MSLife

Right. Look—I’ve probably gone on about Serapis Bey before. Maybe once, maybe fifty times. I can’t remember. MS has turned my brain into wet cardboard. Thinking hurts. But this one? This one’s worth dragging through the static.

So buckle up, kids. Grandad’s got a story.

It was 2012. I was 53, bedridden, and my body felt like it had been dropped down the side of a motorway and left there to rot. MS had chewed through me like I owed it money. My spine was screaming. I’d pissed off death, and he was circling like a vulture with a stopwatch.

And then he showed up.

Serapis bloody Bey. Not the kind of name you expect to hear when you’re lying in bed in agony wondering if this is it. But there he was. Not a dream. Not a hallucination. Not the ghost of some acid tab from ’79 finally cashing in. The real deal.

Tall, glowing, ancient. Like someone had lit a bonfire inside a Greek god. No words at first—just presence. Then the message came in clear:

“You need to shift. You’re going down fast. Change—or it’s over.”

Didn’t sugar-coat it. Didn’t pat my hand and call me brave. He said: Get your shit together. And I did.

That moment cracked me open like a ribcage at a demolition derby. Everything I thought I was burned off. What was left was raw. Real. And somehow stronger.

I’ve been a lot of things in this life. A biker. A bastard. A brother. A wreck. But that night made me me again, in a way nothing else ever has.

It’s been nearly 13 years now. I still sit here in this wheelchair, beard down to my chest, hair long as sin, and I still feel the fire of that night. Everything I believe, everything I write, everything I am—it comes from that cosmic kick in the arse Serapis Bey delivered.

So yeah, I’ve done my research. I know the “Ascended Master” label sounds like something you find in the bargain bin at a dodgy new age shop next to some incense and a badly-carved dragon. But forget the fluff.

This was real. It is real. And I don’t care if anyone believes it.

Truth doesn’t care about approval.

        “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 ✨🧌

Stuck in this godforsaken dark room, Eyes screaming like they’ve been sprayed with bleach, Hands twitching like malfunctioning Tesco self-checkouts, My body shaking like it’s front row at a Motorhead concert – Head banging into oblivion, Neck snapping in rhythm with the pain That torments my poor sorry soul.

Electric shocks crawl up my spine, Lightning bolts cracking down into my doom pit, My despair echoing like a pensioner’s cough in an empty bingo hall, Tinnitus whistles through my skull – Steam trains rampaging through The fragile tunnels of what remains of my brain.

Vision fractures. Darkness descends. I lay there convulsing like a broken Tesco rotisserie chicken, Limbs flailing in demon possession, Shorts soaked in sweat and piss, The air thick with the pungent green stench – A Liam fart that could evacuate a small village.

And there it is. The demon weed wacker Spinning around and around in my skull, Shredding what’s left of me Into salad garnish for hell’s buffet table.

But deeper still it drags me – Past the pain into that hollow silent place Where blackness becomes the teacher, Shaking becomes the prayer, And decay becomes the doorway To glimpse whatever comes next.

This is the jida journey, mate – The demon your mirror, The weed wacker your unholy crown, Doom your disciple, Despair your only true devotion.

Here in the dark room, Spirit fractures, Mind collapses, Soul endures – And I become the darkness itself.

🩸 “My brain feels like a demon weed wacker is shredding it into salad garnish for hell’s buffet table.”

🩸 “Convulsing in piss-soaked shorts, I met the darkness and it called me home.”

🩸 “This is not poetry. This is survival with a sarcastic scream.”

🩸 “The tinnitus steam trains whistle through my skull tunnels all night long.”

🩸 “Pain is my ritual. Shaking is my prayer. Darkness is my god.”

🩸 “British humour, demon weed wackers, piss, and doom. Welcome to my living hell.”

🩸 “Sometimes I wonder if Motorhead is playing a secret gig in my spine.”

🩸 “The demon weed wacker spins. My soul is shredded. It’s a vibe.”

🩸 “Darkness teaches me what light never could.”

🩸 “My suffering is not beautiful. But it’s real.”

       “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 ✨🧌

You’d think buying a watch is simple. You choose one. You wear it. It tells the time. Job done.

Nope.

Instead, it’s a full-scale psychological assault. Amazon probably thinks I’m running a black-market watch dealership by now with the amount I’ve sent back.

All I wanted was a watch that:

Tells the time

Tells the date

Has a big face so I can see it

Doesn’t require a PhD in Chronology to set it up

Instead, I got:

⏰ Knobs that have a life of their own, turning randomly like a possessed ouija board.

⏰ Buttons that demand fingers with precision I no longer have, thanks to numb hands that make the simplest task feel like I’m defusing a bomb underwater while blindfolded.

In the end, I went atomic. Or “atomik”, as I now call it to sound edgy and slightly deranged.

This atomic watch apparently speaks the time and date. Brilliant, I thought. It arrived, promising “easy setup” in the advert. 😂 Easy setup my arse. It took Albertine several hours of cursing to set up. She’s my go-to tech guru when life’s gadgets decide to humiliate me, and even she looked ready to launch it out the window.

I just sat there, numb hands useless, staring at it and laughing like a lunatic while she pressed random buttons in despair.

But hey, it works now. It talks to me. It’s large enough to see. And it hasn’t tried to kill me in my sleep yet. So it’s a win. Kind of.

           “By ink and breath and sacred rage, I write.
                     By storm and silence, I survive.”

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

🧌✨ @goblinbloggeruk ✨🧌

Dedicated to the quietly powerful, the fiercely intelligent, and the deeply spiritual souls navigating chronic illness with grit, grace, and a middle finger always charged.

There’s a kind of magic reserved for those who walk through fire daily — the ones living in the shadows of chronic pain, yet refusing to be defined by it. This is for the women who ride invisible engines through invisible battles, who carry storms in their veins but speak with soft fire.

Welcome to The Fizzy Girl’s Lost Milk Stand Spellbook — part grimoire, part rebellion. A collection of raw spells, rituals, and sharp-witted curses for living with Multiple Sclerosis (MS) — from the soul of a spiritual outlaw, with sass, depth, and zero apologies.

This isn’t about wellness wrapped in pastel lies. This is about owning your journey, commanding chaos, and turning pain into power.

✦ Spell One: The Banishing of Bullshit For when ableist optimism and unsolicited advice cross your path.

Ingredients:

One black candle (or any tea light that’s been through hell and back)

Salt, preferably from your own tears

An old NHS letter (burn it if your soul says “yes”)

A fully charged middle finger

Incantation: “By the prickle in my spine, by the twitching of my toes, Let your nonsense turn to silence, may your wellness wisdom decompose. I walk a twisted path and know my pain, So shove your yoga plan right up your brain.”

✦ Spell Two: The Ritual of Slightly Less Misery For days when the pain won't loosen its grip, but neither will you.

Requirements:

A bed-fort of doom pillows

Microwaved heat pad, warmed with the quiet rage of a thousand midnight rides

A mug of something hot and angry

Cat (optional, but spiritually advised)

Playlist of thunder, witches, or doom metal

Chant: “May the storm outside match the one in me, But may it pass with mercy and one good pee. Spasms, settle. Thoughts, uncoil. I soak in stillness, wrapped in foil.”

✦ Spell Three: Invisibility to Muggles When you just need the world to back off and shut up.

Steps:

Cloak yourself in black layers — armor against clueless questions

Wear your walking aids like the badass medals they are

Spray perfume with a whisper of danger and “don’t ask”

Whisper under your breath:

“Ignore me. Avoid me. Don’t you dare ask, ‘What’s wrong with you?’ I’m wearing my mask. I am a fog in the shape of a witch, Try me, Karen. I bite — and I twitch.”

✦ A Final Word This spellbook isn’t about curing the incurable — it’s about reclaiming power in a body that doesn’t always obey. It's a sacred, snarky, soulful grimoire for the ones who walk with fire in their bones, love in their hearts, and rebellion in their blood.

Fizzy Girl is my sexy, beautiful wife — a wild outlaw biker witch who laughs in the face of limitation. I’m a warlock forged by shadow and fire, and I ride beside her in my three-wheeled electric chair of doom — chrome-clad, spell-fueled, and built for storm-chasing.

Together, we defy the rules. Together, we ride magic into the storm.

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.”

Well, wasn’t that just delightful. Another evening of bedtime surprises, like a game show where all the prizes are torture devices. Honestly, it was hotter than Satan’s armpit during a heatwave in a sauna. Crawling into bed felt like checking into Hell, room 666, with a complimentary pillow and a welcome spasm.

I lay there, the Human Spasm Machine™, twitching like I was possessed by a caffeinated poltergeist. My throat? Oh, just casually reenacting a scene from The Exorcist. My tongue joined in too—spasming, shooting out like a party blower at a funeral. Except this party was full of pain and the numb tongue made it all the more festive.

Then came the lip bite. Oh yes, proper horror film moment. Bit down hard—no pain, of course, just the iron-rich taste of failure. And with the temperature of any drink being a potential lava experience, I just lay there like a damp breadstick marinating in misery, waiting for the THC-CBD oil to take the edge off. Slowly, things downgraded from “murderous seizure rave” to just being Mr. Asshole at an all-you-can-eat buffet of nerve damage.

Then my bladder piped up. "You need to piss," it said, like some condescending narrator. No catheter in, because clearly I'm not in any state to thread a tube down the Eye of Thunderer (yes, that eye). I tried to sit up—cue electric shocks to the spine like Zeus having a tantrum.

Next thing I know, I'm just sitting there...and the floodgates open. Like a broken dam of dignity. Full-on urine monsoon. No lifeboat.

As if that wasn’t enough of a carnival, my head joined in. Pins and needles danced round the crown like a medieval torture crown. Ears ringing with tinnitus so aggressive, it felt like Motörhead doing one last gig in my skull for their number one fan: Fizzy the Sultry Goblin Girl. And she wanted encores.

And it still goes on, mind you. This isn’t a one-off. It’s not an episode. It’s just a revolving carousel of neurological hell. Sometimes it’s a demon, sometimes just a dickhead. Either way, balance like a drunk on ice. You get used to the absurdity. Sort of.

So here I am, hugging a pillow like a Victorian maiden with consumption, trying not to slip fully into the existential pit. The kind of void where your mind floats off and never bothers to send a postcard. Because this is life with multiple sclerosis: an unpredictable blend of horror, comedy, and tragedy, written by a drunk playwright who thinks misery is edgy.

Cheers to another night in paradise.This is life with multiple sclerosis.

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.”

🌀 Welcome to the scorched mindscape of a British misfit with MS, a dodgy air-con, and absolutely no time for your telly addiction. Expect sarcasm, storms, and suspicious noises from the fridge. 420, 27 Degrees, and the Wheelchair of Death

It’s 4:20 in the afternoon — and I am, in every possible sense, well and truly baked. The sun’s decided to cosplay as Satan’s armpit, cranking the heat to a ripe 27°C. Not hot, you say? Try sitting in a disabled body that handles heat about as well as a vampire handles sunlight, and we’ll see how long before you start hallucinating the Ice Cream Man as your personal messiah.

Blessed Be the Demon Weed Wacker Today’s miracle? The Demon Weed Wacker — a neighbour, friend, or possibly summoned entity — dug my old air-con unit out of the crypt I call a shed. The fact it actually works is a minor act of divine intervention, akin to Jesus showing up just to top off my water bottle and stick it in the freezer.

Until then, I’d been sitting in front of the fridge. Not even for food — which is all poison anyway, thanks to the MS-induced digestive roulette — but for survival. I was bonding with the butter, staring at a melon like it owed me an explanation for my existence.

Ever sat on the toilet projectile vomiting while simultaneously exploding out the other end, wondering if your intestines are trying to escape your body to start a new life? Add pain in certain areas that shall remain unnamed (but rhymes with "soul-destroying abyss") and you’ve got yourself a medical-themed horror short.

Wheelchair of Death™ and the Conservatory Mistake I considered venturing outside, strapping into the Wheelchair of Death™, that faithful chariot of chaos and squeaky regret. But no. One foot outside and the sun said, “Ah yes, rotisserie human,” and I was done. I staggered into the conservatory like some sweaty Victorian ghost and instantly regretted it. Over 100°F in there. I could’ve slow-cooked a lamb shank in my lap.

Now I’m left with a blinding headache, and the tinnitus is going off like Lemmy himself is playing a comeback gig in my skull. It’s like the gods of rock took personal offence to my brain and decided to hold a festival in my ear canal.

Let There Be Storms There’s a storm rolling in now — proper biblical one by the feel of it. Black clouds, sudden wind, the smell of distant lightning. I love storms. The chaos, the noise, the sky throwing an emotional tantrum. Thunder’s just the Earth screaming, and I get that. I feel seen.

20 Years Without the Idiot Box Random thought: I haven’t watched TV in over 20 years. People look at me like I’ve confessed to eating children. “But what do you do?” Well, for starters, not stare into a flickering box that vomits consumerism and stupidity at epileptic-inducing speed.

With MS, television isn’t “entertainment,” it’s visual torture with background laugh tracks. Give me a silent room, a thunderstorm, and the slow hum of the Wheelchair of Death™ plotting my demise in the hallway.

I’m off to lie in front of the air-con like a roadkill vampire, praying the power holds out. If not, you’ll find me back in the fridge, whispering to the yoghurt and preparing for the next exorcism session in the loo.

Stay baked, stay bitter, and remember — if the food’s poison and the sky’s on fire, it’s probably just another Thursday.

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.”

⚡Thanks for reading. If you enjoyed this, you probably need therapy — or a fan. Or both. Come back soon for more tales from the Wheelchair of Death™, the Digestive Apocalypse, and the Conservatory from Hell.

🛠️ Powered by sarcasm, swearing, and something that smells faintly of ozone.