‘Ooh, baby, do you know what that’s worth? Ooh, heaven is a place on Earth. They say in heaven, love comes first. We’ll make heaven a place on Earth. Ooh, heaven is a place on Earth.’ I think only of Bermuda when I hear this song.’

WARNING: Virtually no cursing in this post. Just love and a few mildly offensive images.

One of my Blighty Besties arrived on a jet plane. We’re like a contradictory version of Ab Fab’s Patsy and Eddie. I’m sober Patsy and she’s skinny Eddie.

We generally entertain ourselves by conversing with random strangers… And we have no preference.

Tuesday consisted of:

Meeting a handsome retired Colombian drug baron and his adorable wife in the club pool.

When they informed us they’d been married 59 years I enquired  ‘So what’s the secret to a long and happy marriage?’

‘It’s our 3 week anal vacation to Bermuda.’ He divulged in his sexy Spanish accent.

Admirable at his age and she deserves a medal… Or a very large Colombian emerald for being such a trooper.

We then moved on to a bewilderingly voluminous cackle of women from Massachusetts (also in pool soup).

They told us they were here with their husbands for a fun weekend getaway.

That’s lady-like code for ‘fucked up debauched gang bang’

Our final encounter consisted of a flamboyant Belgium 3some…  And as delicious looking as the chocolate variety. Not only did their outfits coordinate exquisitely but their names… Aart, Abe and Abel were equally magnificent.

The following day, after my morning ritual of an hour long float, I discovered a savvy skill I didn’t know I had.

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Turns out I’m an aficionado diving guru. Eddie went from being the bellyflop beaver to the swan dive diva in a matter of hours thanks to my expert instruction. And a little help from a 5 and 8 year old.

Dinner by the harbour followed, with views of a dozen floating gin palaces.

I taunted Eddie into acquiring us an invite onboard. A tricky task at best seeing as we’re no longer sexy young kitties.

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However, she did come back with the offer of a tour aboard an antiquated fishing vessel named The Happy Hooker.

The next day was spent on the ocean. Kayaking the idealic peaceful islands with the occasional high pitched sequel when one of us spotted a turtle popping it’s cute head up for air.

Friday happy hour ended at 1am. We danced, sang, snogged one another and fought over a young sexy beast who also happened to be a superb dancer. Apparently when a guy grinds his knee into your vagina it’s called ‘salsa’.

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The evening ended with me spreading my legs…. to the stars.

My lack of filter came in handy the next morning when I picked a fight with a bunch of builders after witnessing them throw fag butts into the ocean.

Denial was their first attempt at defence so I added artistic licence to my response.

‘Look not only do I have incurable brain cancer but I have 8 year old triplet boys who swim in this stretch every morning and if they choke on your butts I’ll sue YOUR ignorant butts until you’re incontinent!’

Seemed to do the trick so we went for a smug dip.

Our final night with dearest friends listening to Yellow Man, sitting on the white-washed roof, drinking champagne and watching the perfect sunset.

This last 10 days have been the best tonic since that cunning little cunt Bambi entered my world 5 months ago.

The love I feel from my beautiful friends and the energy I receive from this heaven on Earth is maybe the cure for my cancer.

‘In this world we’re just beginning.  To understand the miracle of living.  Baby, I was afraid before. But I’m not afraid anymore.’

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‘Oh shut the fuck up and have a drink.’ Me as a therapist.

Arrived in Bermuda with all the energy of a 14ft python who’d just eaten a fattened cow.

3 hours on the tarmac waiting to take off for a 2 hour flight. WTF American Airlines.

1st night was like a scene from a Stephen King novel. I opened the wardrobe and there he was… waiting for me… the giant flying roach… flip flop in hand I got into bed and waited.

I then clocked him spying me through a crack in the door, 10ft tentacles flaying around. After noticing my 6 inch scar and undercut he determined he was no match and fucked off back into the crevice he’d come from.

Woke to blue skies and the warm fuzzy feeling of ‘home’. Blissful day filled with birthday celebrations, delicious food and a dip in the heavenly crystal clear ocean.

The night ended with a successful flip flop splattering of cockroach #2 who was clearly cockier than his mate from last night.

FYI vermin: I have a goddamn brain tumour and no man-eating-mother-fucking-roach is ever giving me the heebie geebies again.

When I first arrived here nearly 30 years ago, someone said to me ‘You know what Bermuda is? It’s 60,000 alcoholics clinging to a rock.’

‘Fantastic.’ Was my immediate response, ‘I’ve moved to paradise!’

Times have changed since those glory days and just as well because tonight at a party, while chatting to old friends and neighbours, I downed one glass of fizz and was ready for bed. FFS Bambi.

And btw Brad, when the movie rights for Bambi sell, you’ve got stiff Bermudian competition as leading man. There’s a handsome Mr Kempe up for the role, and he’s not of the Spandex Ballet kind.

Sunday followed with more frolicking. At one point I came out of the club pool with my hair swept back and received an extended once over from 3 members of the super bitch wives club. Oh fuck, was I flashing a nipple? Or worse, had I exposed my vajayjay? What were they looking at?

Then I realised it was my impressively large bald patch and scar. They were probably wondering how a rough old slag could have gained access to such a prestigious establishment.

Gorgeous dinner on the beach with one Bermuda bestie followed by a sleepover with another Bermuda bestie and my 12 year old goddaughter.

Her mother had told her all about brain tumours but not much about the ‘birds and the bees’.

So took it upon myself to give her a few pointers and attempt to not expose her mothers overly edited version of her own youth.

The conversation commenced with a ‘pure white flower’ being the symbolisation of virginity and how this ‘pure white flower’ should remain pure until marriage.

‘Mummy told me I must remain pure until I’m at least 35 or married. Just like her.’ She told me.

Well I could accept the first sentence of this statement with a sweet nodding (fake) smile.

But when the second sentence hit my ears I choked on air and fell backwards into a nearby oleander tree.

I’ve known her mother for 30 years and luckily for her she’s in my tighty-tight circle of ‘besties’ and what happens in the circle must stay in the circle.

However, there’s a tinge of regret in not disclosing the truth now because after emerging from the pool that afternoon she declared…

‘You look like that famous character from Game of Thrones!’

‘Aww,’ I responded ‘Which one… Daenerys Targaryen?‘No,’ she smirked ‘I was thinking of The Hound. You have similar scar and haircut.’

Fuck off bitch. I guess we’re both old dogs.

Finally today and on a more serious and sobering note. I’ve requested that she and my goddaughter provide the eulogy at my eventual funeral.

I’ve given them strict instructions that it must be goddamn funny as hell or else I’ll be back as a poltergeist to haunt them for all eternity.

My husband’s amazing, he’d take a bullet for me. But he’d still criticise my driving on the way to the hospital.

Safely back in the US of Trumpton after binge watching a whole box set en-route only to discover that during the last 5 minutes of the last episode I’d already watched the whole goddamn series pre Bambi.

Picked up Maddog from gorgeous sis and bro in law. They still seemed fairly sane and weirdly attached to him. I think it’s called Stockholm Syndrome.

Then the 7 hour drive which takes as long as the Atlantic crossing.

Feeling hellishly homesick. Didn’t want to leave Blighty so planning on escaping this place again ASAFP.

The thought of starting chemo is nauseating. Not in a scary kind of way, more in a ‘For fuck’s sake, more fucking shit to deal with’ kind of way.

I want to get back to normal, plan holidays, drink copious amounts of fizz with my friends, ride a horse when I feel like it, work, go back to the gym and get back into shape.

I look like an old Barbie doll, who prior to getting crushed under Action Man’s tank in the bottom of a toy box 40 years ago, had her tits and hair chopped off by some fiendish demon child.

And whilst dealing with prolonged jet-lag I’ve been lounging around reading Brain Tumour Survivor stories.

This is serious stuff for the next 60 seconds.

Ridiculously there’s around 120 types of brain tumour. This might sound like a lot, because it is.

You almost have to multiply this by the amount of people in the world who have brain tumours to get an understanding of the enormity of the research required.

Because every single person reacts totally differently to every single tumour.

In our gang of 4 Love Honey Survivors 3 of us have the same tumour. But different sizes, different locations, different mutations.

Which means over the long term we’ll all fair differently and react differently to surgery, chemo and radiation.

Apparently around 5 in every 100,000 people in the general population will draw a short straw and end up with a Grade 3 Anaplastic Astrocytoma, so you might as well multiply 5 by a billion trillion… it’s impossible to believe statistics because every single case is different!

Some people carry on for years after treatment no problem, others have a recurrence within weeks or months, some have surgery time and time again and a few don’t make it at all.

Every human being has a cut-off point as to how much they can take… so this got me thinking about my cut-off point.

It’s been easy so far, almost a bizarre novelty walk in the park.

But it’s getting monotonous and the thought of having surgery, radiation and chemo all over again is exasperating. Especially when it’s a waiting game and all down to luck of the draw.

Tick fucking tock.

Right, that rant’s off my newly flat chested chest and I’m signing off… to book a flight to Bermuda.

I need warm ocean and pink sand right now, not toxic chemicals and poison.

Fuck cancer. Chemo can wait another week.

Being able to respond with sarcasm within seconds of a dumb comment or question is the sign of a healthy brain. I’m not being rude. I’m just getting some much needed exercise.

When diagnosed with incurable goddamn brain cancer on Valentine’s Day** I knew, no matter what, I’d make it to my blue-eyed boy’s leavers ball (that’s graduation to Americans).

**Thx Cupid you dumb dick… You’re supposed to stick the arrow through my heart not my brain.

Anyway…

Not only did I make it to the ball but I drank, ate, socialised, went in the photo booth 32 times, attempted the bumper cars, but M dragged me away hissing ‘Have you forgotten you’ve got a massive fucking hole in your head?’

I enquired to our housemaster, ‘Sir, please be honest, is my kid in your top 10 naughtiest kids ever?’

‘Oh no’ was his reply.

I sighed waiting for something further.

Housemaster transitioned to stern teacher face and added ‘He’s in my top 3!’

YES!!! My blue-eyed boy’s going far in this world.

So my ultimate goal was not to expire prior to midnight. I lasted ‘til 2am… Screw you Cinderella.

I needed to get the most out of the beautiful gown gifted by my gorgeous girls.

We spent the weekend with bestest friends. One of whom travelled from Aus that am, played a round of golf that pm, then drove 200 miles to get pissed with us. That’s friendship!

The evening consisted of delicious lamb, erotic sexual poses against an old rover and Cards Against Humanity.

We laughed, cursed and spewed hilarious profanities. I didn’t inherit my potty mouth… I learned it from my foul-mouthed friends.

My baby sis’ and I visited the cemetery and left flowers for our beloved grandparents. The only adults who showed me unconditional love as a child.

Dinner on a lake and another debouched night followed.

Then a smart party hosted by Lord and Lady Q which aptly ended in a face licking competition. I’ve yet to catch Lord Q, however her Ladyship’s always up for it.

Then to London for 4 more nights of love.

Love arrived from Bermuda aka my gorgeous Guru and Godson laden with the bags of green cow fodder she still tries to cram inside me.

Next, love and lunch from Sussex. The wonderful women who I always wished could be my real mummy and sister.

Dinner on the Thames with dearest friends where I attempted a citizen’s arrest after an enibirated youth pissed in the river.

A 6 hr liquid lunch in Notting hill. Old friends, new friends, crackheads wandering by… One of whom became aggressive/racist/way too opinionated …

So I took matters into my own hands and stood up, lifted my hair and declared…

‘Seriously? You think you’re having a tough time? Look at this… I’ve got goddamn fucking brain cancer and weeks to live (slight exaggeration). Shut the fuck up, sit down and have a drink… Or fuck off.’

You can’t waste time trying to understand idiots. Unless you’re the fuckface whisperer, which I’m not.

An old acquaintance wandered by and stopped to interrogate me on the use of profanities in my blog… I replied ‘Did you know, the clitorous has 8000 nerve endings, but still isn’t as sensitive as some of the cunts I’ve met over the years.’

Whoops 1 less reader. I spend a lot of time realising I should have stopped talking 10 minutes ago.

Later that night something triggered the ‘funny turns’. It’s been two drama-free months then suddenly… bam! Extended periods of deja-vu again.

Rest was ordered or M would have strapped me to the bed (and not in an S&M kind of way). It seems I’ve become a pro at choking on air, falling up stairs and tripping over nothing.

Once up and about I purchased 27 lottery tickets… It’s the only way I’ll get to live in my favourite Holland Park postcode.

A final post-gay-pride supper with two gorgeous men I’d married had they not been gay.

Followed by a farewell lunch with beloved friends and hugs with my blue-eyed boy before heading to Heathrow for the long haul back.

So there you have it. I’m living proof that you really can fuck brain cancer and live a carefree-ish life… Well for 2.5 weeks anyway.

Next week the motherfucking toxic chemo bandwagon will be rolling into town to start the next chapter of thundercunt cancer treatment.

Bring it on bitch.

‘Vaffanculo Bambi!’ My Italian friend taught me this word in 1977.

So the Gods spoke to me!  Well actually they didn’t..  It was a call from the insurance company.

I got the green light to start radiotherapy and I’m scared.  But Up and Atom!  Ahaha. 

So I made a snap decision as to which fuckety fuck fork path to take.

I then hopped a 5-bar-gate and skipped straight through the field that ran down the middle of both paths. 

I might be trespassing but this field seems like the most direct route out of here.

Radiotherapy combined with less aggressive alternatives, ketogenic diet and a handful of supplements for now.

And we’ll cross the chemo bridge of mass destruction in a few weeks time.

I’ve had to weigh up the pros and cons of course.

Radio Pros.. Should kill off Bambi’s baggage and cause appetite loss (goodbye middle age spread). 

Keto Pros..  Goodbye middle age spread.  

Radio Cons.. Possible permanent hair loss.  But one less thing to fuck with in the mornings.

Keto Cons..  Lots of faffing around.

The BIGGEST pro right now though.. I’ve been approved for Proton Beam Therapy. 

Some of you might think  ‘What the fuck’s that?’   That’s what I’d have thought a few weeks ago.

If I’m describing it in car terms (and this is my theory based on extensive googling) Proton is like the Bugatti Super Sport, whereas the other option, Photon, is more like your every day tried and tested, generally reliable family sedan. 

Even though I’ll be wearing my Catwoman mask I feel anxious thinking about the laser beam penetrating my brain. 

I’m also not particularly keen to lose my hair to be honest.  But luckily it’s not turtleneck season so I won’t look like a giant tallywacker.

But what are my hairless head options?

Daenerys Targaryen wig, Hermes silk scarves, beanies, hoodies, paper bags – only ones from Sloane/Bond Street of course. 

Human hair wigs give me the creeps. It would feel like wearing someone else’s knickers.

And will I look more radiant as each radiation day passes? 

I doubt it.. I’m probably going to look like a burnt slice of toast.  That will get the buzzards circling.

Agh why are there no really good side effects to medical treatments or medicine bottles.. Why don’t any of them say WARNING: May cause extreme sexiness.

So the best I can do right now is surround myself with love and fuck cancer!

Luckily the Cheshire Kitty Cat is arriving first-class on a jet plane next week and she’ll be here to purr at me for the first week of radio. 

The Chesire Kitty Cat and Me – 2 years ago today

You should see the shit I DON’T post. Which sits in my folder entitled ‘I find this hilarious, but some uptight fuckers won’t.’

OMFG we watched the BBC2 TV show ‘Surgeons’. They documented a brave young man who had similar brain op to me except this poor boy had to be awake throughout so they could monitor his speech.

I’m so fecking fortunate I was asleep as I don’t own the strength of character to have been conscious while they fiddled with my brain. 

I most likely would have ‘william shatner’d’ my Tuesday pants (although I don’t actually think I was wearing any at the time). 

Later in the show he was given his prognosis. He had a Grade 3 malignant tumour and was informed he couldn’t be cured but his condition would hopefully be controlled. Same as me.

I felt sad for him, as he was only 20. And he will now be feeling just like me..  Like someone is permanently holding a gun to his head. Although luckily, also like me, he did have a very handsome, talented and emphatic surgeon.

But I’m 52 soon and even though I’m sure I’ll still have a full and fun life ahead I don’t have my ‘whole’ life ahead like he should have.  

Obvs there’s things I still need to do..

A. Skinny dip with Brad Pitt
B. Frolic with gorillas in Rwanda
C. See my lil’ boy star in a Tarantino movie

Luckily this lovely chap had an amazingly supportive fam’ and that means so much when you’re in a serious life threatening fucked up situation.

If you found yourself in this position and were on your own with no support it would be a double whammy of really shit luck.

I know I’m incredibly lucky in so many ways. I have so much loving support from so many gorgeous people around the world.

And it turns out.. You never really know a man (or woman) until you get a brain tumour and he/she has to stop everything to take care of you for a while.

Short of having to wipe my ass M has done everything for me over the last few weeks.

It’s not easy physically or emotionally when you suddenly have to care for the person who’s the centre of your world.

Everyone asks M ‘How’s Sarah doing?’ And luckily most people also ask ‘And how are you doing?’

It’s important to not forget the burden of the poor bastard who’s stuck with walking the dog, washing your knickers and loading the dishwasher every day.

After all, how was he to know that a drunken game of spin the bottle and a one night stand in Bermuda 15 years ago was going to end like this!

me and mr incredible


‘You only go around once, but if you play your cards right, once is enough.’ Frank Sinatra

I was just thinking the other day that there has to be some benefit to having a goddamn mother-fucking brain tumour.

Then it suddenly dawned on me. If you play your cards right you get to join an elite circle.

And so I’m now a member of two exclusive clubs. And they each come with a gold card. One’s called the Cancer Card and the other’s called the Brain Tumour Card.

When you carry these cards you acquire many benefits. They can get you out of almost anything and come with no pre-set spending limit.. It’s just like having a black Amex.

Toting these cards can excuse you from virtually any social obligation you don’t fancy attending. Lunches, dinners, parties, weddings, walking the dog.

All you need to do is flash your card and you get an instant ‘out of jail’. It works for almost anything.

‘Oh I’m so sorry I forgot your birthday/anniversary/christmas card but I’ve got a goddamn fucking brain tumour and I can hardly even recollect my own name or walk in a straight line.’

It’s also great for getting what you want. So when M’s watching sport or some monotonous long-winded-shit history program on the television and I come into the room and say ‘Can we watch something else?’ His response is ’But I’m watching this!’  Then I retaliate with ‘But I’ve got brain cancer!’ Works like a dream every time.

Or when another package lands on the porch from The Outnet or Lulu Lemon I get ‘Don’t you have enough stuff?  Do you really need more?’ I can answer this with ‘Why would you say that? Are you suggesting I might die soon?’

So to anyone who’s eligible for these ‘members only’ cards, enjoy it’s easy access, instant approval and great benefits!

No credit history?
No job?
No photo ID?
No problem!

Don’t leave home without it!

Footnote: There are many ways to play your cards.. I have particularly fond memories of a game of strip poker in Bermuda circa 1994. My guru and me were shrewd enough to each put on 12 pairs of knickers before the game began.