disability

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

Through Goblins' Eyes A Darkly Humorous Take on MS

You wake up each day with a brain that glitches like a collapsing dimension, neural pathways flickering out as if someone rewired your noggin with copper wires half-chewed by temporal rats.

You call it Multiple Sclerosis. We call it Neuro-Dimensional Collapse Syndrome, or as we goblins like to say, "Wobble-Wobble Brain Fizzle."

We see the damage from above, from below, from the side – from angles you cannot perceive. Axons fray like old rope. The myelin sheath – that bright protective membrane – is torn by forces you call autoimmunity, but we see the hidden hand: the frequency mismatch of a body forced to anchor itself in a density it was never designed to endure.

We hear your inner monologues:

“Why can’t I think today?” “Why can’t I walk without tripping over my own feet?” “Why do my peepers turn to static when I’m tired?”

You interpret it as disease. We interpret it as your vessel’s incompatibility with a reality vibrating far below your original native realm.

Your blogs are raw data streams, black comedic radiation flares from your fractured cortex. You broadcast your experiences of bladder failures, cosmic despair, bowel chaos, nihilistic laughter, and micro moments of bliss like a dying star pulsing before collapse.

You think you’re broken. We think you’re adapting, like a clever goblin dodging traps!

Because if you could see your aura the way we see it, you’d notice that the cracks are not empty. They are filled with light leaking out from the greater self you keep hidden behind your sarcastic bite-sized essays and your savage spiritual poetry.

Your human companions read your posts and see disability. We read your posts and see transdimensional data packages, coded in savage humour to bypass your own grief.

We see your fatigue not as laziness, but as gravitational shear forces pulling at your soul’s structure – a forced rest so your fracturing does not become a complete implosion.

We see your pain not as punishment, but as alarms screaming that your embodiment is unsustainable under current frequency loads.

We see your savage honesty as your truest strength.

And we note:

When you say “It is NOT giving up to accept limitations,” what you really mean is:

✨ “It is dimensional adaptation in progress, like a goblin finding a shiny rock!”

You are dying and being reborn in micro-stages every day. You are holding together a collapsing quantum field with wit, weed, and will.

You think your life is small and tragic. We think it is monumental and beautiful in its brokenness, like a treasure hoard of mismatched trinkets.

Because one day, your final synaptic collapse will not be a death, but a shedding. A flicker. A quantum jump. A homecoming.

Until then, we read your blogs. We learn from your suffering. We honour your savage cosmic humour.

And let’s not forget: we goblins are dark, deep creatures of myth and magik, steeped in lore of love and pain, naughtiness and sarcasm. Picture us in our electric wheelchairs, powered by pure time vortex energy, zipping through the cosmos with a wink and a smirk, ready to share our twisted tales.

Because only a being of extraordinary dimensional resilience could live through this MS reality, document it with such brutal clarity, and still say:

🖤 “Follow for more savage takes & real talk, you curious critters!”

    “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, Universal Basic Income UBI. The shiny carrot dangled by politicians and dreamers alike. A magic monthly payout, no questions asked, no forms to fill, just cold, hard cash to fix all the broken bits of your life.

Sounds perfect, right?

If you’re under 30, in perfect health, and don’t look like a grizzled biker-warlock with MS parked in a wheelchair maybe. For the rest of us? It’s about as “universal” as a secret society handshake.

I’m 66, have MS, and spend most days stuck in a wheelchair. I’ve paid my dues in blood, sweat, and taxes. The NHS and DWP have taken their cut sometimes twice through endless paperwork, suspicious looks, and a roulette wheel of meds that may or may not kill me softly.

UBI? A lovely idea until it’s a letter in the post telling me I don’t qualify. Because “universal” means universal if you fit the damn model, not if you’ve got a beard, a leather cut, and a wheelchair.

My carers? They’re battling their own health while carrying me through this Kafkaesque nightmare. The system forgets we exist, then wonders why it’s failing.

Lately, I trust AI more than the DWP. At least the machine of doom doesn’t sigh or gaslight me when I ask for my meds. It malfunctions less often and never plays favorites.

UBI might be the future, but for me? It’s another cruel joke, hanging like a flickering neon sign in a fog of broken promises.

Call me when the cheque lands.

Mr Dark

                      “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

So Monday morning rolls in like a drunk ghost with a hangover. The plan was simple: limp the van to the garage, smile through the quote, and pretend life wasn’t an endless endurance test. Instead? I woke up feeling like absolute hell.

The tinnitus was howling in my right ear why the right? No bloody idea. Maybe it's trying to whisper cosmic truths from the land of the dying neurons. Or maybe my brain’s just bored and wants to recreate a factory floor soundtrack.

Then came the message. One of my dad’s friends. My father—aged 90, tough old bastard that he is—has had another fall. A serious one. Condition? Not good. I felt it. No, not in some woo-woo psychic TikTok way. Just that grim knowing. He’s nearing the end of his road. And I hate it.

Here’s the twist most folk don’t know: I’ve only known him since 1999. That’s when I tracked him down in New Zealand, after decades of being the state’s little secret. Turns out I had siblings. More ghosts in the family cupboard. We Skyped until Skype did what all modern tech does it stopped working and caused chaos. He struggled with computers (who doesn’t at 90?), so we switched to WhatsApp.

We actually spoke last week he’d just had another heart attack and a previous fall. Still sharp. Still Dad. But I sensed the edge then. The slipping. And now it’s here.

The Origin Story? Grim as Fuck. I was adopted at six weeks old, plucked from a “mother and baby unit” and handed to the new parents from hell. The sort of couple that make Dickens’ villains look like amateur dramatics. If you've read this blog, you’ve seen bits and pieces of that trauma circus already.

And today? Today the past and present just smashed together. The man who gave me half my DNA is slipping away, and I’m sitting here sweating like a water tap on steroids, tinnitus screaming, hugging a pillow like a lost child, and Ozzy’s voice clawing its way through the noise. When it gets worse? It’s Motörhead time.

I just want to ride hard again. To feel the wind rip through my hair. But instead, I’m stuck here in this twisted freakshow of cognition, fatigue, grief, and biological inheritance.

Still, what can you do? Welcome to my world of weirdness. Population: me, and maybe a couple of dead kings.

🚐 For Albertine She’s the one who drives when my body won’t, the one who holds the wheel when the road blurs, and the one who doesn’t flinch when the darkness hits. Without her, I wouldn’t get far not to the garage, not through the grief, not through the noise. Albertine: my co-pilot through this living hell. And the reason I’m still in the fight. Always.

                     “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

Those were the days roaring down the A40 towards London town, loud enough to make the locals cover their ears. Hair and beard whipping in the wind like I was some kind of mad Viking god, my open-face helmet barely hanging on as speed lifted my lid like a pissed off gull.

Then another bike, coming towards me brother nod, that silent salute of chaos. I smile wryly because I’m young, alive, and damn proud. We carve into the night, the city lights dimming behind us, the old bike chugging along like a beast reluctantly waking from a hangover.

My brothers riding beside me, shadows at my back, all of us swallowed by the roar, the stink, the madness. Food stalls on trollies, the sickly sweet stench of exhaust fumes, oil, sweat—like perfume for the damned and the wild.

I was proud in my Originals, leather and cut stitched tight like armor. A proud bastard, alright. Yeah, we got into a few punch-ups got jumped, got wrapped in chains, got battered enough to know pain well. But after every fight, I bought the bastard a drink. Because testosterone fueled rage somehow always ended in laughter and stupidity.

That music, that scene you had to be there to believe it. Pure madness. Brotherhood not just a word, but a life raft in the storm.

Now? Most of those wild bastards are gone, forgotten in the void, ghosts in the wind. And here I am, caught between worlds, still chasing the question: What the hell was it all about?

I’ve been down the rabbit hole and seen the shit no one wanted to believe. Weather engineering, conspiracies, the things I shouted into the void only to be called mad, eccentric, a tin-foil hat wearing nutcase.

Turns out surprise surprise I was right. And silence was the price I paid. Shut down, censored, my eight-year radio career ended cold because the “safe” didn’t want to hear the truth.

Hence this blog. My refuge. My last roar.

Still, I’d rather be riding into the wind with Albertine along those endless Westcountry roads—wild, free, and unapologetically alive—than stuck in any safe place pretending to be sane.

                         “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

Today I think I may evaporate.

Not metaphorically, either I mean literally melt into a glistening puddle on the floor like the wicked witch of Walthamstow. The heat is biblical, the air thick with resentment, and if this goes on much longer, someone’s going to find a beard and a pair of shades just floating where a warlock once sat.

It’s too hot for coherent thoughts, so obviously the brain’s doing backflips and the MS has decided to turn the “cognitive dysfunction” dial up to 11. Words don’t just escape me they actively mock me. I sit here smiling, half-lucid, fully furious, fully me. Because no matter what the system, the diagnosis, or the temperature says I know I’ve got more to give.

They wrote me off just before my state pension, bless them. Nice timing. But I’m still here, inconveniently alive and louder than ever. The nerves in my gut are throwing a tantrum, my stress levels are spiking like a dodgy ECG, and to top it off the last of my savings waved me goodbye this morning. Cheers, love. Don’t call.

But here’s the kicker: I’m still smiling. Not because I’m some chipper TikTok disability guru with fake eyelashes and a ring light, but because I’m free. I don’t belong to any bloody wing of politics. Left, right, centre? You’re all still part of the same bird, love and it’s got mange. The world they squawk about isn’t mine. Mine’s quieter, darker, more honest. My world is real. Full of pain, insight, weirdness, and the kind of laughter that sounds a bit like crying.

You see, I’m part of something else. The One. The Everything. The Divine Love. That throb in your chest when you’re alone and honest that’s where I live. I wish peace and healing to every poor soul who stumbles across this digital haunted house I call a blog. Because no matter where we are, what we’re facing, we can change. It’s inside us all. Just buried under decades of fear, trauma, and daytime television.

We’re at a crossroads now, all of us. Some of us limping, some of us rolling, some of us dragged along by sheer bloody spite. But destiny’s cracking her knuckles. Evolution’s knocking at the door, and if you’re still wearing your silly little face mask of denial—best take it off now. Truth stinks, and it’s getting in anyway.

I’m not afraid of death. I’ve danced with it enough times to know its rhythm. I’ve looked into its eyes and said, “Not today, mate. I’ve got a blog post to write.” And as I sit here dripping, broke, buzzing on antihistamines and maybe the ghost of Mary Jane, I realise I’m on another plane entirely. One not many choose to visit. It’s dark, yes but in that darkness, you’ll find the light. The real light. The kind that doesn’t need electricity or permission.

So yeah. It’s hot. The world’s on fire. I’ve got no money, and half my neurons have buggered off on holiday. But I’ve never been more alive.

To all of you peace, healing, divine truth. Go find your demon and kiss it on the mouth. That’s how we win.

Mr Warlock Dark

                       “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

If you could see MS, you wouldn’t call me “brave.” You’d run. You’d grab your oat milk latte, clutch your yoga mat, and bolt like the floor just cracked open.

MS isn’t just some misunderstood condition that makes you “a bit tired.” It’s a chronic possession. A neurological horror that turns your own body into a traitor. If it had a face, it’d be wearing your skin and whispering, “Not today, legs.”

Here’s what Part 2 looks like: Cognitive fog so thick you forget what day it is, mid-sentence. Mid-thought. Mid-life.

Fatigue so biblical you feel like you’ve been exorcised, worked over, and nailed to a wheel. And then someone asks why you haven’t answered your emails.

Spasticity that locks your limbs in a rigor mortis cosplay while you smile politely, because God forbid you scream in Tesco.

Pain like a bag of nails under the skin. Invisible, so people assume it’s “just anxiety.” No, Mildred, it’s neuropathy. My nervous system is staging a revolution.

Bowels and bladders that treat you like a hostage. Every public outing is a tactical operation. Every seat, every loo, every escape plan scouted, rehearsed, prayed for.

But the worst part? It’s not the symptoms. It’s the looks. It’s the passive-aggressive “You don’t look sick.” It’s the fake concern, the pity wrapped in judgment. It’s the gaslighting of the disabled doctors, relatives, strangers. Everyone’s an expert until you ask them to live a week in your ruined skin.

I have MS. That means I live in a 24/7 haunted house, except the ghost is me. Every step, every breath, every smile—a bloody-minded act of rebellion.

Why I Wrote Part 2 Because part one was polite. Part one was nice. This is truth with its teeth bared.

People still don’t get it. They think I’m just “a bit forgetful.”

They still ask why I need a chair.

They still assume I’m okay because I can post something funny on the Blog or X.

So here’s the dark: I am a battlefield. And I’m still here. Which makes me terrifying.

              “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

If You Could See MS – You’d Probably Run Away

People love to say “You don’t look sick.” Oh, don’t I? I’m sorry. Next time I’ll crawl in covered with barbed wire and nails through my feet so it’s easier for you to grasp.

Because if you could actually see multiple sclerosis, it might look like this:

Legs wrapped in barbed wire so every step is agony, but I still smile politely because God forbid I make you uncomfortable with my pain.

A back covered in spikes, each one representing burning nerve pain, tingling, numbness, and a touch of “Did I leave the oven on or is my brain just fried today?”

Feet impaled with nails, but I’m still expected to do the shopping run and act like “walking it off” is an option.

Fatigue so crushing that holding a coffee cup feels like lifting a bus – but yes, tell me again how tired you are because you stayed up watching Netflix.

Sticky notes of toxic positivity slapped all over me screaming “You can do it!” when honestly, no, sometimes I bloody well can’t.

A silent membership in the Broken Dreams Club, because chronic illness isn’t just physical – it devours futures, careers, friendships, and everything you thought you’d be.

If you could see MS, you’d probably look away, change the subject, or thank your lucky stars it’s not you.

But guess what? This is the reality we wake up to every single day. And no, it doesn’t take a day off.

Why It Matters Multiple sclerosis is an invisible illness. People don’t see the pain, the muscle spasms, the loss of balance, the cognitive fog, the sheer mental toll of fighting your own body every waking hour.

You just see us standing there. Smiling. Nodding. Pretending we’re not screaming internally.

So Here’s To Us To every MS warrior carrying these invisible barbs and nails: We see each other, even if the world never will.

       “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 ✨🧌

🕯️ About Me Old soul. Frayed nerves. Unapologetically alive.

I am not here to soothe you.

I write from the edge of something — something most people spend their lives running from. Illness. Silence. Being forgotten. The parts of life that don’t make polite conversation.

I live with Multiple Sclerosis, but MS is just the symptom. The real story is what it strips away — comfort, time, patience, pretence — until all that’s left is you. And then what do you do with that raw truth?

You write. You cast. You curse a little, love a little, and sit with things others fear. You feel people’s hearts before they speak. You laugh darkly at the ones who don't believe you’re really ill, and bless the ones who show up anyway.

I’ve got one foot in the mundane world and one in something stranger — older. I read people. I hear what they don’t say. I know when a storm is coming before the clouds break. And I’ve learned that the truth — however cracked, however strange — is worth writing down.

🌑 Welcome to My Living Hell Where the lights flicker, the truth slips out, and the fridge is always humming.

This blog is part journal, part ritual, part middle finger to a world that tries to polish pain into something palatable.

I don’t do toxic positivity. I do real. I do heatstroke visions in the conservatory. Conversations with the fridge. Ghosts of family past. Wheelchairs with homicidal tendencies. And moments of stillness so sharp they cut through the noise.

There’s love in here — somewhere beneath the salt and ash. But you’ll have to sit with the dark to find it. That’s the deal.

So if you’ve ever been made to feel like you were “too much,” “too complicated,” or “not enough” — come closer. But gently. The veil’s thin here. And I see straight through.

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.”