BritishHumour

🖤 “ coming Soon: A brutally honest ranking of the top ten alternative medicines.

What’s worth it, what’s useless, and what might just make life with chronic illness slightly less unbearable.”(Straight but brand-consistent) “Soon: A brutally honest ranking of the top ten alternative medicines. What’s worth it, what’s useless, and what might just make life with chronic illness slightly less unbearable.”(Straight but brand-consistent) “Soon: A brutally honest ranking of the top ten alternative medicines. What’s worth it, what’s useless, and what might just make life with chronic illness slightly less unbearable.”

So, you’ve got MS. Congrats on your new life sentence. Welcome to the club nobody wants to join, where your immune system treats your nerves like a chew toy and daily tasks become extreme sports. If you’re wondering how to cope with the relentless mental and physical torture that is Multiple Sclerosis, here’s your brutally honest, darkly comedic guide.

1. Eat Like You Actually Care (Even Though You Don’t) Sure, nutrition might help reduce fatigue, inflammation, and general bodily betrayal. Will quinoa and kale cure your MS? Absolutely not. But it’ll help you feel morally superior while your nervous system crumbles.

2. Exercise Without Dying Yes, exercise is important. But if you’re one squat away from sh*tting yourself or collapsing like a Victorian woman denied her fainting couch, maybe start with gentle stretching or a walk to the fridge. Small wins.

3. Train Your Brain (Before It Leaves You) MS can fog your mind faster than three bottles of wine. Crosswords, sudoku, brain training apps – all designed to slow the brain-melt. Bonus: if you forget to do them, that’s probably why you need them in the first place.

4. Sleep: Because Insomnia Isn’t Edgy MS fatigue is like dragging a corpse around all day. Insomnia makes it worse. Try regular sleep times, a dark cave-like room, and cooling your room so your inner demon feels at home.

5. Stress – Your Favourite Symptom Trigger Stress is the invisible gremlin that pokes your MS into full meltdown. Meditate, do yoga, or scream silently into your pillow. Whatever keeps you from becoming an actual murderer today.

6. Vitamin D & Smoking Low vitamin D makes MS worse. Smoking makes MS worse. The universe is basically telling you to quit cigs and take a supplement. Or keep smoking and accept your fate – dark choices only you can make.

7. Heat: Your Mortal Enemy Heat turns your already dysfunctional nerves into cooked spaghetti. Stay cool. Cold drinks, fans, icy glares at strangers – all recommended.

8. Depression & Anxiety: The Cherry on Top MS is a daily trauma loop, so depression and anxiety are loyal companions. Therapy, meds, and dark humour memes help. Talking to people might too, if you can be arsed.

9. Alternative Therapies Massage, acupuncture, cannabis oil – none will resurrect your dead nerves, but they might make the pain less unrelenting. Go wild. Or don’t. It’s your hell.

Final Pep Talk MS won’t kill your dark sense of humour, unless you let it. Implement these daily management tips and maybe – just maybe – tomorrow will suck slightly less.

       “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.”

Monday morning. Staring out the window, I thought “It’s not that bad out there.” And then I remembered: it’s hot. Not just "nice weather" hot — it’s "sweaty in places you didn’t know could sweat" hot.

But I had to go to the chemist. Because of course I did.

Now, a trip to the chemist isn’t a charming little jaunt through town. No, it’s a full-blown episode of chaos, like being dropped into a live-action version of a supermarket sweep hosted by Satan. I sighed, gritted my teeth, and retrieved the “Trolley of Doom” from the back of the van — my noble steed for the day. By steed, I mean the three-wheeled scooter of questionable engineering and malevolent intent.

I trundled along from the car park into town, trying not to run over children or pensioners, and that’s when it happened: the dreaded squeaky wheel. The kind of squeak that turns heads and makes dogs bark. I was now the main attraction in this circus.

Stopped in a shop. Bought a hat. Why? Who knows. A Bart Simpson brain-fart moment, probably. Sat down. Wanted to go back. But no — the mission had only just begun.

Scooter Olympics: Downhill Edition Then it happened. The scooter hit the steep part of town. The brakes? Decorative. I went full Bond villain escape mode, teetering on two wheels, praying to every minor deity I could think of. Somehow avoided launching myself into oncoming traffic — gold star for me.

After regaining what’s left of my composure and dignity, I attempted to return to the van. Easy, right? Wrong.

At the bottom of the hill, my scooter did a dramatic “Nope” and refused to climb back up. Wheel spin. No traction. I was now the proud pilot of a large, expensive, stuck plastic tricycle. Put my full weight over the front to force traction. Eventually made it. No applause.

Still Waiting for My Ticket to Freedom Six months I’ve been waiting for a new electric wheelchair. Six. I might as well carve days into the wall at this point. The current beast I’m riding is like a vengeful mobility ghost. I do own another chair — but replacing the battery costs roughly the same as a small car. Conveniently, no one tells you these things until you’re already deep in the system.

I just want a Q100. Nothing fancy. Simple. Effective. But no — I’ll probably be given another oversized monstrosity that corners like a barge and eats doorframes for fun.

Bonus Round: The Curse of the Mower Got home. Sat down. Exhaled.

Then I looked at the garden.

The lawnmower is dead. Not used, not abused, just dead. It’s just there, glaring at me like a green-flecked tombstone. So now we need a new one. Again.

Me? I vote for artificial grass. No mowing, no weed-whacking, no broken machinery. No soul either, but I can live with that.

And the kicker? It’s only midday.

My speech-to-text software has also decided to have an existential crisis — typing gibberish like it’s been drinking all morning.

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.”

🌀 Welcome to the scorched mindscape of a British misfit with MS, a dodgy air-con, and absolutely no time for your telly addiction. Expect sarcasm, storms, and suspicious noises from the fridge. 420, 27 Degrees, and the Wheelchair of Death

It’s 4:20 in the afternoon — and I am, in every possible sense, well and truly baked. The sun’s decided to cosplay as Satan’s armpit, cranking the heat to a ripe 27°C. Not hot, you say? Try sitting in a disabled body that handles heat about as well as a vampire handles sunlight, and we’ll see how long before you start hallucinating the Ice Cream Man as your personal messiah.

Blessed Be the Demon Weed Wacker Today’s miracle? The Demon Weed Wacker — a neighbour, friend, or possibly summoned entity — dug my old air-con unit out of the crypt I call a shed. The fact it actually works is a minor act of divine intervention, akin to Jesus showing up just to top off my water bottle and stick it in the freezer.

Until then, I’d been sitting in front of the fridge. Not even for food — which is all poison anyway, thanks to the MS-induced digestive roulette — but for survival. I was bonding with the butter, staring at a melon like it owed me an explanation for my existence.

Ever sat on the toilet projectile vomiting while simultaneously exploding out the other end, wondering if your intestines are trying to escape your body to start a new life? Add pain in certain areas that shall remain unnamed (but rhymes with "soul-destroying abyss") and you’ve got yourself a medical-themed horror short.

Wheelchair of Death™ and the Conservatory Mistake I considered venturing outside, strapping into the Wheelchair of Death™, that faithful chariot of chaos and squeaky regret. But no. One foot outside and the sun said, “Ah yes, rotisserie human,” and I was done. I staggered into the conservatory like some sweaty Victorian ghost and instantly regretted it. Over 100°F in there. I could’ve slow-cooked a lamb shank in my lap.

Now I’m left with a blinding headache, and the tinnitus is going off like Lemmy himself is playing a comeback gig in my skull. It’s like the gods of rock took personal offence to my brain and decided to hold a festival in my ear canal.

Let There Be Storms There’s a storm rolling in now — proper biblical one by the feel of it. Black clouds, sudden wind, the smell of distant lightning. I love storms. The chaos, the noise, the sky throwing an emotional tantrum. Thunder’s just the Earth screaming, and I get that. I feel seen.

20 Years Without the Idiot Box Random thought: I haven’t watched TV in over 20 years. People look at me like I’ve confessed to eating children. “But what do you do?” Well, for starters, not stare into a flickering box that vomits consumerism and stupidity at epileptic-inducing speed.

With MS, television isn’t “entertainment,” it’s visual torture with background laugh tracks. Give me a silent room, a thunderstorm, and the slow hum of the Wheelchair of Death™ plotting my demise in the hallway.

I’m off to lie in front of the air-con like a roadkill vampire, praying the power holds out. If not, you’ll find me back in the fridge, whispering to the yoghurt and preparing for the next exorcism session in the loo.

Stay baked, stay bitter, and remember — if the food’s poison and the sky’s on fire, it’s probably just another Thursday.

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.”

⚡Thanks for reading. If you enjoyed this, you probably need therapy — or a fan. Or both. Come back soon for more tales from the Wheelchair of Death™, the Digestive Apocalypse, and the Conservatory from Hell.

🛠️ Powered by sarcasm, swearing, and something that smells faintly of ozone.