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.)