bladder

Stuck in this godforsaken dark room, Eyes screaming like they’ve been sprayed with bleach, Hands twitching like malfunctioning Tesco self-checkouts, My body shaking like it’s front row at a Motorhead concert – Head banging into oblivion, Neck snapping in rhythm with the pain That torments my poor sorry soul.

Electric shocks crawl up my spine, Lightning bolts cracking down into my doom pit, My despair echoing like a pensioner’s cough in an empty bingo hall, Tinnitus whistles through my skull – Steam trains rampaging through The fragile tunnels of what remains of my brain.

Vision fractures. Darkness descends. I lay there convulsing like a broken Tesco rotisserie chicken, Limbs flailing in demon possession, Shorts soaked in sweat and piss, The air thick with the pungent green stench – A Liam fart that could evacuate a small village.

And there it is. The demon weed wacker Spinning around and around in my skull, Shredding what’s left of me Into salad garnish for hell’s buffet table.

But deeper still it drags me – Past the pain into that hollow silent place Where blackness becomes the teacher, Shaking becomes the prayer, And decay becomes the doorway To glimpse whatever comes next.

This is the jida journey, mate – The demon your mirror, The weed wacker your unholy crown, Doom your disciple, Despair your only true devotion.

Here in the dark room, Spirit fractures, Mind collapses, Soul endures – And I become the darkness itself.

🩸 “My brain feels like a demon weed wacker is shredding it into salad garnish for hell’s buffet table.”

🩸 “Convulsing in piss-soaked shorts, I met the darkness and it called me home.”

🩸 “This is not poetry. This is survival with a sarcastic scream.”

🩸 “The tinnitus steam trains whistle through my skull tunnels all night long.”

🩸 “Pain is my ritual. Shaking is my prayer. Darkness is my god.”

🩸 “British humour, demon weed wackers, piss, and doom. Welcome to my living hell.”

🩸 “Sometimes I wonder if Motorhead is playing a secret gig in my spine.”

🩸 “The demon weed wacker spins. My soul is shredded. It’s a vibe.”

🩸 “Darkness teaches me what light never could.”

🩸 “My suffering is not beautiful. But it’s real.”

       “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 ✨🧌

🖤 Brutally honest. Darkly hilarious. Another night, another spectacular symphony of spasms and piss. Didn’t even eat jam—so no excuses. Still ended up piddling all night. Up at 4 a.m., and that’s it. Done. Might as well accept it: I live on four hours of sleep and pure defiance now.

My bladder? It’s got its own postcode and personality. I can’t even wheel past a bloody tap without it throwing a tantrum. The sound of water? Instant dribble. It's never a full empty either—just a cheeky squirt, like it’s laughing at me from the inside.

Forget catheters. I invented my own fix. Because willy pipe of doom? Not a chance. I like my manhood unperforated, thank you very much.

And then there’s the daemon bum. Thanks to numb fingers, wiping is like blindfolded surgery with oven mitts. Too soft? Still dirty. Too hard? Hello blood. Throw in a bout of dehydration, and now we’re in full bowel battleground mode. Constipation? Got a hack for that—but it’s borderline medieval.

Oh, food. Where do we start? I’m allergic to everything. Meat, fish, animal fat, most veg. Yes, vegetables. I can’t even eat like a rabbit. Instead, I lurk near the kitchen extractor fan while bacon fries, sniffing fat molecules like some kind of culinary pervert. Minutes later—BOOM. To the loo. Escape velocity.

Let’s add the pain, shall we? Neck, back, gut, everywhere. MS is giving me a right walloping. Pins and needles across arms, legs, face. Tinnitus screeching in my skull like a broken fire alarm. And today? Extra loud. Extra lovely.

Stress level: 9.7 on the “Why am I not screaming?” scale.

Time to hit the THC-CBD oil and vape some Mary Jane to calm the chaos. Not because it’s edgy—because it works. Better than half the legal shit they try to hand out like sweets.

Outside? Dark clouds. Inside? Just me, my squeaky-wheeled trolley (cheers, WD-40, made it worse), and a nervous bladder ready to pounce.

Still here. Still wheeling. Still laughing at the madness. What else can you do?

          “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 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.”

Good afternoon from the disaster zone formerly known as my neck.

Yes, today started with that familiar electrical storm in the spine — lightning bolts of agony shooting through my vertebrae like Zeus on a three-day bender. Can’t look up, can’t look down, can’t look sideways. My neck has all the flexibility of a rusted garden gate. I must look like one of those haunted portrait paintings that just follows you with its eyes, because that’s all that bloody moves — the eyes. Stiff as a Victorian corpse and twice as charming.

And then there's the tingling. Lips? Tingle. Hands? Tingle. Feet? You guessed it — tingle. Like my whole body's been plugged into a cheap fairy light circuit from Poundland. If this is what becoming bionic feels like, I want a bloody refund.

Sleep? Oh, sleep was a laugh riot. I spent the night spasming like a haunted marionette and woke up every two hours for a command performance in the Great Lavatory Tour of 2025. I swear, I don't drink after 6pm, yet I’m peeing like a champion racehorse on a hydration binge. It’s like my kidneys are in training for a relay race. Every two hours, like clockwork — up, shuffle, sit, curse, flush. Repeat. Lavatory luxury, five stars. Soft toilet roll and existential dread provided.

Of course, while lying awake in this perfect hellscape of pins, needles, pain, and peeing, my brain decides now’s the perfect time to go full hamster wheel. Spinning at 500 billion miles per hour, running through every bad decision I’ve ever made, plus some I probably haven’t gotten around to yet. Cheers, brain.

This morning, I managed to drag myself to my throne — my battered old chair — and gaze out the window like some Victorian invalid. And there he was. The Manic Weed Wacker of Suburbia. Out in the garden again, whacking everything in sight. I swear he’s part weed trimmer, part chaos demon. I watched, sipped my drink (through a numb mouth, because yes, my entire face is numb now — why not?), and chuckled remembering the time he electrocuted himself lifting my wheelchair ramp smashing it into the light tube. Classic. Man vs. light tube. tube won.

And yes, I asked my beloved Albertine — the saint, the legend, the long-suffering wife of 40 years — if I could buy a chainsaw. An electric one, mind you. Eco-friendly and all that. You should’ve seen her face. Absolute horror. Like I’d just announced I was auditioning for "Britain’s Got Terror." I mean, can you imagine? Me, in a knackered wheelchair, chainsawing through hedges like Leatherface with mobility issues. I'd make the evening news before I got through the first shrub.

Suffice to say, the chainsaw dream is on pause. Possibly forever. Probably for the best. Wouldn’t want to give Mr. Dark too many ideas.

Anyway, today’s tally:

Numb mouth ✅

Tingly everything ✅

Brain fog thick enough to get lost in ✅

Blood pressure reading so high it qualifies as an emergency broadcast ✅

It sucks to be me today. But hey, at least I didn’t accidentally decapitate a geranium or myself.

If you’re reading this and having a better day — congrats. If not, welcome to the club. Bring your own toilet paper and existential dread.

Until next time, The Chainless Warlock

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.”

Oh, another night in my personal version of Dante’s Inferno—just as delightful as the last. It’s funny how the nights just roll into one giant, sleepless horror show, starring yours truly: the eternally exhausted insomniac. Sleep? Ha! That’s just a luxury for people who aren’t forced to dance to the bladder’s hourly encore performance. And of course, this whole tragicomedy began because I had the sheer audacity to indulge in some sugar-laden jam. Sugar—apparently the mortal enemy of my wretched existence. Add to that the fact that my body decided to go full diva and refuse any animal fats, so now I’m stuck with a vegan diet. Except even the plant oils have formed a personal vendetta against me, turning mealtimes into a game of “Will This Kill Me or Merely Torture Me?” But wait, there’s more! Let’s not forget my lovely companion: multiple sclerosis. Yes, that dear old friend makes sure that pain and spasms are constant guests at this midnight carnival. A twitch here, a stabbing ache there—such delightful party tricks. And of course, the nerves love to join in, turning everything into an electrifying circus of agony. It’s like my entire body is in open revolt—because why the hell not? Dairy? Oh, dairy’s the showstopper. One whiff of it and I’m stuck in an endless cycle of gut-wrenching bathroom performances that would make even the most jaded horror director cringe. There’s nothing quite like losing your insides while your nerves are throwing their own spasm-fueled mosh pit. Sometimes, when the pain’s at its peak and sleep is a distant dream, my mind wanders to that dark, seductive thought: death. Not that I’d actually go there—I cling to life out of sheer stubbornness or maybe spite. But in those raw, bleak moments, it’s hard not to wonder why this is all happening to me. But then again—why the hell not? Life’s a twisted carnival, after all, and every night’s just another ride on this endless, blood-curdling loop. And so I ramble on, because what else is there to do?

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