battery life reality

⚠️ Please read with care: This blog shares personal, sometimes painful experiences. My intention is to support and speak honestly—not to harm. I’m not a professional, just someone who understands how hard it can get. If you're struggling, you're not alone—please reach out for help.

Friday afternoon. Chemist run? Missed it. Instead, I got hounded by the machine of ultimate dysfunction—a glorified vending machine for pharmaceuticals, wrapped in 1950s dystopia and powered by paranoia. It’s supposed to "help." What it actually does is make HAL from 2001 look like a friendly toaster. I call it The Ultimate Fail. Honestly, if it could cackle, it would.

But I couldn't face it. Not today. Not with the 3-Wheeled Trolley of Death waiting for me like some cracked-out shopping cart with a speed fetish and suicidal tendencies. That scooter’s cost me more in bloody batteries than I paid for the sodding thing. Bargain? More like financial sinkhole on wheels.

And my wheelchair? FUBAR. Been waiting over four months for a replacement because, of course, if you’re disabled, everything suddenly costs the same as a small warship. Ever tried buying disability aids without selling a kidney? Welcome to the club. Population: pissed off.

It’s the little things, isn't it? Like remembering Brian Trigg, Gallows Corner, Essex, 1970s. Snooker hall. Lost touch, but if you're out there mate, shout me back. Funny how names bubble up like spirits from the muck of memory.

Speaking of old spirits RIP Ozzy. A part of the Sabbath is gone. And Hulk Hogan too. Prefer the NWO version, personally. Darker. Grungier. Realer. The heroes of our youth are dying. We’re next, aren't we?

And the weekend? Oh, the glorious British weekend. Rainy misery incoming, plus I had half a mind to go to Plymouth me, my trolley of doom, and my degenerating sense of dignity. But sod that, the weather and my batteries are conspiring to assassinate my plans.

So yeah, chemist run tomorrow. Maybe. If I don’t die trying to cross the bloody road first.

Sometimes I look at myself and think, “Yeah, you need a bib now, mate.” I'm regressing. Dribbling. Slouching toward absurdity. No telly in 15 years. No papers in 30. Sanity? Optional.

Messy as fook. And then some.

I write in ink and fury, in breath and broken bone.
Through storm and silence, I survive. That is the crime and the miracle.

Well, we’re living in a totally insane world – that’s for sure. As an old mate of mine used to say back in the 70s… shout out to Mr Coxal (or however the hell you spell it). Oh yo! That was him as well. Dammit, I’m going off on a tangent again.

Anyway… today I went into debt. Yeah, had to make a decision. My wheelchair battery finally gave up the ghost. Cost me an eye-watering £400 – and that’s without the VAT. Quite a bitter little pill to swallow for something I rely on just to get from A to B.

The kicker? This chair’s only about three years old, if that, and already the battery’s decided life isn’t worth living. Guarantee? Worthless. Batteries seem to die whenever they bloody well please. Typical.

And let’s talk about battery life, shall we?

They sell you these chairs with a wink and a nod, telling you the battery will last “up to five years if you look after it.” Yeah, right. Reality check: these things die when they bloody well feel like it. Three years in, and mine decides it’s had enough of this mortal coil.

You do everything right – keep it charged, don’t drain it to death, store it warm, treat it like a newborn kitten – and still, one morning, nothing. It’s like it wakes up and goes, “Nah mate, I’m done. Roll yourself today.”

And of course, the guarantee never covers the battery, does it? Because batteries are ‘consumables’. Like a pack of biscuits or bog roll. Except this particular consumable costs £400 and without it, your life basically stops. It’s a bitter little taste of the freedom they pretend we have. Freedom to do what, exactly? Sit in one place, powered down, like an abandoned droid in a scrapyard.

And yes, you can buy a whole new chair for the price of a single battery. The maths of that is so insane it makes my head hurt. It’s like selling you a phone battery for £600 when the phone itself costs £550. Makes perfect sense, doesn’t it? Late-stage capitalism, mate. You couldn’t make this up.

So I’ve gone crawling to Amazon, tail between my wheels, and what do I see? An entire electric wheelchair for the same price as that single battery. Three-year guarantee included. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it.

But hey, I can’t sit around waiting for wheelchair services to pull their finger out. So thank you, Amazon… or hey Geoff, how about a discount while you’re at it? Cheers mate.

Yeah… I’ve gone into severe debt because of this battery. £400 I didn’t have, just to keep moving, just to keep living some kind of life. I know I’ll have to go without something else now. Food, bills, meds – who knows. It makes me fucking angry.

Angry that existing costs so much. Angry that they sell us broken promises and worthless guarantees. Angry that this system makes basic mobility feel like some luxury we’re not worthy of.

But I’ll keep rolling. Furious, broke, but rolling. Because giving up isn’t an option. But damn… it shouldn’t have to be like this.

Welcome to dystopia – sponsored by late-stage capitalism, dodgy guarantees, and batteries with the lifespan of a mayfly.

       “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 ✨🧌