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.


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.


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.’

A is for Asshole

Off we sped on the gurney down to the MRI dept. Once we got there I was briefly enlightened on the functions of a functional MRI. Essentially this test would determine whether I get to sleep during the op or be awake during the op. I’m sure you can guess my preference!

I was injected with a pretty blue dye and then placed into the machine, resembling an enormous lump of dough about to be baked. There was a TV screen on the ceiling of my oven and when images appeared I had to call out their names – house, cat, tree, etc. nothing too taxing. Then I had to call out a word beginning with each letter that appeared. This got me thinking about Bambi and the mess she’d got me into – so – understandbly I became a little rattled.

A – I called out “Asshole Bandit”

B – I called out “Bastard Bollocks”

M – I called out “Motherfucking Motherfucker”

W – I called out “Wankface Wanker”

H- I called out “Hippopotamus”….. I was so cross – I couldn’t think of anything rude beginning with an H. IS there anything rude beginning with an H?

Hippocampus is the region of the brain that’s associated with memory and is derived from the Greek hippocampus (hippo meaning “horse” and kampos meaning “sea monster” since the shape resembles that of a sea horse. (Cheers Wikipedia)

Humans have two hippicampi, one on each side of the brain and they play major roles in short-term and long-term memory, and in spatial memory that enables navigation.

I’d never even heard of a hippocampus before last week but I now know what my specialist subject will be when I finally get in that black swivel chair on Mastermind. I’m gonna kill it.

So the following day, after a standard MRI washed down with a large dose of intravenous sedative – (this monotonous event was having some benefits) – I was duly notified – “Yes you have a mass on your front temporal lobe, we have no idea what it is but it’s probs cancer. Could be primary (quite rare) or could be secondary (not so rare) or it could be benign (best case). Problem is it’s pushing on your hippocampus.”

VOILA – we had finally found the culprit causing the seizures! And I was finally able to put a face to Bambi. See image below.

I was informed that the next step was a CT body scan to attempt to discover any sneaky little cancer critters lurking in my vital organs. Nothing showed up in this test. Although I was warned by the neurologist that there could be the teeniest bit of melanoma sneaking around under my finger nail but we just can’t see it.

At around 3 pm I started to think about my flight home that evening; and this time I had taken precautions and booked M on the flight with me just incase I started convulsing at altitude, swallowing my tongue and in need of assistance in retriving it.

Then my doctor popped in and told me I needed to gown up and dejewel again as it was imperative that I now went for what they call a functional MRI. “Are there sedatives involved in this? I asked. ‘Yes ma’am there are”. Fuck the flight then – wheel me on down.

Meet Bambi

Entering a phantasmagoric dream world

The week that followed is a blur now and I look back and wonder why I didn’t go to the ER sooner. I was having a ‘funny turn’ every other day or so and it was so surreal it didn’t feel real.

However, by the weekend I was reaching record breaking heights and by the end of Sunday I had managed to have 7 ‘funny turns’.

Thinking that Monday’s would be the quietest day in the ER (how wrong were we – it turns out everyone saves up there aliments over the weekend) off we went.

We dropped Reggie with our lovely doggy sitter and as I was explaining to her the purpose of my ER visit – another ‘funny turn’ managed to pop out of me. Feeling terribly flustered I stumbled back to the car and we headed west. Obvs I wasn’t driving.

I won’t bore you with the next 14 tedious hours!! But after a CT scan, blood samples, urine samples, more blood samples, annoying heart monitors and lots of ridiculous questions I was finally moved from my dubiously stained gurney in the ER and admitted to the hospital. I surrendered to my hospital bed at around 3am. Just in time to catch a fascinating documentary about the life of the fabulous rebel princess – Her Royal Highness The Princess Margaret, Countess of Snowdon.

I was told I’d be woken at 6 am by a team of highly trained technicians who would hook me up to a brain monitor called an EEG. That didn’t happen – at 6am I was woken up by a brown tray of brown oatmeal, with brown coffee and brown eggs. No thanks.

But then around 9ish a very nice man arrived with lots of machinery, sticky things and cables. A lovely nurse proceeded to stick the sticky things to my head with some sticky KY Jelly like substance. To say I looked like a beauty school dropout at this point is a bit of an understatement.

Whilst all of this was happening I was furiously requesting that everyone get a move on because as far as I was concerned, I still had a flight to catch back to London that night. I had places to go, things to do, people to see and no time for this unpleasant inconvenience.

HRH Princess Margaret

11th January 2019

The day started like any other normal day and ended like any other normal day. But something strange happened in the middle of the day which made me stop in my tracks.

Whilst out for a lunchtime walk around the swanky streets of Belgravia with my bestie Bella I had a feeling of deja-vu. Except this wasn’t the normal kind of split second ‘hang on a minute I’ve been here before deja-vu’, this was deja-vu that didn’t want to go away.

As we continued to walk along the street the feeling carried on until I felt like I was in a strange parallel universe. I started to panic and asked Bella if we could stop for a moment. I leant against the wall outside the delicious Peggy Porschen cake shop and suddenly had this overwhelming feeling of doom. On any normal day I would have rushed in to Peggy’s and salivated over the cake selection!

The feelings then passed and I instantly had the urge to call my teenage son and make sure everything was ok with him. Everything was.

Being a ‘skeptical’ spiritual kind of person I put it down to unknown phenomena – got on with my day and left it at that. Little did I know what was to come next.

Bella & Me