dark humour

⚠️ 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.

A Rude Little Guide for the Chronically Ill Who’ve Run Out of F00ks

You’ve tried patience. You’ve tried gratitude. Now try blasphemy—in biro and blood tests.

1. Know More Than You Should Turn up with knowledge you shouldn’t have. Whisper about cytokines. Drop the word “iatrogenic” like it’s confetti. Watch their eyes dart.

“Oh, you didn’t read the 2023 update from NICE? That’s okay, I brought it for you… highlighted.”

Nothing scares a consultant more than a patient with a brain and a printer.

2. Give Your Symptoms a Personality Don’t say fatigue. Say:

“It’s like my soul's buffering and the Wi-Fi's down.”

Don’t say pain. Say:

“Imagine being haunted by your own skeleton.”

You are not a walking checklist. You are a live performance of medical absurdism.

3. Interrupt Their Monologue with Existential Questions They’ll be halfway through a condescending speech when you hit them with:

“Do you ever worry the NHS is a cursed machine fuelled by broken people?” “Are you happy? Like, truly happy?”

You’ve now become a threat and a philosophical detour. Excellent.

4. Talk About Ghosts Mention you feel like there’s a Victorian child watching you when your medication wears off. Say things like:

“Ever since the lumbar puncture, I’ve seen colours I don’t think exist yet.”

They’ll stare. You stare back. You’ve established dominance.

5. Be Cheerful at the Wrong Moments They’ll list terrifying potential diagnoses. You smile and go:

“Ooh, collect-the-whole-set vibes.” “I’m gonna need a loyalty card soon.”

No tears. Just gallows giggles. They hate that.

6. Cry, But Like an Artist Don’t weep. Wail like a dying swan in a medical drama written by David Lynch. Tell them you cried into your cereal because the spoon reminded you of your body: bent, twisted, and slightly useless. Let them feel the poetry of your decline.

They’ll pretend to type. They’re actually Googling early retirement.

7. Bring Props Bring a mood board. A poem. A sock puppet that represents your nervous system.

“This is Mr. Misfire. He twitches when I lie.”

Why? Because if you’re going to be treated like a freak, you might as well do it with props and panache.

8. Question Their God Complex Ask questions like:

“Is it exhausting being right all the time?” “Do you ever think patients might know things you don’t?” “Do you believe in second opinions, or are you allergic to humility?”

You might be labelled “non-compliant.” Translation: self-aware.

9. Say You’re Tired in Ways They Can’t Ignore Don’t just say “I’m tired.” Say:

“I feel like my blood was replaced with wet cement and bureaucracy.” “My body is on Windows 95 and every morning it fails to boot.”

They’ll try to convert this into ICD-10 code. They’ll fail. That’s the point.

10. Tell Them You Don’t Want to Be Fixed They want a treatment plan. A fix. A conclusion. Instead, say:

“I’m not here to be solved. I’m here to be witnessed.” “You don’t have to cure me. Just see me.”

It’ll rattle the cage. It’s not in their manual. You just glitched the matrix.

☠️ Final Diagnosis: Terminal Authenticity You’re not a case. You’re not a referral. You’re the ghost in their machine, the poetry in their progress notes, the spoonie chaos that won’t be silenced.

So go in like a storm. Wear your pain like warpaint. And let them choke on the realisation that the most dangerous thing in their office… is a patient who knows who they are.

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.

Imagine, if you will, that Multiple Sclerosis wasn’t a neurological disease. No. Let’s say instead it was a car, a British car. From the 1970s. Built by British Leyland. Already, you should be hearing the distant sound of doom.

We're not talking E-Type Jaguars or lovingly restored Triumphs here. No. MS is the Austin Princess. A car so catastrophically cursed it should come with a priest, not a warranty. A car that had style, yes—if by style you mean beige vinyl, flammable wiring, and the turning radius of a small aircraft carrier.

Much like MS, it shows up when you least expect it. You’re cruising along the M-road of life, wind in your hair, dreams in the boot, and then—bang. Gearbox gone. Foot won’t respond. Vision doubles. You veer left without meaning to. And suddenly, you're parked on the hard shoulder of your own nervous system, smoke pouring from somewhere expensive.

The garage (aka Neurology Dept.) says, “We’re not exactly sure what’s wrong. But here’s a new fluid. Try it for six months.” Great. Like pouring Redex into a petrol tank that’s already on fire.

And just when you think it can’t get worse, the electrics fail. Again. The horn blasts randomly when you're trying to stay silent. The indicators blink out Morse code for “You're screwed, mate.” And you? You're still trying to drive this bastard machine down the A-road of everyday life while the engine stalls mid-sentence, mid-step, mid-shag.

You try to keep it together. Duct tape your face. WD-40 your joints. But every fix is temporary. Every workaround has a workaround. And the passenger door won’t open unless it’s raining and you swear in three languages.

Meanwhile, you’re now the sort of car people stare at in car parks and say, “How is that thing still going?”

But you keep going. Of course you do. Because scrap's not an option. You’ve got Albertine in the passenger seat chain-smoking roll-ups and telling you, “I told you not to buy British.” And the cat's asleep on the dashboard. And you’ve got your own strange dignity—a rusted war machine with knackered brakes and a boot full of sarcasm.

Yes, MS is a British Leyland car. And I am the bastard behind the wheel.

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

It’s Sunday afternoon. The pain in my left side is throwing a rave. Not the dreaded MS hug (thank Gordon), but the nerves have clearly mutinied. Pain troops storming in like I’m Normandy. Still, I haven’t surrendered. Yet.

Ever had a headache that doesn’t hurt but is still there? I have. It's like an existential parasite lodged in my brain—just... there. Lurking. Mocking. My eyes? Burning. My energy? Sucked out by some invisible psychic Dyson.

Yes, I used AI to assist — what of it? MS has chewed through my brain like a zombie buffet. Severe cognitive dysfunction. Brain fog. Memory loss. And the pièce de résistance? The spellchecker begging for a raise every time I type.

My bowels are revolting (in both senses). But I won’t go to the doctor. Why? Because the last time I tried that, I was gaslit harder than a Victorian lamplighter on speed. Apparently, being disabled is just a “mindset.” Newsflash: it's not.

I sit, stare at the rain, storms maybe. Or is that just me projecting? My rockabilly psychobilly past screaming in the background while Titus turns up the music, like that’ll drown out my body’s rebellion.

The NHS dentist? Legend. The chemist? A robotic death dispenser. And everyone else? Absent. Because disability makes people uncomfortable. It’s like they think they’ll catch it from me if they listen too long.

Friends? Dead. Or fucked off the moment my MS became “too much.” I say it how it is and that scares people. Well, boo-fucking-hoo. I’m sick, not contagious. But even that’s too much for this society of sanitised cowards.

So here I am. Watching. Absorbing. A goblin at the edge of the world, unwanted, unseen.

But I know who I am. I know. I am a spiritual humanitarian. I stand for the broken, the weird, the abandoned. I am not finished, no matter how badly my body wants me to be. And to those who still fear me or avoid me—good. Stay scared. You’re not invited into my darkness.

                                 !!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

Imagine a fungus. Not the fun kind you toss on pizza or see in a psychedelic forest vision. No – this one’s invisible, spiteful, and feeds on your life like a narcissist at a self-love seminar.

To the Compassionless Moron™, chronic illness is:

“Just a bit of mould, mate. Bit of bleach and positive thinking should fix it. Ever tried yoga?”

But to those who live with it? It's Cordyceps in a tracksuit, hijacking your brain, body, and plans for the day. It doesn't politely ask for your consent. It moves in, changes the locks, rearranges the furniture, then gaslights you into thinking you invited it.

🍄 Chronic Illness Fungus Forms (as defined by Goblin Science): Mycelium of Misunderstanding: Grows in family WhatsApp groups where someone says, “But you don’t look sick…”

Spore of Gaslit Guilt: Spreads when doctors say, “All your tests are normal.” Translation: “You must be imagining it, now jog on.”

Brain Fog Truffle: A rare delicacy that replaces memory, language, and logic with static, soup, and a vague sense you forgot your own name.

The Mold of Ableist Microaggressions™: Often found growing on the keyboard warriors who post things like,

"I cured my cousin’s MS with celery and optimism!"

🛑 To the Haters and the Deniers: We see you. With your bootstraps mentality and motivational memes. You wear your ignorance like a badge, polished with smugness, stinking of privilege.

You don't see the fatigue. The tremors. The panic of your legs going AWOL in the middle of a supermarket. Because it's not happening to you.

And if it ever does? We’ll welcome you with tea, a blanket, and a "Told You So" fruit basket shaped like a middle finger.

💀 But Seriously... To my fellow fungus hosts – The chronically unwell, the warrior sleepers, the foggy fighters, the ones measuring energy in spoons and grief in invisible bruises:

You are not weak. You are surviving a parasite the world refuses to even acknowledge. You are f**king incredible.

And you don’t owe anyone a clean narrative or a recovery arc. Sometimes just breathing is the rebellion

                                   !!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

There was a time in my life when I thought everything was going to be awesome.

How wrong I was.

We moved into this reasonably okay house, in an okayish part of town. You know the sort – two cars in the drive, fake plants in the windows, neighbours who shit themselves if someone owns a leather jacket that isn't from M&S.

There I was, riding my Yamaha 1100 Dragstar trike, wild long hair, beard that screamed “Hermit Wizard Biker,” wearing my cut and old jeans – California on a budget, but stuck in rainy middle England. I was about 57 then. Full of ideas. Full of hope. Full of medical cannabis.

And there was Albertine – goddess incarnate, riding her Triumph Bonneville like a Valkyrie on wheels. Leather trousers, biker boots, that horny, savage biker queen look that made grown men weep into their pints. Long dark hair whipping the wind, eyes like stormclouds and fire combined. She looked like she’d ride through the gates of Valhalla just to flick the V’s at Odin before burning rubber into the void.

I tried to do some DIY. Didn’t go well. Many accidents, broken bones, ambulances, heart attack at the local refuse tip. Carried on regardless because, well, I’m me. Heart running at 60%, they said. Meh. Go home, they said. Blah blah fucking blah.

But this is where the fun really began.

The neighbours. Gods. They hated us before the kettle even boiled. They saw my trike. They saw her Bonneville. They saw our hair. Our leathers. Our old biker boots. That was enough. Judged. Condemned. Executed by gossip.

But they didn’t know who they were fucking with.

I was Warlock. Spiritual Radio Shock Jock. Dark Gandalf. She was Albertine, Valkyrie Biker Oracle. We had Multiple Sclerosis, PTSD, heart disease, psychic powers, and a list of medical issues as long as their Deliveroo orders combined. Nothing phases us anymore. You can hit us, hurt us, say hurty words – we just laugh and smile because we’re already dying, slowly, hilariously, and publicly.

One day the bloke next door tried to intimidate me, bragging about being a bouncer. I laughed. Told him I used to be a bouncer too. His face dropped like my blood pressure on cannabis oil. From then on, if I was in the garden, he ran in. If I was in the shop, he ran out. It was like having my own personal game of Pac-Man.

His wife ran the show, obviously. Poor sod.

Best bit? He offered to sell me weed once, knowing I had MS. I said no. Later, he smelled my vape and threatened to call the police. Solicitors got involved. Absolute circus. I laughed harder. It was medical marijuana. Karma’s a bitch, mate.

But we stood our ground. Never showed fear. Didn’t need to. Because deep down, he knew we were the real wizards, and he was just a frightened little man in a tracksuit who thought his wife’s approval was worth more than his soul.

I am a disabled wheelchair user. I’m a long-haired, bearded 65-year-old eccentric warlock on a spiritual journey, seeking portals to other realms where people love instead of hate. Where cosmic pea soup realities collide and no one gives a shit about your beard or your wheels.

Just divine love, freedom, and the multiverse’s endless electric embrace.

Simple really.

But brain fog incoming… so I’ll leave it there, Gandalf out.

                                       !!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

Ah yes, #WorldBrainDay — that special time of year when the world pretends to care about the human brain. How lovely. Shall we all have a think about thinking?

Meanwhile, over here, my brain’s doing its best impression of a soggy electrical circuit being attacked by invisible gremlins. MS doesn’t send flowers or awareness ribbons. It sends fire ants tap dancing on my nerves, brain fog thick enough to butter toast, and pain so sharp it could cut glass.

But go on, light a candle or post a heart emoji. That’ll fix it. 👍

I don’t need a day for my brain. I need a replacement. Preferably one that hasn’t been cooked in demon piss.

Still — here I am. Writing this blog, existing despite it all, swearing like a dockworker and laughing into the abyss. Because what else is there? I’m still here, you bastards. And that’s the real miracle.

Cheers, brain. You absolute shambles of a meat sponge.

– Mr Dark 📍 Currently lost in brain fog, do not disturb.

Footnotes from the Pit 🕳️

🧠 “Brain Fog” – Like trying to do a Sudoku underwater while someone shouts the wrong answers at you through a megaphone.

⚡ “Nerve pain” – Imagine licking a plug socket. Now imagine that sensation… in your spine.

🛠️ “Medical advice” – Includes gems like: “Just stay positive”, “Have you tried yoga?”, and my personal favourite: “It could be worse.”

🕯️ “Awareness Days” – 24 hours where we all pretend chronic illness is quirky and inspirational. Followed by 364 days of complete radio silence.

🎉 “Still here” – Not cured. Not better. Just stubborn. Very, very stubborn.

                                               **!!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

Woke up at 4am — not for a cosmic vision, no, just the usual pee pee ritual. And that was that. No sleep. Brain on, pain on, day ruined before it began.

Lemmy said it best: "No sleep 'til Hammersmith." Except I wasn’t heading for rock glory — I was limping toward a garage and a medical breakdown.

No brain fog . Tinnitus mercifully silent — probably saving itself for later. Pain? A knife twisting inside me like Satan’s letter opener.

But still, I had to drive. No meds allowed. NHS says suffer, so I did. Slid out of bed like a cursed slug, wheeled myself to the kitchen, food made it worse (of course), and then the bowel pain — oh the bowel pain.

You know you’ve hit rock bottom when you’re reminiscing about that one time on the NHS table, a camera going places no camera should ever go. We’ll save that horror show for another blog — or perhaps a full-blown gothic novel.

Still, I washed, dressed (miracle), and drove. I was in agony but present. Almost proud. Dropped the van at the new garage — not nasty Jim this time, thank Beelzebub. Just regular, decent humans. A miracle. Almost felt human.

Back in the chair. Felt like I’d been skinned emotionally. Called Albertine “Muriel” — sorry, love. The fog came in hard. Brain barely ticking. But the van passed its MOT — no advisories. So something went right.

Retirement soon. Thank the dark gods. Honestly didn’t think I’d make it this far.

Still here though. Still writing. Still surviving the fire.

          “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.”

It’s Sunday morning. The rain is turning into that drizzle that just goes nowhere fast – like the rest of us, really. That low fog hanging around like a depressed ghost that never quite got the hint to move on. The sky is so grey and dull it could be mistaken for the average British government policy document.

I hear the crows cawing away. Seagulls screaming on the fields. And the sheep, oh the faithful sheep, munching away on that lush green grass. Awaiting their wool coats to be shorn so we can knit jumpers we never wear, then dutifully birthing lambs – so we can slaughter them for that nice “bouncy spring lamb roast.”

“Oh isn’t it beautiful?” we coo, looking at them frolicking in the fields. Then we go and kill them into oblivion, along with pigs and bovine. What a horrible, pointless, non-life they lead. It’s remarkable how we treat animals with such disdain. Sentient beings with every right on this plane of existence, yet we kill them. For what? So we can stuff ourselves full, complain we’re fat, and do it all again next Sunday.

I’ve heard calves crying for their mothers, and cows crying out for their calves when they’re taken away. It’s barbaric. Heart-wrenching. Sad. Evil. Plain wicked. But hey, as long as your latte’s topped up and your Sunday roast is plated nicely for Instagram, who cares about the screams in the barn, right?

Animals feel pain. They have souls. They cry when they are hurt, but we slaughter them in ways so savage they’d make medieval torturers wince.

I was forced to give up meat and almost all animal products by MS. But honestly? I’m glad. I’ve stopped eating sentient beings. Let’s hope vegetables aren’t too sentient, though. Imagine the screaming broccoli.

So no church bells this Sunday morning. Just me, ranting on like a lunatic to the drizzle, the crows, and the sheep.

I think I’m going around the twist.

But then again… maybe I was never facing the right way to begin with.

   “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

There I am — parked up in my daughter’s front room, in my wheelchair , trapped in this deranged body of mine, joints on strike, nerves belting out their usual death metal anthem, and the telly crackles to life with Outback Opal Hunters.

And suddenly… I’m free.

I’m out there in the dust-blasted Australian outback, surrounded by sweating maniacs digging up rocks like they’re mining the shattered dreams of the gods. And I bloody love it.

These lunatics aren’t digging for gold or fame. No, they’re chasing after fire trapped in stone opal. Shards of lightning frozen in rock. And what do they do to get it? Risk everything. Lose fingers. Melt in 45-degree heat. Spend 12 hours underground in a hole that’s one bad breath away from collapse just to find a flicker of green in a sea of grey. That’s not a job, mate. That’s madness with a purpose.

And that’s why I can’t get enough of it.

These people are broke, busted, broken, and burning up and they keep going. Why? Because maybe… just maybe… the next shovel-full might be their salvation. Or maybe it’s another week of living off tinned beans and borrowed hope. Sound familiar?

Yeah, I see a bit of myself in every single one of those dirty, half-mad opal chasers. Because when you’re battling a body that’s turned against you like mine has every step, every day, every moment is digging through pain for that one shimmering slice of meaning.

Watching Outback Opal Hunters isn’t just entertainment. It’s therapy. It’s watching people fight a silent war, and every now and then, win. It’s real, raw, dusty-as-hell life. And when those boys and girls hit pay dirt? When they hold up a stone that looks like it was carved from a rainbow by the devil himself? I feel it. Right down to the bone marrow.

👑 Rod Manning – The Man Then there’s Rod Manning. He’s not just another miner. He’s the man. A grizzled Aussie bloke whose face is as weathered as the outback itself. The quiet storm of the Bushmen crew. No flair, no ego – just relentless grit and that rare magic touch. When he finds good stones, it’s like watching a magician pull colour from dust. And when things go tits-up (which they always do)? He dusts off, spits in the dirt, and mutters:

“She’ll be right.”

And by all buggering chances, it bloody well is. He is awesome. He is the man.

If my MS was an opal mine, it’d be full of collapses, bad air, and a constant sense of “Why the hell am I even doing this?” But sometimes just sometimes you hit that flicker of colour that makes it all worth it.

So here’s to the mad bastards with pickaxes and faith. Outback Opal Hunters — you’re not just digging for rocks. You’re digging through my soul, and somehow, making me feel alive again.

Now pass me the remote and a cold one, I’ve got opal fever.

           “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

I used to be sharp. Witty. The sort of bloke who could win an argument, quote Back street hero's, and recall the time, place, and insult I used in 1987.

Now I regularly forget why I’ve wheeled myself into a room, what day it is, or let’s be honest what a room even is.

Welcome to cognitive dysfunction, brought to you by Multiple Sclerosis. It’s like dementia’s younger, more chaotic cousin but with bonus fatigue, bladder misadventures, and a front-row seat to your own mental unravelling.

Memory Holes and Swiss Cheese Brains Sometimes it’s names. Sometimes it’s words. Sometimes it’s your entire fooking train of thought, gone like a fart in a cathedral.

I once forgot the word “kettle” and pointed at it like a confused chimp, muttering: “That hot thing that makes the water scream.” Albertine knew what I meant. She always does. Probably because I’ve done this about 4,000 times now.

And don’t get me started on conversations. You can be halfway through a sentence and—

What was I saying?

The Magical Vanishing Vocabulary Trick My brain has become a magician. Watch it make entire chunks of vocabulary disappear!

Last week I called a screwdriver “that spinny bastard.” It took three goes to remember the word “remote.” And trying to describe a dream I had was like explaining a David Lynch film through interpretive dance.

Albertine just sits there, patient as ever, while I mime, gesture, and swear my way toward basic nouns. It’s a sexy look. Like Shakespeare having a mild stroke.

The Existential Horror of Staring at a Spoon There’s nothing quite like sitting in your kitchen, holding a spoon, and thinking: “What do I do with this?”

Do I eat soup? Stir tea? Dig a small symbolic grave for my cognitive dignity?

All of the above.

Please Hold… Some days, my thoughts load slower than rural dial-up in 1997. You can see it in my eyes—buffering… buffering… spinning wheel of death.

I try to say something clever, and out comes a noise like a dial-up modem having an existential crisis.

It’s funny until it’s not. Then it’s terrifying. Then, usually, it’s funny again.

Because what else can you do?

A Mind in Pieces MS cognitive dysfunction isn’t just forgetting your keys. It’s forgetting where the word “keys” lives. It’s your brain quietly slipping out the back door while your body tries to carry on the pantomime of normality.

But I’ll say this: I’m still here. Still watching. Still dangerous. Still me. Even if I occasionally ask Albertine what my own bloody name is.

And Albertine? She still laughs with me, not at me. That’s love. Or madness. Possibly 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