BrainFog

1966… yeah, apparently I was there. I can just about remember World Cup Willy – England’s football mascot when they actually won something back then. Distant memories flicker… it’s amazing how smells can trigger memories. I remember walking with my auntie in Isleworth, London. Those big shops – well, big to me, coming from a small town. Key Markets, the library, swimming baths… rows of local shops buzzing with life. The smell of London buses and car fumes, the clang of the Routemaster bus bell, those iconic patterns on the seats. All those sounds and smells etched themselves somewhere deep in my foggy goblin brain.

Now? My sense of smell is pretty much shot, along with taste. Thanks, MS. My throat is a daily battle. It’s like my brain just forgets how to swallow properly. One day the herbal tea goes down fine, the next it feels like I’m choking on air or my own spit. Sometimes it’s weakness in the muscles, other times it’s just the brain signals messing up the timing. Talking gets tiring too – voice goes weak, slurred, raspy as the day drags on. Another delightful surprise from MS… making even breathing and swallowing feel like hard work.

That’s why my trusty thermos cup with a flip lid or a straw is the business for me. Knock it over? No problem. It’s like spill-proof dignity in a cup.

I remember the tube too… the smells, the sounds. London was rocking (or swinging) in the 60s. All those sights, the fashions, the swirling psychedelic colours. Mesmerising for this poor goblin. Innocence wasn’t lost back then, but it came close – reality eventually hit like a sledgehammer.

Looking back, it felt happy. But now… I wonder why it makes me feel so sad. Memory is rubbish these days. Brain fog wipes out birthdays and important dates. Honestly… it sucks. But that’s life in the MS lane, isn’t it?

          “ 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 ✨🧌

Sat here mumbling into my old iffy microphone today. Took me over a day to set up – drivers, updates, reinstalling Windows three bloody times because my brain fog decided to overwrite the system with a random USB stick. Genius, I know.

Finally, the blog goblin’s computer has resurrected. Barely.

Had yet another bad night. Partly my own fault this time. Thought I was the biker prophet and magically healed, so decided to stand up and shuffle furniture around like some nocturnal DIY hero. Clearly not my best idea. Lost my balance entirely, stumbled like a drunk, and smashed into the door frame.

My shoulder’s killing me, bruised to hell, and possibly broken. Will probably end up in A&E later if it gets worse. For now, just sat here typing, all fingers and thumbs, trying to find old bits to post while ignoring the pain.

Having MS makes me resilient, though. Even when my brain is fried and my body’s screaming betrayal, I keep crawling back like the stubborn goblin I am.

Anyway. Hope your day is glitch-free and you aren’t slamming yourself into any door frames. Unlike me. 🖤

    ⚡️ Join the gremlin cult. You know you want to

  " 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 ✨🧌

Brain Fog: Because MS Couldn't Just Steal Your Mobility – It Had to Nick Your IQ Points Too Welcome to the delightful world of multiple sclerosis, where the fun truly never ends. Just when you thought MS was done robbing you of your mobility, it decides to take a little detour into your brain.

Yes, folks, say hello to brain fog – that unwelcome guest who crashes your cognitive party, eats all the snacks, and leaves you wondering where you left your keys… or your sanity.

What is Brain Fog? Ah, brain fog. That lovely haze making you feel like you’re wading through treacle while trying to solve a Rubik's Cube. It’s like your brain decided to take a vacation without telling you.

✅ Forgetfulness? Check. ✅ Trouble concentrating? Double check. ✅ Feeling like an extra in your own life? Triple bloody check.

It’s as if MS has a side gig as a cognitive thief – and it’s doing a bang-up job.

The Joys of Cognitive Dysfunction Let’s not sugarcoat it. Brain fog is a real treat.

You might find yourself:

Staring blankly at a wall, contemplating the meaning of life

Forgetting what day it is (spoiler: it doesn’t matter anyway)

Walking into a room only to forget why you’re there – repeatedly

And no, it’s not because you’re deep in philosophical thought. It’s because your brain is on a permanent coffee break.

Coping with the Chaos So, how do you deal with this delightful cognitive haze?

💀 Option 1: Caffeine – to keep your soul twitching 💀 Option 2: Naps – to escape your own thoughts temporarily 💀 Option 3: A healthy dose of sarcasm – because crying is overrated

Or, embrace the chaos entirely. Start a support group for fellow fog dwellers. Just remember: the first rule of Brain Fog Club is… you probably won’t remember it anyway.

Conclusion In the grand scheme of MS torture, brain fog is just another charming quirk. So raise a glass (or a mug of coffee) to the cognitive chaos and remember:

You’re not alone in this foggy mess – even if you forget that every five minutes.

      “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 ✨🧌

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.”

Good afternoon, dear reader. Or morning. Or night. Honestly, I’ve no clue what time it is anymore — linear time is so last century. Especially when you're navigating life with a brain that takes more detours than a lost postman.

So there I was, lost. Not just in the existential, "why are we here" sense — although, yes, that too — but literally lost. On a street I’d supposedly lived on. Only yards from home, yet absolutely no idea where I was. Classic me. Classic MS. Brain fog? No, more like brain Swamp of Sadness. I was a knight on a scooter, aimlessly gliding through the suburban void like some sort of Tesco-bagged Mad Max.

I don’t remember much about those old houses anymore. I’ve had more addresses than MI6. Just vague shadows of places I might have haunted. Faces and memories lost in the thick soup of neurological nonsense. But that’s fine. Who needs memory when you've got spellcheck and sarcasm?

Let me introduce you to Mr. Dark, or Warlock — my MS. Yes, I’ve named him. Because when a condition lives rent-free in your body, you may as well give it a proper British title. Warlock is that mysterious, moody flatmate who always steals your energy, ruins your coordination, and never picks up after himself. But hey, sometimes he puts on a show. A full-blown, outrageously bizarre cabaret of collapsing limbs, surreal thoughts, and a healthy disregard for social norms. Top entertainment from the abyss.

The thing is, somewhere in all this, I stopped giving a toss about what people thought. I know, shocking, right? I’m intelligent — properly intelligent — just not in the “tick these boxes and say please” kind of way. The real tragedy? Most of you lot just didn’t know which buttons to press. Pity. Could’ve been glorious.

And then there's the current saga: my wheelchair’s knackered. So I'm stuck using this three-wheeled scooter of doom. It’s meant to be a mobility aid but functions more like a mechanical prank sent by Satan. Nearly tossed me under a bus the other day. Cheers, Warlock. Nothing like flirting with death at 8mph while dodging potholes and judgmental pedestrians.

Honestly, I find it funny. You have to. Either you laugh or you scream, and I’ve screamed enough into the void to know it doesn’t echo back.

So here I am. A sarcastic wizard on wheels, battling gravity, memory, and the absurdity of existence. Is this real? Is this fake? Fracked if I know. I gave up on the Earth-plane’s opinion years ago.

Stay tuned for next week, when I try to open a tin of soup without summoning a demon.

Cheerio. 🖤

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. sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

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

Today’s ride? Oh, only the finest in terrifying neurological tourism. Think: one-way ticket to Neuro-Nowhere on the fastest fracking ghost train the NHS never ordered. It started subtly, like all horror stories do — a bit of brain fog, just a hint. You know, that charming little mental haze where you try to remember why you walked into the kitchen and end up staring into the fridge wondering if milk is a concept. But then, WHAM — the fog rolls in thick, like some straight-to-DVD horror film, complete with dodgy scenery and a soundtrack composed entirely of your own tinnitus. My head? Once a finely tuned Ryzen processor — top-spec, liquid-cooled brilliance. Now? I’m a dusty old 486 with a cracked fan and a hard drive that sounds like it’s trying to speak in Morse code. Bad sectors? More like bad everything. And then came the glorious MS parade. Step right up for numbness in places you didn’t even know could feel numb. Whole left side: offline. Zero coordination. Like a wet sock full of jelly. That’s the hand I used to write with — now it flops around like it's trying to start a fight with gravity and losing. Muscle spasms? Oh, darling. I'm twitching like a freshly electrocuted squirrel. My legs feel like overcooked spaghetti, while my arms do an interpretive dance I didn’t choreograph. Meanwhile, pins and needles prance up and down my limbs like they’ve got somewhere better to be. Then there’s the tremors — the sort that make you question whether you’re anxious or auditioning to be a malfunctioning animatronic at a forgotten seaside theme park. Add in fatigue so heavy it could anchor the Titanic, and you’ve got yourself a full-house bingo card of chronic chaos. Let’s not forget vision problems. My eyes are doing a sexy little in-and-out-of-focus routine, because who needs depth perception when you can feel like you're watching your life through a bootleg VR headset taped to a microwave? Balance? Coordination? Gone. I'm walking like a baby giraffe on a treadmill greased with WD-40 and regret. Gravity has declared war on me. I’ve fallen over more times today than a British politician answering a straight question. Oh and the bladder — everyone's favourite. It’s like a confused toddler. Sometimes silent. Sometimes shouting. Never at the right moment. Cheers for that. Of course, I had the nausea, too — and when I say "had," I mean projectile vomited like Satan’s own party cannon. Took a nice 20-minute break to redecorate the bathroom in eau de horror, came back covered in the stuff, laughing like a drunk banshee at a funeral disco. Shaking, sweating, spasming, blind-ish, numb-ish, and emotionally somewhere between existential dread and dark comedy gold. If Kafka and Monty Python had a lovechild with a neurological disorder, I’d be the script. Am I worried? Nah. This is Britain. We don’t panic. We just make sarcastic blog posts while quietly falling apart, perhaps accompanied by a lukewarm cuppa and the creeping suspicion that our body's warranty expired three years ago. So here I am. Still riding the neurocoaster. Still laughing. Still shaking like a ferret on MDMA. If this is hell, at least it’s got character. Back soon. Or not. Depends if my right leg decides to go on strike next.

looking to buy a second hand q100 wheelcair or similar in the devon cornwall area sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

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