dark English humor

So, the sun's out.

People always say that like it’s supposed to matter. Like the sunshine will somehow bleach away the stink of stress, misery, and existential rot we’ve all marinated in. But no, not today.

Everywhere I look—grey faces, furrowed brows, clenched jaws. The living are shuffling around like they’ve already died and just haven’t filled out the paperwork.

You can feel it in the air. That sick, metallic taste just behind the throat. Like a storm coming—but it's not weather. It's something worse.

The Beast is loose.

Not a myth. Not a metaphor. The Beast is the government—spun in grey suits, slick with power, blind with bureaucracy. It snarls in Parliament and drools through policies written in wine bars and cigar smoke. It doesn't walk—no, it slithers, unseen, through headlines and benefit assessments and the knock at the door when they tell you you've been sanctioned because you didn’t prove you were still dying hard enough.

The Beast doesn’t eat food. It eats hope. It feasts on the disabled, the poor, the mentally ill. It sniffs out despair like a pig with truffle-sensitivity and fangs.

And everyone’s playing the game. Eyes down. Pretend it’s not real. Pretend the letters on your doormat aren’t demands. Pretend the nurse didn’t just quit. Pretend the care home isn't full. Pretend that universal credit is anything but a slow-motion mugging.

Pretend we’re not already in the wasteland.

Dystopia isn’t coming. It’s here. It’s been here since we sold out compassion for efficiency. Since we decided that spreadsheets were more important than souls.

Orwell didn’t write fiction. He wrote a bloody user manual.

And those of us who do see?

We get dragged into the pit together. The mentally bruised. The physically wrecked. The ones who've been through the grinder so long we’ve learned to taste rust and call it breakfast.

We don’t want your sympathy. Keep your pity. All we want is honesty.

We are not fine.

We are surviving the Beast. Every. Single. Day.

And some of us have found ways to ride the storm. Me? I light a little herbal incense—strictly spiritual, of course—and let the fumes blur the edges of this living nightmare just enough to laugh.

Because what else is there?

So welcome, friends—new and old. Welcome to my nightmare. It’s not a dream. It’s not a metaphor. It’s my life, and maybe yours too.

Join me. Take my broken hand, my burned-out nerves, and we’ll skip merrily into the depths of cognitive collapse together.

Bring a torch. And a sense of humour.

You’ll need both.

                   “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

The internet’s not a web—it’s a snare. A twisted digital theatre where the audience is chained to their seats and the actors are algorithms wearing your dead grandmother’s face. And me? I’m the cranky bastard in the back row throwing peanuts at God.

Been using VPNs for years. Used to swear by them. Like a tinfoil condom for your IP address. But now? Most of these so-called “secure” services are glorified spyware with a fancy logo. They sell you a cloak and stab you through it. My old VPN? A laggy little weasel that forgot who it was hiding. More bugs than an NHS ward in flu season. Every login felt like convincing a drunk ex that you’re “just here to talk.”

So I went rogue. Booted Linux from a USB stick like some dodgy hacker monk in a post-apocalyptic library. Because Windows? That cheery blue nightmare? It's not an operating system, it's an informant. Smiles in your face while reporting every keystroke to its pimps in Seattle. I'm sure some engineer at Microsoft has watched me rage-type “VPN NOT WORKING YOU LYING BASTARDS” more times than I care to admit.

Ah yes—ProtonVPN. Free. “Unlimited.” Like a tap that only drips when no one's looking. Swiss-made. Which used to mean neutral and clean. Now it just means "not yet caught." But bless them—they work better than the bloated scamware I paid for, so here I am, holding on like a rat under a leaking umbrella.

But let’s be honest, shall we? Privacy is a corpse. They dressed it up, kissed its forehead, then sold its organs to advertisers. Your phone’s listening. Your fridge is snitching. Your smart TV’s having a threesome with MI5 and TikTok. And we’re just waving along. “Allow all cookies?” Sure. Come piss in my cereal too.

I’ve had my data stolen so many times, I should just post my NI number on a billboard with a picture of me flipping the bird. And yet, every time some corporate gremlin loses 10 million customer records, they come out with that PR colonic cleanse:

“We take your security very seriously…” Well not seriously enough to keep it, obviously. But thanks for the discount code and counselling hotline.

So no—I don’t trust anyone. I don’t believe in privacy, or safety, or secure logins. I believe in entropy. I believe in chaos. And I believe Crowley had it right when he said: “Love is the law.” But this ain’t love—it’s a bad acid trip inside a dying robot. The machine is eating itself, and it still wants your feedback.

We are not living—we're being processed. Scanned, tagged, tracked, and pacified. We’re not citizens anymore. We’re content generators with credit scores and targeted ads. This is the endgame: lonely, horny, paranoid, and still paying for McAfee.

But I’m not scared. I’ve already died once—this is the encore. One day soon, I’ll be ash and irony, chuckling from the astral plane as your smart kettle reports you for making tea without the government's permission.

Freedom? Freedom is a tear sliding down the cracked cheek of a forgotten god.

                     “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