Author Archives: John Connor

Any British comedy aficionados among you will know “He’s fallen in the water” is the most famous of all the innumerable catchphrases of “The Goon Show.” That show was the root of Monty Python and every bit of the new wave of comedy that swept through our country.

Last month, my brother-in-law finally managed to return to Thailand and his lovely wife. He’d been trapped in the U.K. for over a year due to COVID-19. Thailand has quite rightly imposed a Kafkaesque set of rules about entering the country on an extended immigrant visa. Luckily, we had…

Last year, winter never quite arrived, and spring kept springing up before being crushed down again. We imperceptibly melded into summer. Then the autumn leaves hung on, and hung on some more. But these days, would Mr. Sinatra have to get his lyricist to do a rewrite? Some of…

Right, I actually have to start writing my column early this week because of the football schedule. For you Americans, that’s soccer, y’all. The biggest, most popular game in the world! The UEFA European Football Championship, or the Euros, is on. It’s the 2020 competition, but it’s being held…

Many of you will remember doing jankers (detention) in school. Well, those of you who easily identified with “The Breakfast Club” will. If you never did one, let me educate you! A teacher’s favorite devilish ruse was telling us to write about being in an enclosed white space.

Many years ago I thrust myself into the Edinburgh International Festival. For the many who have never heard of it: It’s the largest arts festival in the world, encompassing theater, mime, dance, comedy, film, books, and sometimes even a splash of opera. For some reason I even sat through…

There was a time when I’d regularly strap on two pads, stride out between English showers, and attempt to bat on the subsequently dodgy surface. That was good for the fast bowlers, except they now found themselves also slipping on the sopping grass. I sympathized with them, as I was…

Screaming. The pain from this trigeminal neuralgia (TN) attack was worse than any previous attack. And there have been aplenty. I couldn’t function! But boy could I scream. It was 8 a.m. and I was stirring awake. My tongue merely touched one of the bottom molars on the…

Well, this was a first. I’d fallen backward once in my power wheelchair. That was in the back of our mobility van. Hubris told me I could get away with just holding on to the handgrip for a few hundred meters. As ever, hubris was wrong! About six months…

For any younger readers, and by that I’m guessing 45 and under, may I present the cartoon character Popeye the Sailor Man. He got himself out of scrapes by downing a can of spinach, which supercharged his muscles. There was none of that nonsense of de-stalking raw young leaves…

After last week’s column about my neurologist declaring that I now have secondary progressive MS, a certain ennui has seeped into me. While this isn’t surprising, it’s also surprising, because I’m on the mood-altering drug fluoxetine. OK, fluoxetine is a regular antidepressant, but “mood-altering” sounds so much cooler.

Isn’t it just like me to start my column with a physics analogy that is already confusing? Please stick with me, as all will be revealed. My point is that if a black hole is big enough, you might slip through its event horizon without even noticing. There would…

In honor of MS Awareness Week, observed in the U.K. April 19–25, the MS Society released results of a survey about the barriers that keep multiple sclerosis patients from sharing their health status. Multiple Sclerosis News Today‘s Mary Chapman reported that a whacking one-third have stayed silent about their diagnosis.

I was listening to a BBC podcast recently titled “The Sinister Hand,” about the history of left-handers. It seems that in medieval times, left-handedness was associated with sorcery. (What wasn’t?) It was only relatively recently that left-handed children were no longer forced to write right-handed — sometimes even…

The trouble with a degenerative disease is that things only get worse. In the long-gone days of my youth, I somehow wrangled myself into being an arts critic. Wizened journalists imparted the lore that a bad show was much easier to write than a rave. Satirical barbs are far more…

One of the conditions of being released from the hospital a couple of weeks ago was that I had carers come to my home four times a day for six weeks. I realized it was for the best of intentions, but it still felt, albeit deep down, that these…

If you read last week’s column, you’ll know I’ve just been through hell — which is a pretty big statement for an atheist. Of course, if there is a hell, I’ll be going straight down. To save you the bother of reading it, here’s a précis: A foot wound…

So, where off Earth have I been? Nothing as adventurous as a space flight, I’m afraid, but a more prosaic litany of mishaps. First, I did crash, but that was from a vicious steroid withdrawal. My body went limp. Later, it would become even limper. A small wound on…

“Let’s go for a walk,” my wife, Jane, chirpily suggested. This was a bit of a nightmare. I had to put on trousers. I perhaps cheekily get away with only wearing an apron all day. It makes going to the bathroom so much easier. (A little later in the day…

Ah, timing. It was early Saturday afternoon on Feb. 13, and my wife, Jane, had just flushed the toilet for me. The doorbell rang — my flowers had arrived. An early romantic gesture. On the morning of Valentine’s Day, Jane countered with hers, a bottle of Laphroaig Quarter Cask…

I was 6 years old when British boxer Henry Cooper knocked Cassius Clay on his bottom. (It was that long ago, folks — 1963. This was before Clay’s religious conversion and consequent name change to Muhammad Ali.) Unfortunately, Clay was literally saved by the bell. I remember dashing around…

Would I jinx it? In last week’s column “How I’m Staying on Top of MS’ Many ‘Gifts,'” I wrote about being on top of all my MS-induced ancillary symptoms. Wendy, one of my two readers, pointed out that she didn’t want to jinx me. The trouble was that I’d…

When I was finally diagnosed with multiple sclerosis in 2009, my first question to my neurologist was, “Will I end up in a wheelchair?” She patted this question back with the generic, “You may, but no one knows the course that anyone’s MS might take.” Later, I learned that late-onset…

“No Sex Please, We’re British” was a British farce that opened in London’s West End in 1971 and ran until 1987. It was panned by critics, but having “Sex” in the title sure was a winner, helping it to run for 17 years. Let’s hope some of this rubs off…