I wish you a hopeful Christmas, I wish you a brave new year; all anguish, pain and sadness leave your heart and let your road be clear.

It's that time of year again to buy each other things we don't need. You can probably tell already I'm not in the Christmas spirit quite yet. I've done all my present buying and now just need to think of gifts I would like. I say need because it seems to be a requirement. And they need to be gifts that can be purchased; apparently it's no good asking for my health. God I'm such a Scrooge this year.

It's also that time of year we reflect on the previous twelve months. I know that's because it's the end of the calendar year but it seems like a silly time to do this given everything else that's going on. Why not do it in June? Everyone is happier in the summer so you're more likely to look positively on the last year. Or why not do it immediately after something good has happened? That way you can always say the year has ended well. And in fact, why reflect on the past at all? As Alice said, "I can't go back to yesterday because I was a different person then." (That's Alice in Wonderland rather than Alice from uni but I'm sure she has equally profound thoughts. Admittedly her's are probably about boobs and fashion and stuff rather than philosophy.)

I've not a lot to say about 2016 really, it's been a bit rubbish I guess; promised lots but delivered little. Personally I had the bone marrow transplant and haven't seen too much improvement. Globally there is political turmoil and ongoing war and suffering. Happy Christmas indeed.

But Christmas is also the time to be thankful for how lucky we are. Most of us spend the day in safety, peace and happiness with some of the people we love most and that makes us more fortunate than so many in this world. The day might not always be perfect but I suppose it's better to have my sister's boyfriend sat at the table with us then Jihadi John. Even if he is a United fan. (He's also a very nice bloke but I do like to wind them up.)

And the end of one year means the coming of another. I already like the sound of 2017 because it's a prime number and the maths geek in me has a thing from prime numbers of late. (Not a thing as in, "I'd love to go to bed with the number 23." It's more of a fondness of their uniqueness; I can relate to that because I'm certainly a one off and I quite like me despite what you're all probably thinking.)

I've set myself some goals for 2017. You may recall the last goal I set was to walk a mile by the end of the year. Well that hasn't happened and according to superstitious people bad luck comes in threes so my first two targets for 2017 may be doomed to failure already. I'm not superstitious though so they will at least be things I'd like to achieve. Here is the list:
1. Be able to fly.
2. Set a world record for balancing things on my head.
3. Be either tremor free or if not at least able to control the tremors.
4. Begin a job which I enjoy and feel as though I am of use doing.
5. Be happy.

All that's left for me to do is wish you all a very Merry Christmas. The title of this blog is from I Believe in Father Christmas by Greg Lake. I chose this because he died recently and it's a brilliant song but I wish you all more than just a clear road in 2017; I wish you one filled with opportunity and joy. I also wish to thank you all for reading this blog. It's been a great help to me writing these often seemingly nonsense posts; my mood can transform over the course of a few paragraphs as I remind myself how utterly hilarious and absolutely amazing I am. And how sarcastic.

Be merry, stay safe and with much love, Patrick.

You'll never live like common people. You'll never do what common people do.

The other day I heard Greg James (Radio 1 DJ) say something along the lines of, "the point of life is to find someone as weird as you are." That got me thinking considerably more than it probably should have done.


He's right, isn't he? We're all a bit weird; there are normal traits in a person but there is no such thing as a normal person. Most of us aren't so weird that we are completely unique in our peculiarities and so in many respects the objective of life is to surround ourselves with people who share our weirdness. (Or can at least tolerate it.) We want to be with people who are similar; and we think of them as "common people". It's everyone else who is strange.


To be happy I think you have to embrace most of your own peculiarities. I'm weird in lots of ways. I eat most of my food cold; mackerel risotto from the fridge is one of my favourites. I'm a 25-year-old man and I think Taylor Swift is one of the great musical artists of our time. (If any North East based readers share my passion and would like to see the next best thing then I know a bloke called Adam; he covers a few things but specialises as a Taylor Swift tribute act.) I've never been very good 'on the pull' because I'm overly sarcastic and just assume that a girl will know I fancy her if I insult her a little. Most girls don't. (It balances precariously between 'pretending not to like each other flirting' and bullying.) I'm going to stop now because you're probably beginning to think I'm even odder than you already did.


Some peculiarities, although undesirable, must be accepted. I think MS falls into this category. It's a visible, restrictive and at times depressing sort of weirdness but is it really any stranger than people who are left handed? Or people who actually enjoy drinking real ale? And it's certainly a lot less strange than the average Geordie. I just have to accept that I have MS; it is something I have but it is not who I am. (In some ways it is the opposite of 'a massive dick'; that is something I do not have but many people would (I think jokingly) say I am.


I was talking to a lady on Saturday night (Kelly. More of a lass than a lady to be honest.) and she said often it is defects that make something, or someone, great. She was talking about it in the context of horses and I was a bit drunk so didn't really understand. Apparently Red Rum had a bigger pair of lungs than the average horse and that's why he was so great. I think she was probably implying that even with MS I'm amazing. (And probably that she fancied me a bit too.) We cleared up the fact that a good bum is more important than boobs so I wasn't really bothered how big Red Rum's lungs were any way. (And he is a he. And he's dead. And he was a horse!)


Action points from this post:
1. Embrace your weirdness.
2. Listen to Common People by Pulp; it's amazing.
3. Be conscious of the fact that I am not in any way attracted to horses. (Although I've probably pulled a couple of girls with a slight resemblance to a horse; they tend to be less offended by my flirtatious insults and just appreciate the attention.)

"Stop dreaming." People who say that are blaspheming.

My last blog post took a turn down Negative Alley. Most of you worried, some of you cried and one female even offered sex if it would cheer me up. (Okay, the last part isn't true.) The post was an accurate reflection of how I was feeling at the time. Fortunately, Negative Alley is more akin to a cul-de-sac than a dead end. I'm not happy with the situation but I am headed back towards a more normal state of mind. Well, as normal as my state of mind gets. (I'm probably at a point in the alley where I'm passing a man who has just found out his wife is having an affair. With his best mate. And she's pregnant. And he's not the father. But he has at least just won £2 on a scratchcard.)

Anyway, that post was more pessimistic than realistic and I'm certainly not a pessimist. This title is from The Streets again. Not being a believer in a God we should worship I'm not sure if blasphemy loses all its meaning but I'm sure you get the idea.

To reassure you all of my stable mindset I thought I'd do something you all know I enjoy: talk about something that annoys me and include some sarcasm and (low quality) wit.

There are quite a lot of things to choose from. Like the fact it's just taken me 40 minutes to cook my fingernails. (Only one bleeder though!) Or sharing a lane at the swimming baths. (I swim like a drowning koala bear. I also have an arm span similar to that of an orangutan.) Or  father! (Love him though I do, I could write a fucking book on things that annoy me about him.)

But my chosen rant today is: Why do people think it's acceptable to tell my dog he's fat? I don't mean nurses at the vets but totally random people as we pass them along the path. It's rude! It's not like Bamboleo can understand them either so really they're saying to me, "Your dog is fat." How am I to reply? Tell them their face is ugly?

He's not even fat! It's not as if he makes craters in the ground every time he puts a paw down. He doesn't waddle along 5 yards behind, pausing for a breather every other step. He's half labrador, he's greedy. He runs about with his tongue on the ground in the vain hope he comes across something edible, of course he's not going to be stick thin. A lady this morning said he needed to lose a stone. A stone! He only weighs 28kg; what would she like me to do? Cut his legs off?

The best is when it's another dog walker and they call him fat before proceeding to give him a treat. That would be like me going up to a mother and her young son, telling her that he's fat and then giving him a Milky Bar! And that's a very good analogy because Bamboleo is strong and tough and only the best is good enough.

Basically stop being rude about my dog! He is the most loving dog in the world and he has held this family together over the last two years. And the vet says he is perfectly fit and healthy. And he is much better looking than any of these people criticising him. And he's faster and stronger than most dogs. And he had his balls cut off before he was one; if he enjoys his food let him have a bit of fun!

I feel much better. And my hair has started to go curly! I'm delighted!

Poetry of the Dead

I occasionally write poems and I'm sick of them cluttering up the notes on my iPad. These are they. I am not claiming that they're particularly good or even worth reading but it's easier storing them here than anywhere else. Most are about me, some are not.

Note: These poems are not exclusively for the dead and nor indeed was I dead when I wrote them. The Frank Turner album just seems like an appropriate blog title.  The poem titles are particularly rubbish.

---

Who am I?

I knew him once a short time ago,

We drifted quickly now time goes slow.

He was young full of dreams,
I feel old, empty it seems.

I see him now on the other side,
I'm stood here held by the tide.
We'll meet again when I am free,
Once I was he now he is me.

Stay

Are you winning and are you up?

Are you living and how's your luck?

I hope you'll never fade away,

I hope your smile will always stay.

Night and Day

It is dark, it is cold, it is frightful.

He is lost, he is lonely, he is bashful.

Day is bright, day is warm, day is joyful.

I am me, I am smiling, I am playful.

SAD

(An acronym of Seasonal Affective Disorder.)

Grey is so bleak, and he so weak.

Blue so clear and I without fear.

Rain has arrived, hopelessness is here.

Sun will follow, happiness is near.

Poisoned Medicine

Dusk has fallen, it hasn't begun. He's agitated.

He craves it, he needs it. A release, a fix of sorts.

Short lived but euphoric; an all conquering Demon.

He's disciplined. He can wait just a few more minutes.
"All the better for the delay", he assures himself.

Then it's time. He can wait no more. He rises excitedly.

He enters the room and sees it. He rushes towards it.
His friend, his elixir of life, his reason for being.

He grabs at it and decants his medicine of choice.
Night is approaching and his day has begun.

He inhales and it passes his lips. He comes alive.
He sighs deeply. Relief. Ecstasy. Alcohol.

Time Goes By

Time goes by, the second hand spirals around the face.
It's silent but I hear it, I'm losing this race.

Hope is fading, I'm starved of faith and drowning in doubt.

This is torture of the mind and I need a way out.

I yearn for something, I know not what but I need more.

The chance to resurrect and end this inwards war.

Time goes by, the second hand spirals around the face.
It's silent but I hear it, I must up my pace.

I will endeavour and I will free myself in time.

I am strong, I can beat it and true life will be mine.

This place is cruel and unjust, I don't belong here.
I'll be gone soon, I'll smile wide and be rid of fear.

Time goes by, the second hand spirals around the face.

I'll smile and say, "My battle is won, I've found my place."

---

Not exactly uplifting but poems are basically meant to be rhyming misery, right?

And if you close your eyes, does it almost feel like you've been here before? How am I gonna be an optimist about this?

I think of myself as being an optimistic person; I've had to be over the last couple of years. But I think that optimism is fading. I must warn you this post is far from happy; there are no jokes or even sarcastic remarks. I'd only recommend reading if you are so happy that nothing could bring you down or if you're so sad that nothing could take you down further. It is not though a suicide note; I certainly don't plan to kill myself.

I saw my consultant at Sunderland hospital on Wednesday. She basically said that she doesn't think the DBS will help my tremors much. I knew the results weren't as good for MS patients as for Parkinson's sufferers but she said because I have ataxia as well as the tremors the results are even poorer. This was a pretty massive blow; I'd placed all my hopes on this treatment. She did say though that it is worth trying and as far as I'm concerned there is no decision to be made; I have to try it.

And then on Thursday the nurse from the RVI hospital in Newcastle phoned. My surgery has been delayed until March. Apparently the equipment needs a software update and they've decided to do it towards the back end of December. My surgery would have been next. 

Two days ago I was thinking that my tremors could have been significantly improved by the new year. I thought I would have been able to get a job, move out of my parents' home, start looking for a girlfriend. Now the prospect is of brain surgery in three months and it is likely that will help me very little. I'm fucking devastated.

My life is fucked. I can't write, I can't button up a shirt, I can't use a knife and fork, I can't use a keyboard, I can't cook, I can't even eat a fucking banana without it looking like I'm giving it the world's worst blowjob. And I could handle all of that if I could just go for a proper walk. But I can't do that either.

I want to give up. I get such little enjoyment. I see my friends progressing in life; partners, houses, careers, holidays. I'm genuinely happy for them but I'm incredibly jealous also. And I see the news and all of the evil in the world; I think, "Why me?" There are so many cruel people and life is so unjust. It's Children in Need tonight, I won't be watching. I've donated, as I have to Save the Children and as I will to UNICEF and other charities around Christmas time but I cannot watch it; I am so fortunate in comparison to them and I will only hate myself more for being so desolate about my situation.

At the end of last year I said my condition needed to be significantly better come the end of 2016. It isn't. I've had a bone marrow transplant, the most effective treatment for MS, and I've seen little improvement. The former head of British cycling, Dave Brailsford, talks about marginal gains. These are the things that can make the difference between second and first place to an elite athlete. The improvements I have seen have been marginal gains but I am far from an elite athlete; I am a disabled young man and the gains aren't enough. I cannot help but think about what I once was and of what I could have become. I am the world away from either.

I think perhaps I am generally optimistic (this blog post aside obviously) because optimism is far easier to stomach than realism. Were I a realist I'd probably conclude my life is all but over.

Love On Top

If there're two things this blog has been missing it's content worth reading and a title reference to a Beyoncé song. Well good news! This blog post resolves one (and only one) of those issues.

The idea for this post came from The Guardian's Q&A feature in which they ask people of fame a random set of questions. I like to think of my own answers to said questions, sure in the knowledge I will be asked one day but until then I thought I'd give you all an early preview.

When were you happiest?
Thus far in life happiness for me has always been in the moment rather than an extended period of contentedness. Which moments have I've been happiest? Waking up next to somebody. (All the better when it's a girl, they invariably smell better than any of my mates.) 

What is the trait you most deplore in yourself?

It used to be trepidation. Growing up I was quite shy. I became much more confident at uni and over the last 18 months or so I've come to realise that actually I'm class. Now, it's obsessiveness. I fall into routine and find it difficult to make changes.

What is the trait you most deplore in others?

Rudeness. The worst thing anybody could say to me is that they think I am rude. Smiles and manners are so easy yet they make such a difference.

What do you most dislike about your appearance?

My eyebrows. I've not got a unibrow but the odd hair does pop up in between them. One good (though sadly short lasting) result of my chemotherapy is that my eyebrows thinned right out, I looked fantastic! 

What did you want to be when you were growing up?

A father. The only thing I have ever really wanted is to have a family. And it still is.

What is top of your bucket list?

To see Coldplay live. Their music reminds me of so many different times in my life, happy and sad. My latest tattoo incorporates artwork from two of their singles. (Tattoos are a great example of my obsessiveness. I went 25 years without getting one and now I've had two within a month and I am getting a couple more in December.)

When did you last cry and why?

Last week. I get frustrated, disheartened and scared about my MS and what the consequences are going to be.

What was your most embarrassing moment? 

Someone on the bus once threw a yoghurt on me. I cried. I was like 14! How didn't I get bullied? Fat, academically clever and evidently not the most thick-skinned of youngsters. Clearly I must have always been Mr Nice.

Property aside, what is the most expensive thing you've brought? 

My road bike. It cost £1600. It's now sat on an indoor training stand in the conservatory. I use it every day for five minutes at a time but it makes me sad every time I look at it. It reminds me of what I once had, of what I once was. I think about travelling to and from work on it, about setting out on a Sunday morning in the summer with no destination in mind and about the journeys I one day hope to make again.

Is it better to give or receive? 

(Always to give but better when she's on top.) 

I prefer to give. And I like it most when I am donating to charity or giving a gift out of the thanks, rather than because that's the done thing. (Christmas etc.)

What do you owe your parents?

Nothing, and everything. Nothing because they love me and I love them and you cannot be indebted in love. They would do anything for me and demand nothing in return. Everything because they have made me the person I am. I define myself by my morals and my personal qualities and neither would be what they are without my parents. 

(Oh, and I nicked 10p from my dad's tin for the bus the other day.)

What keeps you awake at night?

Not much, I sleep pretty well. If you (or indeed I, after all I am both interviewee and interviewer) mean what concerns me then it is the health and happiness of my family, friends and myself. And the abundance of cruelty and lack of compassion in the world.

What is the most important lesson life has taught you?

Appreciate it, never take life for granted. We are more fortunate than most and for no good reason, so enjoy life and strive to make the world that little bit better every day.

How would you like to be remembered?

As being happy, because I know I will only be completely happy if my life is centred around the things that mean the most to me: family, friends and kindness.

That might have been a dull read but I don't care, it was extremely cathartic. I would recommend anyone does the same thing, it puts life into perspective a little and helps you to see what is important to you and what you need in your life to be happy. (And clearly in my case that is a girl who makes the most of life, wants children and doesn't mind going on top.)

Peel the label, tell a fable.

Peel theI said I would write a blog on my philosophesis in life towards the end of last year. Here it is. If you're particularly religious and easily offended then I'd recommend you stop reading. And if you're one of those people who like to languish in faux outrage you should stop reading as well. (Or better yet, you should lighten the fuck up.) This blog may be some or all of ignorant, dismissive and disrespectful and for that I apologise. It also contains some choice language but that's pretty in keeping with everything else I've written/said. For the following please think of me not as Patrick but as Plato.

I will start with faith. I think there are five types of faith:
1) Faith from familiarity: I was raised as a Christian so were I to follow a religion it would most likely be Christianity. If I were raised a Muslim, it would be Islam. That's not to say I think God is more plausible than Allah or vice versa, it's just because that's what I know.
2) Faith from optimism: I think some people believe in the hope that their faith will be rewarded and their lives will get better.
3) Faith from fear: I think some people are scared that if they said they didn't have faith then things would get worse.

(Two and three would make for a pretty lousy God. If God could help but was only willing to if we adorn him with praise then he would essentially be a prostitute, albeit a hooker offering different services in exchange for a different currency. And I've never heard of anybody who's got an STI from God either.)

4) Faith from belief: Undoubtedly a lot of people do genuinely believe in a God.
5) Faith for comfort: It's nice to think there is somebody out there who is listening to us during times of difficulty. I think everyone has this faith to an extent, we all wish for something and I think it is this faith we are wishing to.

That all sounds very negative but I do not mean it to be so. I have faith, just not religious faith. I believe in a 'God', a higher power. I don't believe this God made the world in seven days, or that this God is a he, and certainly not that this God has a big white beard. I believe in dualism; I think the soul is separate from the body and will continue to live beyond our earthly lives. (Which is why I'm such a good person, I know I cannot rely on my good looks forever.)

Next, religion. Though I am not religious I think religion can be and is a great force for good. At the heart of most religions is community, compassion and charity. Would the world be a better place without religion? Absolutely not. It would be far more lonely and far less kind. (Would my Sunday mornings as a child have been better without religion? Absolutely. I could have stayed in bed.)

My unease with religion is all of the ritual and worshipping of a God. Qualities are attributed to someone, something, we know nothing about. If you believe and it helps you then all the better for you, if you do not believe then it all seems a bit nonsensical. I think it's a story that got a little out of hand but the moral message still stands. (I imagine Jesus and his disciples had a lock in at the pub one night and thought it would be a laugh. The bottles probably didn't have labels on back then but a fable was told all the same.)

Next, moral behaviour. Don't be a cunt. That's all you need to do. Cunt-ish behaviour incorporates so much of the evil, selfishness and cruelty that occurs in this world of ours. Of course there are degrees of such activity and it takes many forms but it is in essence being a cunt and the world would be so much better without it.

Next up (nearly there), justice. I don't believe justice or fairness exists in this world. That makes me sad but it is honestly how I feel.

Finally, happiness. Until you find it, life is the pursuit of happiness and once you have found it, enjoy, cherish and spread happiness. Smile, laugh, appreciate life, find beauty in everything you can. What ever you believe one thing is true; no one leaves this world alive so make the most of it. True happiness will never necessitate you breaking your moral responsibilities. Surrounding yourself with the people you love most makes you happy. (Admittedly alcohol can make you happier still.)

That was all a bit serious. I imagine these musings will one day be studied as part of an A-Level in Philosophy. Perhaps I will one day be thought of as highly as the likes of Socrates,  Kant and Descartes. Or perhaps you all think I'm even stupider than you already did. But if so don't say anything nasty or else, as per moral behaviour above, you would in fact be declaring yourself as a cunt.

Fix Up, Look Sharp

Part I: Fix Up

I'm getting better. I've known it for the last month or so but haven't really acknowledged it. It's slow, almost unnoticeable, but I am growing stronger. And I should make mountains out of these molehills because you have to be able to walk before you can run.* In April once the nurse had returned my stem cells he said, 'You are now reborn.' I didn't really understand what he meant, partly because I was naive as to how long a process my recovery would be and partly because he was a little eccentric so it wasn't out of character to dramatise the event. But now I realise my body has to repair itself and my immune system must learn how to protect me. (An excellent start would not be to attack itself as it did to get me into this mess.)

(That was the same nurse who referred to me as 'Patrick my darling', until in the midst of a particularly unpleasant fever I said, 'I'm not your fucking darling', from which point I was 'Patrick my dear.' Lovely bloke as it happens, if ever you see a rotund, almost certainly gay, Iranian man with a great fondness for cake in central London buy him a slice on me please.)

Next, I'm getting the Deep Brain Stimulation towards the end of December (20th)! This is potentially amazing, it means my tremors will hopefully stop when the battery is turned on in early January. That would mean I am able to rejoin the workforce which would be massive for my self esteem. (And I can start repaying some of the money I owe to the NHS in taxes, it will certainly be over £100,000 by now.) I will also be able to lead a much more normal life and even drink a pint without a straw! (Although in truth the tremors have been slightly useful when it comes to drinking. I always get bottles of lager while everyone else gets a pint so I drink less than they do and it is a little less apparent how much of a lightweight I am.)

It's not quick, it's not fun but I am beginning to fix up.

Part II: Look Sharp

No improvement required. My good looks (and modesty) are amongst my greatest assets.

---

A short blog. I really only wrote it so I could make a sarcastic comment about being a little bit attractive. And Fix Up Look Sharp by Dizzee Rascal is a brilliant track. (Admittedly it's pop, not hip-hop.)

* To waste a bit more of all of our time I thought I'd whinge about something. I hate sayings/phrases being used in the middle of conversation. I hope you realised in the sentence ending in an * above I used two common sayings. What's the point in them? 

A few more examples:
1) Try everything once: I went to Gay Pride in Sunderland a few weeks back. I was meant to be volunteering at the City of Culture stall but I didn't know where it was. I walked up and down the street by myself looking for it, Hey Big Spender was blasting out of the speakers when a man in drag and on stilts asked me if I'd like a photo. I decided that would be a good time to leave. Try everything once? No thanks.

2) Back to the drawing board: Are you an artist? No? Shut up then.
3) Boys will be boys: He's acting the twat, something which, unbelievable though it may sound, isn't a pre-requisite of being mail.

4) It takes two to tango: Someone's slagging it about.

I like to be open and honest and I like others to be the same with me. (Unless you're being nasty, then I don't want to talk to you at all.) I can be and I am tactful if necessary. ('Do I look fat in this?' type scenarios.) But why use a phrase when you could just openly say what you're trying to say anyway? If something could be misunderstood then someone will misunderstand it, some people aren't the sharpest tools in the shed. (Obviously that was irony, I of course mean some people are stupid.)

Scream if you wanna go faster baby.

AAAAAAARRRRRRRGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH! If only it was that easy. Not the best of songs either, the Spice Girls were proof that the whole is greater than the sum of its parts. I've just Google Image searched them (Leave me alone, I'm bored.) and they looked horrendous! I'm pretty sure I looked cooler than that in the late 90s. In fact I know I did because there is a photo of me in a luminous green Diadora t-shirt. Beckham definitely chose the right one mind. (Of course he did, he's perfect.)

I find myself wishing my life away. Everyone does it to an extent, living for the weekend, willing payday to come sooner, counting down the days until a holiday. It'd be nice to live in the moment but since it's rubbish at the moment I might as well think about the future.

Everything takes sooo long, I feel like I'm in a never ending queue. The British are said to be very good at queueing and it's a good job, let's just say if I was French there'd be a lot of shouting and throwing of beréts. But I'm not, I'm British, so I don't say anything to anybody who could possibly help and instead I just whinge about it in private. It's nice to be nice but unfortunately I think it's probably more productive to be a complete twat.

It's coming up to 6 months since the stem cell transplant and I barely notice any difference. I saw Babs, or Barbara to her face, last week and she said she could see improvements. One of those was in my voice but I hadn't even realised there was a problem with that in the first place. (And I still can't sing. And Siri still doesn't have a clue what I'm saying half the time. And well done you if you said, 'The problem with your voice is that it talks.' Very original.) I saw the physio as well and she's given me some exercises but it's hard to believe they'll help much with my walking. It feels about as productive as putting a plaster on an neck which has had its head chopped off. And the wait goes on for deep brain stimulation. I sound like a broken record but actually I'm much worse, I'm a broken person!

It would be good if you could fast forward, rewind, pause and play life. It took me until the end of that sentence to realise that already has a name, time travelling. Did any of you watch that documentary series Bernard's Watch? (I'm pretty sure it was a documentary. And the Queen's Nose 50p coin exists as well right?) I'd like one of those watches and I'd use it for better things than Bernard ever did, he would pause time if he forgot his homework or something. (And because I was a bit of a geek at school I never forgot my homework so wouldn't need the watch for that anyway. That's right kids, stick in at school, do your homework and maybe you too can become an unemployed 25-year-old living with your parents.)

I wouldn't abuse my new found time travelling capabilities, I'd just travel a few months into the future. It would be a bit like starting a book at chapter 2, I still want mysteries ahead but I'm not really bothered about all this scene setting before anything really gets going. (Or if you're not a reader, a bit like starting a relationship in bed. None of the flirting, texting, dating before you even get to see her boobs.)

There was a slogan on the wall at the gym I used to go to which said, 'The journey is more important than the destination.' What a load of bollocks, journeys consist of waiting around, getting tired from doing nothing and playing I spy. Whatever my destination is it had better be worth this journey. And there had better be boobs.

Does that make me crazy? Does that make me crazy? Does that make me crazy? Possibly.

I'm getting a tattoo. Nothing crazy about that. Why am I getting it? So I can't go swimming for a week. That's pretty strange.

I'm not good at resting, I'll only do it if I have no choice. I broke my foot at the beginning of 2013 because I was running too much. (Served me right, who runs 12 miles at 6am on New Year's Day? Not me, I broke the foot after about ten miles so had to hobble back home.) That was the only thing that stopped me running for a few months. (But I didn't let them put my foot in a cast, I told them I was flying to Dubai the next day (I wasn't) so they gave me a moon boot instead. With that and crutches I could still walk/swing about a few miles a day at least.) I can do less than one percent of the activity I used to but I do as much as I can every day and it exhausts me. 

I'm like a person who is £100 more in debt at the end of each month, I'm living beyond my means. I only swim (splash about trying not to drown) for about 25 minutes a day but sadly that is enough to tire me. And I insist on going on my bike about four times a day, only for 10 minutes at a time but again this is enough to tire me. I do this every day and the cumulative effect is that I'm constantly weak. Really all I want to be able to do is to walk properly again and the cycling and swimming just inhibit this. (Well, obviously I want to be able to do more than just walk properly but it'd be a good start.)

So being the logical, straightforward thinker that I am I figured if I get a tattoo then I will not be able to swim for a week and the rest will do me good. Obviously I could still swim but then the tattoo would be ruined and I care too much about my body to allow this to happen. That's not vanity, that's taking pride in my appearance. (And I'm a bit vain as well so I definitely won't go swimming.)

(I'm sure a lot of you will be thinking, 'You can't care that much about your appearance, tattoos are rubbish.' I'm not sure I actually disagree with that but as I say, a rest will do me good.)

I've always said that if I were to ever get a tattoo it would have to mean something to me. Assuming I don't get a tattoo of Bamboleo plastered across my forehead (And you can assume that!) one of my options is a lyric I like. Coldplay are my favourite band but most of their songs are about falling in, being in or falling out of love. None of those apply to me so I'm not getting a lyric about a fantasy girl put on me. (And it's a bit gay even if the girl existed.) (Even more gay than getting a lyric tattooed on me in the first place that is.)

So  I've decided to go for:

Hold it in now let's go dancing
I do you believe we're only passing through.

It's a lyric from Time is Dancing by Ben Howard, I think I've used it as a previous blog title. The mantra I take from the lyric means a lot to me and helped me come to terms with my diagnosis.

Next to the quote I am getting a picture of a pebble. (I know, this is sounding more and more rubbish.) The pebble is from the beach in Sunderland, I took it to London with me and held it as I had the stem cell transplant. It comforted me then and reminds me of what I once had and of what I am striving to have again.

This might be an early midlife crisis, I'm not sure. It might look crap. I might regret it. A lot (most?) of you will be thinking, 'That sounds shit.' (Danny I know you definitely will!)

I'm not really bothered. The inside of my forearm has never been my best feature anyway. (There's nothing wrong with it but it doesn't compare to my amazing face.) Really the only potential problem is that I need to figure out how the fuck to dance.

And if it's that bad then I will just get it removed at some point and that would mean another rest. I'm a genius sometimes.

Let's Push Things Forward

A track by The Streets from Original Pirate Material. That's one of the best albums since the turn of the century so I wanted to use a lyric from that as a blog title but most of the tracks are about getting drunk, taking drugs and shagging birds [sic] and I don't think that is an entirely accurate reflection of my current activities. I was going to use the lyric, 'I excel in both content and deliverance so let's put on our classics and we'll have a little dance, shall we?', from the same track but that goes beyond sarcasm and into falsehood. (Only because I'm not much of a dancer, obviously everything I say is amazing.)

I'm bored! Not in a nothing to do right now kind of way but in a nothing to do ever kind of way. I do stuff to pass the time but I'm not going anywhere. I live in a bubble and it's not a glamorous champagne bubble, it's more akin to a dying bubble in a flat bottle of Lambrini. Tasty. (That's no reflection on the friends and family I do see by the way, I enjoy their company muchly!) I need to start pushing things forward in life.

What I really want is a job. Working is much like growing up with a sibling. They are a total nuisance at times but really you know you wouldn't choose to be without them. And in fact it's better, in most jobs you work within a team so you get a bit of chat, which is more than my sister ever gave me! It's the social interaction of working that I crave so much.

Why don't I get a job? Tremors. It's difficult to explain how debilitating they are. Sat still I don't shake but as soon as I come to do something my arms and hands are uncontrollable. Imagine you're stood naked at the South Pole. My tremors are comparable to the amount you'd be shivering. To liven up this scene you can imagine that you're speaking to a penguin, after all I have Bamboleo. But no spooning with a friendly polar bear for warmth, that's cheating.

Before anyone will pay me to work I need to lose the tremors. I'm still on the waiting list for deep brain stimulation. (That 'non-invasive' brain surgery that takes six hours and involves drilling through my skull and putting wires in me.) The doctors are hoping to do that early next year, I don't know why it takes so long, it's only brain surgery, not exactly rocket science is it? (https://youtu.be/THNPmhBl-8I) There's no guarantee that will help the tremors either, it's used mainly for Parkinson's disease. I'll just have to go into it with an open mind (literally) and hope for the best.

Today I have sorted some voluntary work though and I'm delighted! It's with Sunderland Mind. Mind is a national charity which aims to help people with, and remove the stigmas attached to, mental health problems. It'll only be for a few hours a week initially, I'm starting with the writing group and the men's group. I could pick up some tips myself at the writing group and I'll be able to find out what men talk about at the other. Maybe I'll be able to grow a beard then? (I would then immediately shave it off coz I don't like beards but it would be nice to be able to have one.)

I'm also seeing a neurological physiotherapist next week. I'm pretty sure that I have a greater range of movement in my right knee but it feels very unnatural so when I walk I tend to swing my leg rather than lift it from the knee. (Much like a pirate with a wooden leg. Except I don't have a parrot.). I need to relearn how to walk properly as I have become accustomed to a lot of bad habits with my walking over the last 18 months so this will probably be quite difficult. Apparently you should set yourself (achievable) targets. My aim is to walk a mile comfortably and continuously. You have to walk a mile in somebody else's shoes to know how they feel and I might try and steal a pair of Natalie Portman's shoes, I bet she feels really nice.

And if I should become a stranger you know that it would make me more than sad.

I've never been very good at keeping in contact with people. I'm going for a drink on Friday with a mate I haven't seen for seven years! A lot has changed since I left sixth form, we might not get on any more, he might be a dick now (unlikely), he might think I'm a dick (more likely). Unless I see somebody face-to-face I find it difficult to speak with them. How does a phone conversation actually work? Once you get past, 'Alright mate, how are you?' where does it go from there? I suppose you're meant to talk about what you've been up to but as I've said before, I'm a terrible story teller. No, talking on the phone doesn't work for me.

We live in a world of technology and social networking, it's easy to send somebody a message to say 'Hi' and to basically let them know you're alive. But FB messaging isn't real conversation is it? It's not like anyone's ever told their best friends that they have MS via Facebook... Bollocks. No, text/FB/whatever new types of messaging the cool kids are using today isn't the way to keep in touch.

I often think it would be good if everyone I knew (and liked!) lived in the same area. I think Michael Owen once bought a full street in Liverpool for his friends and family. I don't know how that worked out, I imagine they were mostly Scousers so it was probably crime ridden and unpleasant. (I've only ever met about five Scousers in my life and they were all nice but let's not allow the facts to get in the way of an almost half decent joke.)

And then I remember uni when we were all living so closely together and how many dramas that created. It was like Eastenders at times, if it was to be put on TV I'd call it Bellenders and I admit occasionally I was the bellend. No, everyone living together wouldn't work.

FaceTime seems like the answer to my problems. But it's not, it's awkward. It's like speaking on the phone but you can't move around as easily, I can't lie upside down from a chair as I sometimes do on the phone. I don't fancy many of my mates (one of the exceptions is Matt obviously), why would I want to see them online? And what's the dress etiquette? I don't have a lot going for me at the moment, I do usually look presentable though. (Actually I usually look amazing.) But if I'm in the house I'm normally in shorts and a vest top, and I don't have the arms to look good in a vest top, do I have to get changed before FaceTime-ing? I'm probably overthinking things but that's just because I'm really thoughtful and that's a nice thing. No, FaceTime isn't for me either.

The best, and seemingly only, thing is to meet up. That's difficult though. The lads are living in Swindon, Cardiff, Manchester and Leeds. (I'm classing you as Manchester Tom so as not to embarrass you about living in Warrington.) Finding a weekend when we're all free is rare and the majority of us have to do a fair bit of travelling. I invite them up to Sunderland but it's not exactly a weekend in Vegas. I live at home with my parents and Sunderland is an average night out on a good day.

I'm running out of ways to speak to friends now. Writing a letter is a bit old school (and as Victoria and Jonny will attest I can't really write very well), sending an email is a bit formal (and a lot of people don't even check their inbox, junk mail has seen to that. Apparently a pretty Russian girl is interested in me but even with the penis enlargement I've been offered I fear I'd be a disappointment. Unless she just wants to spoon of course.) and even though I'm really good at telepathy nobody else I know can do it so it would be a one-way conversation.

And so I write this blog. It's not perfect, there's no theme (Is nonsense a theme?) and it's often seemingly pointless. But it does tell people that I'm okay. I know a lot of people read it, somme send me messages and some read anonymously, and that is comforting. As the title suggests, I'd hate to become a stranger to my friends. They mean an incredible amount to me and the (sometimes much too little) interaction we do have is what I live for. I love you everyone!

(A slightly emotional ending yes but whatever you do don't ring me, it's fucking awkward.)

(And the title is a lyric from The Road to Home by Amy MacDonald. It's about somewhere in Scotland I've never been but if you ignore that it's a beautiful song. Not all songs should be taken literally, I don't think Bob Marley ever actually shot the sheriff.)

The music sounds better with you.

I recently listened to an episode of The Infinite Monkey Cage which discussed music; how it started and what is its purpose. I wasn't particularly interested in the science bit, apparently birds use music as a form of communication. I assume they meant birds of the feathered variety, girls in my life tend to communicate by talking to or ignoring me. If a girl played Leave (Get Out) by JoJo (great song) then I would probably get the message that she didn't really want me there though. Anyway, it got me thinking about what music means to me.

I have remarkably little musical talent. A bloke I know likens musical ability to a muscle, it needs to be trained rather than something which is there naturally. I'm sure that is true but there needs to be some potential in the first place. And anyway, I've never been what anybody would describe as muscular, likening musical ability to speaking a lot of nonsense would be a far better analogy for me, I'm not naturally this stupid you know. If I were to get up on stage I think I'd play the tambourine, my tremors would assist with that. Or the maracas but there is a high probability that I'd get overly enthusiastic, lose my balance and fall over. A lot like when I have a beer.

Yet for somebody with such little discernible talent, music means a lot to me. My taste is absolutely incredible (of course it isn't, I'm nowhere near cool enough), I listen to it almost constantly and I find I can relate to many songs. (Only really deep and meaningful songs though, like Sam and the Womp, Bom Bom.) 

I think the reason it is so important to me though is that music has the ability to make and rekindle memories. I associate songs and artists with different times in my life and consequently with different people in my life. 

Some very random examples:

1) Mary Chapin Carpenter, Stones in the Road: My mam often played this when we were driving home from my nana and grandad's so it makes me think of them.
2) Frank Turner: Makes me think of uni and also Bestival where I left a Boys Noize set at about 2AM to go and see him on another stage. Suffice to say I was off my face.

3. Taylor Swift, 22: I listened to the radio when I ran and this song got loads of airtime for awhile. I loved running.

4. Dido: Reminds me of my best mate (Will). I'm not really sure why, she just does.

5. Iggy pop, The Passenger: I went to Dublin for St Patrick's Day a few years ago and this was played in Cathal's car.
6.Rhianna, We Found Love: Reminds me of pulling a girl I shouldn't really have been pulling. It certainly wasn't love we found but it was a decent night.

Far from the most eclectic range of music and not a great reflection on even my music tastes. None of those artists would make my Desert Island Discs (maybe MCC) but they all lead me to recall memories and people* and that is why music is so amazing.

Like most experiences in life, music is best when you share it with others. The music really does sound better with you.

* In case you're wondering how Taylor Swift, 22 reminds me of someone then: I vividly remember this song playing when I was running in Manchester in autumn 2012. It was during Fearne Cotton's show and so it reminds me of her. I hope we never meet. Why? Because I have morals and I would never want to split a family up but I am almost certain that if we were to meet, she would realise we are destined to be together. I love Fearne Cotton. (Is 25 too old to still have celebrity crushes?)

Like A Rolling Stone

This blog should really be titled The Times They Are A-Changin' but I'd rather use my favourite Bob Dylan song instead. I'm sure I'll find a tenuous link as this goes on.

Humans are very good at adapting to change. We all originated from the same place (Africa or the Garden of Eden depending on how gullible you are) and we have spread throughout the world, living in different climates and with different diets. We'll probably even find a way to occupy ourselves now that the Olympics has finished. We're not always so good at making changes by choice though. We all have our habits and our routines and sometimes it is difficult to break these. (Like a rolling stone trying to change direction. Okay, that was crap. I'll try harder.)

I have quite an addictive personality. If I do something I enjoy or I think is good for me then I feel compelled to do it as often as possible. (My addiction is to exercise by the way. I realise an addiction to heroin or sex would make for better reading for you in the case of the former and indeed considerably more pleasurable living for me in the case of the latter.) I'm not particularly good at choosing to make a change (Why should I? I'm kinda great.) but being human I can adapt to forced change. That is something I never thought I could do when I was first diagnosed. This blog would have been a much less enjoyable read if I had started it two years ago. (Or much more unenjoyable depending on your opinions of it!) 

This is a poem I wrote in the first few months following my diagnosis. (It didn't take me months, I just can't put a date on it. It's pretty brilliant but not quite three month's work.)

I knew him once, a short time ago,
We drifted quickly, now time goes slow.

He was young, full of dreams,
I feel old, empty it seems.

I see him now on the other side,
I'm stood here held by the tide.
We'll meet again when I am free,
Once I was he now he is me.

Cheery eh? At that point I was in a much better physical condition than I am now but I was much less happy, much more scared. As far as I was concerned my life was over.

And now? I've adapted. I will never accept having MS in its current form but in the interim before I improve I can survive with it. I considered writing another verse to reflect my feelings now but I am more of a limerick man these days.

Then I could run and use a knife and fork,
I'm less able now but can joke and talk.

I hope to overcome this hex,

Be able to jump and have sex.

The best of both worlds, I will laugh and walk.

I'm still scared but I have hope which I did not have before. I can get back those things I miss doing so much but perhaps the person I was would never have developed into the person I am.

If we cannot choose to change then sometimes it is best if change is forced upon us. Maybe. If I get better! Times change, we must change with them.

'Like a Rolling Stone'? Right, Mick Jagger is a founding member of The Rolling Stones. Over the decades the lineup of the band has changed numerous times and often for the better. So it (Whatever 'it' is, bear with me I'm nearly finished.) is just like a Rolling Stone, Mick Jagger to be precise. Things change and you just have to ride with it. (His partner has changed numerous times and I imagine he has ridden all of them too.)

I promised you the link would be tenuous and you should know by now that it would also be nonsense.

Karma police

I often think about karma, whether I believe in it and whether I think it is fair. I had a seemingly pretty karma filled weekend so I thought I'd write my opinions on it. They're not the musings of a celebrated philosopher mind so I wouldn't read too much into them.

I certainly don't believe in reincarnation as a form of karma. I am me and can only be justifiably punished or rewarded for my actions in this life. And some people are the embodiment of evil, they do not deserve to live again no matter what the circumstances. (I'm talking about for example well educated terrorists, those who do the radicalising of disenfranchised young people rather than selfie stick users and the like.)

When I'm feeling sorry for myself (Monday-Friday, 9-5. Who says I don't have a full time job?) I sometimes think of any immoral actions I have done in my life and whether they justify my current condition. In short, no they do not! When I was a student I often put broccoli through as carrots on the self service checkout because it was slightly cheaper. (I know, what sort of student eats broccoli?!) That's not exactly crime of the century, I knew a girl at uni who put an electric toothbrush through as some apples. I'm sure I've done some more morally questionably actions over the years (I know I have!) which I'll not mention but they don't justify me getting MS either.

I asked a friend on Saturday if she believes in karma and she said she does. (Siri originally put 'she cooks' there. Anyone who knows anything about Kirsty knows that to be incorrect.) I said I struggled with the idea because I don't understand why I have MS. She offered another way of looking at it, rather than thinking of the bad I have done to cause MS, instead consider the good that has come from it. She said I have numerous qualities now that I did not have beforehand. I think what she meant is that I could be a bit of a miserable twat beforehand whereas now I'm just a bit of a twat. (Only in the best and most endearing ways of course, like sarcasm and wit.) Charming she is not but I like that approach to karma all the same. (And I acknowledge my drunk chat really needs improving.)

Some good has come from me getting MS. I have grown as a person. (I've put on about 10kgs but I do occasionally look past appearance and consider personal qualities too.) I'm much more comfortable with who I am and resultingly much more self confident. (Some might argue too self confident but they're just jealous because I'm better looking than they are.) I've also transformed from an introvert to an extrovert. I feel very self-conscious about my condition in public and to mask this I joke about it and try to act relatively care free. And I have come to learn that speaking to people and being perfectly content with the person you are (I'm Patrick and I'm class by the way.) actually makes you happy. I will be happier still once my condition improves but I will never lose these character traits.

Perhaps karma does exist but not always in the ways we expect or would like.

As for my karma-ful weekend? I was originally intending to go to Cardiff with the lads but it has been apparent for a while now that I'm not really strong enough. I was pretty gutted to miss it because we don't see enough of each other. But it did mean I was in Sunderland and could go to the live music night at Fausto on Friday which was excellent as always.

And Kirsty said she could come up on the Saturday. That meant curry and lots of drinking so all was fair. Come Sunday Kirsty was massively hungover, I felt okay and that was fair as well because she laughed at me when I fell over at about two in the morning outside of a bar which was definitely caused by MS and not because I was at all drunk. 

I spent most of the day laughing at/annoying her (I thought everybody liked Brush Your Teeth by Lady Leisha.) and karma has once again proved itself as I feel terrible today (Monday). Unlike Kirsty yesterday though I have at least been able to get out of bed before half five in the evening and been slightly productive which again is only fair because I'm a better person than she is.

Some people are just nice.

I'd like to propose to you an investment opportunity, or to phrase it differently an opportunity to change your lives for the better.

I have been diagnosed with MS and resultingly unemployed for over two years now. Throughout I have thought that I need to use my abundant amount of free time productively. And now I have done that, and what a product. Let me introduce to you the Selfie Prick.

The idea for this invention came when my sister received in the post a selfie stick which she is using on holiday in America with her boyfriend. I fulfilled what I believe to be my moral obligation and called them a pair of wankers. But I didn't feel this was justice enough, it's not as though the only punishment for murder (another immoral act) is to be called a rude word. And so I invented the Selfie Prick.

I'm sure it has become apparent by now that I do not approve of selfie sticks. Should you insist on taking a selfie then we, the human race, have been blessed with arms. Simply extend your arm and take the photo yourself. And in most situations you could always ask somebody to take a photo for you. Conversation is a dying art, not all strangers are thieves, muggers or worse. (Nor indeed are all strangers as bonkers as I am.) Some people are just nice. (A quote from Thou Shalt Always Kill by Dan Le Sac vs Scroobius Pip which gives some excellent life advice, apart from the killing bit at the end.)

The Selfie Prick is much like a selfie stick in that it has an extendable arm and collapses into a pocket sized, lightweight device when not in use. Now for the good bit, rather than a phone holder at the end of the arm there is a sharp needle. The idea being that when you see somebody using a selfie stick you immediately extend your Selfie Prick and jab them with it. I know, genius isn't it?

I proposed this idea to a friend (Katy) and she immediately shot it down, claiming it would classed as ABH (actual bodily harm) if you were to poke a stranger with a needle. I disagree, but should anyone be arrested for this I would use some of the investment to pay for their bail. Criminal acts are superfluous when committed as an act of moral duty.

Once the Selfie Prick has established itself in the market I already have numerous ideas of complimentary products. For example, a scoring card, 10 points for a jab in the arm, 20 for in the tummy and 50 if you make them cry, that sort of thing.

I have no doubt this product will sell extremely well and hopefully it will improve society. Instead of running the risk of being jabbed by a needle, simply ask someone to take a photo of you. Remember, some people are just nice. (And if they are a thieving toerag and try to run off with your camera, extend the arm on the Selfie Prick and stab it in their heads. Dual purpose!)

All investments welcome, together we can make the world a better place.

PS: If you own a selfie stick and are a little confused then I am morally obliged to tell you that you are in fact a wanker.

PPS: I could really do with the money. This week I treated myself to a magnifying glass. A posh, electronic magnifying glass machine thing. It cost £1995. What does it do? Allows me to read. That money was intended to take me around South East Asia for three months and then on to Australia. Until now I have not touched the money I had saved to go travelling, I was going to buy lottery tickets with it but my mam said I wasn't allowed and given I live at home pretty much rent free and she doesn't set many rules I resisted. I've managed to go without redoing anything other than my iPad for about two years now and whilst this device will come in useful I've only decided to buy it so I can read a book about poker I've bought. Basically my career as a poker player hasn't even started and I'm two grand down.

Time is contagious and everybody's getting old.

(The title is a lyric from Coconut Skins by Damien Rice. I first started listening to him in my first year at university when a girl I was quite close to played it. Nothing much happened with us, she had a boyfriend (story of my life) and liked getting high considerably more than I did. I was sick on her bed once, we slept in my room that night instead. A lot has changed since then but I am still the perfect gentleman and I am still a pathetic drinker. I’ve no idea what she's up to now, probably still speaking Russian and wearing skirts.)

I've never been bothered about getting older. 16 was cool because I could then play the lottery and buy cigarettes. (Still waiting on the jackpot and I've never bought nor indeed smoked a cigarette in my life like). 18 was essential because I'm an August birthday and looked about 12 until I was 20 so could never go out drinking with mates until I had ID. (Having a baby in August by the way is a bit mean. It's in the middle of the six weeks holidays so when you're like six you can't have your friends round for a birthday party because you don't have their phone numbers and then when you're 17 you watch on with jealousy as all your mates start to turn 18 and can go out properly. Luckily for her my mam is class so I have forgiven her.) I didn't care about turning 20, as The Courteeners say, 'You're not 19 forever' and I barely acknowledged turning 21, I went for a run, went for a walk and received a camera to take with me when I was travelling. (Meant to be travelling.)

But I turn 25 next week and I'm dreading it. I don't like the number (the maths geek/OCD weirdo in me doesn't really like multiples of 5) and it feels like a milestone age. The sort of age when you assess where you are in life. And I'm nowhere. The sort of age when you become one of those people you once mocked and make a five year plan. Most 25-year-olds would include things like getting on the property ladder, marrying, kids, that sort of thing. What would mine be? Be able to use cutlery again? Be able to walk properly? Be able to control my bladder properly? That's a five year plan for a baby. (At least I've got talking nailed down, although my sister would probably say at times it would be better if I hadn't. But who cares what she thinks?)

If you're only as old as you feel I haven't a clue what age I am. Physically I feel like an 80-year-old. (I'd like to think I look a lot better than that mind.) In terms of independence I feel like a lazy 15-year-old with a fake ID. I can go out and about okay but I can't cook for myself, can't take my own dog for a proper walk and can't help much around the house. (My jobs are to load and empty the dishwasher, many a plate/bowl/cup/glass has been smashed, and to empty the bins on bin day.) This may sound like a good arrangement but I love cooking, I love walking and I am a bit of a clean freak. (OCD again.) And mentally I transcend the age groups. I'm quite philosophical and often a very deep thinker, however my thoughts closer to the surface are usually total nonsense. (Would you rather be Mr Bump or Mr Tickle? Tough one. If Mr Tickle can choose when and who he tickles then him. If he can't there is a lot of potential to end up on the sex offenders' register. Perhaps such a register does not exist in the land of the Mr Men and Little Miss but that doesn't change the fact that it would be immoral to go around touching up strangers. And if morals didn't exist in this land I'm not sure I'd want to be a Mr Man at all. Anyway, I have very long arms which shake around of their own accord so I would be very good as Mr Tickle but equally I fall over a lot so I'd be an excellent Mr Bump.)

Most of my mates have turned 25 (many are much older, shout out to Mr Moore) and they all seem pretty content with life. I remember speaking to a woman I quite fancied on holiday last year who assured me your 30s are pretty good as well. (She also said her 40s had been good so far, in my defence she still had a cracking figure and looked pretty good for 40 something. And anyway, I was on holiday with my mam, it was hardly a lads holiday on the pull. And she had a husband, see what I mean about having a thing for taken women?) So, what's to look forward to in the coming years?

I guess I actually have much more to look forward to than most 25 year olds. The first such thing is to see an improvement in my physical condition after the bone marrow transplant. Sadly that will take some time and is far from a guarantee so the next year and a half will probably be mostly filled with anxiousness and frustration. But hopefully I will get better and I can look forward to the things I miss so much. Going for a walk is the thing I miss most. 

"Above all do not lose your desire to walk. Everyday I walk myself into a state of well being and walk away from every illness. I have walked myself into my best thoughts and I know of no thought so burdensome that one cannot walk away from it. Thus if one keeps on walking everything will be all right."

Soren Kierkegaard 

This quote meant a lot to me in the years preceding my diagnosis and still does. MS is not an illness I can simply walk away but if I could walk properly I'd give it a hell of a good go. The fact I cannot go for a walk upsets me every day and I cannot imagine anything that will give me greater pleasure in the coming years than walking uninhibited. (Walking is not a sport though. I love the Olympics but the 20KM walk, really? The 'athletes' look like a duck on ecstasy waddling about in fast forward.)

And then once I am stronger I still have all the things normal people have to look forward to. Moving out of my parent's house, returning to employment, being able to socialise more easily and less self-consciously, meeting 'the one', having children, enjoying life once again. (And hopefully more short term, as I said, I'm still waiting on that jackpot win.)

I suppose turning 25 isn't that bad after all. It's just another day and every day gone is a day closer to me realising these prospects.

Okay, only because you're all asking. My birthday is Tuesday 23rd August. I like Desperados or Corona and my favourite chocolate is 100% dark. (Admittedly I prefer drinking green tea and eating veg but that's not exactly celebratory. I think I only prefer those lagers because I can stick a bit of lime in the bottleneck.)

I don't know.

Have you ever seen The Talented Mr Ripley? Well I haven't, but I did see a very short clip of it the other day and a character said, 'Everybody has one talent, what's yours?' I'm fairly certain the film is fictional but I think that line rings true in real life as well. (You can have more than one talent mind. Look at Kanye West, he's talented with music, fashion, being future president, everything.) So what's my talent? I'm incredibly good looking, extremely intelligent and absolutely hilarious but I don't think they're talents as such.(Oh, and of course I'm unimaginably sarcastic but that's definitely not a talent, if anything it just makes me a bit of an arrogant idiot, see previous sentence.)

I have a lot of good personal qualities and there are things I'm decent at doing but nothing which I'd say I am talented at. I used to be the self titled Risotto King but given I haven't used a kitchen knife for over a year now and if I tried to stir anything in a pan it'd only ended up on the floor (Tremors!) I don't think this is my talent right now. (I hope not anyway!) So assuming this fictional film isn't lying to me I have an undiscovered talent! That's very daunting in some respects, I'm getting old, when will I find said talent? (Should I apply for Britain's Got Talent now and hope I've found it by the time the audition comes around or wait until my talent has revealed itself?) On the other hand, it's very reassuring. I haven't made my millions yet, I haven't even got a job!

There is a lot of uncertainty. Do I have to find my talent or will it reveal itself? Do we go Dutch and meet in the middle? I'm visually impaired , what if my talent has revealed itself and I didn't see it? What if I can't find it? What if the film is lying?

I suppose the only thing I can do is try new things, see what I'm good at. My first such attempt will be trying my hand at poker. (Pun very much intended.) It's a game centred around maths, probability and statistics which is something I used to be good at so we'll see how I fair.

Let me be the first to acknowledge this blog has been absolute nonsense for the most part. I'm sorry if you've wasted your time in reading it but in my defence I'm really bored! Maybe writing utter bollocks is my talent? Maybe I should become a journalist for The Sun?

The title of this blog by the way is a song by Lisa Hannigan. It's beautiful, check it out and then this hasn't been a total waste of time for you.

Get up, stand up, don't give up the fight.

I saw the advert for Channel 4's Paralympic coverage earlier this week and I couldn't help but feel inspired. Here it is:

https://youtu.be/IocLkk3aYlk

Everybody on it is incredible, the athletes, the musicians and the dancers, everybody. (Apart from that prick of a headteacher obviously, nobody likes Mr Negative.) It got me thinking about things that inspire me. (Admittedly they don't always inspire me to do anything, sometimes I just look and think, 'Wow that's class.')

Becoming inspirational seems to be a byproduct of some other goal. You dedicate your life to becoming the best you can be and in doing so you can inspire others. I think you have to have overcome some form of adversity in achieving that goal to be described as an inspiration. (One doesn't imply the other though. Trump will have to overcome a lot of adversity from any sane minded American if he is to become president. He isn't an inspiration, he's an incredibly well educated idiot. Changing Obama for Trump would be like finishing your incredibly attractive girlfriend so you can have sex with a cow instead. A cow in a wig. Called Donald.) 

The ongoing Syrian refugee crisis is filled with inspirational stories. Competing at the Rio Olympics will be Team Refugee. To have fled from your home country because of war and made a living for yourself on foreign soil is incredible in its own right, but to do that and be an Olympic athlete is even more amazing. I cannot begin to imagine the sense of despair many of the refugees will be experiencing so to see people in a similar position to themselves competing at the greatest sporting event must be truly inspiring. You don't need to be in the eyes of the world to be an inspiration but stories like this one fully deserve the coverage they get and more.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/sport/olympics/36604675

If we look for it, inspiration is all around us. What you may find inspirational is not necessarily the same as what I do. (And vice versa of course, I'd be surprised if there were many other people who find Bamboleo inspiring. He has great bounce-back-ability in the face of adversities such as locking himself in a room because he can't open the door. Admittedly some of that may be due to the bouncy ball he ate yesterday.) Whatever inspires us we should be grateful for it. 'There's always someone worse off than yourself' is probably the most unhelpful advice imaginable but thinking about what inspires you can help you to overcome the adversity you are facing, be that ill health, stress or even the horrors of a two-day hangover.

There, a blog about inspiration, which I realise is very different from an inspirational blog. It appears I have once again taken it upon myself to provide life advice. Take what you want from it, I'm taking credit because I wrote it.