If you find me offensive then I suggest you quit fucking finding me.

Last time I weighed 125lbs I was a 12 year old pre pubescent practising the art of kissing with a 13 year old French boy on a beach somewhere near St Tropez.

Time moves on and I’ve kissed countless toads since then. But to be 125lbs again is kinda fabulous.. even if it is being caused by a brain munching cunt.

Last week I went for an MRI. Not because of my scrawniness but as a result of Bambi fucking around again.

My surgeon spotted a new bright light. I was hoping for a happy twinkly kind of light and not the dark cunty Bambi kind.

And oh fuckerty fuck, the waiting game was painful and every possible and impossible thought entered my head.

The results arrived. My gorgeous surgeon was fabulous as always. We tired of Bambi swiftly and deliberated over the fine works of David Hockney instead.

My equally brilliant radiologist was also calm and collected about this latest eye-popper and suggested it’s most likely to be something called pseudo progression (a good sign).

I love these top men. If they’d been aboard the Titanic they’d have been the guys playing in the band on deck as cool as cucumbers right ‘til the end.

I bumped into my ravishing radiology team too whom I bloody adore. Not that I’d ever want to land on the radiation table again.

Anyway something’s going on and I’m banking on it being the chemo finishing the bitch off.

On a positive note 4 phenomenal friends walked a marathon through London last weekend.

They walked for The Brain Tumour Charity… And in honour of yours truly, they called themselves Team Bambi.

Most importantly, they raised over £2000 to help in the fight to eradicate this goddamn awful fucking disease.

My friends are my superheroes and I feel honoured to know every single one of them.

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‘You are what you eat.’ Are you fuck! When did I eat a brain tumour?

An old friend came to visit. When we were young I spent much time correcting her linguistics.

‘Are you feeling fat-e-guude?’ She enquired not long after arrival.

‘What the fuck’s fat-e-guude?’ I replied.

‘You know, fat-e-guude’ she said again.

‘Oh for fucks sake – you mean fatigued?’

The next day we cycled to the beach.

‘Wow, what a beautiful lake!’ she exclaimed after spotting a vast expanse of water.

Incredulously, I responded ‘Are you insane? That’s the goddamn fucking Atlantic Ocean.’

Later in the week M and I were chatting about his old uni alumni.

‘What’s an alumni?’ My friend enquired as she entered the room.

I glanced at M and then turned to my friend and replied

‘It’s what you call a support group for people with perverse sexual fetishes.’

‘Omg! Really? What type of fetishes?’ She squealed.

‘Mostly sexual.’ I pointed out again.

At this point M couldn’t bear my jesting and told my friend what an alumni really is. Killjoy!

She’s been a great distraction from Bambi’s fuckery and doesn’t complain when I roll out of bed at noon and crawl back in at sundown.

I love this whacky beautiful babe so much but sadly she’s now departed and I’m back on the evil vomituous chemo.

I fucking hate this poison and as each day passes I feel like Captain Blackbeard’s mutinous deckhand being forced to walk the plank.

After a while I find myself washed up on a desert island. That island being my bed. And while I’m castaway I have plenty of time to contemplate.

This afternoon I woke from a 6 hour nap after dreaming about the epitaph I’d like inscribed on my tombstone…

‘She died doing what she loved, swearing like a sailor.’

My fabulous friend posing for the centre-fold!

At the stage where my mind thinks I’m 26, my humour thinks I’m 12… and my body thinks I’m dead.

Seems I get a couple of weeks between chemo sessions when my brain isn’t overloaded with fuckery so I can be normal (ish).

I don’t feel the need to take a daily 6 hour nap and I have enough energy to hold a conversation for more than 3 minutes without yawning.

I look for joy in food… Don’t find much, but it’s a better feeling than wanting to puke at the thought.

So due to this unexpected lift of chemo fog, I’ve become curiously enlightened and found the answer to some therapeutic alleviation.

It consists of 3 simple ingredients: love, positive energy and a sprinkling of fucks. That’s it.

Number 1: No one needs a plethora of friends in order to be happy. A handful of beautiful diamonds is worth so much more than a 1000 bitchface cunts.

Surround yourself with the people who know your true value and vice versa.

If you find yourself free-falling and your people are just watching you fall… Then they simply aren’t your people. Stick with the ones who will catch you and not run away squawking.

Courage is contagious after all.

Number 2: Try and find something positive in every situation.

For instance, yesterday I fell off my bicycle whilst crossing the railway tracks and my first thought afterwards was ‘Wow, thank fuck there wasn’t a train coming.’

Chemo’s gruesome – but on the upside it’s destroying Bambi’s bellend bastard babies and it’s getting me back into my super skinny jeans (If you rolled your eyes at that you’re just jealous).

Number 3: Apparently having an expansive vocabulary of swear words is a sign of intelligence and may be beneficial to the mind and body.

Swearing is also proven to help with pain as the benefits include increased circulation, elevated endorphins, and an overall sense of feeling motherfucking fantastic.

And as Humpty Dumpty said “When I use a word, it means just what I choose it to mean – neither more nor less.”

There you have it. Possibly Betty Swollocks but seems to be working for me.

Two simple ways to look at life: Happy happy happy dead. Worry worry worry dead.

‘You’re emancipated.’ M announced.

‘Cool, does that mean you’ll unshackle me and take the potato sack off my head?’ I replied.

He corrected his statement.

‘Sorry, I meant ‘emaciated’. You’re emaciated. Oh and you’ve got wrinkly old lady armpits too.’

I found these observations both complimentary and contemptuous.

Luckily for M my short term memory’s shot so I won’t recall such audacity tomorrow.

On another note, the first chemo wagon rolled into town 3 days earlier than planned. I’d postponed and procrastinated but eventually threw down arms and surrendered.

It’s been a grim experience.

Surgery – Walk in the park.

Radiation – Piece of cake.

Chemo – Goddamn fucking hideous.

And no intravenous fiddling-with for me. There’s only one toxic cocktail sanctioned to annihilate Bambi.

Firstly, don’t eat for 2 hours. Easy as no longer find joy in food.

Then dissolve foul pill on tongue and wait an hour.

Finish off with complex combo of chemical weapons.

Go to bed and trust you don’t spend the night puking shitting dying on bathroom floor.

Other distasteful side effects crop up.

Curious hallucinogenic dreams.

We were way back in time circa 1977. Sid Vicious was cleaning my kitchen whilst humming to God Save The Queen on the wireless.

M walked in and announced he’d sent a photo to Penthouse to be included on the Readers Wives page.

The image depicted me skiing off-piste in Zermatt, wearing nothing but a bobble hat and a pair of giant green knickers… ‘FUCK’ printed on the vajuju and ‘CANCER’ on the butt. Not altogether porn but unpleasant enough. Especially as in reality I struggle to get down a blue run.

Five days a month now of this stomach-churning fun and games for as long as my body (and mind) endures.

But as the saying goes…

Never say die.

Real friends will tell you to ‘shut the fuck up’ to your face and they’ll say nice things about you behind your back.

Dumbass cancer has got me thinking about the old days.

Not the time before electricity – the time before responsibility.

I’m fortunate to still have friends from those days. We don’t see each other often but we stay in touch.

Jasmine and I were on an academic par, every lesson together, including trampolining.

We weren’t VERY naughty as we didn’t consider embezzled goods from our parents i.e. cigarettes and alcohol a crime.

There was a situation in class once. Vexed with our dickhead wankface teacher I wrote and illustrated explicit profanities regarding his wankiness on a netball.

Jas thought it an idea to roll said ball to front of class where it settled between teacher’s legs.

I was henceforth suspended for one week.

My other friends were, and still are, Lysette and Katarina.

We did some fucked up shit! We didn’t get busted because there was no internet, cell phones, GPS or police drones.

We didnt just share sexy clothing, we shared sexy boys too. And there were plenty of both in our adolescent flooziness.

One time Kat was banned from seeing me when Daddy found her diary and baby-proofing pills hidden in a dolls house in her bedroom.

He told her she could have a new pony if she did as she was told. She picked the pony, I would have done same!

But we still snuck out together and horsed around.

Lysette and I were the worst combo. I can’t divulge 95% of our waggishness. But we got away with most of it.

One time we were caught redhanded with a couple of ‘battery bananas’ we’d found – and decided to race them across the top of a wardrobe to see which one would topple first.

Back in the 70’s The Rampant Rabbit hadn’t been invented and you couldn’t fob a sex toy off as a neck massager.

This incident had a lasting effect because Lys grew up and became a sex therapist.

And still to this day she’s enlightening men on how to finger their wives.

Kat followed her dream too. She married a retired show-jumper who it turned out, enjoyed riding anything with a pulse.

Jas took the stage, but after being lured to a saggy director’s couch one time she packed it in, went back to school and became an attorney… She’s been invaluable over the years. 9 divorces between us has kept her busy.

My surgeon said I might lose some long term memory. But no, it’s still fully intact for now.

And if I do lose it, one of these 3 beauties will be there to remind me of the time we drank Shroom Smoothies whilst enjoying a group bath and washing each other’s hair with yellow finger paints.

Fungi with fun guys.

Just because I carry it well doesn’t mean it doesn’t get really fucking heavy sometimes.

Day 1. Back in my prevailing reality. Started with a drive to my old anxiety inducing friend the MRI machine.

By the time I’d necked a few sedatives it looked more like a cozy cocoon so I was content to crawl inside for a nap while a handsome stranger fiddled with a needle and injected a pretty purple dye into my arm.

This dye would travel to my brain and illuminate any signs that Bambi might be attempting to show her cock-juggling-thunder-cunt-face again.

After the procedure I was feeling contently languorous so went home and back to my bed.

How life can fuck with you. This time yesterday I was frolicking with my friends in paradise.

Woke at 6pm, watched M devour his supper, went back to bed via a disturbingly insane episode of The Handmaids Tale.

Day 2. Rocked up at my oncologist’s office at 10am.

Had a weigh-in at 10.15am… Lost another 4 lbs. Got told off. FFS. There has to be some benefit to cancer.

MRI images back and my brain’s looking pretty and grey with no sign of Bambi for now.

The only slice of info I didn’t quite fathom was when oncol mentioned 5 rare and unusual mutations with names so obscure I’ll never remember.

That got me thinking about Mutant Ninja Turtles.

There were 4. So I’ve named mine Michelangelo, Leonardo, Raphael, Donatello and Bellatrix Lestrange (she’s no. 5).

Bellatrix is the only one who might be targetable should Bambi rear her butt-ugly face again.

The rest are immune to anything short of a high velocity assault weapon, because they’re so exceptionally peculiar, scientists seem to know fuck all about them. Buggery bollocks.

I felt like crying on the drive home.

This is a new random phenomenon for me.

Not because I’m scared or in pain but because I’m tired.

Tired of all the bullshit and of being told what to do and when to do it.

Tired of the meds and needles. It’s like being a drug addict but without the benefits.

Tired of feeling tired all the goddamn fucking time.

Seriously, how soon after waking up in the morning is it acceptable to take a nap?

I might seem strong (and hilariously funny) because I am. But even strong women need to have their hand held sometimes.

My husband and my closest friends know this about me and they’re always there to hold my hand when it needs holding.

For anyone who has cancer or any other serious illness this is an invaluable gift. To feel loved is everything.

Stick with the people who pull the magic out of you and not the madness.

And lucky me… I have another Blighty Bestie arriving tonight for two more weeks of bestie bliss.

‘Ooh, baby, do you know what that’s worth? Ooh, heaven is a place on Earth. They say in heaven, love comes first. We’ll make heaven a place on Earth. Ooh, heaven is a place on Earth.’ I think only of Bermuda when I hear this song.’

WARNING: Virtually no cursing in this post. Just love and a few mildly offensive images.

One of my Blighty Besties arrived on a jet plane. We’re like a contradictory version of Ab Fab’s Patsy and Eddie. I’m sober Patsy and she’s skinny Eddie.

We generally entertain ourselves by conversing with random strangers… And we have no preference.

Tuesday consisted of:

Meeting a handsome retired Colombian drug baron and his adorable wife in the club pool.

When they informed us they’d been married 59 years I enquired  ‘So what’s the secret to a long and happy marriage?’

‘It’s our 3 week anal vacation to Bermuda.’ He divulged in his sexy Spanish accent.

Admirable at his age and she deserves a medal… Or a very large Colombian emerald for being such a trooper.

We then moved on to a bewilderingly voluminous cackle of women from Massachusetts (also in pool soup).

They told us they were here with their husbands for a fun weekend getaway.

That’s lady-like code for ‘fucked up debauched gang bang’

Our final encounter consisted of a flamboyant Belgium 3some…  And as delicious looking as the chocolate variety. Not only did their outfits coordinate exquisitely but their names… Aart, Abe and Abel were equally magnificent.

The following day, after my morning ritual of an hour long float, I discovered a savvy skill I didn’t know I had.

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Turns out I’m an aficionado diving guru. Eddie went from being the bellyflop beaver to the swan dive diva in a matter of hours thanks to my expert instruction. And a little help from a 5 and 8 year old.

Dinner by the harbour followed, with views of a dozen floating gin palaces.

I taunted Eddie into acquiring us an invite onboard. A tricky task at best seeing as we’re no longer sexy young kitties.

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However, she did come back with the offer of a tour aboard an antiquated fishing vessel named The Happy Hooker.

The next day was spent on the ocean. Kayaking the idealic peaceful islands with the occasional high pitched sequel when one of us spotted a turtle popping it’s cute head up for air.

Friday happy hour ended at 1am. We danced, sang, snogged one another and fought over a young sexy beast who also happened to be a superb dancer. Apparently when a guy grinds his knee into your vagina it’s called ‘salsa’.

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The evening ended with me spreading my legs…. to the stars.

My lack of filter came in handy the next morning when I picked a fight with a bunch of builders after witnessing them throw fag butts into the ocean.

Denial was their first attempt at defence so I added artistic licence to my response.

‘Look not only do I have incurable brain cancer but I have 8 year old triplet boys who swim in this stretch every morning and if they choke on your butts I’ll sue YOUR ignorant butts until you’re incontinent!’

Seemed to do the trick so we went for a smug dip.

Our final night with dearest friends listening to Yellow Man, sitting on the white-washed roof, drinking champagne and watching the perfect sunset.

This last 10 days have been the best tonic since that cunning little cunt Bambi entered my world 5 months ago.

The love I feel from my beautiful friends and the energy I receive from this heaven on Earth is maybe the cure for my cancer.

‘In this world we’re just beginning.  To understand the miracle of living.  Baby, I was afraid before. But I’m not afraid anymore.’