MultipleSclerosis

"Darkly sarcastic dispatches from the NHS frontline."

"Humour, horror, and the occasional prescription error."

"Medical mayhem with a hint of THC and British grit."

📜 Scroll of Lineage and Legacy “By Order of the Chronicler of Slightly Questionable Nobility”

To Whom It May Concern (or Be Mildly Amused),

Be it known throughout the realms of Albion, Anjou, and assorted asylums, that the bearer of this parchment—one known most infamously as:

The Blog Goblin, Heir of Sarcasm, Keeper of the Scooter of Death, and First of Their Name

Is of noble and ancient blood, descending in unbroken (and occasionally scandalous) line from:

Fulk II “The Good”, Count of Anjou,

Henry I "Beauclerc", King of England,

And by some devilishly clever cousin-marriage twist,

Henry V, Holy Roman Emperor (via his wife's sister's 8-times-removed ferret-wrangler or thereabouts).

Through conquest, courtship, and the occasional clerical error, this bloodline survived plagues, pogroms, poor dentistry, and prescription mix-ups.

In the Year of our Lord Two Thousand and Twenty-Five, the lineage hath manifested once more in its most sarcastic form:

The Right Irreverent Blog Goblin of House d’Anjou Scribe of Blogs. Rider of Scooters. Vaper of the Sacred Herb.

Let none question their claim, lest ye wish to be verbally roasted, historically footnoted, and possibly run over by a mobility scooter going 8km/h.

Signed in wax, wit, and dubious Latin. – Archivarius Maximus de Medicae Bollockarum, 12th of June, 2025

🛡️ House Blog Goblin d’Anjou – Noble Crest Description Visual Elements: Shield Shape: Classic French heater shield

Background: Split diagonally — left half burnt parchment gold, right half medicated NHS blue

Top Symbol: A three-wheeled mobility scooter, rearing like a warhorse

Centre: A vape cloud curling into the shape of a goblin face

Lower Field: A scattering of glowing prescription pills, one clearly labeled “Carbamazepine”

Supporters:

Left: A lion wearing headphones (for the tinnitus)

Right: A badly drawn pharmacist fleeing in terror

Banner Text (Motto):

"Regnum per Sarcasmus" (“Rule by Sarcasm”)

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.”

My Living Hell

One man’s journey through chronic illness, broken systems, and uncooperative furniture — with swearing, sarcasm, and an unhealthy relationship with the freezer section.

Today, I nearly married the fridge. 26 degrees. Feels like 46. Conservatory? A balmy 102°F — or as we call it here in Britain, hell’s greenhouse. I’ve got sweat in places I didn’t know had sweat glands. The fridge freezer doors are wide open and I’m contemplating whether it’s physically possible to live in the salad drawer.

Breathing feels like trying to inhale through a wet sock. My throat’s gone numb, hands tingling, lips buzzing like I’ve been snogging a faulty toaster. Blood pressure’s fine, which is amazing considering I feel like a Victorian widow with the vapours. There’s that heaviness in the air too — that classic “a storm is coming” feeling. Which I love, obviously. Thunderstorms are my favourite. There's something deeply comforting about watching the sky lose its temper when you're already halfway there yourself.

MS and heat are mortal enemies. I say enemies, but it’s more like they’re in a toxic relationship and I’m the child stuck in the middle. My body treats summer like a personal insult. I melt, I twitch, and at some point I lose the ability to speak without sounding like a cursed Victorian ghost whispering through a tin can.

Then there’s the wheelchair situation. My old chair went to that great battery charger in the sky, so I’m currently using a three-wheeled death trap that turns every trip to the shop into a scene from Wacky Races: Disability Edition. What I need is a Q100. What I have is a self-aware mobility device with a thirst for chaos. Honestly, it’s like trying to pilot a shopping trolley with a grudge.

Meanwhile, my fridge — bless it — is wheezing under the pressure, valiantly trying to keep my frozen peas solid while I slap a bag of veg on my forehead like it’s the world’s saddest spa day. Ice packs? Nah. I’m straight-up cuddling frozen chips now. Dignity left the building sometime around 11am.

Music's blasting — something mellow, dark and floaty. MDB. Morcheeba. That hazy, dreamlike soundtrack to heat-induced madness. I’m sipping Disprin like it’s vintage whisky and popping antihistamines like I’m playing pharmaceutical roulette. Every med I take gives me a new side effect, like it’s trying to outdo the MS in the 'who can ruin today more' competition.

Still. Back into the kitchen I go, seeking solace in the fridge’s loving embrace. If you don’t hear from me again, I’ve either passed out next to the frozen fish fingers or ascended to a higher plane of chilled existence.

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.”

Let’s talk about the big, festering elephant in the room: Multiple Sclerosis. Or, as I prefer to call it, the silent puppeteer of mental mayhem. For anyone not familiar — congratulations, enjoy your blissful ignorance. For those of us who are intimately acquainted, we know it doesn’t just nibble at your nervous system like a shy woodland creature. No — MS kicks down the door, flips your brain inside out, and installs a disco ball of chaos where your personality used to be.

I used to be fairly calm. Normal, even. Then MS came along like an uninvited houseguest who never leaves — and suddenly I’m starring in my own Jekyll and Hyde horror flick. No polite build-up. Just creeping dread followed by a full-throttle freak-out. I’m talking foaming at the mouth, incoherent screaming, full-blown berserker mode. Try hiding that from your partner. Try pretending it’s just “a bad day.”

It’s like watching yourself unravel while screaming internally, “WHAT THE HELL IS HAPPENING?!” And the more you try to stop it, the worse it gets. Panic mode? Engaged. Solutions? None. At some point, I ended up on the floor semi-conscious after headbutting a wall, hoping it would jolt my brain back to factory settings.

So now I live by one simple rule: avoid stress like it’s a plague-carrying rat. Because stress isn’t just bad for MS — it’s the bloody ignition key to the meltdown machine. Let’s not forget the heart attack. That little bonus prize from the MS gift basket. 60% heart function now, apparently. What a treat.

Oh, and my voice? Occasionally checks out completely. Just ups and leaves. One minute I’m fine, next minute I’m miming like a drunk Marcel Marceau. People don’t get it. They assume you’re just ignoring them, or being lazy. I once sent my mother a long, heartfelt email explaining it all. Her response? Silence. Well, no — before the silence she asked my partner if I “really” had MS. That was the final curtain on that relationship.

She died a year ago. I wasn’t invited to the funeral. Not told, not asked. Just gone. Eleven years of silence because everyone was “too busy with their lives,” and I was, frankly, the cuckoo in the nest. Never fit in with my birth mother’s life, nor my adopted mother’s. Just the family subplot no one talks about.

That said, meeting my half-siblings was a strange and wonderful thing. I’m sure they found it weird too. “Surprise, here’s your brother you never knew about, also adopted, and he comes with emotional baggage and inappropriate sarcasm.” Meeting my birth mother was like attending a surreal theatre performance. At the time, she was dating a bloke younger than me. Classy.

She lied about my father. Even got her sister involved. One day, she phoned me crying, saying my dad had died in a motorbike crash. I didn’t buy it. I could feel he was still alive — don’t ask me how. I just knew. I sat with Albertine and we asked the Universe for help (as you do when reality fails you), and lo and behold — we found him. In New Zealand, of all places. And guess what? I had a full sister, also adopted.

Turns out all the lies, secrets and cover-ups were just damage control for decisions made in the 1950s — that golden era of social shame, polished smiles, and secrets buried under six feet of denial.

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.”