‘Oh shut the fuck up and have a drink.’ Me as a therapist.

Arrived in Bermuda with all the energy of a 14ft python who’d just eaten a fattened cow.

3 hours on the tarmac waiting to take off for a 2 hour flight. WTF American Airlines.

1st night was like a scene from a Stephen King novel. I opened the wardrobe and there he was… waiting for me… the giant flying roach… flip flop in hand I got into bed and waited.

I then clocked him spying me through a crack in the door, 10ft tentacles flaying around. After noticing my 6 inch scar and undercut he determined he was no match and fucked off back into the crevice he’d come from.

Woke to blue skies and the warm fuzzy feeling of ‘home’. Blissful day filled with birthday celebrations, delicious food and a dip in the heavenly crystal clear ocean.

The night ended with a successful flip flop splattering of cockroach #2 who was clearly cockier than his mate from last night.

FYI vermin: I have a goddamn brain tumour and no man-eating-mother-fucking-roach is ever giving me the heebie geebies again.

When I first arrived here nearly 30 years ago, someone said to me ‘You know what Bermuda is? It’s 60,000 alcoholics clinging to a rock.’

‘Fantastic.’ Was my immediate response, ‘I’ve moved to paradise!’

Times have changed since those glory days and just as well because tonight at a party, while chatting to old friends and neighbours, I downed one glass of fizz and was ready for bed. FFS Bambi.

And btw Brad, when the movie rights for Bambi sell, you’ve got stiff Bermudian competition as leading man. There’s a handsome Mr Kempe up for the role, and he’s not of the Spandex Ballet kind.

Sunday followed with more frolicking. At one point I came out of the club pool with my hair swept back and received an extended once over from 3 members of the super bitch wives club. Oh fuck, was I flashing a nipple? Or worse, had I exposed my vajayjay? What were they looking at?

Then I realised it was my impressively large bald patch and scar. They were probably wondering how a rough old slag could have gained access to such a prestigious establishment.

Gorgeous dinner on the beach with one Bermuda bestie followed by a sleepover with another Bermuda bestie and my 12 year old goddaughter.

Her mother had told her all about brain tumours but not much about the ‘birds and the bees’.

So took it upon myself to give her a few pointers and attempt to not expose her mothers overly edited version of her own youth.

The conversation commenced with a ‘pure white flower’ being the symbolisation of virginity and how this ‘pure white flower’ should remain pure until marriage.

‘Mummy told me I must remain pure until I’m at least 35 or married. Just like her.’ She told me.

Well I could accept the first sentence of this statement with a sweet nodding (fake) smile.

But when the second sentence hit my ears I choked on air and fell backwards into a nearby oleander tree.

I’ve known her mother for 30 years and luckily for her she’s in my tighty-tight circle of ‘besties’ and what happens in the circle must stay in the circle.

However, there’s a tinge of regret in not disclosing the truth now because after emerging from the pool that afternoon she declared…

‘You look like that famous character from Game of Thrones!’

‘Aww,’ I responded ‘Which one… Daenerys Targaryen?‘No,’ she smirked ‘I was thinking of The Hound. You have similar scar and haircut.’

Fuck off bitch. I guess we’re both old dogs.

Finally today and on a more serious and sobering note. I’ve requested that she and my goddaughter provide the eulogy at my eventual funeral.

I’ve given them strict instructions that it must be goddamn funny as hell or else I’ll be back as a poltergeist to haunt them for all eternity.

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Karmasutra: When life fucks you in all kinds of creative ways.

I’ve realized something curious lately.  I find it relatively painless to say I have a brain tumour but virtually impossible to say I have cancer.  Why is that?

Cancer is such an unpleasant word.

I’m not saying ‘brain tumour’ sounds poetic or alluring. But telling someone you have a brain tumour is a little like declaring you have crabs or chlamydia.

The shock value is mildly entertaining due to the gulps and gasps and the lack of clichés available. 

Whereas with the word cancer there are many vexing metaphors.

 For example:

‘Oh poor you, you have a long bumpy journey ahead of you!’

Or

‘Oh poor you, you need to be a warrior and fight this battle!’

These violence and journey clichés are questionable to me.   

After all, this isn’t Game of Thrones. 

What if you knew your cancer was terminal yet everyone’s telling you  ‘Be a warrior, be a fighter’…   Surely when you’re teetering on the edge of your own existence you’d feel you’ve failed because you know for sure you’re losing the mother-fucking stupid goddamn battle.

On the upside of brain tumours… Most people know fuck all about them so you don’t get so many clichés.

It’s especially advantageous to spell out exactly what tumour you have as many have long Latin sounding names and this adds to the theatrics of the moment.  

Technically mine’s not called Bambi, her real name is Anaplastic Astrocytoma, and she’s a rare one, it’s guesswork even for the experts.  

But one thing I know for sure…   Shoving 2 sticks of unsalted butter and a pickled onion up my ass will not cure me.

Obviously this is just my personal view and I’m sure there are some out there who find my taxonomy objectionable. 

But that’s ok because ‘Ego irrumabo non facio.’ 

(That’s pidgin Latin for ‘I don’t give a fuck’.)

In other news I’m counting the days until I get a month’s reprieve between radio and chemo.  

I’m going to board a jet plane and head home to Blighty for 3 weeks. Against some of my doctors’ recommendations but again… ‘Ego irrumabo non facio’ as my body requires M&S food, country walks, country pubs, London and the Sunday papers. 

Oh and there’s quite a few faces Catwoman is desperate to lick. 

MY HUSBAND CALLS ME CRAZY… BUT HE WAS THE ONE WHO MARRIED ME!

People: ‘Watch your language!’ Me: ‘Oh fuck, sorry.’

My kitchen transformed overnight into a Michelin star Indian restaurant thanks to my beautiful friend who arrived on a jet-plane with a suitcase loaded with spices and supplements. No wonder she got the ‘rubber glove’ treatment at Customs.

Feeling she hadn’t brought enough ingredients with her we made a trip to Wholefoods where the excitement of shopping for all these delicious ingredients but not having to navigate cooking them caused me to have a seizure at the checkout.

I think my friend thought I did it deliberately to get out of paying, but hey if you’ve got a cancer card you need to play it.

We then headed home, with her driving my car under my instruction as to which side of the road she should be on.

For a brief second we were both distracted, then I realised she was on the wrong side.

FUCK’ I screamed ‘You’re on the wrong FUCKING side’

She speedily manoeuvred over and managed to avoid hitting any small children or dogs.

We made it home in one piece where I promptly went on to have another seizure. One more and it would be a hat trick.

The next morning she put her pinny on and spent the day cooking up a storm and making a selection of the most delicious mouth-watering curries and saags.

If you looked in my freezer now you’d think we’re preparing for Armageddon.

The next evening we felt like going clubbing but instead settled for Barnes and Noble. At one point I lost my friend and started to cry. I even had the cashier call her name on the loud speaker! Confirmation of how fragile my little brain is right now.

My friend’s calmness has brought such a relaxed feeling to our home. After the yummiest curry that evening we settled down to watch Game of Thrones where after the first 10 mins I felt a seizure coming on.

Not wanting to ruin the moment I managed to keep it to myself without making the slightest fuss.. Not my usual style at all.

Mostly her serenity has transformed my barking mad labradoodle. He’s had a personality change and is now almost Crufts worthy (well apart from yesterday when he escaped and she had to chase him down the drive with a rotesserie chicken under her arm).

And even M is so relaxed he’s almost horizontal. But that might be something to do with the amount of curry he’s consumed.

She can’t possibly ever leave me now. I’m sure her diamond geezer back home won’t mind..

Reggie and his Bestie comparing eyelashes