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 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…

It’s a dog’s life..

I kind of know how dogs feel.. Especially dogs that live in pleasant houses with pleasant owners.. 

As like a dog I sleep, I go for the odd walk around the block, then I come home and sleep again. I guess the only difference is I don’t shit in public, I don’t hump inanimate objects and I don’t sniff ass. 

When I’m awake I’m consumed with déjà vu.. This often indicates a seizure is pending.. But not always.

Being on the edge of a seizure is goddamn fucking frustrating because you just wanna get it out.. It’s like being on the edge of a sneeze or an orgasm.. But you can’t quite make it happen.

Conveniently it appears I’ve become allergic to housework.  I was dusting yesterday when things got trippy and Brad Pitt appeared on the sofa.. Which made my face tingle.. At least it was only my face. 

The seizure ran its course, then ended with the acrid smell and taste before I was transported back to reality.  

Obvs I can’t carry on seeing Brad lounging on my settee so a swift visit to my neuro and an increase of cocktails should put a stop to it. I won’t think of myself as overly medicated.. Just pharmaceutically fabulous! 

I also met my oncologist.. A charming man but not sure he appreciated my humour.  Although after we’d played a game of funny bone smacking and feet tickling I’m pretty sure we bonded.

Next up is a radiography consult.. But in the meantime I’m wallowing in the delight of one of my perfectly darling oldest besties here to look after me..   She’s already demonstrated the best way to have ‘lazy sick person sex’.   

Instructions to follow. 

The Sex Guru and Me mid orgasm circa 1999

If you’ve never seen a pair of toy poodles chatting to each other in French – you’ve never dropped acid.

Honey go put the kettle on – this one’s going to take a while.

Today felt like a day at the Academy Awards.

The results were in.   And waiting for results is a bit like waiting to find out whether you’ve won an Oscar or not.

I even decided to get proper dressed for the big event.  Gigantic pants and baggy sweats really weren’t going to cut it today.   It felt good slathering myself in Tom Ford and slipping into a little silk cami.  

The drive west was smooth. M has had to revise his driving style from deranged bedlamite to plain-sailing slow-lane chauffer in order to cater to my need for seamless gear changing due to wobbly brain issue.

Arriving at my doctor’s office we were escorted into a private room to await the entrance of the chief.

Time for a quick selfie in big examination chair to share on WhatsApp group with my girl gang back home.

Soon my two new favourite people in the whole wide world entered and we got down to business. 

Results were dispensed and I was given the all-inclusive synopsis of the invader of my synapses AKA Bambi.  

It had been concluded that she was a rarity who had mutated from a few pretty pink star shaped cells. 

I guess at the end of the day – if you’re going to get a brain tumour – what more could a girl ask for than a limited edition, sparkly one.

Then we got back to the important matters of English literature.. My brain surgeon is a literary treasure trove and the fact that he quoted Tolkien and my blog in the same sentence.. Made me feel extra special.

The ride home was fairly benign until suddenly an enormous real life Bambi ran into the road. Oh dear!! M slammed the brakes.  How paradoxical..  I’d never want to annihilate a pukka Bambi.

So next up is a spicy little cocktail of radio and chemo.  I have no idea what this entails.  Is it comparable to mixing acid and ecstasy – I can draw on a past experience for that one.

Finished off the day with my love, my friend, the biggest plate of sushi and the teeniest glass of fizz.

I felt so giddy with optimism that when the UPS man arrived with a package I took it from him and said ‘Thanks, love you. Bye.’

‘Nobody move! I dropped me brain.’ Captain Jack Sparrow

My gorgeous savvy surgeon and his beautiful brilliant assistant came for cocktail hour and inspection.  Upon their departure they awarded me with my much anticipated golden ticket.. I had permission to go home. Yay!

My discharge order was set in motion and I had 24 hours to prepare myself for checkout. 

Intravenous drips were finally ejected, long scripts were written and copious quantities of hospital knickers and sick bags were handed my way.  

And then there was the ‘blow job’ machine   Officially known as an incentive spirometer..  I’m required to blow it 10 times an hour.  In order to prevent pneumonia.. and other sexually transmitted diseases and unwanted menopausal pregnancies. 

I obtained special permission to take a shower too. Not currently looking my usual eye-wateringly-alluring-self.. My anatomy resembles that of a malnourished heroin addict in desperate need of rehab.. track marks cover my body like a map of the Cotswolds footpaths.

M got prime viewing of this spectacle while hosing me down like I was an oppressed palomino belonging to a pigged-tailed posh kid about to enter the Pony Club mounted games. 

Then my physiotherapist declared that I require a walking cane.. ‘Will hospital issue suffice?’ I was asked.

‘Umm no thank you very much.  I desire an elaborate gold dragon’s head with bright green emerald eyes .. thanks for your offer, but I’ll require Chinese eBay for this accessory.’

Ironically I fell asleep that last evening whilst watching a movie about a little blue fish (called Dory) who suffered from short term memory loss.

The morning couldn’t arrive soon enough and I was so so excited to get home.. because as the saying goes.. ‘Home is always the place where .. You POOP most comfortably!’ And I was really looking forward to that fuzzy cozy feeling.


I’m a ‘ROCKSTAR’ and there’s no denying it now.

Swiftly upgraded from the ICU,  l’m now residing on the swanky Four Seasons ward of this shiny new hospital.

Especially popular (it must be my fancy British accent and breathtaking assemblage of pjs) I’m inundated with fans aka fabulous nurses, doctors, interns, dieticians, physiotherapists, cleaning ladies, caterers, chambermaids and the chatty man who unblocks the loos.  

At 6am I had to put my foot down though.. Well actually it was my yellow non-slippy socked foot.  

A young handsome doctor bounded into my room.  He had a Starbucks Vente in one hand and a shiny pair of pliers in the other.  He seemed wired.. Like he had three hours remaining of a forty-hour sleepless shift. 

He approached explaining he was here to remove the staples from my head. ‘No thanks!’  Was my instant response,  ‘I don’t think I’m ready for this, please come back later.’ 

Luckily, he didn’t protest and swiftly left.. Possibly in search of a quiet gurney to cat nap on. 

A few minutes later another adorable young doctor entered also brandishing a pair of pliers but with no caffeine in hand.

‘Hello’  he said  ‘I’m here to remove your staples.’ 

‘Do you have gentle hands?’  Was my nervous reply.  ‘Yes I believe so..’ he responded confidently enough.  ‘Ok you can come over here and very gently remove the staples from my head.’

I whiffed his breath as he approached to confirm he hadn’t been on the coffee bean elixir.  It wasn’t a painless procedure but he managed to remove the staples with only a couple of little squawks from me. 

After which my headband sanitary napkin was gone and my wound was unveiled.  It was time to look at my gorgeous surgeon’s piece de resistance. 

I bumbled to the bathroom and took a glimpse in the mirror at my expertly stitched dissolvable sutures..  Frankenstein‘s bride came to mind.  Yeah not my best look.. And slightly furious I hadn’t thought to ask Doc to give me a face-lift while he was at it.. Surely incision lines would be same.   

The day progressed with various IV fillers, pills and buttock injections. One thing I’m having to endure is steroids through IV which instantly disburses a malice electrical current to my ‘back passage region’.. Not an erotic sensation I would willingly sign up for.

The other thing that’s changed around here is the climate under the sheets.. Things are usually pretty calm and tranquil in my world but it’s gotten windy and we’re experiencing great sailing conditions.. Don’t be surprised if things start to disappear into the Bermuda Triangle! 

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.