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.

‘There is a place, like no place on Earth. A land full of wonder, mystery and danger! Some say, to survive it, you need to be as mad as a hatter. Which, luckily, I am.’ Alice in Wonderland.

I fell down a rabbit hole, banged my head pretty hard and found myself in a whole new world. 

But I’m not Alice and this definitely isn’t Wonderland. 

I’m me and the person I was 4 months ago is not who I am today.  Although do I still look for the humour in everything? Abso-fucking-lutely!

One of M’s lovely friend’s asked him  ‘How the fuck can your wife have brain cancer and still be funny?’ 

Well isn’t everything funny if you can laugh at it?

I’m surrounded by lotions and potions and murky green cocktails which all say ‘Drink me goddamit!’

My reality has changed forever and there will be no going back to yesterday or how I was before Bambi arrived on the scene. 

I’m still me but I’m a slightly different version of me.  I haven’t gone crazy, my perspective on things has just changed.  

And I’m sensitive, seriously, to everything:

Sound, light, alcohol (fucks sake), information, judgment, slap and tickle, negativity, CAFFEINE big time, sugar, blar blar blar.. 

And I’ve come to a fork in the road because even though I’ve been led to believe that 6 weeks of radiotherapy, followed by 12 months of chemotherapy are my best chance there is another option.. 

I could take the holistic route. I could stay away from sugar (because it feeds cancer), turn my back on cakes and bread (because wheat and grains have an inflammatory influence on the human body).  

I could take a billion supplements, oxygen therapy, consume every derivative of cannabis and eat those fried sea cucumbers.  I could also wrap my head in tin foil. 

Some people might think I’m bonkers because they see clearly which road I should be taking. 

But when you’re stuck in the woods you can’t always see a clear way out.  

I have to make that decision yesterday because it’s now or never. 

Am I going to be a scaredy kitty Catwoman, as lost as Alice or as mad as the Hatter!  

But as the Mad Hatter said himself  ‘The best people usually are.’

Ultimately recovery doesn’t just happen it takes a plan and a support system surrounded by love. I’m so blessed to have the latter, but now I just need to find my way out of the woods and formulate the former. 

And so the next chapter can begin.. Of which I’m more terrified than the last. But chin up, tits out and onwards. 

‘You can’t arrest me, I’m a rock star’. (Sid Vicious)

What do you get when you put two super-sexy high-powered middle-aged Englishwomen, an 18-year-old thespian skinhead, a designer Australian Labradoodle with a questionable haircut and a bag of ‘special ’ gummy bears on a sofa together?

High as heck baby. 

One got jiggly, one got giggly, one got wiggly and one got licky.  Then they all got excessively munchy.

Luckily we’d pre-emptied this scenario and there was an extensive Japanese sushi banquet in the kitchen waiting to be inhaled.

I of course was an outsider looking in..  A spectator watching the spectacle unfold.  My current situation and cocktail of narcotics probably wouldn’t have been an agreeable mixer so I had to sit on the side lines of this little soiree.  

You might well think that Saturday nights in the house of a brain tumour person would be a tad tedious and tame..  But not around here honey.  It’s all about love and other drugs.

Having a goddamn mother-fucking brain tumour isn’t going to eliminate the good-time-party-girl in me.   

After all..  A little party never killed nobody and who knows what fucked up shit tomorrow might bring.

I might have been born in the shadows of Windsor Castle but I knew I’d burst into the sunshine eventually.

Not sure if it’s my eloquent British accent but honestly the US medical system have treated me like a princess throughout this freaky fiasco.

I have an exemplary A Team Royal Entourage, which must at the very least match that of HRH Megan, the new Duchess of Sussex.

I‘m being cared for by unquestionably brilliant people..   Neurosurgeons, neurologists, oncologists, radiologists, doctors, nurses.  Not to forget my incredible group of beautiful friends who are flying in from all over to cook for me, enterain me and walk the dog.   

The only team members missing from my ‘inner circle’ are the stylists, make up artists and hairdressers.

I even have a PA, Chauffer and Chief Protection Officer (AKA M), which incidentally came in handy today when a suspicious looking package arrived from Latvia.   

I suggested M put on his bicycle helmet – take said package to garage for inspection and controlled explosion.

Instead he bravely opened it on kitchen counter with a pair of kitchen scissors. 

Rather than an assemblage of brightly coloured cables and alarm clocks the box revealed a lovely selection of heart shaped beach stones sent to me by my gorgeous sister-in-law as a symbol of our love and the personal significance they hold.

I’ve also discovered that having a brain tumour is a full-time job and having an efficient PA to pick up the slack is imperative– there are appointments to be made, insurance companies to negotiate with, thank you notes to write.. It’s round-the-clock non-stop. 

I barely have time to squeeze in a mani and wax – although I might not need that for a while once the chemo and radio kicks in.

It’s time for M to iron my pjs and run me a bubble bath now.

Good night all, I hope you have sexy dreams or flying dreams (they’re my favourite kind).

P.S. There are no mother-fuckers or cunts in this post because some of my friends mums are reading my blog and there’s concern my cursing is offensive. 

Sorry about that!