Where are we now?

A lot has happened since my last blog. Terrorist atrocities, social division and political unrest.  For more on all of that, read the news but basically the world continues to be a pretty sad place. In short, "Nothing has changed." (Copyright Theresa May in a wonderfully woeful 2017 election campaign.) And in keeping with this theme of continuity this blog will remain focused on only one subject: me!

I have changed. I am now a hard-working, young professional. A more immature version of myself could probably find a joke to make about a Tory female prime minister and a hung parliament. Probably something about Theresa May hanging to the right. But no longer: if all you want is satire and innuendo then you're more lost than Diane Abbott at the Bank of England.

I started work about six weeks ago and I'm loving it. More so the social interaction and sense of purpose than the actual work but following the last few years I'll take enjoyment in whatever form it presents itself. The job itself is pretty simple; you could probably train a monkey to do it. And worryingly, the monkey would be more productive than myself on account of it being able to use a computer properly and having a better concentration span. Could the monkey be a source of energetic positivity within the team though? Probably but it's illegal anyway so they'll have to make do with me. The team is mint though; they like a laugh, like a drink and a few of them even like me! I've been out with them a couple of times and they've cottoned on to the fact that I'm a terrible drinker and I fall over a lot.

Away from work I've been a lot less tired than I thought I might be. Jimbo, my supervisor at work and potential life partner, would probably say that's because I don't work very hard but I assure you that is fake news. I still swim every morning before work and I go on my bike for a very short while after work. I get out and about on a weekend to see people and today is my first holiday because I am off to get some tattoos. My mam got another dog; he's called Alfie, is a cock-a-poo and I can only assume he is a coke addict because he does everything at about 200 mph. Ooh and I've discovered a love of smoothies! Whoever says almond milk, spinach and peanut butter doesn't go together is an idiot.

Finally, I'd like to say a huge congratulations to Katherine who has graduated with a first class honours degree in photography. I was of course the subject of her end of year project but I won't take all the credit; she probably worked pretty hard throughout the preceding two and a half years of her degree and after all she did have to take the photos of me looking amazing because as I've said before I think selfies are pretty tragic. (Even if I do occasionally take them when drunk. And girls often do look very pretty in selfies. Okay, selfies are alright but obviously I'm not a girl and I wasn't drunk for most of the photos.)

You see me I be work, work, work, work, work, work.

I start work next Monday! I can't wait. It's been a long time since I've been excited about anything but I am definitely excited about this opportunity. My first day will be exactly three years and three days since my diagnosis with MS. (There is a pleasing symmetry about that. Well, pleasing to the maths geek in me anyway.) And what a (fucking horrific) three years it has been!

I describe this as an opportunity because it is a chance for me to live a much more normal life. Going to work, being surrounded by other people and having some sort of purpose. It may be the sort of thing some people dream of getting out of but it is something I had almost given up on dreaming of ever even getting into. Everyone at Virgin Money has been falling over themselves to make it as easy as possible for me once I begin and I am very grateful for that. I think my positive outlook and enthusiasm, two qualities I was once lacking in at times, has led people to warm to me. (Before people just liked me for my face.)

The last three years have been awful. Beyond myself and my parents nobody knows what MS has done to me. There's not a single functioning of my body that works correctly. Included in that is my bladder; I have wet myself countless numbers of times. This is the only thing I am nervous about ahead of starting work. As a grown adult, to wet yourself is beyond humiliating, it is degrading. This one physical effect of MS is the only one I have kept secret up until now. Aside from the physical aspects, MS has taken a lot from us all emotionally. I, and indeed we, swing between times of great optimism and hope and times of absolute desolation. This paragraph isn't looking for sympathy, it is to say the biggest thank you imaginable to my mum and dad and of course Bamboleo. I wouldn't have made it this far without any of them.

What will I miss about a work free life? Not a lot. I will miss Bamboleo, I won't see him nearly as much. And I will miss Pointless. (That's what series record is for anyway!) I think the thing I will miss most is being able to sit for hours on end in Fausto. Whether it's been talking or unsuccessfully trying to chat up anyone who works or even goes in there, it has really been a lifeline for me over the past 18 months. I have made some of my best friends in that place and I am a much happier person for it. I will of course continue to be the face of Fausto and sit on the board of directors. (I'm a non-executive director which means I get very little say in anything but it's nice to be involved. It's also not a limited company, so actually there are no directors. Which in my head puts me second in command.)

So there it is, I am ready for work! I'm sure I will keep on blogging from time to time to keep you all updated on how things are going. For my first few weeks of work though I will probably spend every free second asleep!

The title is from Work by Rihanna. Obviously.

I'm picking up good vibrations. She's giving me excitations.

What do you get if you take one head and put two big holes in it? That's right, a really sore head. And that's what I currently have. I had the deep brain stimulation surgery on Tuesday and got out of hospital on Wednesday. It's fair to say that I underestimated how tiring seven hours under general anaesthetic and brain surgery would be.

It can take up to a week for the anaesthetic to be flushed out of the body and until then I can expect to feel tired and sick. Yuck! Asides from that, my head hurts a lot. As does my chest where the battery has been put. And my hair is full of glue to hold my head together! Basically, I feel terrible.

What superhuman talent do I now possess? Flight? X-ray vision? (I've never been much of a comic book fan, I don't know any more.) No, for a couple of hours on Wednesday I could drink without a straw. I already can't do that anymore; as the swelling in my brain goes down after the surgery the stimulator will need reconfiguring. That reconfiguration will take place on Friday coming and then I need to spend some time strengthening my hands. I'm ridiculously weak (even more so than I used to be). I can't even pick up a cup of tea because I haven't used my hand for so long! The turning on of Eve (the device) is all a bit sci-fi; they do the right hand side of my body first and then the left hand side. I get tingling sensations in my face, hands and feet. I'm hoping that over time I will learn to write, use a knife and fork and use a mouse and keyboard again.

I actually have alarmingly little time to do that; I have a job starting three weeks tomorrow! It's a six month temporary contract at Virgin Money. I can't wait! I'm already pretty nervous because I know how big an adjustment it will be.

Today is the day of the London marathon. It's always a tough day for me because it gets so much coverage. My feelings lie somewhere between jealousy and resentment of those participating. I'd give anything to be able to run again. I'd give just as much to be able to walk even. I've booked in for some more tattoos; one of those is "16-Dec-2012, 18.8 miles, 2:06:11". That's the date, distance and time of my furthest run when I was training for the Manchester marathon. (Before I broke my foot!) I'm getting it down the side of my right foot, it's to remind me that I am that person; I am determined and resilient. I also know that no run I ever did was nearly as difficult as it is to just walk a few metres for me now. I know, boo-fucking-hoo, right?

To end on a much lighter note, another of the tattoos I am getting is, "I'm picking up good vibrations. She's giving me excitations." It's going on my chest somewhere near the battery. Why? Because why wouldn't you get a Beach Boys lyric tattooed onto your body for a joke?

I could go on for hours and I probably will.

You know when you decide to watch a film but can't choose what to watch? This blog is a bit like that; I want to write one but don't really have much to say. With films you often go to a default; for example girls might choose The Notebook or Dirty Dancing, and lads may choose Die Hard or Rocky. (Assuming we live in a girls wear pink, boys wear blue, girls like dolls, boys like cars sort of world.) If that pattern of reverting to default mode transcends topics I will probably start talking about how good looking I've made up I am or whinge about something. Probably a bit of both and by the end of the blog we'll all almost certainly agree that I should have just watched a film instead. (My go to films are Disney or Garden State.)



First up, the DBS. It's been delayed. Again. Why? The neurosurgeon is going on holiday. Wonderful. It's only an extra two weeks to wait though; my new date for surgery is 18 April. I went for a final consultation on Monday and they seem increasingly less optimistic about how much good this will do unfortunately. But they're willing to try it and so am I so we'll see what happens. At the very worst I will have a battery in my chest and some wires in my brain. I've decided to call the device Eva. (From the film Wall-e, one of my go to-s, because if it works Eva will teach me how to dance like in the film, or at least use cutlery. The two are probably interchangeable although I admit the latter would make for a pretty rubbish film.)



I've been speaking to a couple of people at the Virgin Money headquarters in Gosforth and they have some temporary contracts coming up. Everybody I have spoken to has been very welcoming and speaks very highly of the bank so I I am very hopeful. My CV has been put forward for these roles and hopefully I'll get an interview within the next couple of months. The caveat? The DBS needs to work; using a mouse and keyboard and being able to write are pretty inescapable in an office job. The other condition is of course firstly getting an interview and then being offered a job. I've had three years out of work now and have talked absolute nonsense for most of it. I suppose it's a blessing in disguise having the DBS just to make sure there is still a brain in there.



There has been one mind blowing development of late; I've begun my modelling career. (I know, only just begun, mind blowing right?) Well, it's more of a job than a career at this stage. And it's unpaid. But it still counts! Basically, a final year photography student has decided to do her end of year project on the emotional challenges of MS and how they are actually very reflective of the emotional challenges faced by everyone. We all cry, laugh, get bored, socialise at different times in our lives.  I know what you're thinking and I must admit I was a little disappointed when I found out this student has a husband and two children but she is very nice all the same. I think she may be a little shy so I will not tell you that her name is Katherine and shortly after our first meeting she went to Debenhams after a mixup at the till with some knickers on a previous visit. She likes to take photos of me doing the day-to-day activities I do. As they say, if the face fits.



Next, I have a secret to tell you: somewhere, deep down within me, knows I am not the best looking man on the planet. I'm worried that I come across as the most arrogant, delusional prick imaginable when I go on about how great I look. It's a joke, and a coping mechanism. Don't get me wrong, I look pretty fantastic but there are probably better looking men out there. In truth, I'm not even the best looking one amongst my friends or possibly even my extended family. (Absolutely definitely am within the house though!) A lot of my self-confidence is actually to mask how much I hate the MS. Plus, if I say it often enough some people will start to believe me!



Finally, as promised,  a whinge. They've been talking on the radio about esports. This is playing sport-based computer games and apparently esport is set to become the fifth most popular sport in the world within a couple of decades. Shut up, you're sat in your underpants by yourself playing on the computer. That's not a fucking sport. Is there an Olympic gold medal for Spiro the Dragon? No.



(The title is a line from Town Called Malice by The Jam. Great record.)

Shake It Out

This post will undoubtedly come across as a massive whinge but actually it is intended to inform. Inform you of how frustrating, restricting and demoralising intention tremors are. So yeah, it's a massive whinge.

Basically I have no tremors when I am sat still but as soon as I try to do something my arms and hands begin shaking. The harder I try the more they shake. A bit like a staring contest: the fact you are trying not to blink makes you want to blink all the more. I say "a bit like" because not blinking for a while isn't really comparable to dexterity.

I am (Was?) right handed. Predictably the tremors are worse on my right hand side. Sod's law. (By the way, who is Sod? And who put him in charge? He's clearly a dick.) I have tremors in my legs, torso and head sometimes as well. I'm like a vibrator you can't switch off!

A list of things I either cannot do at all or struggle to do:

Use cutlery (see video on Facebook)
Cook
Use scissors
Drink (see video on Facebook)
Brush teeth
Pay with cash
Use Chip and pin
Withdraw money from a. cashpoint
Write
Use a computer mouse
Use a keyboard
Use a touch screen
Zip up a jacket
Button up a shirt
Tie shoelaces
Tie a tie
Put a key into a doorlock
Carry anything that could spill/slip/fall
Shave
Cut finger/toenails

That list is far from comprehensive, I've come to realise we use our hands for pretty much everything. (Apart from walking. Which I'm not very good at either. Can probably blame Sod for that one as well. I bet he's short; this whole 'acting like a twat' is a blatant sign of little man syndrome.)

I'm getting the DBS next month to hopefully fix these tremors and I'm terrified. Not of the surgery, I'd be worried if one of you were drilling into my brain but fortunately it'll be a doctor. I'm terrified of whether or not it is going to work because that is far from guaranteed. My MS consultant doesn't think it will. The team carrying out the procedure are much more hopeful. I'm getting the latest hardware, directional leads, in my brain which they think will really help. (You probably don't know what I mean by directional leads. And if you do would you tell me please?)

These 'directional leads' are not yet MRI compatible though so whatever the outcome I won't be able to have any more treatment for at least 18 months, when they are expected to get MRI approval. And actually, there isn't any more treatment for the tremors out there. I'm sure there will be in time but right now this is my only hope. That's scary.

My mam and dad are stars for just putting up with me: I get hugely frustrated at my lack of independence. Living as I do is not sustainable. Everyone I know is very understanding but I feel totally inadequate. This upcoming surgery is make or break.

This post ended on a bit of a downer so I will have a look for a silver lining to the tremors. Number one, drinking through a straw means no tea/coffee touches my teeth so they stay nice and white. Number two, I have a genuine excuse not to do any DIY. Once the tremors have been fixed then I will have to make one up because I am completely useless at anything like that. As far as I'm concerned a spirit level is how much vodka I've drunk.

I'm only human after all.

According to the Kübler-Ross model there are five stages of grief. They are denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. This model supposedly applies to any grievance, be it the death of a loved one, the diagnosis of a disease or the breakdown of a relationship. (Although The Script did make quite a catchy song titled Six degrees of Separation about the latter. That said, I'll not let pop music get in the way of actual psychology.)


It's an interesting theory. I'm not sure I fully believe it but I thought I would consider the stages from my perspective. I should point out Elisabeth Kübler-Ross, who first introduced the model, is now dead. I wonder how well her family took her passing?


Denial. I don't think I experienced this. If somebody says, "You're a dick", you can easily deny that. Whether or not it is true is based on opinion. (Unless they mean you quite literally are a penis, in which case they are clearly wrong. If you're in need of a little pick me up today you can take heart from the fact that you are not actually a male reproductive organ.) But if a qualified medical professional, after various tests and scans, says, "You have MS", then you cannot really deny it; you won't like it, or accept it but you will know it's true.


Anger. Yup, I was pretty fucking annoyed about it. I still am. I swapped travelling around the world to moving around the hospital. I don't think the anger will ever go, I've just got better at handling it.


Bargaining. I'm pretty stubborn. To begin with I just tried carrying on as usual but it was obvious that some compromise was needed. (At about the time I fell over whilst running because I have the balance of a blindfolded monkey sat on a beach ball.) I still try and compromise with MS now; "If I could just walk properly I'd accept the other issues", "If the tremors were fixed I'd get on with life". Sadly the disease doesn't compromise, I could be (and frankly I am) the most reasonable, easy-going person in the world and MS still wouldn't give an inch. The bastard.


Depression. God yes. A lot of people think of me as quite a positive person. And I am, for the most part. But I get down, of course I do. I try and make my blogs as upbeat and humorous as possible. (Yes, this blog genuinely is my best attempts at humour. Sympathy laughter is absolutely welcome.) But I had MS for well over a year before I even started blogging. What did I do for most of that time? Cried. And sulked. And became hugely bitter and resentful. I was very good at hiding this in public and I'm happy to say it's not how I feel anymore. I still get upset occasionally, I'm only human after all. (I think a lot of people forget this because of my many superhuman qualities I have. Like how good looking I am, and how funny I am, and how modest I am...)


Acceptance. I'm beginning to do something I never thought I would: I'm beginning to accept that I have MS. I have known it for nearly three years now but knowing and accepting are a world apart. I stress beginning because I think this acceptance will take years. I won't fully accept it until I am happy; I will never be anything but upset about having it but one day I will be happy despite having it. Like football: I'm very happy the sport exists despite the fact Sunderland are useless most of the time.


I arrived at a conclusion last week: I have disabilities but I am not disabled. This feels quite empowering to me. I am not my disabilities: I am me and I have these disabilities. In the same way that I have amazing curly hair, a remarkably attractive face and a tongue in cheek sense of humour to rival that of anyone. (The remarkably attractive face comment wasn't tongue in cheek by the way, I'm just really good looking.)


I think the Kübler-Ross model is just psychologist talk for 'deal with it'.Bad things happen and we just have to make the most of what we've got. 'Play the hand you're dealt' is a saying I use quite often and that is easier for all of us than it is for so many in this world who are battling things far more evil than MS.

The noisy days are over.

(The title is a track name by the fantastic Field Music. They're a pair of brothers from Sunderland who have done good. Check them out if you haven't already.)


Fear (Rejoice?) not, I haven't actually been marooned on a desert island. I've been growing up. Well, trying to at least. Since my last blog I've done loads of adult activities. (Sadly that is not a euphemism.) I've worn a suit, been to the cinema by myself and even started listening to BBC Radio 6 Music.


It hasn't all been too grown up though. I fell over in the cinema (not cool when you're there by yourself already), I switch across to BBC Radio 1 whenever I'm in need of some silly ramblings and my dad had to button up my shirt. And tie my tie. And my shoelaces. I looked good though!


Hopefully requiring someone to dress me will soon be a thing of the past: I have a new date for the DBS. I'm starting to learn a bit more about the procedure as well. On April 4th a doctor is going to drill through my skull and put in some electrodes about 15cm deep in my brain. (I'm happy to start a sweepstake on what they'll find once they're through my skull. My £1 is going on a community of tiny koala bears who are thoroughly frustrated at being trapped inside the head of an idiot.) Wires then run down the inside of my neck to a battery in my chest. I'll be like Ironman without the metal suit. And I won't be able to fly. But hopefully I will be able to tie my own shoelaces.


Why the suit anyway? I had a meeting with a lady to discuss getting back into work! She is quite an important lady for quite an important business so I was very lucky to get the opportunity to speak to her. (My huge thanks to Patrick and Gillian!) We talked about what sort of work I am interested in and how the business she works for may be able to help. It went really well, I remained sensible throughout* and I'm really hopeful a job may come from it sometime this year.


That's what I've been up to this year. 2017 will not disappoint! ('The noisy days' in the song is I think in reference to a more carefree yesteryear. In my case it is screaming everytime I try to put a spoonful of food in my mouth and spread it all across my face.)


*Well, as sensible as could be expected. At one point I said I had a hip flask in my jacket if she wanted a drink, at another I insinuated I'd be more comfortable if I were naked and at the end I had a bit of a flirt with the receptionists. Other than that I absolutely nailed it.

To be alone.

I've decided to write a blog on my Desert Island Discs. For those of you who have never listened to the programme here is the idea:
You are marooned on an uninhabited desert island by yourself. You are allowed to take eight records with you. (Presumably you are also given a record player. There is no electricity on this Island so it's probably solar powered or something. Anyway, that doesn't really matter because the whole thing is hypothetical.) You are given a copy of the Bible, the complete works of Shakespeare and are allowed to take another book of your choosing. You can take one luxury item. (But it can't be of any use in helping you to escape said island.) Basically a celebrity talks to Kirsty Young for a bit and tells her about their choices. I will be the celebrity, Siri will be Kirsty and you will be the listeners.

Allow me to preface the rest of this post with an acknowledgement: I'd be fucked on a desert island. (Certainly metaphorically and depending on the wildlife there possibly physically as well.) MS aside I know nothing about survival/DIY/being in the wild. I never went to Scouts (Bit gay really isn't it?), I have never been camping (I don't think being off your face in a tent at a festival counts.) and I'd probably go into meltdown if I couldn't have two showers a day. With MS, until I get the DBS I can't even tie my shoe laces; how could I make knots with rope? I'm also about as strong as a decaf coffee so will hardly be Tarzan swinging around between the trees. I will ignore this and play along.

First, the songs I would take. I have quite an eclectic taste in music but it is far from cool. Also, my choices would probably change on a daily basis. In fact, if someone was going to abandon me on a desert island the least I would want in return is my full music library.
Here's what I'd choose right now:
1. Strobe by Deadmau5. This is one of my favourite tracks. It's quite a long and mellow EDM record but it gets a little livelier towards the end.
2. Yellow by Coldplay. I imagine there would be a lot of stars to see from this Island and it would be nice to think that they are shining for me. Also, yellow is my favourite colour.
3. Go Your On Way by Fleetwood Mac. I'll go which ever way I like thank you, it's my island.
4. Rebel Rebel by David Bowie. I love this song.
5. Pickup Truck by Kings of Leon. Not many people know anything about this song; it's the last track on probably their least well received album. I think its brilliant and it reminds me of times gone by.
6. Bom Bom by Sam and the Womp. It's a terrible song and I love it. It reminds me of running and I'd need a totally stupid record to cheer me up.
7. This is what you came for by Calvin Harris. "And what the fuck was that?" I'd ask myself.
8. Nightswimming by R.E.M. Marooned on a desert island I'd definitely do a bit of skinny-dipping. I'd probably just live naked in fact. (You're all welcome for that mental image.)
Actually, sod the rules. I'm taking Coconut Skins by Damien Rice as well.

Next up, literature. For a start I'd swap the complete works of Shakespeare for the Ladybird adult book series. That way I could get useful advice on dating, the wife and even Hipsters should I ever escape the island. Also, I don't want the Bible; I wouldn't read it but would probably feel a little superstitious about burning it to start a fire. (And I couldn't start the fire anyway.) Equally, if I stumbled across some high-quality drugs to smoke on the island I wouldn't feel comfortable using the Bible as skins either. (And even without the tremors I've never been able to roll.) I'm assuming I'd be allowed to take a big magnifier to read the books with or else this whole paragraph is a waste of time.

I think I would take a copy of Jane Eyre. I've already read half of it and I have a quote from the novel on my arm so I should finish it really. I heard the quote years ago and really liked it. I really only started the book to make sure Jane wasn't some psychopathic murderer for fear that I would appear to be equally psychopathic should I have a quote from her tattooed onto my body.

Finally, the luxury item. This is a difficult one. I'd maybe take a mirror so that whenever I get down I could look into it and remind myself of how pretty I am to cheer myself up. Or I might take some green teabags so that my skin looked healthy for whenever I was rescued. (Vanity is one of my greatest assets. I'm assuming toothbrush, toothpaste, toiletries etc. are not classed as luxury items. They are necessities; whoever is sending me to this island would have to be a monster were they not to give me these things.) Tom Hanks seemed to enjoy being stranded with Wilson the volleyball so that might be a good choice. In reality, having already accepted the fact I wouldn't last long, I'd probably take a few grams of Mandy. That way I could have a magical few hours (Probably the best night of my life, like every other time.), overdose and then move on to the next life. (This will be the last reference I make to drugs in my blogs. I am beginning the search for employment  and should any possible recruiter read this they'd probably be a little concerned. On which note I should point out what a responsible, hard-working and talented young man I am. I haven't taken drugs for many years so they need not worry. No fun drugs anyway. But as me and Abbe agreed, it's not like ecstasy has ever given anyone curly hair is it?)

Kirsty ends the show by asking the celebrity which record they would choose if they were allowed to take only one. I'd probably respond with, "Then why have we just talked about eight records?!" If I were feeling a little more corporative then I'd choose Strobe by Deadmau5; given my choice of luxury item I'd appreciate something with a bit of base and a decent drop.

And I wish you all the love in the world, but most of all, I wish it for myself.

Happy 2017! I'm happy it's the new year, are you? (Rhetorical question. This is my blog so you don't really get a say.) 2016 was rubbish. So was 2015. And 2014. For the sake of optimism I've decided to be superstitious and take comfort in the thought that bad luck comes in threes and therefore this year is set to be tremendous. (My superstitions end there though. Being superstitious is a lot like Tinder; you pick and choose which superstitions appeal to you/are convenient at the time and once they've served their purpose you can forget about them.)

I've decided 2017 is the year I will become a real adult. I'll get a job, regain my independence and maybe even learn when it is appropriate to make innuendo laden/flirtatious remarks and more importantly when it isn't. (That last one is just a maybe though. And learning doesn't necessarily mean I will put it into practice.) (Anyway a girl likes to hear if she's got a good bum, right?) Other 'real adult' regularities I'd like to achieve include wearing a suit (preferably not to court), getting a coffee to go because I'm really busy and need to be somewhere, and getting really drunk with workmates on a Friday after work.

In an ideal world (Which this isn't by the way. Need proof? Natalie Portman is married. And I'm not her husband.) the following would occur (and regardless of the rights and wrong is of this world these are my goals for 2017):
1. I get a full time job which I enjoy.
2. The DBS is successful and my tremors become manageable allowing me to live independently.
3. I move out of my parents home.
4. I get a girlfriend. And keep her. Even better if it's not against her will. (Obviously she's pretty. In order of importance: pretty, willing.)
That's just some of the stuff that would happen in an ideal world. Obviously world peace, an end to famine and probably the cancellation of Brexit and demise of Trump would happen too. (Democracy is like most ideals: a nice idea but totally fucking impractical.)

My year starts with a throwback to 2016: a hospital appointment in London tomorrow. It's for a review of the bone marrow transplant. I expect it will be a five minute conversation that could easily have taken place over the phone but they just want to see my pretty face as well.

After that there are a few nights out planned (including my switch on party which will feature nothing to actually switch on because the DBS was delayed but that's no reason to cancel seeing friends and getting drunk) and I plan on making a start to my list of goals. January blues? Not for me, not this year.

(The title is a lyric from Songbird by Fleetwood Mac. It's a beautiful song although admittedly not in keeping with the tongue in cheek tone of this post. And it's true; I wish all of you the best but most of all I want to enjoy my life and all it has to offer. If that makes me a bastard then a bastard I am.)

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.