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 professional help.

The Day SoundCloud Broke Me

So yes, I decided I was going to do a spoken blog. A podcast, as the young ones call it. I thought, I know SoundCloud! It sounded cool, right? Took me the better part of a day just to work out how to get the bloody thing working. My head felt like porridge. Thick, slow, and slightly burnt.

And here’s the kicker there were no proper help files. None. Just endless “click here” nonsense that didn’t tell you what any of it meant. Categories? Forget it. I wanted something like health, MS, disability, ranting man in a power chair but apparently, SoundCloud only understands “hip-hop” and “deep house”.

In the end, I managed to upload it. Two listens. And those two were me and Albertine. Brilliant.

The Fogged Mind vs The Digital Void

Trying to navigate software while your brain is busy running Windows 95 on half a stick of RAM is pure torture. Years ago, I’d have breezed through this. Now? My brain hits that cognitive wall and just slams shut. Pain behind the eyes, words disappearing mid-sentence, kittens mewing somewhere in the background and I’m shouting at my computer like it owes me rent.

And this is where I admit it: technology beats me sometimes. Not because I’m stupid. Not because I’ve lost interest. But because MS eats focus like a vampire eats virgins.

Onward, to Spotify (or Madness)

So, next plan: I’m going to try Spotify for Podcasters. Maybe it’ll work. Maybe it’ll eat my brain again. But I’ve come this far, and I’m not about to stop now.

Because this voice my voice deserves to be heard. Even if it’s fogged, cracked, and full of swear words that my editing AI politely erases.

To anyone out there who actually knows what they’re doing and can help me you are my hero. There will be a special place for you in My Living Hell, complete with eternal gratitude and possibly biscuits.

For now, I’ll just sit here, hurting, tired, kittens mewing, brain screaming, and muttering to myself like an old wizard fighting a Wi-Fi demon.

Because that’s life with MS. You fight the fog, the pain, and sometimes, SoundCloud itself.

Warlock Dark Chronic illness survivor, truth-teller, occasional bastard. From My Living Hell (For those who came here by accident: yes, my living hell is real. And yes, we still fight. Every shitty day. With defiance.)

@goblinbloggeruk - sick@mylivinghell.co.uk 𒀭𒊩𒆳 ᛞᚱᚨᚷᛟᚾ ᛏᚱᚨᚾᛋᚲᚺᚱᛁᛖᛞ ✦ ᚹᚨᛏᚲᚺᛖᚱ 𒀸𒀭 ᚢᚾᛒᛟᚢᚾᛞ

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.”

⤫ The Warlock’s Curse ⤫

In the still of the ache where the stars never shine, There sits the Warlock, warped out of time. Throne of rust, wheels cracked with regret, He murmurs to ghosts he hasn’t named yet.

His hands remember spells he’s long since forgotten, Fingers tingling with truths turned rotten. Once he conjured fire with a whisper and grin— Now the spark mocks him, trembling within.

A crown of wires, a robe of pain, Nerves like serpents—hissing through the brain. His staff is a drip, his runes are pills, He chants in silence on pharmacy hills.

Oh, the moons he danced beneath, drunk on starlight— Now watch him crawl through the blacker night. No sleep for the hexed, no peace for the damned, Just a bladder’s clock and death’s cold hand.

Chainsaw dreams, electric and wild, But even a Warlock is fate’s unwanted child. Albertine watches, her eyes full of years, She sees through the smoke, the jokes, the tears.

He laughs at the garden, the weed-wielding wraith, Remembers the ramp and short-circuited faith. Magic once sparked in the marrow of his spine— Now the lightning is cruel, and the power’s malign.

The gods are deaf. The stars are mute. The dark is deep, and the dark is acute. But still—he speaks, in verse and venom, His tongue numb, but truth within 'em.

For even in ruin, the Warlock remains, Wreathed in electric storms and phantom chains. He writes his spells in blood and pain, And dares the void to speak his name.

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.”

Good afternoon from the disaster zone formerly known as my neck.

Yes, today started with that familiar electrical storm in the spine — lightning bolts of agony shooting through my vertebrae like Zeus on a three-day bender. Can’t look up, can’t look down, can’t look sideways. My neck has all the flexibility of a rusted garden gate. I must look like one of those haunted portrait paintings that just follows you with its eyes, because that’s all that bloody moves — the eyes. Stiff as a Victorian corpse and twice as charming.

And then there's the tingling. Lips? Tingle. Hands? Tingle. Feet? You guessed it — tingle. Like my whole body's been plugged into a cheap fairy light circuit from Poundland. If this is what becoming bionic feels like, I want a bloody refund.

Sleep? Oh, sleep was a laugh riot. I spent the night spasming like a haunted marionette and woke up every two hours for a command performance in the Great Lavatory Tour of 2025. I swear, I don't drink after 6pm, yet I’m peeing like a champion racehorse on a hydration binge. It’s like my kidneys are in training for a relay race. Every two hours, like clockwork — up, shuffle, sit, curse, flush. Repeat. Lavatory luxury, five stars. Soft toilet roll and existential dread provided.

Of course, while lying awake in this perfect hellscape of pins, needles, pain, and peeing, my brain decides now’s the perfect time to go full hamster wheel. Spinning at 500 billion miles per hour, running through every bad decision I’ve ever made, plus some I probably haven’t gotten around to yet. Cheers, brain.

This morning, I managed to drag myself to my throne — my battered old chair — and gaze out the window like some Victorian invalid. And there he was. The Manic Weed Wacker of Suburbia. Out in the garden again, whacking everything in sight. I swear he’s part weed trimmer, part chaos demon. I watched, sipped my drink (through a numb mouth, because yes, my entire face is numb now — why not?), and chuckled remembering the time he electrocuted himself lifting my wheelchair ramp smashing it into the light tube. Classic. Man vs. light tube. tube won.

And yes, I asked my beloved Albertine — the saint, the legend, the long-suffering wife of 40 years — if I could buy a chainsaw. An electric one, mind you. Eco-friendly and all that. You should’ve seen her face. Absolute horror. Like I’d just announced I was auditioning for "Britain’s Got Terror." I mean, can you imagine? Me, in a knackered wheelchair, chainsawing through hedges like Leatherface with mobility issues. I'd make the evening news before I got through the first shrub.

Suffice to say, the chainsaw dream is on pause. Possibly forever. Probably for the best. Wouldn’t want to give Mr. Dark too many ideas.

Anyway, today’s tally:

Numb mouth ✅

Tingly everything ✅

Brain fog thick enough to get lost in ✅

Blood pressure reading so high it qualifies as an emergency broadcast ✅

It sucks to be me today. But hey, at least I didn’t accidentally decapitate a geranium or myself.

If you’re reading this and having a better day — congrats. If not, welcome to the club. Bring your own toilet paper and existential dread.

Until next time, The Chainless Warlock

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.”

Good afternoon, dear reader. Or morning. Or night. Honestly, I’ve no clue what time it is anymore — linear time is so last century. Especially when you're navigating life with a brain that takes more detours than a lost postman.

So there I was, lost. Not just in the existential, "why are we here" sense — although, yes, that too — but literally lost. On a street I’d supposedly lived on. Only yards from home, yet absolutely no idea where I was. Classic me. Classic MS. Brain fog? No, more like brain Swamp of Sadness. I was a knight on a scooter, aimlessly gliding through the suburban void like some sort of Tesco-bagged Mad Max.

I don’t remember much about those old houses anymore. I’ve had more addresses than MI6. Just vague shadows of places I might have haunted. Faces and memories lost in the thick soup of neurological nonsense. But that’s fine. Who needs memory when you've got spellcheck and sarcasm?

Let me introduce you to Mr. Dark, or Warlock — my MS. Yes, I’ve named him. Because when a condition lives rent-free in your body, you may as well give it a proper British title. Warlock is that mysterious, moody flatmate who always steals your energy, ruins your coordination, and never picks up after himself. But hey, sometimes he puts on a show. A full-blown, outrageously bizarre cabaret of collapsing limbs, surreal thoughts, and a healthy disregard for social norms. Top entertainment from the abyss.

The thing is, somewhere in all this, I stopped giving a toss about what people thought. I know, shocking, right? I’m intelligent — properly intelligent — just not in the “tick these boxes and say please” kind of way. The real tragedy? Most of you lot just didn’t know which buttons to press. Pity. Could’ve been glorious.

And then there's the current saga: my wheelchair’s knackered. So I'm stuck using this three-wheeled scooter of doom. It’s meant to be a mobility aid but functions more like a mechanical prank sent by Satan. Nearly tossed me under a bus the other day. Cheers, Warlock. Nothing like flirting with death at 8mph while dodging potholes and judgmental pedestrians.

Honestly, I find it funny. You have to. Either you laugh or you scream, and I’ve screamed enough into the void to know it doesn’t echo back.

So here I am. A sarcastic wizard on wheels, battling gravity, memory, and the absurdity of existence. Is this real? Is this fake? Fracked if I know. I gave up on the Earth-plane’s opinion years ago.

Stay tuned for next week, when I try to open a tin of soup without summoning a demon.

Cheerio. 🖤

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. sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

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

Congratulations, you’ve woken up! Time to play: What’s Broken Today?

Your goal: make it through the day without crying, swearing at your legs, or Googling “is this normal or am I dying?”

Choose your path below. Choose wisely. Or don’t. MS doesn’t care.

☀️ Morning – The Wake-Up Lottery You open your eyes. Sort of. Everything's a bit... off.

Do you: A) Feel rested and refreshed? [HAHAHAHA nope. Roll again.]

B) Feel like you’ve been mugged by exhaustion in your sleep? → Fatigue wins the round. Take 5 damage to motivation.

C) Can’t feel your left arm? → You’ve unlocked: Morning Numbness Mode. Hope you didn’t need to hold anything today.

🚿 The Shower Scene Hot water. The great equaliser. But today, your body has other plans.

Do you: A) Take a normal shower like a normal person? [Error 404: Normal not found.]

B) Overheat and nearly pass out while conditioning your hair? → Heat Sensitivity unlocked. You’re now a human candle. Stay cool (literally).

C) Drop the soap three times because your fingers forgot how to grip? → Coordination loss! Bonus: Slippery floor, surprise danger!

☕ Breakfast Choices Time to eat. Or attempt it. Your hand-to-mouth skills are on a random difficulty setting.

Do you: A) Make eggs without issue? [Dream big, champ.]

B) Forget what you were making mid-toast and stand staring at the kettle? → Cognitive Fog strikes again! You are now late and confused, but still hungry.

C) Burn your tongue because it took too long to realise your tea was hot? → Nerve damage for breakfast, anyone?

🧑‍💻 Midday Mayhem Time to work, or function, or pretend to. Let’s see what fresh chaos arrives.

Do you: A) Sit comfortably and type with ease? [Only in the fantasy genre.]

B) Experience sudden eye twitching, blurry vision and shooting pain down your spine? → Bingo! You’ve triggered Lhermitte’s Sign. Bonus: optical migraine starter pack!

C) Realise you’ve been sitting weird and now your legs are asleep? → Double numb legs – the sequel no one asked for.

🛋️ Afternoon Fun: Nap or Collapse? Fatigue is back. It brought friends.

Do you: A) Push through like a hero? → Well done, you now feel like a zombie that regrets everything.

B) Nap for 2 hours and wake up in a new dimension with no idea what year it is? → Temporal Confusion Mode Activated.

🌙 Evening – The Grand Finale The body is tired. The brain is soup. Dinner is optional.

Do you: A) Cook a meal? Narrator: They did not.

B) Order takeaway because your hands are too shaky to hold a knife? → Valid choice. +5 sanity. -£20 bank account.

C) Cry because your legs spasm during a TV ad for toothpaste? → MS Mood Swing. Roll for emotional stability. It’s a 1.

🏁 The End (Until Tomorrow) You’ve survived another round of “What Will MS Ruin Today?” Your reward: a weird new twitch in your eye, and the chance to play again tomorrow.

✨ Bonus Content: Cheat Codes for Coping Sarcasm: Unlimited ammo.

Snacks: +10 to morale.

Naps: Use liberally. Ignore haters.

Friends who get it: Legendary tier loot.

People who say “But you don’t look sick!”: Throw them into the sun.

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. sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

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

So, you’ve been diagnosed with MS. And now… you get to explain it to your family — the ones who think “you look fine” means “you must be fine,” and probably believe turmeric and yoga can cure brain damage. Here’s how to break it down for them without getting arrested for arson.

🔥 Step 1: Accept They Know Absolutely Nothing You say, “Multiple Sclerosis.” They say, “Isn’t that like arthritis? Or depression? Or being a bit tired?” Correct response: “No, darling. MS is when your immune system plays Pac-Man with your brain and spine. I’m basically on fire internally while appearing vaguely functional.”

🎯 Step 2: Use Analogies for the Visually Confused Science talk = blank stares. Try this: “Imagine all the wires in your house are fraying. Lights flicker, the toaster runs the shower, and the WiFi’s possessed. That’s my nervous system. I’m the house.” Still confused? Great. You’re halfway to understanding MS.

🛌 Step 3: Explain Fatigue, Because No One Understands It No, it’s not “a bit tired.” It’s “I stood up, and now I need three hours to recover and possibly an exorcism.” Try: “Imagine having the flu, running a marathon, and then trying to solve algebra underwater. With a hangover. That’s what ‘fatigue’ feels like — on a good day.”

👀 Step 4: The Legendary “But You Look Fine!” Ah yes. The battle cry of the wilfully oblivious. Response options include: “So does a bomb before it explodes.” “Thanks! You look emotionally fine, and yet, here we are.” “I also look like I have patience. Clearly, appearances are misleading.”

🚽 Step 5: Embrace the Awkward Topics Bladder issues. Bowel misadventures. Numb bits. Electric shocks for no reason. If they get squeamish, lean in: “Yes, sometimes my body forgets how to wee properly. Or feels like it’s on fire. Or I walk like I’ve been tranquilised at a wedding. That’s MS. It doesn’t care about your comfort zone.”

📚 Step 6: Give Them the “Google It” Clause You are not WebMD in human form. You're tired. You're done. Say: “I’ll send you one good article or video. If you still think I should just ‘go gluten-free and do Pilates,’ I will pelt you with hummus.”

🤡 Step 7: Laugh, Because the Alternative Is Screaming MS is ridiculous. It’s surreal. And it doesn’t come with a guidebook. So own it: “I forget words mid-sentence. I fall over nothing. Sometimes my feet go on holiday without telling the rest of me. No, I’m not drunk. I’m just… uniquely wired now.”

🧠 Final Words of Wisdom You don’t owe anyone a perfect explanation. If they get it, great. If not — that's not your job to fix. Educate where you can, sass where required, and when in doubt: nap, snack, and protect your peace like it's the last chocolate biscuit on Earth. “What It’s Like Having MS: A Choose-Your-Own-Symptom Adventure” — because chronic illness should at least come with a plot twist

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. sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

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

🧠 Symptoms of MS: The Obvious Greatest Hits

Tired for No Reason You slept 12 hours, drank 3 coffees, and you're still knackered. Congratulations, it’s not laziness — it’s fatigue. Chronic, soul-sucking, "please let me nap in the cereal aisle" fatigue.

Wobbly Walking Walking like you’ve had 8 pints… at 9am… while stone-cold sober. Balance issues, because apparently your legs didn’t get the memo from your brain.

Blurry or Double Vision Your eyes play ‘spot the difference’ with reality. One of them’s lying, and neither has a clue what they’re doing.

Numbness or Tingling That fun pins-and-needles feeling. Except it’s not from sitting funny — it’s from your brain throwing a tantrum.

Weakness Arms, legs, or both suddenly feeling like cooked spaghetti. Good luck opening jars. Or standing. Or functioning.

Slurred Speech You sound like you’re drunk, even if you’re painfully sober and just trying to ask for a biscuit. Bathroom Betrayal Bladder and bowels doing their own thing. Urgency, accidents, or the joy of constipation that could turn coal into diamonds.

Mood Swings Crying because the teabag split. Laughing maniacally at absolutely nothing. Just another Tuesday with your brain on shuffle.

🎩 The Lesser-Known (But Equally Rubbish) MS Delights

Electric Shock Sensation (Lhermitte’s Sign) You tilt your head and BAM — your spine thinks it’s been struck by lightning. For no reason. Because why not?

Itching Like You're Infested with Ghost Fleas No rash, no bites, just you, scratching like a Victorian chimney sweep with scabies.

Heat Sensitivity Summer? Oh no, darling. A hot shower might as well be lava. Prepare to wilt like a sad Victorian poet.

Cognitive Fuzz (Brain Fog) You walk into a room and forget why. You forget words. You put your phone in the fridge. Basically, your brain’s on “buffering…”

Spasticity Muscles tightening up like you're trying to hold in a fart during a funeral. Only it’s involuntary. And constant.

Sexual Dysfunction The romantic thrill of numb genitals and nerves that ghost you mid-pleasure. How sexy.

Speech and Swallowing Problems Chewing and talking becomes a weirdly choreographed ballet of not choking. Miss a beat, and it’s dinner-on-the-ceiling time.

Hearing Loss (Rare, but possible) What? Sorry? Come again? — not selective hearing, just your ears being as unreliable as the rest of your nervous system.

Final Thoughts: MS — it's like your brain has installed Windows 95 and keeps trying to run modern life. Expect random errors, lagging limbs, and the occasional blue screen of emotional doom. You didn’t ask for this mess, but here we are. Stay strong. Laugh darkly. Nap often.

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. sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

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

• “How to Irritate Your Consultant in Five Easy Steps”—a handy, satirical survival guide for the chronically ill rebel who refuses to behave like a docile NHS statistic: How to Irritate Your Consultant in Five Easy Steps Because illness is hard enough without surrendering your personality too.

Step 1: Arrive Informed—A.K.A. Their Worst Nightmare Before your appointment, read everything. Medical journals, dodgy Reddit forums, patient blogs, the back of your medication box—anything. Then casually drop phrases like “emerging evidence suggests” or “have you seen the latest NICE guidelines update?” Watch the colour drain from their face as they realise you might know what you’re talking about. Bonus points: Quote a study they haven’t read. Wait for the squirm.

Step 2: Refuse to Speak in Bullet Points They love a clean symptom list: “Fatigue. Numbness. Blah blah blah.” Instead, give them the full poetic experience: “It’s like my limbs are made of lukewarm jelly and my brain’s running Windows 95.” They’ll try to summarise it with “patient reports fatigue.” Interrupt with: “No, it’s existential fatigue. There’s a difference.”

Step 3: Make Jokes Oh, they hate this. You’re supposed to be weeping softly, not cracking one-liners. Try these: “So when do I evolve into my final Pokémon form: WobbleSaurus Rex?” “If I fall again, I’ll need a loyalty card for A&E.” “Does this come with a prize for ‘Least Functional Nervous System’?” They’ll either laugh nervously or refer you to psych. Either way, you win.

Step 4: Express Unfiltered Opinions Don't be afraid to question The System™. Say things like: “Do you actually read my notes or is that just for show?” “Gosh, it's wild how I had to chase eight departments for a scan I didn’t want in the first place.” “Do any of you talk to each other, or is this NHS-wide charades?” You’ll see them twitch, possibly make a note that says “difficult.” Wear that badge proudly.

Step 5: Be Consistently Human This is the final nail in the coffin. Cry a little. Laugh mid-sentence. Tell an unrelated story about a pigeon that made you feel seen. Say, “Some days I want to scream into a cushion, but I’d probably miss the cushion and dislocate something.” They won’t know what to do. They prefer data over depth. You’ve brought personhood into their spreadsheet. Unforgivable.

Bonus Round: Refuse to Be Fixed They’ll want a treatment plan, a “solution,” something they can tick off. Say, “I don’t want a cure today. I just want to be understood.” Boom. Consultant meltdown in three... two... one...

In Summary: Be curious. Be messy. Be sarcastic. Be loud in a system that prefers whispers. And never, ever, let them forget that you're not a diagnosis—you’re a whole, infuriating, brilliant human being.

looking to buy a second hand q100 wheelcair or similar in the devon cornwall area sick@mylivinghell.co.uk *

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