radio nostalgia

please remember I suffer with severe cognitive dysfunction this may be a confusing read. no AI written content

Hello fellow humanoids and I was just having a mind thought moment. I was speaking with somebody the other day who commented to me, "You don't own a television set?" And then they began to ask me why I gave up watching television 20+ years ago . to which was quite a quite Short reply. I can no longer watch TV because I find it all to be complete and utter garbage and rubbish. and they sort of looked at me and thought I was from another planet.

I explained to them that growing up we only had two TV channels to start with and then we had a third. And if we were lucky and had a VHF, black and white TV, we were lucky we could get quite a few of the independent broadcasting companies signals on the old VHF aerials on the VHF black and white TV's back in the day. The guy sort of looked at me and then I explained about my old radio that I used to own which was an old valve radio. that I remember quite happily the smell of the dust on the warming valves as it crackled into life and Radio Caroline or Radio London boomed out. Oh my god, the sound was like you have never heard such a beautiful sound coming from a radio, not like the ones today, I'm sad to say.

You had light wave medium wave short wave. It was absolutely awesome you could listen to radio stations all over the world. It was amazing I absolutely loved it. And right up until the eighties I still listen to the radio listening to all sorts of different stations all over the world, which brought me great enjoyment and I must say some of the programs were absolutely side splitting, amazingly amazin And then you have all these amazing radio stations and podcasts and all sorts of different media you can learn so much stuff i find it totally amazing and it's a constant source of mind blowing information. But of course all that has now been eclipsed by YouTube and other platforms like that on the internet, which are also absolutely mind blowing if you can sort the chiff from the chaff. remember you have to be very careful about what you take in as some of it can be a right load of all crap.

I remember when I was on the radio for over eight years as a comedy radio shock jock but unfortunately I had to give it up due to severe health issues I'm afraid. and also censorship was becoming an issue as well. So it was probably a good job I got off when I did well over a year ago. But it was a great radio station I worked on. The other person was a great guy and well, yeah, I wish them all the best of luck. Maybe one day I might make a comeback, who knows, but I am definitely going to be making my own podcast about multiple sclerosis and my life in general, which should be interesting boring or well, there you go, not that good I suppose, but at least I try.

Still, wishing everybody peace, healing, love and light, no matter who or what you are.

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

⚠️ 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 help.

It’s one of those Saturdays where your brain leaks nostalgia like a knackered kettle hissing and half-lucid. I can smell memories. Not metaphorically. Literally. A smell hits me, and suddenly I’m ten again, knees scabbed, holding a half-melted transistor radio I bought at the church jumble for 10p and a packet of Polos. I took it home, took it apart, and rewired it with leftover speaker wire and dangerous levels of optimism. And yes I electrocuted myself. Multiple times. Because safety first was a concept for other people. I preferred sparks and swearing.

🛒 Tesco and the Pilchard Hour This morning, Albertine (driver of destiny, keeper of the calm) drove me the 10 miles to our local Tesco. We thought it opened at 7. Nope. Eight.

Sitting outside like a pair of damp, time-travelled idiots while the sun mocked us and the pigeons stared. I felt like a right pilchard, as DLT would say. Yes, I’m old enough to remember when DJs had catchphrases and weren’t just government mouthpieces hiding behind playlists and personality lobotomies.

📻 Radio Nights & White Plastic Earpieces My golden era wasn’t Radio 1. That was a beige, soggy biscuit of sound. Give me Radio Caroline. Give me Radio Luxembourg. Under the covers with my crackling solid-state radio, listening through a cheap white earpiece that hurt like hell and cut out every time I moved my head. But that didn’t matter. Because for those stolen hours, I was free. The signal was scratchy, but the rebellion was clear.

👞 Jumble Sale Survival Back then, I had size 10 feet by age 10, which made finding shoes a bit like a biblical miracle. So, jumble sales were a lifeline. Not fashion, not style—just survival. Shoes with soles. Jumpers that didn’t smell too bad. Radios with valves. Anything I could take home, take apart, and turn into something vaguely magical or mildly explosive.

🧠 Childhood: The Prequel to Complex PTSD I was adopted by a couple who seemed to think “parenting” meant Victorian cosplay with bonus violence. Their rules made no sense. Their punishments were theatrical. The beatings came whether you’d done something or not. It was like being in an unpaid role in a horror film directed by people who worshipped discipline and feared joy.

But I survived. And, more importantly—I forgave them. Not because they deserved it. Because I refuse to carry their poison through this short, broken life of mine. Let the dead bury their guilt.

♿️ Wheelchair Chronicles & the Curse of L5 So back to today.

Helped get the wheelchair out of the van. Twisted the wrong way. Now my spine is toast. Proper burnt. Like someone smuggled a baguette into my lower back and set it on fire. This is my reward for trying to be helpful. There’s gratitude for you.

And the constipation saga continues. We’re at DEFCON-1 down there. No movement. NIL. BY. MOUTH. I hydrate. I wait. If nothing changes, we’re off to the tube-and-bag-of-doom route—something between medieval plumbing and modern torture. And people pay for this stuff? Coffee enemas? Really? Have we fallen that far?

🧠 Brain Fog Express: Non-Stop to Nowhere Add a headache that’s lasted seven days and counting. No breaks, no mercy. Just pressure behind the eyes and a feeling like I’m wearing someone else’s brain backwards.

I’m not sure if my AI’s broken or if I am. Reality feels optional. Maybe this is all a lucid dream on a neurologist’s bad day.

🛠 Hope in the Form of Auctions & Anarchy A customer finally paid a late invoice. Victory. So I celebrated the only way I know how by bidding on obscure shite in an online auction while silently muttering hexes at the British healthcare system.

💀 Final Transmission from the Mad Bastard in the Black Hoodie So that’s today. Saturday. Another chapter in the slow-motion car crash that is life with chronic illness, trauma memory, and a warped sense of humour that’s the only thing keeping me from chewing through the window frame.

To whoever reads this: I see you. If your body’s broken, your mind’s flickering, and the world keeps asking you to perform like a circus act know this:

You’re not alone. You’re just ahead of the curve.

Sending peace, love, light… and just a little darkness. Because sometimes, that’s what really protects you.

Yours in pain, power, and perfectly timed sarcasm,

I write in ink and fury, in breath and broken bone.
Through storm and silence, I survive. That is the crime—and the miracle.