DarkHumourBlog

🩸 Fifty Years in the Shadows (The Goblin’s Tale) 🩸

They call him Goblin, But he was born under a name no one could pronounce In a place no one cared to map, A damp hollow beneath rusted rail tracks, Where steam trains shrieked like tinnitus banshees And darkness soaked into his skin Until he became a shadow himself.

He’s lived fifty years in these borderlands Between pain and silence, Between sweat-drenched nightmares And flickers of stubborn hope – Because goblins are nothing if not stubborn.

He rides his three-wheeled trike death machine Through the crumbled remnants of dreams, Bong bubbling on his lap like a faithful pet, Eyes half-closed, Not from arrogance, But because he’s seen too much to bother blinking.

Cool in that way only the utterly broken become, Caring in a silent, side-eye goblin way – He’ll pass you a Rizla if you’re crying, Or grunt a dark joke if you’re shaking, Just don’t expect a hug. His love language is simply not leaving you to rot alone.

Fifty years of living hell Didn’t make him bitter, It made him aloof, calm, unshakable, A little bit fungal, A little bit cosmic.

He knows the darkness like a lover’s curve, Knows pain like an old tune on repeat, Knows despair like he knows his own name – Unpronounceable, heavy, and true.

But watch him when the moon is full, When the tinnitus steam trains howl loudest, You’ll see his eyes flicker bright for a moment – That’s him remembering He is not the darkness. He just rides it better than anyone else.

   “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 ✨🧌

Top Ten Alternative Medicines: Because Desperation is Expensive Let’s face it. When mainstream medicine gives you nothing but side effects, gaslighting, and a mild death wish, you inevitably end up here: the world of alternative medicine. Welcome to the land where hope meets your bank balance, and your sanity politely exits stage left.

Here’s my brutally honest ranking.

1. Acupuncture 💉 Claim: Sticking needles in you realigns your life force. 💀 Reality: You’re paying someone to stab you repeatedly. Might help pain a bit. Might just remind you you’re alive, which is arguably worse.

2. CBD / Cannabis 🌿 Claim: Cures everything from pain to your failed marriage. 💀 Reality: Can ease pain, spasticity, and anxiety. Also makes you realise how soul-crushing your life is with exceptional clarity. Worth it.

3. Reiki 👐 Claim: Someone waves their hands near you to shift energy fields. 💀 Reality: Basically spiritual WiFi with zero scientific backing. Still, lying still for an hour while someone hovers over you is strangely calming.

4. Herbal Teas & Tinctures 🍵 Claim: Plants heal. 💀 Reality: Some herbs genuinely help mild symptoms. Others taste like compost water, make your bowels explode, and cost more than your rent.

5. Homeopathy 💧 Claim: Dilute poison to cure poison. 💀 Reality: Sugar pills with memory water. Useful only if your illness is a placebo in the first place.

6. Crystal Healing 💎 Claim: Rocks vibrate healing energies. 💀 Reality: They look pretty on your shelf while your body continues its daily betrayal.

7. Aromatherapy 🌸 Claim: Oils fix everything. 💀 Reality: Lavender might calm you. Peppermint might help your headache. But no oil will fix your soul-crushing fatigue. Sorry, Karen.

8. Reflexology 🦶 Claim: Pressing your feet heals your organs. 💀 Reality: Great foot massage. Everything else is foot-based fan fiction.

9. Ayurvedic Medicine 🪷 Claim: Ancient Indian herbal wisdom balances your doshas. 💀 Reality: Some legit herbal remedies. Some unregulated heavy metal pills. Roll the dice and hope you don’t get arsenic with your ashwagandha.

10. Hypnotherapy 🌀 Claim: Reprogram your subconscious to fix illness, pain, trauma. 💀 Reality: Helpful for stress or trauma-based conditions. For MS nerve damage? Might as well hypnotise yourself into believing you’re a golden retriever for emotional support.

Final Thoughts Will any of these cure your incurable chronic illness? No.

Will they make life slightly more bearable? Some might.

Will your bank balance survive this spiritual capitalism? Absolutely not.

         “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 ✨🧌

Ah, the NHS. Our beloved national institution where you enter with symptoms and leave with a prescription for “just try yoga.” Here are the top ten gaslighting moments brought to you by the experts in “it’s all in your head.”

1. “Your Bloods Are Normal, So You’re Fine” Because apparently if your blood test is fine, so is your life. Chronic fatigue, pain, cognitive dysfunction? Irrelevant. Your veins are thriving, love.

2. “Have You Tried Losing Weight?” Yes, because my demyelinating neurological condition will obviously resolve itself if I just drop two stone. Thank you, Dr. BMI.

3. “It’s Probably Anxiety” The holy grail of dismissals. Broken leg? Anxiety. MS relapse? Anxiety. Spontaneous human combustion? Must be anxiety.

4. “At Least It’s Not Cancer” Because that’s the only measure of suffering. You’re not dying of cancer, so kindly shut up about your daily pain, fatigue, and neurological decline.

5. “You’re Too Young for That” My cells didn’t get the age memo, apparently. They’re just here for a good time, not a long time.

6. “You’re Probably Depressed” Wouldn’t you be? Living in a malfunctioning body while being told you’re imagining it is basically a depression starter pack.

7. “It’s Just Part of Getting Older” Ah yes, at the ripe old age of 27. My joints, nerves, and cognitive function just decided to fast-track me to 97.

8. “We Don’t Normally Do That Test” Translation: We could investigate your symptoms properly, but we’d rather not.

9. “You Seem Fine To Me” Thank you, Doctor, for this enlightening diagnosis based solely on my ability to brush my hair and not scream during this five-minute consult.

10. “Come Back If It Gets Worse” Spoiler alert: It will get worse. And you still won’t listen.

Conclusion So there you have it. Ten glorious NHS gaslighting hits. Remember, your symptoms don’t count unless they’re easily fixable, life-threatening, or profitable.

     “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 ✨🧌

Letting Windows 11 install itself is like giving the keys to a drunk valet — somehow, it worked out fine. No explosions, no blue screens. Quite the miracle, considering my experiences with Windows Millennium and its rogue’s gallery of dysfunctional predecessors.

To be fair, Windows 10 and 11 are slick. But the code bloat? Don’t get me started. I miss the lean days of Windows 7 and XP, the glory years before Microsoft decided your machine needed 45 services just to check the weather.

But I’ve moved on — I’m Linux-bound, baby. Mint on a USB stick. Kali for when I’m feeling dangerous. Both free. Both slick. And everything I need is already there. Open source is the truth. Why pay absurd amounts of money when SourceForge and the depths of the internet provide a smorgasbord of brilliance?

Now imagine this: Black Sabbath is blaring – Iron Man rattling the walls, the Doobie Brothers soothing the existential dread, and some Bach organ symphonies levelling it all out. Meanwhile, joss sticks waft from the lavatory, and my body decides it’s time for another round with the infamous MS Hug — a vice grip on your ribs, only with the bonus prize of a surprise bowel evacuation.

Yes, Multiple Sclerosis is the gift that keeps on giving: Pins and needles, numbness, muscle spasms — I’m basically a vibrating sex toy on Mach 10. If it weren’t painful, it’d be hilarious. Actually, it is hilarious, in a cruel cosmic way.

But hey — it could be worse. Back in the ‘70s, I was 13, smashing pavement with a pneumatic drill during school holidays. Smoking Embassy Gold, Players No.6, or if I was desperate, the glorified paper stub that was No.10. My next-door neighbour Steve (legend and bad influence rolled into one) got me onto Marlboro and joints. Life was motorcycles, tattoos, rock ‘n’ roll, and too many warnings from mothers about dudes like me. Now? The wheels have changed — but the fire's still here. And the stories? They’re just getting started.

           “By ink and breath and sacred rage, I write.
                      By storm and silence, I survive.”

“The views in this post are based on my personal  
    experience. I do not intend harm, only honesty.”  

                🧌✨twitter or x @goblinbloggeruk ✨🧌

So I’ve been thinking — I know, shocking — but let's face it, MS really does blow chunks.

You walk into a doctor’s surgery, tell them what's going on, and they're glued to their computer screen like they're checking the footie scores or writing a memoir. You wait for the questions, but it’s just nodding. Half-arsed. Then they look up at you like you’re the inconvenience.

Let me paint the scene:

I rock up in my wheelchair, scraping the doorframe because apparently, accessibility is still a mythical concept in parts of the UK. It’s one of those surgeries that's older than most of the patients — falling apart, steeped in the smell of wet plaster and resignation. I apologise for the door. It's that bad.

I wheel in and the doc looks at me like I’ve just insulted his nan. I’ve found that neurologists in particular have a real flair for hating me — probably because I ask awkward questions that don’t come with a neat textbook answer. Their reaction? Condescension, mostly. “This is how you should feel,” they say. Oh, should I? How enlightening.

To be honest, I didn’t want to be there. Waste. Of. Time.

I’m sitting there trying not to blow a fuse while they judge me like I’m auditioning for Britain’s Got Neurological Issues. These days, though, I’m lucky. I moved. New docs. Better vibes. Now I hand over a list — symptoms, patterns, the works. I sit back and let them squirm.

Still, I suffer from white coat syndrome so I’m already stressed the moment I see the antiseptic blue of NHS decor. But hey, the list helps. Unless you get that one GP who glances at your entire medical history like it’s a Wikipedia article they can’t be arsed to read.

Everything, apparently, is caused by MS. I could sprout a second head and they’d say “Ah yes, classic MS.”

So what have I learned?

Being me — unapologetically, sarcastically, chronically ill me — is actually kinda liberating. I say it like it is (within reason… ish). I watch the world spin, watch my life fade out into this mad oblivion — and I keep fighting, whether it’s through brain fog, pain, or a poorly designed doorway.

I’m sick as fuck, but such is life. And I’ll keep going — until my last breath or brain cell. Whichever taps out first.

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.”

"MS blows chunks. I keep fighting."

In the season they call SAD, when the clouds refuse to blink, And rain is just sky sweat with delusions of grandeur, She came like a banshee on a Bonneville, Tyres hissing spells in the petrol dusk— A woman? No. A prophecy in leather and eyeliner, Named Albertine, Long-suffering wife of Death himself, Who sulks in a wheelchair and smokes cloves ironically.

Her hair: a demi-wave abyss. Her smile: pure tarot seduction, One glance and even the moon blushed, Then wept behind cirrostratus shame.

Oh, Albertine! You ride like prophecy, Read palms with a sneer, And throw cards with such venom They hit truths no therapy ever could.

She is palmist, astrologer, Tarot priestess of all things doomed, With a Motorhead patch sewn onto her soul And eyeliner sharp enough to open portals.

By her side, in his wheeled throne of bone, Death groans through another solstice, Wearing a “Don’t Talk To Me I’m Mourning” T-shirt. She calls him Mad Moon Ms. in public. He hates it. We love her more.

They arrive at Ritual Panic, That sacred sabbat of forgetting where you put the damn wand. She lights incense that smells like resentment and rosemary. He levitates just to show off. She tells your future with a flick of the wrist And a voice that sounds like bourbon-soaked prophecy:

“You’ll fall in love with a ghost and regret everything but the kissing.”

Full Moon Tantrum follows, When the skies go hormonal And witches cry glitter. She dances. Oh gods, she dances. The kind of dance that ends marriages and starts cults.

You ask,

“Albertine, are you a goddess?” And she just laughs, Blows smoke in your face, And says, “No love. I’m worse. I’m aware.”

Post-Script from Death (dictated, not written): “If you see her again, run. She’ll read your birth chart, your palm, your doom, and your libido. She’ll burn through your soul like it’s a sage bundle on discount. But gods... what a sexy ass.”

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.”

Let’s face it: the original Wheel of the Year is lovely and all, but it never quite captured the true essence of seasonal British existence—grey skies, passive-aggressive weather, and the looming existential dread of another trip around the sun.

So I’ve created My Wheel of the Year, reimagined with all the grim hilarity and dark sarcasm you’ve come to expect. No fluffy bunnies or overenthusiastic flower crowns here. Just raw, seasonal truths filtered through a bottle of gin and a Spotify playlist called “Witchy Vibes & Regret.”

The Sabbaths (or, “How I Learned to Hate the Sun”) January – “The Month of Lies” New Year, New You? Please. You’re still eating Christmas chocolates in your dressing gown and pretending it’s meal prep. This is not a fresh start—it’s an overhyped Monday with fireworks.

February – “Cupid’s Fever Dream” Valentine’s? More like Singles Awareness Month. Light a red candle, write your ex’s name backwards, and curse the Hallmark industry. Repeat while crying into heart-shaped pizza.

March – “Spring Tease” The equinox allegedly brings balance. Lies. It’s still raining sideways, your SAD lamp’s judging you, and you’re debating hexing the weather gods.

April – “The Festival of Allergy” You awaken the land, and in return, it fills your sinuses with tree sperm. Bless the earth with antihistamines and sarcasm.

May – “Beltane Burnout” Fire festivals? Yes. Bonfires of all your ambitions, mostly. Frolic responsibly, with one eye on the bail money.

June – “Solstice of Delusion” The longest day of the year—and somehow, it’s still overcast. Celebrate the triumph of light with SPF 50, rain boots, and an existential scream into the hedge.

August – “Lammas of Regret” The harvest begins. You reap what you sow. Which, let’s be honest, was mostly anxiety, bad decisions, and a dying houseplant.

October – “Samhain or Bust” Ah, spooky season. Finally, an aesthetic you relate to. Dead leaves, dead people, dead hopes. Light your candles, talk to ghosts, avoid your family.

December – “Yule Fuel” Pagan Christmas before it was cool. Stockpile mead, fake joy, and ritual candles like it’s the apocalypse. Because, let’s face it, it probably is.

In Conclusion: Spiritual? Yes. Cynical? Absolutely. This is a wheel that turns not with divine grace but with the sarcastic grinding of a society clinging to ritual and wine in equal measure. Join me. Or don’t. Time is a flat circle and I’m late anyway.

        "SAD Season," "Ritual Panic," "Full Moon Tantrum"

🧌 @goblinbloggeruk — Witchy, Weird, and Just a Bit Unstable 🔮 Read the blog, question your life.

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.”

So I’ve been digging through the digital attic of my mind—aka my ancient text files—and it turns out I’ve been documenting my strange little existence for quite some time. Lucky you.

Expect a handful of funny, weird, and possibly unhinged blog posts coming soon. There's going to be everything: chronic illness, unbearable despair, overcoming adversity, and that one time I almost became just another gravestone in the plague pit thanks to a brush with COVID.

Spoiler: I survived. Obviously.

Now, I don’t like to brag (I love to brag), but MS has never managed to take me down. I’ve clawed, dragged, and side-eyed my way through everything life has lobbed at me. From the murky dungeons of fatigue to the unholy bureaucracy of the NHS, I’ve stood tall (ish) and refused to go quietly.

Then COVID showed up. It was hell. And not the “bad curry” kind. The “gasping for air, praying to every god you don’t believe in” kind. I was this close to joining the worm buffet.

But I fought back with what I like to call Kitchen Alchemy and Sheer Bloody-Mindedness.

Trusty onion – peeled like a warrior's weapon. Ever smelled like a casserole while crying? That's strength.

Colloidal silver – controversial, yes, but so am I.

Vitamin C and D – so much C I nearly pooed myself into another dimension. Worth it.

Ginger shots – made me feel alive and like I was being punched in the throat.

Turmeric, black pepper, and coconut oil – aka The Golden Bullet. Sounds like a mystical remedy, tastes like regret.

But I made it. Again. Because the moral of my life is simple: never underestimate someone who’s already been to hell and keeps receipts.

More soon. Possibly with more onions. And fewer near-death experiences.

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.”

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.”

Well, it seems the annual hayfever apocalypse is upon us. Hooray. Yes, I’m now on three antihistamines a day (or however one spells it—frankly, the packaging is too blurry through the eye-itch haze to tell). My eyes currently feel like they’ve been rubbed with Sahara sand and rage. They itch. They burn. They are deeply offended.

As if that weren’t spiritually enlightening enough, apparently we’re also entering a solar storm spiral of doom. Some sort of sunspot nonsense for the next two days. Space people says "all hell could break loose." I say, bring it—what’s one more intergalactic inconvenience when your nervous system is already hosting a personal light show?

Speaking of which—hello, tinnitus, old friend. Oh, and welcome back, numbness on the left side. My hand’s gone stupid again, as if it’s auditioning for a B-movie about haunted limbs. Meanwhile, I continue to dribble down aloe drinks like some sort of spiritual juicing monk, in the vague hope it helps something. Anything.

Apparently Monday brings better weather. Brilliant! Time to roll out the Wheelchair of Death™ and hunt down some "fresh air" (or at least a breeze not laced with pollen and doom). Provided it’s not raining. Or boiling. Or both.

Today was a weird one. I actually managed to get loads done on this blog. Going forward, I’ll be writing more about strange bits of my past, and of course, the winding, faltering path of my MS journey—as it meanders toward the inevitable: death. Or as I prefer to call it, a return to the Source, the Creator, the Great Mystery.

As above, so below. As below, so above. The Emerald Tablet said it best. We are stardust, spirit, and sarcasm walking each other home. Through numb hands and dusty eyeballs. Still, I smile. Because blogging makes me weirdly happy. It helps give meaning to all that’s been lost.And so, along this road—I tread.

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.”