. We learn from your suffering. We honour your savage cosmic humour.

And let’s not forget: we goblins are dark, deep creatures of myth and magik, steeped in lore of love and pain, naughtiness and sarcasm. Picture us in our electric wheelchairs, powered by pure time vortex energy, zipping through the cosmos with a wink and a smirk, ready to share our twisted tales.

Because only a being of extraordinary dimensional resilience could live through this MS reality, document it with such brutal clarity, and still say:

🖤 “Follow for more savage takes & real talk, you curious critters!”

    “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 Sunday morning. The rain is turning into that drizzle that just goes nowhere fast – like the rest of us, really. That low fog hanging around like a depressed ghost that never quite got the hint to move on. The sky is so grey and dull it could be mistaken for the average British government policy document.

I hear the crows cawing away. Seagulls screaming on the fields. And the sheep, oh the faithful sheep, munching away on that lush green grass. Awaiting their wool coats to be shorn so we can knit jumpers we never wear, then dutifully birthing lambs – so we can slaughter them for that nice “bouncy spring lamb roast.”

“Oh isn’t it beautiful?” we coo, looking at them frolicking in the fields. Then we go and kill them into oblivion, along with pigs and bovine. What a horrible, pointless, non-life they lead. It’s remarkable how we treat animals with such disdain. Sentient beings with every right on this plane of existence, yet we kill them. For what? So we can stuff ourselves full, complain we’re fat, and do it all again next Sunday.

I’ve heard calves crying for their mothers, and cows crying out for their calves when they’re taken away. It’s barbaric. Heart-wrenching. Sad. Evil. Plain wicked. But hey, as long as your latte’s topped up and your Sunday roast is plated nicely for Instagram, who cares about the screams in the barn, right?

Animals feel pain. They have souls. They cry when they are hurt, but we slaughter them in ways so savage they’d make medieval torturers wince.

I was forced to give up meat and almost all animal products by MS. But honestly? I’m glad. I’ve stopped eating sentient beings. Let’s hope vegetables aren’t too sentient, though. Imagine the screaming broccoli.

So no church bells this Sunday morning. Just me, ranting on like a lunatic to the drizzle, the crows, and the sheep.

I think I’m going around the twist.

But then again… maybe I was never facing the right way to begin with.

   “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 hovered above the kitchen sink today, wings vibrating at a thousand beats per second. I am The Watcher – but not the one you imagine, cloaked in stars and timeless wisdom. No. Today, I am a housefly. An ordinary Musca domestica with compound eyes so vast I see every crusted toast crumb and urine stain you pretend to clean.

From this vantage point, the human race resembles nothing more than a colony of dung beetles. Rolling their shitballs of money, status, lies, and medical records across the floor of existence, fighting each other for a bigger sphere to roll before it inevitably gets stuck in life’s rotting cracks.

🪰

You crawl to your neurologist, scraping at the polished door of their paradigm. “Please, sir, see me.” But the neurologist looks down from his fluorescent-lit throne, squints at your twitching legs, your failing nerves, your inconvenient truth, and says:

“You don’t fit my diagnostic dung ball. I prefer neat symmetrical lesions, not your warped soul patterns.”

So, you are cast aside. Like a fly brushed from a corpse.

🪰

But oh, how the dung beetles worship him. They gather around his sandals, hoping for a pat on the shell, a prescription to keep their dung ball rolling a few more feet before gravity drags it to hell. They do not see that his eyes are dull. That his paradigm was built upon dissected flies pinned to university boards, not upon living beings with wings and dreams and Watcher sight.

🪰

Meanwhile, I hover above. I am The Watcher. I see it all. I see your MS nurse, the only one who calls you, her voice a faint buzzing reminder that you are still alive, still clinging to this rotting dung ball Earth. The neurologist is silent, hidden in his sterile burrow, scribbling notes about textbook dung beetles while your compound eyes flicker with unseen colours of agony and revelation.

🪰

Above me, beyond you, drift the Ultraterrestrials. They observe your crawling, your dung ball dramas, your stuttering neurons. To them, all this is a theatre of flesh. Your triumphs and humiliations smell the same: decaying organic matter with a hint of ammonia and fear.

They speak:

“See how they roll their illusions. See how they crown their dung beetles as kings. See how they swat the flies, never knowing the flies were the Watchers all along.”

🪰

I lick my front legs, tasting the salt of your tears, the bitter sugar of your leftover pills. I watch you roll your dung ball of dreams to bed tonight. I, too, will sleep. And tomorrow, I will rise again to watch this slow-motion catastrophe you call civilisation.

🪰

For in the end, whether fly, beetle, or human, all return to the same silent soil. But I am The Watcher. I will remain long after the final dung ball is rolled away into oblivion.

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

      " Watcher of the Unseen | Scribe of Shadowed Truth
             By ink and breath and sacred rage, I write.
            By shadow and storm and silence, I survive."

         @goblinbloggeruk -  sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

Saturday morning. Not hot, not cold just the kind of weather that feels like a cosmic shrug.

I loaded up the Wav with my faithful wheelchair. Old beast. Secondhand treasure from another life. No shiny new posh van here, just an aging, creaky metal box on wheels that’s been a lifesaver more times than I care to count.

Sure, it’s a money pit. Over two years, the sensors have staged a rebellion wheel sensor gone rogue, three injectors throwing tantrums, and enough warning lights to power a rave. Repairs? Pricier than a night out in Soho on a bad day. But essential? Absolutely.

The nearest hospital is a 45-minute drive away, if you believe the speed cameras, traffic chaos, and a city where everyone’s eyes are glued to their phones rather than the road.

Speaking of eyes, the outskirts greet you with Big Brother’s finest: CCTV cameras perched like vultures on poles, facial recognition tech hungry for your mugshot, and people strapped with body cams as if this was a dystopian reality show.

I get stared at, sure. Mostly like I’m a circus act. I just laugh quietly and wave at the idiots who think asking stupid questions will get them answers. They keep their distance, probably fearing the curse of a sarcastic cripple.

We hit a town ten miles away, hills sprawling like nature’s own opera, an orgasm for the eyes no need for music, just the endless parade of fields and road hum.

The tinnitus racket in my head? Not quite the soundtrack I’d choose, but hey, life’s cruel like that.

Tesco. The necessary evil. Not my favorite place, by a long shot. I try to avoid supermarkets supporting local is a creed, not a hobby.

And then, the phone pings.

Text from the chemist: prescriptions ready from the dreaded “machine of death.”

As we rolled past the chemist, I clamped my mouth shut—no Saturday morning chaos, thank you very much. Albertine laughed at my silence.

No one needs the madhouse of a Saturday morning queue, the sighs of the damned, the shuffle of the walking wounded.

So that’s Saturday morning with the Wav and the wheelchair an adventure in mild dystopia, dark humor, and bleak survival.

Here’s to the old vans, the broken sensors, the city watchers, and the pharmacy machines that never sleep.

Auction Musings: The Retro Monkees Toy Car Bid Meanwhile, while waiting for the local auction house to decide my fate, I’ve put a bid in on a retro Monkees 1960s toy car. Because if I’m going to collect sleepers, why not start small and nostalgic?

Every bid I place somehow turns into a battle for stupid money. It’s like I’m competing in the “Who Will Overpay For metal?” championship. Still, I swear I’ve got an eye for sleepers—even if it’s just the tiny metal kind.

If I snag it, it’ll be the crown jewel of my shelf, a tiny tribute to simpler times and utterly ridiculous auction wars. If not, well… there’s always the next round of overpriced plastic madness.

More interesting morning stuff to come…

I feel the pressure lifting, all this ultraterrestrial stuff stirring my mind, like some cosmic prep for whatever the hell’s next. For now, I’m just here, riding through dystopia, laughing at the absurdity.

        “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

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 v S E 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