The last one was a fucker. No two ways about it. I knew from when the main course went in, a proper tummyflipper. I’ve explained the courses before and the attention seeking bellendery of a self pitying benefit scrounger using drugs as an excuse to milk an embuggerance in no way unique to me. Chemo’s going in now or magic potion as I think of it.m. Anyway better than the last one, just a bit sweaty of the head but the drugs are in so here we go. Thanks for having me. I get a better parking spot so it’s not all shit. I park in disabled these days and get a few stink eyes because I “don’t look disabled” but I’m legit, maybe I should lift up my top and show my brutilised torso. A 10 inch scar from the big op, a huge hernia like a bum sticking out with the scar as the arse crack, 3 bullet holes from the laparoscopy and my sticky out chest portacath. It’s an impressive mess. The doc wrote a letter for work - incurable, palliative care, indefinite chemotherapy until the disease progresses. Now hang on, my defences are still up. 5-3-2 formation. The opposition is a cu nt but never mind ‘until’ Doc. I know you went to Doctor school forever but ‘until’ for fuck’s sake? What’s wrong with an if? What’s wrong with a kiss? Do we have to go straight to the clitoris? I’m a Sunderland supporter, faced worse odds than this, stopped up and everything. Beat Chelsea and Everton. Liverpool back in the day - when no-one beat them and at their place. Gan on Stan. If I’m going to have a relegation battle it will be on my terms. Until, fuck you my new least favourite word. The bairn - 19 in 2 days time but always the bairn - broke her iPhone so I bought her a better one, two versions newer, to teach her a lesson. And then I got the old one fixed and sold it for £130, bought a lump of driftwood with an old fashioned fancy bulb sticking out of it. For £130 funnily enough. I love that lump of wood. No one else has it. You can’t get it at George. I used to have a big house, worth loads due to the hyper house inflation of the 90’s to 00-ies, a 4 wheel drive with a panoramic sunroof on the git long block paved drive , dogs and of course me little baby girl, all pre divorce. Sold the house just before the crash. For loads but had to give most away. Divorce. Costs a fortune but fucking good value. I think of it as an expensive training course. Now I have a terraced home with a couple of bedrooms. 4 fireplaces, a big bay window downstairs and lots of trees outside where the birds sing. There is the ‘bumpy road’, no tarmac, in front of our houses, where us 26 in the terrace have to bounce along in our cars. 11 of us 26 have a big garden - it used to be an orchard. I don’t have one of those 11 gardens, just a bit out the front for me few plants and my Clock Stand seats from Roker. I sat in them with our lasses’ fatha 30 odd years ago. Last time, Chelsea, 85, already relegated, lot less there than the earlier Milk Cup match with the horrible fuckers that season, we lost, 12k there, traffic was still shit,great day. She still puts up with me and now even makes tea properly. The little baby girl is just back from university this week, also made me a cup of tea the other morning. What else is there? I have reached the summit. I wouldn’t swap this place for the old house. This is my home. It even has a ghost apparently. Christened Myrtle by our lass, she is convinced Myrtle doesn’t like her. She is fine with me though. Lives at the top of the stairs just in front of the bathroom. The neighbours look after their gardens while I potter on. And at night I turn on my lump of driftwood for the ambience. Oh and my Himalayan salt lamps. They have ‘health benefits’, it may be a bit late for that but I got them cos they look nice and make me feel better when they’re on. I don’t know why I’m giving you a virtual tour of my little house, I think it’s a material things don’t matter and appreciate the simple. Yeah, that must be it, little home, birdsong, tea, ghosts, driftwood and salt lamps, happy. Upstairs it is then. My bedroom was a double and a single originally but is now one room the whole width of the house, two windows looking out over everyone else’s nice gardens and trees, a real fireplace and a settee in there. Up again I have two loft rooms, not up to building regs, so nee good to the estate agents - 3 Velux windows though, get me - I can poke me head out and listen to the concerts at the cricket ground. Madness and Little Mix sounded shite, Tom was canny. I can see for bloody miles, Lumley Castle, the Cricket ground with its put up the other year lights. I wonder If I can get a roof terrace. The planners probably wouldn’t let me but that would be good. I could sit up there for hours. My latest favourite simple thing is my toilet light. It sits over the edge of the loo itself, senses approach, lights up and scrolls through 8 colours while guiding me stream, I play the can I piss for the whole colour routine game. I have a circle of people who have been fucking topper throughout this shite, so as a token of appreciation, have started handing out bog lights to them as a ta very much. They seem to like them, well they say it anyway. If you get a bog light from me it means I love you. Fuck flowers, say it with bog lights. Now that I am on ‘indefinite’ chemo, my non chemo week is Christmas/Birthday/6 wins on the fucking trot all rolled into one. Someone has just rang the bell in the chemo ward. That means they have finished their chemo so we cheer and clap. I’m happy for them but it hits me that there will be no bell ring for me. Anyway back to non chemo week. I can eat properly on this week, chemo is beans, jackets, cups of tea - Ringtons, soon to be Harrods blend no 14, cheers Flicky, tipped the bairn off for Pop’s day, think she’s on the case. Non chemo week is cookery time and even a beer. I don’t want to be pity city or owt but how most of you feel all the time is bonus ball for me. I’m loathe to go into ‘putting things into perspective’ and ‘enjoy the moment’ bollocks. But enjoy it yer bastards. Stop moaning about work, traffic jams and other shit that doesn’t matter. Apart from pain - cancer hurts by the way, stings like a bastard truth be told - and impending slow drugged death at the hospice, I’ve never been happier. I mean it. I want more time because I’m a greedy get obviously but by fuck can I appreciate it these days. Work are ill health retiring me and are going to fast track me using the 12 months to live form. Civil service. A form for every occasion. Piece of piss. The PIP form was 6 months to the big sleep and I got that so hopefully I can crack on with the last chapter sooner rather than later. Me and my dog(s) that I’m after. Missed out on a another Newfie from the rescue place this week. I’ll get there though. Proper retired and back to the dog walking days. I’m in a private Facebook group for Young Adults with Cancer - 20’s,30’s’40’s the discriminatory fuckers. Dinnar if they’ll chuck me out if i string this shit out, but I’m 49 soon. There was a lass who posted she only had weeks to live, 31 years old. Bowel cancer, spread, wickets. It was the first time I looked at a path and thought oh that’s me. I imagined I was in her place hearing that news. I had a cry. For her but selfishly for me too. I’m cancer brave, whatever that is, mostly I suppose but there are moments when the overwhelm arrives with its too much to deal with shit. I’m on a cliff edge waiting for the doc to tell me what my body has already decided. Thing is the docs don’t kill you with their words, you do that to yourself when the programming goes wrong. But I can’t sit around being in the cancer deli queue with a ticket waiting for my ping to ping. I need to live the rest without thinking about the fucking Sword of Damocles looming above me. I’m rambling. I actually get more done now it’s a challenge. I was a lazy fucker before. I never had time to tidy up the garden but always had time to sit on my arse. Now I write down what I want to get done and more often than not do it. I did a big shop on my own last week. It wiped me out. All those years of being able and wasting it. I don’t do regrets or future worries if I can help it but sometimes I have a little ugh sound in my head. I try not to look at other people and think why me. In fact I do this very well but every now and again I could do with a break from this shite and wonder what it must be like to go back to the time before the last 15 months and feel like a not ill person. I decided at the start, when the first doc uttered the cancer word, that I would have a dignified death. We only get one shot so I don’t want to be silly about it. At the very least I want to do better at it than my O levels. There’s no Death for Dummies so I’ll just have to work it out on my own. First bit is the legacy stuff. Make sure the bairn is catered for, she stands to inherit with me being sensible with pensions and life insurance. Then I don’t know. Get rid of the stuff out of the bedroom bottom drawer in case my mother sees it in the clear out maybe? Thanks Lovehoney but I can’t be arsed these days. I’ll put it in next doors but one’s bin. He’s 80 odd so will give the bin men a laugh if nowt else. A word, if you have nowt the matter with you, take out insurance while you’re a good bet, things can turn like a flick of a switch. I had nowt wrong with me ever, Until. Fuck you until… Jeez this is a long ‘un. I’ll wrap it up. Metal Mickey hasn’t beeped at all and not one piss to wheel him along with me but I’m bursting. Not much poison, sorry magic potion, to go. Then a store hoss piss. So appreciate, be happy, be simple, be content, get insured, get up, get good tea, get toilet lights. I’m off to be dignified.