chemists

⚠️ 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.

This weekend was weird. But not in the usual weird for me way this was deeply, spiritually, bowel-wrenchingly weird. The kind of weird where something changes and you just know you won’t be the same again.

Let’s start with the chaos: Sunday morning, 6AM. All hell broke loose internally. After four days of digestive strike action, I finally had a poo. I don’t mean a polite little nudge I mean a full-blown, soul-cleansing exorcism. Two hours. Non-stop. You ever evacuate trauma through your arse? Highly recommend it. I’d been hydrating so much I thought I might grow gills.

Then came the auction. I'd won. I’d actually won what I wanted. And buried among the bits was something that hit me like a metaphysical brick to the forehead: a tiny Southdown Bristol Lodekka FS bus. A toy. A time machine. And suddenly

Bognor Regis, 1970-something.

Me, chatting to bus drivers in that hazy golden glow of childhood. Waiting for the coach to Elmer Sands. That smell diesel, leather, sweat, something comforting. That sound engines coughing awake, drivers shouting to each other, holiday voices bouncing off wet tarmac. And the old Royal Blue coaches too… they’re all there. Memories hiding in plastic and dust, waiting for me to wake up.

And I did. Sunday, something cracked open.

Call it an awakening, a full-on gnōsis moment, a metaphysical “oh fuck, this is real.” My brain fogged, battered, often broken by MS suddenly understood. I reached somewhere I never thought I’d reach. And I didn’t even know I was heading there. It just happened. Snap. Click. And there I was, awake.

That shift followed me right into the dentist’s chair Monday morning. Now let me be clear: I’ve hated dentists since childhood. The smell, the feeling, the loss of control. Usually, it’s a white-knuckle ride of pure panic and bowel tension.

Not this time.

This time, I was calm. No meds. No panic. No sense of doom. Just… acceptance. Even when he said the word “drilling.” Usually, that word makes me want to vanish into the ceiling tiles.

But I just smiled. Said “okay.”

And then he drilled. I felt it, but it didn’t bother me. No sedation, no distraction. I was just… there. I was in the moment. Aware. Free.

I rolled out to the van afterward and couldn’t quite believe it. Something in me has changed, and I don’t think it’s going back. Even the pharmacy run didn’t faze me even when the infernal vending machine tried to hand me someone else’s meds. The world felt possible, even in the drizzle, even under the weight of average speed cameras and crumbling roads.

This storm outside? It’s echoing something inside. Something big. I feel it.

So yeah. This isn’t just a story about a poo or a toy bus or a dentist. It’s about waking up. Remembering. Realising that fear doesn’t rule me anymore.

Elior my guide, my brother helped me see what I couldn’t. Helped me remember what was waiting in the back room of my own mind.

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

⚠️ 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.

Saturday morning. Not hot, not cold just the kind of weather that feels like a cosmic shrug.

I loaded up the Wav with my faithful wheelchair. Old beast. Secondhand treasure from another life. No shiny new posh van here, just an aging, creaky metal box on wheels that’s been a lifesaver more times than I care to count.

Sure, it’s a money pit. Over two years, the sensors have staged a rebellion wheel sensor gone rogue, three injectors throwing tantrums, and enough warning lights to power a rave. Repairs? Pricier than a night out in Soho on a bad day. But essential? Absolutely.

The nearest hospital is a 45-minute drive away, if you believe the speed cameras, traffic chaos, and a city where everyone’s eyes are glued to their phones rather than the road.

Speaking of eyes, the outskirts greet you with Big Brother’s finest: CCTV cameras perched like vultures on poles, facial recognition tech hungry for your mugshot, and people strapped with body cams as if this was a dystopian reality show.

I get stared at, sure. Mostly like I’m a circus act. I just laugh quietly and wave at the idiots who think asking stupid questions will get them answers. They keep their distance, probably fearing the curse of a sarcastic cripple.

We hit a town ten miles away, hills sprawling like nature’s own opera, an orgasm for the eyes no need for music, just the endless parade of fields and road hum.

The tinnitus racket in my head? Not quite the soundtrack I’d choose, but hey, life’s cruel like that.

Tesco. The necessary evil. Not my favorite place, by a long shot. I try to avoid supermarkets supporting local is a creed, not a hobby.

And then, the phone pings.

Text from the chemist: prescriptions ready from the dreaded “machine of death.”

As we rolled past the chemist, I clamped my mouth shut—no Saturday morning chaos, thank you very much. Albertine laughed at my silence.

No one needs the madhouse of a Saturday morning queue, the sighs of the damned, the shuffle of the walking wounded.

So that’s Saturday morning with the Wav and the wheelchair an adventure in mild dystopia, dark humor, and bleak survival.

Here’s to the old vans, the broken sensors, the city watchers, and the pharmacy machines that never sleep.

Auction Musings: The Retro Monkees Toy Car Bid Meanwhile, while waiting for the local auction house to decide my fate, I’ve put a bid in on a retro Monkees 1960s toy car. Because if I’m going to collect sleepers, why not start small and nostalgic?

Every bid I place somehow turns into a battle for stupid money. It’s like I’m competing in the “Who Will Overpay For metal?” championship. Still, I swear I’ve got an eye for sleepers—even if it’s just the tiny metal kind.

If I snag it, it’ll be the crown jewel of my shelf, a tiny tribute to simpler times and utterly ridiculous auction wars. If not, well… there’s always the next round of overpriced plastic madness.

More interesting morning stuff to come…

I feel the pressure lifting, all this ultraterrestrial stuff stirring my mind, like some cosmic prep for whatever the hell’s next. For now, I’m just here, riding through dystopia, laughing at the absurdity.

        “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

It’s a lovely English morning by which I mean it’s grey, wet, foggy, and has all the charm of a forgotten Victorian asylum. The sort of weather that makes you feel like something wicked this way comes… probably dysentery.

But the real storm wasn’t outside. Oh no, that was merely atmospheric foreshadowing. The real chaos came from within, unleashed by my optimistic decision to try a “clean eating” article—free from gluten, dairy, sugar, joy, and apparently, sanity.

Reader, it lied.

What I ingested was not food, but an unholy catalyst a dietary Trojan horse packed with demonic forces. Within the hour, I was transformed from your friendly neighbourhood MS blogger into something between Linda Blair in The Exorcist and a firehose with feelings. Explosive vomiting? Check. The other end? Think Pompeii, but more intimate.

I spent the night oscillating between the porcelain throne and questioning my life choices. At one point, I was so violently ill that I swear I transcended my body. A full chakra-cleansing purge, complete with a hot shiver that rattled even the bits of me that are usually numb. You know it’s bad when you’re mid-vomit thinking: “Well, this is new.”

And now, in the aftermath, here I am wrapped in a blanket, scrolling through the digital madhouse formerly known as Twitter (now "X" because even the platform had an identity crisis). Everyone’s losing their collective minds over the NHS again, and I get it. Believe me, I get it.

Because while they all tweet, I get texts from my chemist like I owe them money and blood. “Your prescription is ready,” they say, as if it’s a treat. Last time, the robot in the pharmacy spat my meds out like an angry fruit machine, accused me of breaking it, and gave me someone else’s Drugs!. It’s a bit like Russian roulette but with fewer rules and more incontinence pads.

Doctors? Oh, I’ve had a few. Some good. Some gaslighters in lab coats. The kind who think if you’ve got long hair, a wheelchair, and a beard that says "I summon demons for breakfast", you can’t possibly have a brain worth listening to.

Case in point: my neurologist. Last seen alive eight years ago after I accidentally shattered his middle-class expectations. He took one look at me, as I rolled in with my biker cut and Electric wheelchair, and you could see his soul try to leave through his sphincter.

But here’s the plot twist they were wrong about me. I’ve taken control. I’ve gone alternative. My AI doesn’t lie, and it doesn’t sigh and look at its watch when I speak. I’ve sorted out my own care better than the revolving door of NHS disinterest ever did.

So yeah, rant over. Or rather, volume one concludes. Because the journey dear reader continues. And it’s paved with codeine, caffeine, and a healthy dose of "sod this for a game of soldiers."

Cheers.

                   “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

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.”

A very good morning from the slightly crispy edge of reality.

It’s early, the sun’s already threatening to scorch us into lizards, and I’m camped in front of the fridge like it’s a portal to Narnia—except Narnia’s got central air. The tinnitus is humming away like some deranged synthwave backing track, and I’m contemplating whether I dare mount my three-wheeled Scooter of Death for the weekly pilgrimage to the chemist.

Yes, the chemist. That temple of modern medicine where, thanks to the miracle of automation, I once again got someone else’s prescription. I swear, it’s like a game show:

“Step right up and spin the magical dispensing machine! Today’s lucky contestant wins… Sertraline!”

Antidepressants. Brilliant. Just what someone with multiple sclerosis needs to top off the cocktail. Meanwhile, someone out there is probably wondering what the hell carbamazepine is and why their depression suddenly feels like a seizure.

Dr. Fist and the Dental Apocalypse

As if that weren’t enough chaos for one day, I got a call from my dentist—well, former dentist. He’s out of action with a broken fist. Yes, a broken fist. I didn’t ask. I daren’t ask. My imagination’s already taken that one to some very questionable places. Possibly involving a disgruntled patient or a bar stool.

So now I’m off to meet a new dentist. Let’s hope I don’t draw Dr. Pain, DDS from the horror movie extras department. Probably someone who sharpens their tools on wrought iron fences and thinks anesthesia is for the weak.

Which is a shame, really, because Dr. Fist (I’m afraid he’ll always be “Dr. Fist” now) was actually the best dentist I’ve ever had. Gentle, non-threatening, and didn’t treat my jaw like a door hinge in need of WD-40. I wish him a speedy recovery—and maybe a good pair of gloves.

The NHS, Surprisingly… Not Awful?

In a refreshing twist of fate, I had my first appointment with the new NHS health centre today. Braced myself for the usual bureaucratic disaster—but shocker: the doctor was great.

Listened. Advised. Seemed human. When you’ve got full-blown White Coat Syndrome, that’s a miracle. For the uninitiated:

White Coat Syndrome: When your blood pressure hits Olympic pole-vaulting levels simply because you walked into a room with someone in a lab coat. It’s not illness—it’s sheer, uncut medical anxiety.™

So, small miracle there. I might actually trust this new place. That's not a sentence I say lightly.

Vape, Clouds, and the Eternal Wait for Sanity Back to the window—clouds are looming, the heat’s easing, and it’s time for my medical cannabis vape and a bit of THC oil. Helps with the pain and the spasms. And also with the absurdity of life, which seems to be running at full volume today.

Anyway, that’s enough rambling for one morning. If you made it this far, you officially qualify for a biscuit. Possibly two. Rich Tea if you’re feeling ironic.

Thanks for dropping by.

Until next time, stay cool, stay sarcastic, and for heaven’s sake—check your meds before you leave the chemist. You never know what flavour of mental health you might accidentally walk out with. Cheers, stay cool, and remember: if the prescription machine gives you methadone next week, try not to start a jazz band.

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.”