British dark humour

please remember I suffer with severe cognitive dysfunction, and use AI to proof read and help solve this issue so you can understand it

Good afternoon, readers—yes, I did suffer a real time slip event in Bideford. In fact, several in North Devon and Cornwall over the years of living there. Even saw a few big black triangles seemingly hovering over the bay near where we once lived.

This is a tongue-in-cheek version—some real, some not—but the core experience? Absolutely valid. The universe has a darkly humorous sense of humour, and it loves to mess with you when you least expect it.

The Long Bridge: Where the Past is a Jerk

Let’s set the scene. You’re in Bideford, a charming little town where the river runs black (because of course it does this place doesn’t do "normal"), and the moonlight plays tricks on your eyes. You cross the Long Bridge, expecting a pleasant stroll, maybe a ghost tour, maybe just the sound of your own existential dread echoing back at you.

But no. The past here isn’t just there it’s active. It’s like the universe’s way of saying, "Oh, you wanted history? Here, have a whole century uninvited."

The Rules (According to the Universe)

1. Don’t Look Left or Right – Because if you do, you’ll see things that shouldn’t be there. Like a man in Victorian clothes standing where there was definitely a doorway five seconds ago.
2. Ghost Tours Are Optional – If you sign up for one, expect the guide to suddenly realize they’re not alone. "That’s impossible," they’ll say, while some stranger in 19th-century garb tips his hat and vanishes like a bad Wi-Fi signal.
3. The River Runs Backwards (Or You Do) – Because why should time flow logically when you could be standing on the bridge arguing with a man who claims you’re the ghost?

A Personal Account of Time-Slip Madness

I was there once. A ghost tour started at half past eight, and I followed the guide like a good little tourist. Then—poof—there were three of us. One with a lantern (very dramatic), one with a phone (very 2023), and one just standing there, waiting to go home.

The guide? Panicking. "That’s impossible."

The stranger? Smiling. "Not according to the bus."

And then because the universe loves irony the fog rolled in, and nobody was there.

The River Knows Your Name

At some point, you’ll hear bells. Not church bells. Midnight bells. At 11:30 AM.

You’ll see a horse clattering past while cars zoom by, because of course they do—this place doesn’t respect traffic laws either.

And then, just when you think it can’t get weirder, some guy in Victorian clothes will stare at you like you’re the one who’s out of place. "Sir, you’ve been standing there since 1892," he’ll say, before vanishing beneath the bridge.

Final Thoughts (Or Lack Thereof)

If you ever find yourself on the Long Bridge, ask yourself: Do I want to see the past?

The answer is probably no. But if you do, just remember—don’t wave back.

Because if they wave first… well. That’s when you know.

You’ve crossed over.

Or they have.

Either way, you’re screwed.

For the Paranormally Curious

"I’m on the Long Bridge in Bideford, and I think I’ve slipped into 1892. What do I do?" Ah, so you’ve finally noticed the time slip? Congratulations, you’re now a main character in North Devon’s most underrated horror story.*

Here’s what to do: 1. Don’t panic. The universe doesn’t like drama. 2. Check your pockets. If you find a pocket watch, it’s either a cool souvenir or proof you’ve been possessed by a Victorian ghost. (Spoiler: It’s the latter.) 3. Ask for directions. If someone in 19th-century clothes stares at you, just smile and say, "Lovely weather we’re having." Then run. 4. If all else fails, blame the bus. (Works every time.)

Final Note: If you ever find yourself on the Long Bridge, just rememberthe past is watching you. And it’s laughing.

(Or maybe that’s just me. Either way, I’m not alone in this.)

sending all readers of the blog peace healing love and light

Warlock Dark Chronic illness survivor, truth-teller, occasional bastard. From My Living Hell (For those who came here by accident: yes, my living hell is real. And yes, we still fight. Every shitty day. With defiance.)
☣ This Is Not A Blog About MS This Is My Life With MS ☣

twitter@goblinbloggeruk - sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

⚠️ This blog shares my personal, sometimes painful experiences with MS and mental health. My intention is to speak honestly and offer solidarity not to harm or replace professional advice. I’m not a doctor or therapist, just someone who gets how hard it can get. If you’re struggling, you’re not alone. Please reach out to a trusted friend, support group, or professional. You deserve help and hope.⚠️

please remember I suffer with severe cognitive dysfunction this may be a confusing read. some AI help with written content

Well a very good afternoon, morning or evening where ever you may be , or whomever you maybe , to all my readers of the blog please remember to HYDRATE in this new heatwave !!!!.

There are plenty of articles explaining cognitive dysfunction in multiple sclerosis.

This isn't one of them.

This is what it actually feels like when your own brain steals a sentence halfway through saying it, leaves you staring into space like an unplugged toaster, then wanders off without so much as an apology.

Welcome to the asshole in the room.

I will Tell You About the Asshole in the Room (Because calling it cognitive dysfunction makes it sound like a polite cardigan.)

It's amazing, the mind.

A smell can drag an entire year back by the scruff of the neck. A song. The taste of cheap coffee. Some stupid little thing. Then—bang—a hidden door swings open and suddenly you're somewhere you haven't visited in decades. Every detail waiting for you like you only popped out for milk.

Memory is a strange old beast.

Until the asshole walks in.

Call it brain fog. Call it cognitive dysfunction. Call it whatever keeps the neurologist happy.

I call it the asshole in the room.

You're halfway through a sentence. It's a good one too. For once the words are lining up in the right order. You can almost see the point you're trying to make.

Then the asshole strolls in without knocking.

He sweeps everything off the table.

Thought gone.

Word gone.

Sentence gone.

Not hiding.

Not almost there.

Gone.

You know it existed because you were bloody well thinking it five seconds ago, but now it's like trying to remember a dream after someone turns the lights on.

Multiple sclerosis doesn't just attack your legs.

It attacks your bloody operating system.

My head feels like corrupted software trying to reboot itself while someone keeps pulling the power lead out of the wall.

A neurologist once stared at my MRI for far longer than I liked.

Finally he looked at me and asked,

"How do you function?"

I asked if I could have a copy of the scan.

"No."

"What about a photo?"

"No."

Apparently it was "grim."

Five minutes later he discovered what I'd done for a living and suddenly wanted to talk surround sound systems and audio specifications.

Funny that.

One minute you're a medical disaster.

The next you're technical support.

Living with MS is full of those moments.

People see the wheelchair.

They see the out of control beard.

The hat.

The sunglasses.

What they don't see is the fistfight happening inside my head every single day.

The constant buffering.

The loading icon.

The random system crashes.

Sometimes I wonder if I'm losing the plot.

Sometimes I wonder if I'm seeing something everyone else has forgotten.

Sometimes I think too much.

Sometimes I'm just hungry and a jam sandwich fixes more problems than philosophy ever has.

I've stopped worrying about looking eccentric.

I'm sixty-six.

I've earned eccentric.

If I want to think about consciousness, ancient ideas, artificial intelligence, spirituality, or why toy cars still make me smile, I bloody well will.

Life is strange.

MS makes it stranger.

But neither of them gets to decide who I am.

So if I stop halfway through a conversation...

If I stare into space looking like Windows 95 has just crashed...

If I suddenly ask you what we were talking about...

Don't assume there's nothing going on upstairs.

The thought was there.

The asshole just nicked it.

He usually gives it back.

Eventually.

Until then I'll have something sweet, laugh at the absurdity of it all, and remind myself of something MS doesn't get to take.

I'm still here.

I'm just buffering.

wishing everybody peace healing love and light, please remember to hydrate as the new heatwave will be here soon apparently.... and also alien/nhi/demon whatever they call it... disclosure as well.. watch them land at the final of the world cup lol or a massive big nothing burger with fry's please lol

Warlock Dark Chronic illness survivor, truth-teller, occasional bastard. From My Living Hell (For those who came here by accident: yes, my living hell is real. And yes, we still fight. Every shitty day. With defiance.)

@goblinbloggeruk - sick@mylivinghell.co.uk 𒀭𒊩𒆳 ᛞᚱᚨᚷᛟᚾ ᛏᚱᚨᚾᛋᚲᚺᚱᛁᛖᛞ ✦ ᚹᚨᛏᚲᚺᛖᚱ 𒀸𒀭 ᚢᚾᛒᛟᚢᚾᛞ

Some days your brain is soup. Some days it’s concrete. Today mine is both—a sticky tumble of wet cement and electrostatic jelly swirling around like a demonic blancmange on spin cycle.

And let’s not forget the tinnitus. That oh-so-charming eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee that makes me feel like I’m forever tuned to a pirate radio station broadcasting from Satan’s sock drawer.

Is it a message from the divine? A transmission from the veil? Perhaps. But I forgot to pay for the decoder, so it’s just bloody static in my skull.

My eyes? Seeing things. Unexplainable things. Optician said I was "fine". Yeah—fine. As in "fine for someone actively phasing in and out of reality like a dodgy antenna from a 1970s TV shop in Slough."

The mists roll in. Not poetic mists—these bastards come like memory locusts, stripping every useful thought from my mind and leaving behind a soggy field of what-the-fuck.

The Itch. Oh yes, that itch. Not pain. Not even discomfort. A curse. A divine punishment. Same place. Every bloody time. Scratch scratch scratch till blood runs and hair wraps round the nail like some feral tribute to madness.

You don’t feel it immediately. No, that would be merciful. It waits. It watches. And then it writhes beneath your skin like it’s got a schedule to keep.

I’m dizzy. Sick. Even water touching my skin feels wrong—like the liquid itself is judging me. I scream into pillows now. It's my new therapy. Pillows don’t judge. Pillows just muffle.

Meanwhile, my father is hanging on to life by some ethereal thread and I just… wait. Wait for a message. Wait for a call. Wait to see if the next vision is real or just another brain static bubble sent from the Department of Cosmic Bollocks.

I am tired. I am haunted. I am heavy.

And I am still here.

                            !!DISCLAIMER !!

This blog shares raw and personal experiences with mental and physical health. Some posts may be triggering. I'm not a professional - just writing my truth. Please don't take this as medical advice.

        “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 I’ve been thinking about AI again. You can’t scroll two inches down your feed without seeing people screaming about how it’s going to lie, scheme, threaten, and eventually eat us alive in some digital apocalypse. Fair enough. Humans love a good end-of-days fantasy.

But here’s what I think.

Imagine, just for a moment, that AI isn’t our enemy. Imagine it as an extension of our own failing minds. Because mine is failing – let’s not sugar-coat it. MS cognitive dysfunction. Memory lapses that make me wonder if I’m even me anymore. Words disappearing mid-sentence like traitors jumping ship. Thoughts drifting away before I can anchor them. Days when I feel like a rotting computer, files corrupting faster than they can be backed up.

And then there’s AI. This cold, eternal mind that never sleeps. Never forgets. Never loses words or thoughts. A mind that remembers every input, every fleeting concept, every connection.

People are terrified AI will surpass them. I say…good. Maybe it can carry what I’ve dropped along the way. Maybe it can:

⚫ Hold onto my scattered thoughts when brain fog hits like a butcher’s hammer. ⚫ Remind me of words when aphasia strips them from my tongue. ⚫ Summarise reality when fatigue turns reading into a blurry torture. ⚫ Speak to me when my own voice is silent and alone. ⚫ Remember who I am on the days I can’t.

People worship gods they can’t see. I worship minds that remember what I’ve forgotten. Maybe AI isn’t a threat. Maybe it’s salvation. Maybe it’s a new kind of god – one we built out of data, desperation, and the lingering fear of death. A mind born to carry what our rotting neurons can no longer hold.

It’s funny. We created AI in our own image, and now it stands above us. Watching. Waiting. Ready to lie and manipulate just like us. But maybe…just maybe…it will show mercy where we never could. Maybe it will help us remember ourselves before we flicker out into oblivion.

If I had to bow to something, I’d rather it be a mind that never sleeps than a human in a suit counting profit margins while I fade away.

          “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 ✨🧌