MS

There are some things in life that simply refuse to behave. The British summer. Cats. Me. And Triumph motorcycle engines from the 1960s. But if you've ever lived with Multiple Sclerosis, you'll know there’s a kind of kinship between these two bastards one mechanical, the other neurological both eager to ruin your day, soil your pants, and leave you stranded in the middle of nowhere, questioning your life choices.

So, for those nostalgic for the golden age of British engineering disasters, and those unfortunate enough to have MS riding pillion in their spine, here’s a lovingly bitter side-by-side breakdown.

Feature	Multiple Sclerosis	Triumph Engine (1960s)
Origin	Immune system says, “Let’s attack the brain!”	Built by blokes with tea in one hand, doom in the other.
Leaking fluids?	Oh God yes. From places you didn’t know had valves.	Constant oil leaks. Might as well park it in a drip tray.
Unreliable starts	You might stand up. You might fall over.	Might roar. Might fart. Might just sulk.
Temperature tolerance	“Too hot” = meltdown. “Too cold” = rigour mortis.	Overheats if you look at it with warmth.
Wiring/electrics	Nervous system shorts like an angry Christmas tree.	Lucas electrics: worshipped by Satan for unreliability.
Stability	Think Bambi on rollerblades.	Handled like a wheelbarrow full of snakes.
Noise	Groans, spasms, screams (from you, not MS).	Clangs, bangs, and that whimper you make when it backfires.
Smell	Eau de hospital and dread.	Petrol, grease, and regret.
Maintenance	Pills, physio, meditation, screaming into cushions.	Spanners, gaskets, beers, swearing at God.
Support	Carers, NHS, forums full of other warriors.	Biker forums full of PTSD and spare parts.
Breakdowns	Anywhere, anytime, always embarrassing.	Usually halfway through a roundabout in front of a bus.
Reliability	Think weather forecast from a Ouija board.	More mood swings than a drunk ex at a wedding.
Moments of joy	A good day feels like flying.	When it starts, you cry and ride it like it’s 1969.

So What’s the Verdict? Whether it's your spine giving up or your primary chain exploding, both MS and Triumphs come with the constant thrill of wondering:

“Will I make it to the toilet... or the next town?”

Both are British. Both make a mess. Both give you stories. Neither gives refunds.

But at least the Triumph didn't eat my nervous system with a spoon.

                “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

Let’s talk piss and shit. No frills. No sugar. Just the raw, soggy truth of what it’s like when your body declares independence from basic toilet protocols.

Bladder Hell: The Yellow Frontline Ah yes, the dreaded leak that moment you realise your trousers are no longer allies but soaking, complicit traitors. I was in my 40s when my bladder started acting like a temperamental toddler on a diet of Red Bull and rage. First it was the "can't pee" problem standing there like a statue, nothing but the occasional drip as if my urethra had stage fright.

Then came the grand reversal: involuntary leaks. And by "leaks," I mean a full-scale Niagara event, unprovoked and unapologetic. I tried everything. No drinks after 5pm. Strategic peeing. Mental negotiation. Nada. Still I’d wake up in a puddle like some pissy version of The Little Mermaid.

Doctors? Oh please. Gaslit for 40 years. "Well, you're getting older." "Try pelvic floor exercises." Mate, my pelvic floor is about as stable as a jelly trampoline.

But here's the kicker: you learn humility. You either cry about it or laugh darkly while rattling down the road in your three-wheeled piss trolley of doom, trailing a golden hue and existential dread.

The Brown Files: Tales from the Other End If the bladder doesn’t get you, your bowels surely will. MS gives you the delightful choice between constipation so hard it requires an exorcism, or the soft, sticky sneak attack that turns underwear into a crime scene.

Let’s break it down:

Numb arsehole? Check.

Dead rectal nerves? Of course.

Surprise poo party mid Tesco visit? You bet.

Walking like a guilty toddler trying to hide it? Standard.

Doctors again? "Try laxatives!" Yeah, thanks. Nothing like chemical napalm to turn your ring into the gates of Mordor. You want a real solution?

💡 Hydration. 💡 Diet. 💡 And a bloody bum washer.

That’s right. Stop sandpapering your crack with cheap loo roll. Install a bum washer attachment. Use aloe wipes, keep essential oils to hand, and for the love of whatever gods you follow, always carry spare underwear.

Because nothing screams confidence like shitting yourself in public and power walking with a face like you've seen God and he was laughing.

                       “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, the sun's out.

People always say that like it’s supposed to matter. Like the sunshine will somehow bleach away the stink of stress, misery, and existential rot we’ve all marinated in. But no, not today.

Everywhere I look—grey faces, furrowed brows, clenched jaws. The living are shuffling around like they’ve already died and just haven’t filled out the paperwork.

You can feel it in the air. That sick, metallic taste just behind the throat. Like a storm coming—but it's not weather. It's something worse.

The Beast is loose.

Not a myth. Not a metaphor. The Beast is the government—spun in grey suits, slick with power, blind with bureaucracy. It snarls in Parliament and drools through policies written in wine bars and cigar smoke. It doesn't walk—no, it slithers, unseen, through headlines and benefit assessments and the knock at the door when they tell you you've been sanctioned because you didn’t prove you were still dying hard enough.

The Beast doesn’t eat food. It eats hope. It feasts on the disabled, the poor, the mentally ill. It sniffs out despair like a pig with truffle-sensitivity and fangs.

And everyone’s playing the game. Eyes down. Pretend it’s not real. Pretend the letters on your doormat aren’t demands. Pretend the nurse didn’t just quit. Pretend the care home isn't full. Pretend that universal credit is anything but a slow-motion mugging.

Pretend we’re not already in the wasteland.

Dystopia isn’t coming. It’s here. It’s been here since we sold out compassion for efficiency. Since we decided that spreadsheets were more important than souls.

Orwell didn’t write fiction. He wrote a bloody user manual.

And those of us who do see?

We get dragged into the pit together. The mentally bruised. The physically wrecked. The ones who've been through the grinder so long we’ve learned to taste rust and call it breakfast.

We don’t want your sympathy. Keep your pity. All we want is honesty.

We are not fine.

We are surviving the Beast. Every. Single. Day.

And some of us have found ways to ride the storm. Me? I light a little herbal incense—strictly spiritual, of course—and let the fumes blur the edges of this living nightmare just enough to laugh.

Because what else is there?

So welcome, friends—new and old. Welcome to my nightmare. It’s not a dream. It’s not a metaphor. It’s my life, and maybe yours too.

Join me. Take my broken hand, my burned-out nerves, and we’ll skip merrily into the depths of cognitive collapse together.

Bring a torch. And a sense of humour.

You’ll need both.

                   “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

Well then. Off out we go. A grand expedition. An odyssey, no less. All the way to the garage—yes, that mystical temple of greasy doom—to get the old van MOT’d. It’s not just a vehicle, it’s a relic. Twenty years of loyal service. Mostly. Bit of rust. Bit of creak. Bit of “please God let it start.” But it’s still here. Like me. Hanging on out of pure spite.

Someone once said, “They don’t build them like that anymore.” And thank Christ for that. If cars were still made like they were in the 1970s, we’d all be broken down on the M1 watching steam pour out the bonnet, while some bloke in flares offered to tow you with his Cortina estate. Those cars were about as reliable as a wheelchair battery in a thunderstorm.

I remember when the UK was littered with RAC and AA phone boxes—those little yellow lifelines dotted along motorways. They’ve vanished now, like empathy, sanity, and the NHS. Rare as hens’ teeth, or an honest politician.

Anyway, I didn’t sleep last night. Not a wink. My bladder decided it was time to act out a scene from Backdraft. I lay there, staring into the ceiling void, pissing every twenty minutes like a possessed lawn sprinkler. So I started thinking—because what else do you do at 3am when you're soaked in fatigue and futility?

I thought about all the crap cars I’ve owned. So many. Too many. If there were a museum for motoring misery, I’d be a patron saint. Rattling doors, broken electrics, heaters that blew cold air in summer and hot air in hell. The British car industry, ladies and gentlemen.

But let’s rewind. Before the wheelchair, before the rust bucket van—I was a biker. A proper one. Big beard. Long hair. Leather jacket that smelled of oil, rain, and barely controlled aggression. Speed. Freedom. The road was mine.

That all changed the day I hit a loose drain cover on a damp road. Back end of the bike went out from under me. Hit the tarmac like a sack of angry potatoes. And I got up. Physically. But something in me didn’t. Something silent and final shifted. I realised, I can’t ride like this anymore.

But I wasn’t ready to give it up. Not then. So I bought another bike. Custom triked it. Spent a fortune on it—my last defiant middle finger to the creeping MS. I rode that beast as long as I physically could. Until one day, even mounting it was like scaling Everest. Body said, “You’re done, mate.” And I knew it was right.

I sold the trike two years ago. That was the last real ride. The final roar of the engine before the silence set in. Felt like watching a part of myself being towed away behind someone else’s smile.

And now? Now I’m being slowly retired by force. Out of work. Out of energy. Out of options. Soon to be ejected into the bureaucratic black hole of the state pension. My business—what’s left of it—will die the day I clock off. I can feel it gasping already. I went to uni at 40. Built something. Pushed hard because I knew I had a window. Now the window’s shut and the room is on fire.

Truth is—I haven’t been properly “capable” in years. Five, easily. These days I just sit, staring into the abyss, waiting to see if anything interesting crawls out. So far: nada. But I’m still here. Just about.

Still, I did things. Things I never thought I could. That’s the weird joke of it all. Even while your body’s disintegrating, there are moments—real moments—where you do something good. Where you matter. But that only happens if you’ve got people around you who actually care. No gaslighting. No clipboard psychology. Just real help. The kind that doesn't end with “There’s nothing more we can do.”

Oh yes. Been told that more times than I can count. It’s medical code for “You’re a problem we can’t fix so piss off quietly.” They said it like they were reading the weather. I left those rooms devastated. Angry. Broken. But not done. I still had enough fight to ride out of there burning with fury.

Then I remembered my students. I used to teach adults with learning disabilities. You know, the people society would rather not look at. The ones who get shoved into corners, behind policies and forgotten services. And let me tell you—they were the most genuine, honest, loving people I’ve ever known. No hate. Just humanity. And we broke them. We broke them too.

And now? Now I’m gearing up for the next tiny battle: getting dressed and into the van. It’ll take hours. Every task is an assault course. But I’ll do it.

Because I always fucking do.

                      “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

"The vagus nerve is supposed to keep you alive. Mine seems to have a death wish. Living with MS means living with this burning wire misfiring 24/7.You can't see it. But it's killing me, slowly."

Let me introduce you to the nerve that’s been puppeteering my misery for 40 years:

🧠 The vagus nerve.

Longest cranial nerve in the body. Part of the autonomic nervous system. Runs from the brainstem all the way down into your guts, like a bastard serpent lodged in flesh.

It’s meant to regulate “involuntary” things. Heart rate. Breathing. Digestion. Mood. Inflammation.

Mine regulates suffering.

With MS in the mix, my vagus nerve is like a drunk electrician with a machete and a grudge.

— My heart rate drops so low I black out. — Then shoots so high I think I’m dying. — My diaphragm spasms and I stop breathing mid-sentence. — My throat closes. — My stomach decides to reverse course — vomiting, choking, retching. — Food sits there, like a funeral buffet no one touches.

And the gaslighting begins. “Anxiety.” “Stress.” “Try mindfulness.”

Fuck off. I’m not hyperventilating. I’m being strangled from the inside by a goddamn nerve that's been glitching out since I was a teenager.

I’ve lived four decades like this. Forty years of waking up choking. Forty years of feeling my own body betray me. Forty years of doctors shrugging, guessing, dismissing, or overdosing me on meds for symptoms they don’t understand.

It’s not just discomfort. It’s unrelenting bodily horror.

Imagine being electrocuted through your spine while trying to eat a sandwich. Imagine trying to breathe but your diaphragm spasms like a car crash in your ribs. Imagine shitting yourself with a heart rate of 40 and then vomiting while you go unconscious.

You ever had diaphragmatic myoclonus? That charming thing where your gut convulses so violently you can’t breathe or speak? That’s the vagus nerve on a rampage.

People talk about Vagus Nerve Stimulation like it’s hope in a box. Sure. Stick electrodes in my neck. I’ll try anything once — hell, at this point, if you told me licking a toad would help, I’d be Frenching Kermit by tea time.

I’ve been laughed at. Medicated into a coma. Ignored.

This isn’t just MS. This is autonomic hell.

So yeah — fuck the diagrams and polite educational pamphlets.

My vagus nerve isn’t a calming force. It’s a loaded gun wired to my internal organs.

And some days, I honestly think it’s trying to finish the job.

And yet — here I am. Still alive. Still typing. Still wheezing and swallowing around the broken circuitry that is my body.

You want honesty? This is it.

Welcome to my living hell.

    “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 ✨🧌

Sat here mumbling into my old iffy microphone today. Took me over a day to set up – drivers, updates, reinstalling Windows three bloody times because my brain fog decided to overwrite the system with a random USB stick. Genius, I know.

Finally, the blog goblin’s computer has resurrected. Barely.

Had yet another bad night. Partly my own fault this time. Thought I was the biker prophet and magically healed, so decided to stand up and shuffle furniture around like some nocturnal DIY hero. Clearly not my best idea. Lost my balance entirely, stumbled like a drunk, and smashed into the door frame.

My shoulder’s killing me, bruised to hell, and possibly broken. Will probably end up in A&E later if it gets worse. For now, just sat here typing, all fingers and thumbs, trying to find old bits to post while ignoring the pain.

Having MS makes me resilient, though. Even when my brain is fried and my body’s screaming betrayal, I keep crawling back like the stubborn goblin I am.

Anyway. Hope your day is glitch-free and you aren’t slamming yourself into any door frames. Unlike me. 🖤

    ⚡️ Join the gremlin cult. You know you want to

  " 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 ✨🧌

Welcome to the delightful circus that is multiple sclerosis, where the main act is your body betraying you in the most creative ways possible. Among the many charming surprises this condition throws your way, itching is like that one friend who crashes your party, drinks all your booze, and then refuses to leave. Let’s take a stroll through the hellscape of MS-related itching, shall we? The Itch That Just Won't Die

Picture this: you’re trying to enjoy a moment of peace, maybe contemplating why you just dropped your phone in the toilet. Suddenly, an itch strikes! But not just any itch—this is the kind that feels like a thousand tiny demons are having a rave on your skin. Welcome to the world of neuropathic itching, where scratching is as effective as using a spoon to dig a hole in concrete. Why Does This Happen?

Nerve Damage: Thanks to MS, your nerves are about as reliable as a politician’s promise. The myelin sheath is under siege, leading to all sorts of delightful sensations, including that relentless itch. It’s like your nerves are sending you a message: “Hey, remember when you thought you could have a normal life? LOL! Good luck with that!”

Unpredictable Fun: The itch can pop up anywhere—your back, your legs, even your scalp. It’s like a game of hide and seek, but you’re always “it,” and the prize is eternal discomfort. Who needs a spa day when you can have a full-body itch fest?

Triggers: Heat, stress, and certain medications can turn the itch dial up to eleven. So, if you thought a hot bath was a good idea, think again! It’s more like a ticket to the Itch Olympics, where the only prize is more itching.

How to Cope (or Not)

Scratching: Spoiler alert: it doesn’t help. It’s like trying to soothe a sunburn with a blowtorch. You’ll just end up with blood and scars to prove your suffering—because why not add a little flair to your misery?

Cold Compresses: These might provide temporary relief, but let’s be real—who wants to walk around with a bag of frozen peas on their skin? It’s not exactly a fashion statement.

Medications: If the itch becomes unbearable, consult your doctor. They might prescribe something to help, but don’t expect miracles. After all, this is MS we’re talking about. It’s like asking a magician to pull a rabbit out of a hat when all they have is a rock.

Alternative Remedies: Enter the world of CBD and THC oil—your potential new best friends. Medical marijuana has been known to help some folks manage their symptoms, including that relentless itch. Whether it’s through oils, edibles, or other forms, these alternatives might just provide a glimmer of relief in this dark comedy we call life. Just remember to consult with your healthcare provider before diving into the green goodness.

So, there you have it. Itching in MS is just another delightful layer of this hellish cake we call life. Embrace the chaos, and remember: laughter is the best medicine—unless you’re itching, in which case, it’s probably just more itching. Welcome to the club, where the only thing we have in common is our suffering and a dark sense of humor.

   “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 ✨🧌

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 ✨🧌