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.
Thursday, 2 March 2017
Thursday, 23 February 2017
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.
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.
Wednesday, 8 February 2017
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.
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.
Monday, 9 January 2017
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.
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.
Monday, 2 January 2017
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'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.)
Tuesday, 13 December 2016
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.
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.
Monday, 5 December 2016
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.)
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.)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)