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.

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I’m a lady but ‘fuck that shit’ is still a perfectly good substitute for ‘no’

Imagine you’re about to embark on a trip to an unexplored planet far far away. Let’s call it Jedha.

I’m Princess Leia and M’s Hans Solo… Or maybe Chewbacca depending on time of day.

That’s what it felt like when we packed up and drove Darth Vader aka Reggie Maddog to Boston en-route to London.

Before we departed, friends asked ‘You must be excited for you trip?’

TBH borderline goddamn fucking terrified was more accurate. Even though I’ll admit I’ve contributed my fair share of carbon emissions to our planet I was now entering unknown territory.

My heightened senses fluster me. Smell, taste, sound, sight has revamped. Tolerance, energy, stamina has reshaped.

I kept thinking ‘Fuck, what if I shlitz my Vicki’s during check-in or what if my titanium skull sets the bells ringing in security or what if my brain blows at 40,000 ft.’

I was vexed at the thought of not being able to neck my usual aperitif of 3 shots of fizz in the lounge then 3 more onboard prior to passing out for 6 hours.

Fuckerty fuck this was going to be a tiresome journey.

The drive to Boston took 7 arduously dull hours, longer than the goddamn 3500 mile flight to Blighty.

Vador spent the road trip farting and barking at random truckers.

We finally arrived at my gorgeous sis/bro in-laws picture perfect home at 2am. Vador spent the night pacing with his lightsaber, a stick he’d found in the garden. At one point I woke with him sitting on my chest and I swear he said ‘I am your father.’

By the following afternoon it was obvious, I’ve become the dullest houseguest in the history of dull houseguests. I spent 23 of the 24 hrs at this house sleeping.

I finally pulled myself together and we left our gutsy hosts with their captor Vader and trotted off to the airport.

We cantered through security with no frisking required and galloped to the lounge.

All very relaxed. And fuck me it was bloody marvellous to hear the chitter chatter of English accents again. Techie boys, posh boys, twatty self-important boys… Felt like home already.

My guru called to wish us a good flight and as I had her on speaker everyone overheard when she loudly enquired ‘Have you taken your dog worming pills yet?’ Followed by ‘And has your shit been tested for parasites?’

All banter ceased and heads turned to stare at the freak show with the discernible bald patch. Nice one sista.

We then boarded, I attempted a glass of fizz. Two sips and night-night out like a light.

We must have bombed because I woke to the beautiful green green grass of Blighty down below.

2 hours later we were home and ‘oi oi saveloy’ there was the Cheshire Cat sitting in the garden purring and grinning from ear to ear.

Back to my little world far far away from the adventures of the last 4 months. Time to breath, eat and attempt to get messy on it at least once in the next 2 weeks.

*Please note that due to the comments of a self righteous bossy battle-axe I’ve used self control and refrained from using the cunt word throughout this entire post.

I speak 4 languages: English, Profanity, Sarcasm and Shit.

I’m in a gang.  I’ve never been in a gang before. Well actually that’s not entirely true.  

When I was 9 my friends and I bullied a kid who was being mean to us…  We flicked horse shit on sticks at him until he retreated…  I feel bad about that now… Kind of.

There’s four of us in this gang and we all have something in common. We’re badass brain tumour survivors.

Names have been changed to protect the identities of these goddesses. So hence forth we are referred to as:  Aphrodite, Venus, Inanna and Aurora.

If you don’t know the meaning of these names you were obvs snogging/smoking in the bike sheds during mythology lessons at school. (I was anyway).

Our gang’s named The Love Honeys… Appropriate as we’re fucking cancer and Lovehoney is an online sex shop.

To know there are other people out there who feel exactly the same way as you is mind glowingly reassuring.

They help you realise that you haven’t actually lost the goddamn plot…  Your brain’s just been temporarily fucked because a mother-fucking-platinum-plated cunt has invaded your private headspace.

And in other news…

The Cheshire Kitty Cat has been here taking care of me. And what a fabulous little ball of energy she is.

She cooks, she cleans, she takes the dog on 5-mile runs along the beach… And all before I’ve even got out of bed.

She chauffeurs me around…  Even though this is her first time ever driving on the wrong side.

She’s befriended the neighbours by popping in with bottles of English gin and then staying for a few hours to help them polish it off.

She’s chummy with my radiology team to the point where they’ve offered to give her a tour of the 60 ft monster living 4 floors below ground at the proton centre.

She even mixes me cocktails before supper every evening. Last night was a questionable combo of laxative and sparkling wine. The results were rip-roaringly spine chilling.

Kitty keeps telling me that ‘Friends are like fish, they smell after three days.’ She’s been here a week…  I keep whiffing her fanny but it smells fine to me.

Sadly she must leave me tonight and like all my other beautiful besties who’ve been taking care of me I will miss her terribly.

Sad to say that my ‘house of ill repute’ might have to close its doors for a few weeks now due to the dreaded potential side effects of radio.

But as long as it doesn’t make me grow another head… Or a penis… I will fight it like a girl!

what’s he looking at…

LOVE IS THE ANSWER..

C U Next Tuesday Bambi! Well technically it’s C U tomorrow but that doesn’t spell out the four-letter word I want to scream from the rooftops right now.

So the other day I heard someone say that laughter is the best medicine.

This is bollocks because if you have a brain tumour then a craniotomy is definitely going to be more effective.

Hence I’m heading to the hospital at some ungodly hour tomorrow to start the process of Bambi’s eviction.  

And Bambi honey.. You better not underestimate me because I can go from being a cute little kitty to a fire breathing dragon in the blink of an eye.

And I won’t be taking this lying down.. Well actually I will, but that’s not the point!

Firstly they’ll determine exactly where Bambi’s lurking with a very hi-tech-brain-scan-mapping thingy. 

After that I’ll put on the ludicrous gown (+Tuesday knickers) and be wheeled to theatre where they’ll knock me out (I enjoy this bit).  

Then Dr. Tall Dark & Handsome will perform the eviction. Bambi will be deported to the path lab where they’ll determine whether or not she’s a benign bitch or a cancerous c**t.

Then we’ll have a quick MRI to double check she hasn’t left any baggage behind.  After which I’ll be dispatched to ICU.

This I’m not relishing.. I dislike sharing a room at the best of times.  I can just cope with M and the dog so the thought of sharing with strangers really doesn’t appeal. 

However, when I’m able to pee without assistance they’ll transfer me to my room where I can examine my stapled head in private.. Shame it’s not Halloween.. They’d be a great accessory.  

I have to go now and pack my fabulous new MZ Wallace bag.. If you don’t have one then you must get one. Not even a brain tumour can control my desire for designer swag.

So I’ll see you on the other side when this goddamn mother-fucking bitch is out of my head. 

P.S. Thank you so much for the beautiful, kind and thoughtful messages.  I truly believe that LOVE IS THE ANSWER to everything and I’m so lucky to be feeling it right now.  I’d just like to share this one little message from my oldest friend.. I know it took her ages to write it because she can’t spell 😉

“Touching the cloth is an understatement, my thoughts have been consumed everyday since you told me they were doing tests and when you mentioned the bitter smell, I just knew. 
You have been my bestie since we were 9 years old (I’m the younger one I want to add) and consider you my sister. Well you came for tea wearing a silk scarf with a toggle round it (what the fuck was that about) but now I see the class and grace that surrounds you. 
We have laughed, cried stole each other’s boyfriends, made homemade clothes from sheets, got drunk and ended up in some very strange situations (but we won’t talk about them) but we have been like this for 42 years and I love you to the ends of the earth. 
So I would just like to say I’m quite shocked at the choice of knickers for your hospital stay, my thought swayed to pvc crouch-less knickers to complement your revealing hospital gown so at least the staff would remember you even if you don’t remember them. 
From the bottom of my heart I will be thinking of you every second you are under the knife willing Bambi the squatter to be banished. 
My darling Sarah I will see you on the bright side of this nightmare. The bright side of life (life of Brian).
Love you to the moon and back.” 

Not only is my short term memory fucked but so is my short term memory.

They told me this could be a side effect of brain surgery.

Some memories I might not mind forgetting, like the time my girlfriend held my hair back while I expunged the contents of my stomach in a gutter on the Old Brompton Road.. Or the time my baby did a huge shit in a posh hotel swimming pool in Barbados and I had to scoop it out before anyone noticed..

But I really don’t want to forget any of the people I’ve met along the way. Not even the bad ones. Because how will I know they’re dickheads the next time I see them.

Mostly I don’t want to forget my good friends.. And hopefully I won’t because they aren’t ‘short term’. I’m so lucky to be blessed with the most incredible bunch of beautiful besties and I can’t believe for a second that I could ever forget any of their gorgeous faces.

Though maybe if I do lose my short term memory I’ll gain something new.

I read about a woman who woke up from a coma and could speak Mandarin. I don’t think I’d find that very handy.

But what if I woke up and could sing like Lady Gaga.. Maybe I’d forget about Brad and shift my attention to Bradley!

Incidentally, a couple of friends have asked if I’ve decided on hospital underwear, yes I have.. I’m going for ‘days of the week’ knickers.. so if I do forget everything else at least I’ll know which day it is.