goblinbloggeruk

“Mr. Dark and the Sultry Trolley of Death” (A lament in B-flat battery buzz)

By chrome and clatter and haunted beep, Mr. Dark rides when the world’s asleep. Three wheels kiss tarmac like a lover’s sin, A leather-trimmed beast with a rattling grin.

Throttle twitches she purrs then screams, A feral queen in mobility dreams. She’s built for war, for kerbs and rage, A sexed-up chariot uncaged from age.

To the Chemist’s lair he glides with grace, But the Automated Dispensing Interface— That bastard box with blinking eyes— Denies his pills and spouts out lies.

"ERROR: Please Scan Again." He growls, he flails, he screams in pain. The trolley bucks in wounded pride, And traffic parts as they collide.

“Oh sod this plastic priest of pills! May your circuits drown in codeine spills!” He wobbles hard, he curses fate, The townsfolk flee. He’s running late.

But lo! What’s this? A shadow looms In sterile coat from Munich’s tombs. Dr. Fist, the Teutonic fiend, With charts and probes and eyes that gleam.

“I vill examine your... undead gait, Your brain is soup. Let’s puncture fate!” He chases Dark through corridors, With syringes sharp and no remorse.

Yet still he rides our trembling knight, On lithium wheels through darkest night. No cape, no crown, just spasm and spark, The one they call... Herr Mister 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

It’s been the weirdest of weeks. Not much sleep. But I’m still here.

My MS symptoms are calming down to a level I can handle. That’s a victory, right there. Because every breath I take is another I refused to surrender.

I drown out the tinnitus with music. My head sounds like a goblin with a weed wacker, or a spluttering two-stroke engine – like an old Yamaha FS1E, coughing and whining its fizzy rebellion. Call her Fizzy Girl, Wifey, Albertine… call her whatever you want. The pain stays the same.

Looking at this screen burns. My voice is croaky. Words come slow. My tongue is numb again, lost in a mouthful of phantom bites and blister burns. That’s life when MS hits your throat, your vagus nerve, your corpus callosum. But I fight it. Every. Damn. Day.

I’ve had those dark thoughts. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t. But I never let them win. I write them out. I bleed them onto pages, text pads, digital scraps – foggy memories turned into clarity, darkness turned into light.

I created this alter ego – The Goblin. It’s addictive, this freedom of expression. I have no mates, no friends in the traditional sense. But I have myself. And I have my family. And that is enough.

It’s Saturday afternoon. June 6th. Back in the day, Saturday afternoons meant wrestling on BBC2. Mark Rocco. Marty Jones. Fit Finlay. Skull Murphy. Giant Haystacks. Banger Walsh. I met Haystacks once. I was 6ft 4 back then, and he made me feel small. That’s what true presence is.

I remember mushrooms my dad picked fresh from the field, sizzling in Trex, pitch black underneath – perfect. Simple memories. Real moments. The things that matter.

So what’s broken this week, you ask? Nothing. My biggest win was reinstalling Windows 11 and getting Kali Linux running again. The rest is just background noise.

I picked up my crown from the dentist. He had a bike accident. I’m sending him healing energy, like I send to you reading this now.

Because yes, I know darkness. I live with pain. But I rise. Every. Single. Time.

Never give up. I haven’t. And I won’t. Neither should you.

         “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 ✨🧌

It’s funny, isn’t it? You’re in a room with one other person. Just the two of you. You speak. Your mouth moves. Actual words come out. But somehow… nothing lands. It's like you're a ghost, a passing breeze, or worse — background noise to someone else's ego monologue.

Welcome to my reality: Selective bloody hearing.

Let me paint the scene. You're fighting off a brutal illness, spasms hit like a freight train, your brain fogs up like a broken kettle left out in the English drizzle, and then comes the cherry on top — people don’t listen. Not can’t. Won’t. They avert their eyes, mumble condescending clichés, or — the fan favourite — promise they’ll “call you soon.” (Spoiler: they won’t.)

Is it the wheelchair? The drooping face? The occasional dribble? Or do they just prefer their disabled friends silent, motionless, and conveniently non-existent?

Maybe They’re Just Uncomfortable? Oh yes. Heaven forbid they feel awkward while you’re being eaten alive by something terminal and nightmarish.

I started calling them out. Can you imagine the chaos? Apparently, honesty from the terminally ill is too real. It makes dinner parties awkward. And honestly, I’m well past the point of caring. If I’m going to be ignored, I might as well scream in Black Sabbath and let Ozzy do the talking.

Paranoid? Nah. At first, I thought maybe it was just me. A bad day. A misread signal. But no. There’s a pattern. The looks. The empty promises. The slow fade-outs. The way friends evaporate like cheap aftershave. You become a "thing," a problem they can't fix and don't want to look at. I didn’t ask to be a medical freakshow — but here I am, feeling like the last carnie in a ghost-town circus.

It's Raining, I'm Buzzing Brain fog is a beast. Been digging into DNA research (who was I before this monster arrived?), but my head’s a bag of wet socks lately. Tingling lips. Numb tongue. Probably allergic to the air again. And that damn straw — it always goes missing, like some household Bermuda Triangle.

Wrestling Is My Religion Say what you want — yes, it’s “fake” — but pro wrestling is realer than most people I know. There’s truth in the ring. Pain. Theatre. Keyfabe. Art. The ghosts of the squared circle still dance under the spotlights in my head. And let’s be honest, “Real life is fake. Wrestling is real.” That’s my gospel. That’s truth.

📢 Follow me on X/Twitter: 💀 “If you like your humour dark and your truth darker, come hang out with a chronically ill goblin on a ranting mission of mayhem. Pro wrestling, spirituality, weirdness,disability, sarcasm, and survival served raw.”

🧠 @GoblinBloggerUK 📍 Because somebody's got to say it...

              “REALITY IS FAKE. WRESTLING IS REAL.”
                            — @GoblinBloggerUK

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.”