DIARY: Stephacockaliticus day 1

The daily, heart breaking diary of a blogger suffering bravely with the terminal condition, Stephacockaliticus.

Type 2: Stephacockaliticus. Actual size.

I reluctantly went to the Doctor this morning after I awoke with a sore gum and a bit of a headache.

I figured this was probably due to smoking 50 fatty bombatty joints and drinking a bottle and a half of Jack Daniels the night before. I didn't want to go but as mother was fond of reminding me, you can never be too careful, especially when it comes to your health.

So, off I went to the local medical centre and sat there amid a slut of pregnant teenage freaks with names like Aqua, Charmine, Tiffany, and the twisted shells of hideous piss smelling old folk, with names like Rosalind, Betty, Molly and Doris.

Finally, I was called to see the Doctor. I say Doctor advisedly, because at first I thought I’d wandered into the wrong consultation room where a 'child' was waiting to be seen. When I asked the 'child' where his mummy was he assured me she was working as Head Surgeon at Kings Medical Centre (Fucking nepotism) and he was indeed the Doctor.

Doctor who? I asked and he tutted and said he’d never heard that before. I pressed him again for his name and he apologised, claiming he thought I was making a joke.

He looked down at me through his specs and asked what ailed me. I told him actually it was a bottle and a half of bourbon and that now my gums felt like I’d spent the night licking out the Queen Mum and I was a bit shivery. Just like you would be if you’d licked out the Queen Mum for an entire night.

Very dry.

He told me the Queen Mum was dead and I said I knew that, and that was what made it worse.

He then stuck a lolly stick in my gob (the joke read ‘What’s black, white and red and rolls down a hill?’ I sadly could not see the conclusion to the pun, although I assume it wasn’t a nun on the rag).

He also felt my glands for a bit before giving my willy a tug, which I don’t think was part of the check up, but it felt nice so I let it go. It was only after he pushed his index finger into my bottom hole and asked me if I liked that, that I asked him to stop and get on with the diagnosis.

He then slumped back in his seat, gave my notes a look over – I’d been preparing a blog on the death of Rod Stewart and had made some jottings in the waiting room – he then sighed and asked me what I thought was wrong with me.

I said something along the lines of how the fuck should I know, seeing as how it was him that had gone to a medical school on mummy and daddies money, whilst I was forced to slum it in a piss poor Poly in the North of England with only an LSD habit and some Readers Wives mags to keep me company.

It was at this moment, me a top his desk, ranting, arse pressed against the window that he informed me that I had somehow contracted Stephacockaliticus.

He asked if I’d been in contact with any suffers and I told him that I’d had sex with Carol Vorderman just before she died.

Turns out that skanky whore had given me a dose.

Obviously, it’s all still fresh to me, so I’m in denial about the fact the survival rate is approximately one in a blue moon, and that I may have as little as eighty years left.

That’s all I can write for now, for my tears are pouring out, flooding down onto my hands, mixing with the build up of filth on my keyboard, causing it to stink summit rotten.

I will try to write more tomorrow if I can summon the strength.

Medical Resource:

Other well known Stephacockaliticus sufferers,

Carol Vorderman
Joey Deacon
Pope John Paul II
Andrea Dworkin

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I love you all.