Fall Down, Get Up Again
— John Connor

Another of those things I was never warned about. Maybe if I’d been assigned a local MS nurse at the beginning of my diagnosis, then eruptions out of my pants could have been averted instead of finding…

I was going to write about something else this week and then … I got STONED! Those aren’t words I thought I’d ever write. I’d been a kid during the 1960s, but later on had duly done…

It was a government letter; I opened it with due trepidation. A call for jury service, so not bad news and a chance to do my civic duty. But at this point I was stumbling to the toilet…

Having not stood on a stage and attempted stand-up for some 30 years, I’m not in the habit of writing jokes for myself. Obviously, these days, I’d be a sit-down comic anyway, but I think my opening…

As I write, I’m pain-free. This is important, but not for the obvious reason. I’m pain-free and can walk — or at least stumble — about as best as I’ve been able to manage of late. It’s not…

It’s been an incredibly bad few weeks, so I’m not surprised that I spent recent days wondering if I had incurable liver disease. Living with chronic illness, plus the internet, plus now justifiable hypochondria, is a very dark…

In my youth, I hitchhiked the breadth of North America ― Canada, from east to west. I had 16 first cousins in the country and only my parents back at home. My quest was to meet them all.

After 10-odd ― indeed, increasingly odd ― years, I presumed I’d become something of a gnarled hand at MS. If you read about something on practically a daily basis, you begin to think you’ve got pretty comprehensive knowledge…

It's Wimbledon fortnight. The tennis signifies it's the height of the British summer. You usually can tell it's an English summer because it rains for two weeks. Not this time. It's baking hot and the hallowed grass can't handle it! If U.S. President Donald Trump is right and there is no such thing as climate change, the least he could do is supply the All England Tennis and Croquet Club with the formula for his resilient head of hair. Everything thrown at him does seem to just bounce off. It would make the perfect surface for these changing times. And what has this to do with MS? Well, it seems I've turned into Maria Sharapova. And, no, it has nothing to do with drugs or a penchant for wearing ultra short skirts! John Connor & Sean Meo having a smashing time. A friend was over who hadn't seen me in my natural habitat, i.e., at home, for a long while. "Is all that noise normal?" she asked my wife, "Is John in any trouble?" "No," my wife tersely explained, "That's what he's like these days!" I've found that heaving my lumpen carcass around is aided by a cacophony of grunts and groans. I can hear that it's not pleasant, but it is completely involuntary. I could move without making noise, but the sheer concentration needed would take mental resources away from maintaining balance. All pride goes before falling over! I live just a few miles from Wimbledon, but the only advantage this usually gives me is the knowledge if it's raining here, it's about to rain there. As a tennis nut, I can then get on with something else rather than watch it on TV. Getting tickets, unless you're willing to camp out in a queue for days, is nigh impossible. That is, it was, until I entered the wheelchair tennis fraternity. Somehow, I ended up on a database that puts me in a regular ballot for tickets. Don't get to go every year, but, hey, that's a lot better than not going at all! And last week, I was fortunate to get Centre Court tickets. If it had rained, unlike the other courts, it has a sliding roof, so the tennis rolls on unabated. Instead, it was a blistering day. Luckily, the wheelchair section is right at the top. The view is still excellent, but we were sheltered from the sun by the court's permanent roof. Previously, I've been on No. 1 Court, where the wheelchair area is superb. But I'd have been in direct sunlight. Five hours of that and I'd have wilted like a vampire. The added bonus at Centre Court was a disabled toilet only a few yards away and a concessions area nearby. We could get as many Pimm's cocktails as we wanted without queuing and missing game after game. The downside is that you are now fully aware of the exorbitant cost of the things: 8.50 pounds a go! We sipped, rather than guzzled, our way through the afternoon. My carer for the day was Sean Meo, a comic with whom I've worked for some 20 years. He is the most enthusiastic tennis fan I know. He also is a fitness fanatic and correctly has a low opinion of sugar. So, yes, I had to get my own ice cream! It was cheering to be physically close enough to get to the concessions area so that I could. The real bonus came at the beginning of the day. To get into Centre Court with a wheelchair, we had to go via the players entrance. The guard on the door said we had to wait five minutes because an "old lady" was coming down in the lift. It was Thursday of the first week; it couldn't be the Queen. We were only feet away from the "old lady" when she emerged, and she's aged well. It was Roger Federer.

I’ve been considering writing about the fun, fun world of catheters. As this column is morphing into some sort of diary, let’s deal with this week’s medical procedural drama. Welcome to UTI (urinary tract infection) week.

So, I recently signed up to join a new and much closer exercise class. The previous drive of nearly an hour each way had proved to be beyond my range. Actually doing exercise when I got there seemed…

It’s summer in the U.K., and it’s hot. That’s cause for celebration for everyone but us. It’s actually the hottest June day since 1986. Heat immediately spikes my fatigue. For some of us, the cold does the…

Back in the day, I always wanted to be a columnist. That day was so long ago it was before sunrise. In my youthful naivety, I never thought about generating an idea a week. I also never…

One of the most dispiriting aspects of a chronic illness is that it traps you in your own world. Major events happen but these are filtered against the achievement of actually being able to get yourself to…

Read John Connor’s previous column, “Lemtrada I: This Island Couch.” Apologies for the pic of my edema–riddled right foot. If I put whiskers on it, my big toe could do a damn fine impersonation of a seal.

The latest drug media storm to erupt in Britain is “Spice,” which causes users to become living statues. Exactly a year ago, I became a living statue for six weeks, and not one reporter hassled me. That…

If I was writing fiction about two disabled people going on a road trip, I’d be pleased to create a character like Nigel. He’s stroppy, Northern (from the perspective of the U.K. there isn’t a direct U.S.

It was three years since I’d seen my best mate Nigel. The last time had been when we said goodbye at London City Airport after our three-day sozzled sojourn (OK, drunken trip) round the Scottish Isle of Islay. To…

There are a few moments when life changes. In my day, it was meeting your partner across a crowded room. Now it’s sadly the flick of an app. What hasn’t changed is that only later do you realize…

These might be the days of the gig economy, but I’ve been doing one every Tuesday for 27 years. My particular white van (for US readers the delivery drivers of such are a British stereotype of the new…