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.

What's The Story? (Morning Glory)

A lot has happened for the UK since my last blog. We've had the good – Andy Murray winning Wimbledon, the bad – England flopping at another major tournament and the ugly – Brexit! But the narcissist in me knows that all you are interested in is what has happened with me.

In short, not very much at all. My walking is a little worse than before the transplant but I can now use my bike on its indoor training stand which I couldn't do before hand. I enjoy cycling but in truth you can't get very far on a stationary bike so really walking would be more useful. I splash around in the pool and call it swimming equally as well (badly actually but I'm trying to be optimistic) as I did way back when. I do though have a realistic timescale as to when I can expect improvement... Autumn 2017! That's seems like a long time away and in my more despondent frame of mind I think it's longer than I can manage. But as I say, I'm trying to be optimistic and I know a year isn't really that long and the improvements will be life changing.

Realising that I have another year of dossing about I've been trying to think of ways to occupy myself. I did consider online dating but decided that probably wouldn't work. I'd use my Facebook profile picture of me balancing a bottle of water on my head to demonstrate how talented I am and my profile would just say, 'Hi, I'm Patrick and I am pretty class.' (I know what you're thinking and I agree, I am actually really class but I've heard modesty is attractive to some girls.) I imagine that would get any girl with a heterosexual cell in her body instantly interested but at some point I would have to tell her about what I'll call the relationship shutdown trilogy: I'm unemployed, I live with my parents and I have MS. (The kindhearted readers will be thinking, 'Any girl would be lucky to have you.' The less kind, by which I mean most lads, will be thinking, 'Man up.') So that put an end to my ideas of online dating.

Onwards and upwards and so I've decided to try and get into volunteering again. I have looked into this before but my unique mix of poor walking, horrendous tremors and impaired vision combined with no means of transport means I am of very little use to anybody for anything. (Apart from balancing bottles of water on my head of course. And really anybody could be a civil engineer for example, as Danny, Matt, Ben and Tom have proved, so who's the talented one really?)

Incredibly though I have found something I can get involved in and it is centred around something I am genuinely passionate about: the city of Sunderland. (On a scale of things I am passionate about Sunderland sits somewhere between Percy Pigs from M&S which are amazing and the NHS which as per my previous blog I think is magnificent.) Sunderland is bidding to be the UK City of Culture 2021. I love the place and there are numerous ways I can get involved so I'm really pleased to have found this. I will no doubt be advertising various events taking place across the city in future blogs but if you would like to find out more now visit http://www.sunderland2021.com/. It's at a very early stage in the bidding process so raising awareness is the key at the moment. I will be at the airshow this weekend helping out in the Sunderland 2021 gazebo. (Quick warning, we'll be handing out leaflets and badges so if anyone takes one from me and ends up getting a paper cut or stabbed with the pin from the badge then I'm sorry, I'm nice but my tremors aren't.)

A very quick shout out to Victoria and Jonny, soon to be husband and wife (irrespectively obviously). Their wedding is on Monday and I am really looking forward to it. I'll look dapper in my three piece suit and get really drunk. But of course the day is about then, lifetime of happiness etc.

So that's the story. And the morning glory? Work in progress.

True perfection has to be imperfect.

I'm out! I got home before 1700 on Monday. It felt amazing and Bamboleo went crazy! I think the doctors would have liked me to stay another day (Baby if you've got to go away, don't think I can take the pain...) but my blood counts on Sunday were good (Good day all round after Andy came to visit. After five years of not seeing a mate there's quite a bit to talk about!) and when the doctor came into my room at about 0930 on Monday morning I was sat in the chair, fully dressed and with my suitcase packed next to me. They realised they weren't going to keep me and so got my discharge drugs and off we went! Seemingly perfect though that day felt (not getting the incredibly attractive Spanish doctor's number would be the imperfection here), this blog is actually about the NHS.

It's grossly under funded, mismanaged and riddled with bureaucracy. There can be long waiting times, bed blocking and too much admin for staff. The resources it does have are often used inefficiently. Doctors and nurses are overstretched, overworked and under paid.

And yet the NHS is the single greatest institution that is or has ever been. We as British citizens are immeasureably lucky to have free healthcare. Whether you need life-saving heart surgery at hospital, support with mental health from a psychiatrist or antibiotics from the sexual health clinic after sleeping with a dirty girl on a stag do in Amsterdam, it's all provided for. 

The NHS saves and dramatically improves countless numbers of lives every year. The money invested into research at our hospitals is helping to cure diseases, make lives so much more manageable and will continue to do so for as long as the NHS exists. Millions of us and our loved ones would not be alive today were it not for free health care, me included.

Our nurses and doctors work incredibly hard. They are under paid for the hours they are meant to work and most of the time they work longer shifts than they are paid for. The job is a vocation, very few on the front line staff are there purely for the money. Emotionally it must be a very draining job, they are caring for people often during the worst times of the patient's life. And yet they remain so positive, upbeat and friendly. The power of a smile is a wonderful thing, whenever you feel down, whether it be through ill health, a rubbish day at work or because Sunderland have lost (Again!), a caring smile is sure to make you feel comforted and the nurses always provide that smile.

The junior doctors strike has my full backing. Without them the NHS would collapse. A junior doctor is not necessarily somebody straight out of university, doctors need about 10 years on the job experience before they become registrars. And junior doctors will never leave a critical care ward unmanned even during a strike. Of course the numbers are fewer but they know how important their job is and so they effectively draw straws to decide who will provide cover. They are sacrificing the opportunity to demand what they are entitled to for the sake of patient care. This gets very little media coverage, unfairly so.

Very few of us can afford private health care, most of us are fully dependent on the NHS should something arise. (After nearly 3 weeks in hospital I could barely afford free healthcare. Retail therapy is a great way of passing time, I must have spent about £400 (Credit card!) on completely unnecessary purchases. I like to think that's my way of giving back to the economy.)  I'm not about to start campaigning for any political party. (My dad does enough of that. He's one of those annoying people who come election time post leaflets through your front door. He is very interested in and passionate about politics but I'm sure he only does it for the piss up afterwards. He'll say he's going leafleting on a Saturday morning and come about 2300 in the evening he rolls in absolutely smashed. It's also his birthday today, Happy Birthday Pops!) But I do believe health care is one of the most important government policies and whichever party pledges to best support the NHS will go a long way to securing my vote. (I accept this is a thinly veiled big up to the Labour Party. I realise Corbyn is a bit of a liability but Cameron and Osborne are far worse. And anyway, I live in Sunderland, the Labour Party could include the decapitation of ugly children in its next manifesto and it would probably still win our seat.)

Finally, the saying goes there's an exception which proves every rule. In this case that exception is my mam. (The rest of this paragraph is pretty soppy so feel free to move on to the next. I did consider writing a full blog about her titled Tribute so really you've all got off lightly!) I wouldn't have made it through the last three weeks nor indeed the last two years without her. I'm 24 and at times have been no less reliant on her than at any other point in my life. I tell her this every day and I'd like to say publicly, 'Mum, you're amazing. Thank you.'

So the transplant is done and I'm home. The hard work is out of the way. In the coming months I will get stronger and stronger. The doctors advised I rest for a little while but nobody ever got anywhere by just sitting around. (Definitely went for a swim this morning.) A big thank you for all the messages of support, best wishes, thoughts and prayers Clearly they have all helped!

Miracle Drug

The downside to being on a completely new treatment, a trial of sorts, is that you have no idea of what to expect. One of the lads (Dr Heavey) warned me the chemo would be tough. And indeed it has been. One of the nurses on the ward said that the chemo required when having a bone marrow transplant is as brutal as it comes. (I must point out, a bone marrow transplant, especially when it is your own stem cells, as in my case, is one of the simplest transplants. If transplant severity equated to leading characters in Friends then a bone marrow transplant would probably be Phoebe. Got to be in there but doesn't do a awful lot.) I escaped the process of getting the chemo into me fairly lightly. A little bit of sickness and that was it. The drug has a ripple effect though. Once it's in you it destroys what feels like everything in your body. The bone marrow is where it really takes hold. For a period you lose the ability to produce white blood cells, red blood cells and platelets. The result is your body is wide open to infection and you feel indescribably weak. All that gets you through is that you know it's for 'the greater good'. (A quote from Hot Fuzz which has been on twice now during my stay. What a film, if Nick Frost attempting to jump over the garden fence doesn't make you smile then you need to have a beer and cheer up.)

So faced with this uncertainty you have no option but to go into it blindly. (More easily done in my case.) I came into this treatment with naive optimism. In my dream world I thought I'd be in hospital for a couple of weeks and then leave cured of MS, a miracle drug of sorts. (Actually I'm not quite that stupid but I was hopeful!) Although no less significant the reality is much different. It'll take a few months for me to rebuild my strength and for the transplant to take its effects. (The registrar this morning said having a bone marrow transplant basically means I need to grow a new organ.) I'm sure this will frustrate me but it will be the polar opposite to the previous 23 months. Then as each week went by I became weaker, now as each day goes by I will become stronger. This will be exciting and rewarding, I'll find joy in being able to do things I previously could not. (On leaving hospital, not pissing into a bottle will be the first such thing. Nurses are mad keen on urine, I'm sure it must be a prerequisite of the job.) It'll be a gift that keeps on giving, much like Bamboleo whom I am missing greatly. (Though he wasn't a gift, he cost me £600 and he'd do well to remember that when he's acting the idiot.)

At the end of my last blog I had a temperature from an unidentified virus. (I know, were this blog a book, a page turner it is not.) I've since had a blood transfusion, two platelet transfusions (Both much less dramatic than they sound.) and a CT scan of my head and chest. The doctors concluded I had an infection, possibly from the Hickman line I had in my chest so that was removed and I am on to some antibiotics. I also had a large, black thing on the top of my head. Something between a wound and a spot. Attractive. I am on some different antibiotics for that and thankfully it is going as it really hurt. (And looked horrible!)

From early Tuesday morning it was a very rough 72 hours but things are seemingly on the up. Today my white blood count is up to 0.9. The average, un-chemo-ed (fairly certain that's a word) person has a count of between 60 and 100 but I don't care because once I hit 1 I can stop wearing my silly mask whenever I leave my room. (And anybody who brags about their blood counts clearly has little man syndrome anyway.)

Also once I hit a count of one and go a few days without a spike in temperature I can be released! Touchwood I will be out in the early part of the coming week. I say touchwood which is ridiculous. My grandad used to say it, increasingly so as he got older and more unwell, I seem to have adopted the habit over the last week, maybe it's a hospital thing? He wasn't satisfied just touching some wood as he said it though. As he neared death he was punching holes into anything that even resembled wood whenever he said it. I'm not superstitious in the slightest, I quite like the number 13, I'd walk under a ladder and I'd even pick up a spoon that I had dropped. (Abbe!)

So does a miracle drug exist? Define miracle.  In six, nine months down the line I will be so much healthier, stronger and happier than I have been in over two years (Touchwood!) and that will feel like a miracle. And hopefully in a few days time I will be back home, and so will that!