So the van passed its MOT. Just.
And by "passed", I mean it limped through with a laundry list of advisories—most of them variations of:
“Yeah, this bit’s rusting. And that bit. And that one too. But hey, it's not quite fallen off yet.”
Basically, it's fine... until it isn't. Nothing “urgent” apparently, just that sort of creeping, crusty decay that matches my general outlook on life. A bit like me really—functional, but hanging together with spite and corrosion.
The trip down was hellish.
Not because of the usual tourist caravan wankers, though they were out in force, streaming down into the soggy bosom of the sometimes-sunny South West. No, the real bastard was the new roads. Smooth, fresh tarmac—and a 30mph limit slapped on it like a cruel joke. You’re crawling along in a perfectly capable machine, stuck behind some Prius doing 27, and then the signs start laughing at you: 20mph through a village with 14 people and 300 plant pots.
It’s like someone redesigned Britain for the safety of ghosts.
👨🔧 Garage Guy: The MOT Goblin
I rolled into the garage and waited in the chair. Didn’t speak much. Not because I’m shy, but because the owner’s a loud-mouthed, self-important bellend who never misses an opportunity to let me know how hilarious he thinks I am.
“You still alive then, Gandalf?”
“Don’t bite me, Dracula.”
“What’s it like living in that van full time, mate? Bet it smells of pot noodles and broken dreams.”
Ha. Ha. Ha.
He’s been like this for years—one of those blokes who thinks banter is a personality trait, and disabled people are fair game because you can’t chase them down the road. I’ve asked him about the VAT exemption before (the one tiny crumb of benefit I get from this absolute shitshow of a body)—and every time he acts like I’ve just farted in Latin.
“VAT off, mate? Nah can’t do that. It’s complicated innit.”
(Translation: “I can’t be arsed and you make me uncomfortable.”)
Now, instead of losing it like I used to—because believe me, I used to unleash hell—I just don’t engage. I sit there with my travel mug, staring into space like I’m watching the last embers of civilisation flicker out. And I get Albertine to call him if I need anything. Because I can’t be bothered dealing with people who think they’re doing me a favour by letting me spend my money.
🛒 Retail Hellscape: Aisles of Pain
So it passed. The van.
Not my mood.
We figured we’d do some shopping. Another mistake.
The car park at this giant multi-national corporate parasite of a supermarket was pure anarchy.
Disabled bays? Forget it. Half taken up by BMWs with no badges and drivers who look like they vape Monster Energy. The rest were jammed with people "just nipping in" for an hour.
Inside the shop, I was instantly overwhelmed by the noise.
The lights, the people, the bloody smells.
Everything about these places makes me feel like I’m stuck in some post-apocalyptic game show. And I don’t “see” people anymore, not properly. They turn into ants. Skittering, swarming. Trolley-humping meat sacks with Bluetooth earpieces and discount lust in their eyes.
I wear a look that says:
“Don’t talk to me. Don’t help me. Don’t fucking exist near me.”
Which mostly works.
Until the food smell hits.
See, I don’t just dislike food smells. I don’t find them “overwhelming.” No, for me it’s more like this:
If I smell it, it’s already too late.
My body goes straight to DEFCON 1. My gut twists like someone’s wringing out a wet rag full of knives. I could be smelling chicken fat or the ghost of some sausage roll that died in 2006—it doesn’t matter. My bowels clock it and decide now is the perfect time for a surprise performance.
I bolt.
Well, roll.
Fast.
Back to the van. Just in time.
Slam the door. Flip the lock. Drop into the onboard toilet like it’s a lifeboat and the Titanic is already gone.
What followed was ten minutes of absolute, full-volume, gut-churning agony.
Afterward, I slumped next to Albertine, both of us wilting in the heat, fans and air con blasting, van windows wide open like I’d just fumigated the place.
I told her:
“Just another day in my living hell.”
🎯 Real Talk
People don’t get it.
The physical pain.
The mental gymnastics it takes to get through a day without breaking someone’s nose or bursting into tears.
The dignity you trade for the right to go outside.
So when I say this blog is called My Living Hell—I’m not being edgy.
I’m being accurate.
“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
