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.
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.