In the beginning God made Heaven and Earth. He started sometime Monday morning worked right through to Saturday Night, then had a few too many drinks to celebrate his newest creation and so had to take Sunday off to “rest”. Now this is a couple of thousand years before the start of the story I was actually talking about, therefore I’ll just miss out the stuff about Adam, Eve, the Romans and how gays are going to hell (their view not mine) and jump straight ahead to Spring 2008.

Now if this was some kind of Hollywood movie, it would start with the camera sweeping across a clear blue sky on a warm summers day, and then it would pan back down and into 2008. I would be driving Marty, my 11 year old Ford Fiesta that would let off a bang that sounded like a gun shot every time we went over bump , while listening to some Bruce Springsteen at top volume and singing along at a pitch only dogs could hear, “’cause baby we were born to run”. Unfortunately, this isn’t some big budget Hollywood production with Natalie Portman being cast in her greatest role to date as the wonderful Samantha McInnes (and yes, I do realise Natty P is slightly big headed of me but, hey it’s my bloody story).

I was 20 years of age. I had just finished my degree in Politics, thee most boring subject known to man and recently returned from inter-railing around Europe with my good friend and colleague Jennifer Garner*. The first signs of the recession where showing, Heath Ledger had been found dead in his New York apartment and Katy Perry was taking over the world and promoting Lesbianism with her hit song “I Kissed a Girl” and apparently she did like it. After travelling around EuropeI got a job working in the retail sector. I was working full time, running every other day, partying it up Skins styley (I would like to take the time to point out, without the use of illegal drugs) and generally was a normal active 20 year old. The only health complaint I had was that every now and then I would suffer from migraines and sickness (which at Christmas did lead to me being sick over my friend’s Cooks’ room mate while ice skating. However he wasn’t that pissed off with having to clean puke off his trousers and the sickness and migraines never usually lasted very long or happened frequently enough to cause me any concern. )

One day in May, after working all week I decided to do my usual. I headed out, Cheryl Cole and Aretha Franklin in tow, for a weekend of partying and Tequila. It’s true what the song says; it really does make you happy (I would like to take this time to point out that under no circumstances do I recommend binge drinking, unless it’s a Saturday. Then is practically the law). Now, I do not remember this weekend for the wild parting and the copious amounts of alcohol consumed. What I do remember about this weekend was the morning after the night before. Instead of waking up with the usual dry fuzzy mouth you get after a night of Tequila, I awoke to find my mouth full of blisters (and yes it did look like slightly like I was suffering from leprosy). Needless to say not the kind of look I was going for. My first thought was not “OMG there is clearly something wrong as I have awoke to find that I have leprosy of the mouth”. It was actually “Oh shit I have now drank so much tequila that my brain thinks my mouth is a foreign entity and is trying to reject it”! Much like what sometimes happens to patients who have just undergone a transplant. Over the course of the next week I started feeling really not well. I was suffering from really sore heads, but not the usual spewing whilst ice-skating migraines that I was used to. I had that feeling of malaise you get right before you get a severe case of flu and was just generally exhausted. So I decided it was time to bite the bullet and go and see the doctor.

The doctor said that it was probably nothing, I was just run down from all that hardcore working and partying I was doing, but just to be on the safe side he was going to send me for some blood tests. It was a week before my results were back and over the course of that week my health started to deteriorate. When I returned to the doctors for my test results it turned out that overall my blood was a bit shit. The general “ingredients” that make up your blood such as your Iron, Vitamin B12, feritin etc were all alarmingly low. So to find out why that was I was  tested for everything and anything that you can possibly be tested for: coeliac disease, pernicious anaemia, diabetes, crones disease, Aids (Now I don’t know if they actually did check for that last one but with the amount of tests they ran I wouldn’t be surprised).  All came back negative. I was also referred to a lovely Gastroenterologist who was ever so kind as to stick a camera up my ass and then down my throat (needless to say, no it was not the same camera). Yet again the same results – nothing wrong.

After a few months I started to feel better and my blood count normalised. So thinking that this was all just some freak abnormality and that everything would be fine, I stopped going to see my doctor and went back to my normal daily routine. What I didn’t know at this point was that this “freak abnormality” was actually one bastard of a virus and this would be the start of my relationship with M.E (I use the word relationship here as to me having M.E is like having a really crappy boyfriend. One of those guys who keep fucking you over time and time again, but for some reason you just can’t seem to dump him.)

From this point on I am going to refer to the pre M.E me as Anakin Skywalker, youngand full of potential, and the post M.E me as Darth Vader, basically fucked. Over the course of the next year and a half, things started to change. I would go through phases of feeling just like my old Anakin Skywalker self again, ready to take on the evils the dark side would throw at me.  Whilst other times I would feel terrible, I had no energy left at all and would feel as if the dark side had literally consumed me, “Luke I am you father”. During these times I would go and see the doctor again and get my blood checked, thinking that it had to be something to do with that, but each time they always came back fine so I thought nothing of it. After a while I started running again.  However after a few months I had to stop as unlike Forrest Gump, I was finding it hard to run to the end of the crescent never mind across several American states.

I stopped going out as much. I was no longer the Tequila loving Ani Skywalker. Instead I was one Tequila, two Tequila, now someone has to pick Sam up off the floor and put her to bed as she has just passed out AGAIN! (I would like to take this time to thank Cook, Sandra Bullock and Jack Branning for doing this on many occasions). As time went on I started to feel increasingly exhausted and unwell. The change was so gradual that it took me a long time to notice the vast change in my energy levels or the fact that I never really felt well. Looking back, I think that maybe I didn’t really want to have to admit to myself that something was wrong. After a while, feeling unwell just felt normal.

Then came 2010…

*Please note that all names have been changed to a character or celebrity pseudonyms to protect identities.

* Title taken from “The Catcher in the Rye” by J.D Salinger.

*All material on the Sam and M.E site and Blog is copyrighted. Unauthorised use of any material will be not tolerated.

To some, this particular Blog may seem as if I have totally lost my mind. To those of you who do think that, I would just like to reassure you that I lost my mind many years before I succumbed to the “Dark Side”.

We all know that “Do you believe in life after love” are lyrics from the 1998, Grammy award winning, auto tuned to the max, number 1 in 23 different countries, hit song “Believe”. Yes ladies, gentlemen and those in between, this blog is about thee one and only Cherilyn Sarkisian. More commonly known asCher. Now if I didn’t think I would get sued from the women herself, as you read this blog I would have “If I Could Turn Back Time” playing automatically in the background.” So as I am unable to do that, I would ask you all to open your ITunes, click on a bit of “If I Could Turn Back Time” and get in theChermood.

Everyone knows of Cher as singer; with her hit singles such as ‘I Got You Babe’, ‘If I Could Turn Back Time’ and ‘Believe’, an actor; whether it’s playing a single mother in ‘Mermaids’ or her Oscar winning performance in ‘Moonstruck’ as an unlucky in love Jewish New Yorker, or simply a women who has a very eclectic taste in clothing. Whether you love her or hate her, for the past 5 decades Cher has worked her ass off to become one if the most successful women ever in the entertainment industry. However what many people don’t know aboutCheris she has also had her very own turbulent relationship with M.E.

In the late 80’s Cher was diagnosed as having the Epstein – Barr virus. EBV is a virus which like the common cold sore is of the Herpes family and is estimated to affect 90% to 95% of American adults. In most cases symptoms go unnoticed and cause no on going problems as most individuals gain adaptive immunity towards the virus. However in a small number of cases the effects of EBV can be more severe causing fatigue, swollen nymph nodes, rashes, flu like symptoms and glandular fever. This in turn can then lead to Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. This my friends, is exactly what happened to Cher. Cher became so ill due to M.E that in 1992 she was forced to 3 years off from her career to rest, recuperate and get back to her kick ass self. When asked by the BBC about this period Cher said “Boy, it was devastating for me…I wasn’t able to work for almost three years…my experience was it was really a physical illness but it does make you depressed as well”. Thoughts many others in the M.E community have echoed time after time.

“Now what the hell has this got to do with the price of milk?” I hear you say. Well my point is this: Cher is now a 64 year old woman who has just became the first ever person to have a number 1 in 5 different decades, she makes movies where she sings and dances like a woman half her age, she trains like a marine who is just about to go on a covert operation to the opium fields of Afghanistan, she still goes out wearing her practically non existing outfits and for the past 3 years she has done over 200 shows at Caesar’s Palace in Las Vegas. All this from a woman who had to take a three year break as she was suffering from Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. Now what I have taken from this (and what I think that all other M.E suffers should too) is that if Cher can kick this illness where it hurts and go on to accomplish all that, then I am pretty confident that with a bit of strength, determination and time I can follow in her foot steps and also overcome it. Who knows? Perhaps after that I may also get my own show at Caesar’s palace, with over 22 costume changes and a pyrotechnic display that would make Guy Fawkes proud.

Nah. I think that’s going a bit too far. I’d better just concentrate on my own covert operation of combating my body’s very own terrorist – M.E.

* Title taken from “Believe” by Cher.

*All material on the Sam and M.E site and Blog is copyrighted. Unauthorised use of any material will be not tolerated.

Previously I told you about how I was starting to feel, well let’s put this technically – shit. What I failed to mention is that during this time I was also an addict. A Lucozade addict. We all know that one of the main symptoms of M.E is severe exhaustion. So to combat this I used to drink 6 250ml bottles of that sunshine-yellow coloured energy drink every day (another few years of that and I think I may actually have turned sunshine-yellow). I loved it. I loved the first fizz of the bottle when you opened it, I loved the smell of it first thing in the morning, but most of all, I loved the taste. The taste which is unlike anything else in existence. To me the makers of Lucozade, GlaxoSmithKline, are sheer geniuses who deserve some kind of Nobel Prize for creating this marvellous and unique drink (And no, I haven’t been paid by them to say that). The worrying thing is though, even after drinking 6 bottles of “The Zade” and still being knackered, I still never thought anything was wrong…

The feeling of shittyness (yes this is also a technical term) continued to get worse no matter how much Lucozade I drank. Still I ignored it. That was until May, when the shit literally hit the fan. Well not literally but you know what I mean. Things got so bad that walking down the street made me feel as if I was going to pass out. I would avoid walking up stairs as by the time I got to the top of them I had no energy to do anything the rest of the day. My head was so sore that I couldn’t concentrate on anything for longer than a couple of seconds, my speech was slurred and I sounded like I had been drinking 4 bottles of vodka a day for the past 6 months (I hadn’t). At points I sounded like Gareth Gates during the Pop Idol days as I just couldn’t seem to be able to get the right words out. My whole body ached as if I had been severely beaten in some kind of gang initiation the night before and for an entire month I had constant pins and needles up and down my arms, legs and face. It was at this point I realised that this was not right for a normal 22 year old. So I finally booked myself an appointment with a doctor.

My personal doctor had no appointments left, so I booked in for an appointment with one of the other Doctors in the surgery so I could be seen sooner. My appointment was with a man I have now Christened Dr WTF. My first appointment with him actually went well. Dr WTF said that I was totally right; this was no way for a normal 22 year old girl to be feeling. He said he would run some tests and told me to come back and see him in a week. But over this week I got worse.  I couldn’t get out of bed, my muscle aches got ten times worse, my sore head had became bearable and I was so tired I felt like I hadn’t slept for 40 days and nights. So, I was actually looking forward to going back to the doctors to finally get some help. Oh, if only I knew then what I know now perhaps I wouldn’t have gotten my hopes up. When I returned he said that all the tests came back negative (which I already expected since I they have all been done like 40 times in the past year to no avail) but I thought well maybe now he can do some kind of other test or refer me to someone who could give me some answers as to why I am feeling like this. Obviously I was being too optimistic.  Here is how our conversation went:

Dr WTF: Tell me Miss McInnes do you get sad?

Me: (caught off guard) Well, everyone gets sad at some point don’t they? But I wouldn’t say that I am the kind of person who gets sad unless there is a reason behind it

Dr WTF:  Hmm. Do you tend to be moody or have mood swings?

Me: (slightly confused) Eh, not really. I get grumpy sometimes when I’m tired but that’s nothing new. In fact I think it’s possibly a family trait.

Dr WTF: Tell me do you feel exploited by your work place?

Me: (laughing) No, do you?

Dr WTF: Miss McInnes what I think is wrong with you is that you’re depressed and stressed. What I think you need is to be signed off work for a couple of weeks and take these weeks to do things you don’t normally get the chance to do such as see friends, go to a movie. Perhaps even go for a run.

Me: (pause) A run? A run? You want me to go for a FUCKING run? I am struggling to walk from my bedroom to the fucking toilet and you want me to go a fucking run? What kind of medical school did you go to? Or did you just buy your medical license on eBay along with a signed copy of Cliff Richard’s Millennium Prayer?

As I was raised by a good woman with manners, I never actually said that last part. I wanted to but I didn’t. Instead, I said:

Me: I really don’t think you understand. I am not depressed, in fact apart from feeling like crap most of the time I am actually a really happy person. I am also not stressed. I really have nothing to be stressed about. And if I was depressed how the hell does that explain why I haven’t been able to feel my arms, legs and face for the past month?

Despite my protestations, there was no convincing this man otherwise. He said that was what was wrong with me and he was writing it on my sick note. I grabbed that bit of paper and I got out of there as soon as was physically possible for someone whose energy levels were practically non-existent. So it took me about 20 minuets.

When I got home I burst into tears. I was furious and upset that this so called doctor was basically saying that there was nothing wrong with me and it was all in my head. Not that there is anything wrong with having a mental illness like depression but I knew people who were actually depressed and compared to them I was bloody Reece Witherspoon ( now, I don’t know if Reece Witherspoon is actually a genuinely happy person but to me she always seems to be so for this purpose she is thee happiest person in the world). I knew for certain what Dr WTF was saying wasn’t the case and was really annoyed that he was unwilling to do anything to make me feel normal again. Ironically, the trip to the doctors actually had a negative effect on my health. It threw me further into Darth Vader mode by doing nothing at all to help me. It wasn’t just me that this was hard on, it was hard my mum as well. She had watched her lively fun-loving daughter (who never used to home as she was always out doing something) turn into a drained and weak shadow of her former self. Yet according to an “expert” there was no explanation for it as it was all in her head. There are many things that my mum is: crazy, a chocoholic and blunt are to name just a few, but she also a fighter and after that visit to the doctor when I wanted to give up she wouldn’t let me. She said, “Samantha, take the time off Dr WTF has given you, and if after that time you are still not feeling right we will go back and see your actual Doctor, I’ll come with you, we’ll explain everything that’s happened and make sure he knows this isn’t right and it’s not some kind of depression”.

For the next couple of weeks I spent most of my time resting in my bed watching seasons 1 to 7 of The West Wing. On my homepage it states that I am now re – watching them. This is firstly, because when I tried to watch them the first time I was slightly zombiefied  so don’t remember much of it and secondly, because it’s AWESOME!!. During this time my mum also changed my diet which included cutting out my beloved Lucozade (as I write this blog I am 11 months 14 days and 6 hours Lucozade clean. I am not going to lie – it has been hard. I miss it everyday but I know I could never go back that way of life, unless I was willing to live life being sunshine-yellow or you know, diabetic).

A few weeks passed and although I was feeling slightly better due to resting all this time I still wasn’t 100%. In fact, I probably wasn’t even 50%. So me and Demi Moore (That’s what we will be calling my mother from now on) headed on up to the doctors again. This time not to see Dr WTF but to see my actual doctor who we shall name Dr Gregory House (not because he is rude and unconventional as he is actually really nice, but because it’s late in the day and House and Doogie Howser M.D were the only two fictional doctors I could think of. As he isn’t a 12 year old child I thought House was more appropriate). Demi and I explained everything to House who agreed that it didn’t seem like some kind of depression. He concluded that it most probably related back to a few years ago when my blood’s “ingredients” were all a bit rubbish and was probably something called Chronic Fatigue syndrome. However he referred me to another doctor at the hospital, just to make sure.

The hospital appointment couldn’t come quick enough. The doctor there told me that the blood episode a few years back was most probably a virus and this Chronic Fatigue Syndrome or M.E was the aftermath of it. He said that he didn’t know how long it would last, some people get over it in 2 -3 years, others it takes 15 and some never recover. He also stated they didn’t know what caused it and so in turn didn’t know how to treat it, what works for one person may not work for another. What is important he said is a healthy diet (Demi had already sorted that one) and that the only thing that there was evidence of helping M.E suffers was something called Graded Exercise (although he never properly explained what graded exercise actually was). I left the hospital that day and I was actually happy, which seems like a very odd response for someone one who has just been told that they have a chronic illness which could make them feel like shit by doing the smallest thing and there was nothing that could really be done about it. But none of that crossed my mind. I was happy because there was now a name for what I had and no one could ever again say it was all in my head (there are however still some small minded people out there who still think M.E is a mental illness. To those people I say in 1992 The World Health Organisation changed the classification of M.E to a disease of the nervous system. So if you still think it’s all in my head then you are either a complete idiot or still stuck in the 80’s when people thought you could get aids by being in the same room as someone who has it. Choose which one you want to be?) Most of all I was happy because even though I knew it all along, Dr WTF was wrong.

*Please note that all names have been changed to a character or celebrity pseudonyms to protect identities.

* Title taken from the Belle and Sebastian song “My Wondering Days are over” .

*All material on the Sam and M.E site and Blog is copyrighted. Unauthorised use of any material will be not tolerated

Being a teenager is hard. You have all these hormones running through your veins making you crazy and kids tend to be horrible at that age for no apparent reason. Along with that, you need to worry about exams, how you’re going to cover up that massive spot on your chin, getting into Uni and how you’re going to sneak back into the house at the weekend without the rents smelling Mad Dog 20/20 off you. At school I was weird. I used to walk around with one multi coloured fingerless glove on, ‘The Band’ written on my wrist, my other hand covered in red ink so it looked like blood and every word out my mouth was laced with sarcasm. Surprisingly, I actually had friends. I should really have had my head flushed down the toilet on a daily basis but I think people may have found the craziness an endearing quality. But I can only imagine how hard it is to be a teenager and having to cope with a long-term illness.

I probably should have started this blog with what I call “all that David Copperfield kinda crap”. My name is Samantha McInnes, but please call me Sam. I am 23 years of age, which to most of you will seem ancient as I remember being 14 and thinking people at 23 should be collecting their pension or at least married (I am neither). I am a massive Superman fan, I love music (seriously guys go out and buy your self a ‘The Band’ album  - it will change your life for the better), I am a mind of useless information, I love travelling and I also suffer form M.E.

My M.E started after I got a virus in 2008 and since then I have been battling what I call my body’s very own terrorist. However I wasn’t officially diagnosed with M.E until summer 2010. Sorry, off point for a second. I am listening to my iPod while writing this and Abba’s ‘Chiquitita’ has just come on! God, I’m so cool. Now it’s changed to the Foo Fighters that must win back some credibility surely. No? Anyway, back on point. I read somewhere that being diagnosed with a long term illness is much like the grieving process you go through when you lose a loved one.

The first part of the grieving process I went through was denial. Not denying that I had M.E, I knew that for sure. What I denied was the fact that this was a long term illness that I would have to learn to live with. I foolishly thought that I was going to be the only person in history to be diagnosed with M.E and be cured by the diagnosis alone “Yes, Miss McInnes, you have M.E but now that I have told you that, you’re cured!” So after I was diagnosed, instead of taking it slowly, I decided to put my body into gear and go full speed ahead. Needless to say, I didn’t last long. I crashed and burned faster that you can say Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. And this foolishness threw me head first into the next stage – Anger.

Of course I was angry. Why shouldn’t I be? I had M.E. It made me feel like crap most of the time and it had ruined so many of my plans. I mean, I’m 23. I wanted to move out, travel the world, meet new people, climbMount Kilimanjaroand do something with my life and instead I am stuck in Moodiesburn, unable to do anything because I am not too ill. This had to be one of the worst phases through out my entire relationship with M.E. By no means were my symptoms at their worst at this point, but being angry doesn’t help you at all, it just throws you further into the dark side and uses up energy that – let’s face it – no one with any long term illness has to spare. But unfortunately many people get stuck this stage unable to see beyond having M.E.  I was one of the lucky ones. I got out.

Finally – acceptance. It took me about 6 months from being told I had M.E and 2 and a half years form when I first fell ill to get here, and it wasn’t easy. I almost felt as if I was failing myself for not fighting back against it. As if I was just lying down and being like “OK M.E, just walk all over me, that’s fine but if you don’t mind could you please take your heels off first?” I don’t know why M.E is wearing heels, I have never seen a terrorist before going about in a pair of 6in Jimmy Choos! Anyway, that’s not the point. The point is, with an illness like this you can’t just power on and push your way through it, all that’s going to do is set you back. It’s about finding a balance and realising that you have to work your life around it not the other way about.

When I was at Uni there used to be set of stairs that took you from the main entrance up to the where all the exams where held. Written on the wall in chalk here was “hope lies in the darkest of places”. Yeah, you’re not going to be able to run any marathons anytime soon and your going to have times were you feel like crap and can’t get out your bed or even walk, but if while you’re having these bad times you have hope that one day, even if its several years down the line you will get better and you’ll climb Mount Kilimanjaro and you will be able to go a road trip down route 66 and that because of all you have been through you’ll appreciate it all that bit more. It will make those hard times a bit more bearable.

I was going to write here that I am sorry to hear that you have a long term illness but I actually hate when people say to me, “Oh sorry you have M.E”. I am like, ‘What are  you sorry for? Did you give it to me? ‘Cos if you did I am going to have to kill you in the most painful way possible.” But most of all, I don’t want their pity. Yeah, so I have M.E and yeah, it makes me feel terrible. My legs don’t work, my speech get slurred and some days I can’t get out my bed. But do you know what? M.E doesn’t make me who I am and one day I am gonna kick M.E’s ass!

*Please note that all names have been changed to a character or celebrity pseudonyms to protect identities.

* Title taken from a wall in the University of Glasgow.

*All material on the Sam and M.E site and Blog is copyrighted. Unauthorised use of any material will be not tolerated

In 1992, in Poway California, a teenage boy named Tom was expelled from Poway High School for turning up to a basket ball game intoxicated. In order to continue his education, he was forced to enrol in Rancho Bernardo High School. Here, he came into contact with another unruly teenager who (to try and impress Tom) climbed to the top of a street lamp. He subsequently fell off, broke both his ankles and was forced to spend six weeks on crutches. After bonding over that fateful fall, the boys decided that (since they were both as stupid as each other) to start their own band. I tell you this information as these events shaped where I ended up one evening in August 2010. Despite the very rocky start the band that Tom and his broken-ankled-friend started, went on to sell 25 million albums world wide, win 2 MTV European awards, 1 VMA, 3 teen choice awards and became one of the most successful American pop punk bands ever. That band goes by the name ‘Blink 182’.

After my run in with DR WTF and finally being diagnosed with having M.E in June 2010, I decided it was best to take it slowly for a bit. I went back to work, gradually at first, building it up week by week and started to feel a whole lot better. Don’t get me wrong, I had my moments:

1. The time I went to a theme park (well, I say ‘theme park’ but that would imply it was actually themed. It wasn’t. It was more like the shows that never travelled anywhere). After it I honestly felt like I had went 20 rounds with Mike Tyson. That may have more to do with the safety features of the rides than the M.E though.
2.  The first time I had seen my friend Sandra Bullock after she came back from travelling the world. We decided to spend the day shopping with no money, so really from the start it was destined to fail.  After I dropped Sandy off home I came home and cried as I was so exhausted.
3. The time I was walking from work to the bus stop and felt like I was going to pass out. As I didn’t want to pass out in the middle of Glasgow City centre in fear I may get robbed, I sat down and then missed the last bus.

Apart from these minor set backs, I started to feel better. I thought to myself, ‘You know what, I will be back to my old self in no time!’ (FYI: This is the point in the film were the guy in the scream mask comes through the door, the girl runs up the stairs and the entire audience shout out “Stupid Bitch” because that is exactly what I was being at this time). So when, during my two week holiday in late August, I had tickets to relive what it was like to be 16 again (this time without the fingerless glove and with real tattoos not ones drawn on with magic markers) and go and see Blink 182 I thought to myself, ‘You know, I have rested for 4 months, I am ready for this shit!’

On August 17^th  2010, myself, my childhood friend Courtney Love and Courtney’s mum Sharon Osborne headed to Glasgow’s SECC to welcome Blink 182 back to Scotland’s friendly and ever so slightly scary city.  I recently found pictures of this night and for some reason I am dressed like an extra in the Al Pacino film “Cruising”. For those of you who have never seen this film and don’t know what I am talking about, IMDB describes it as follows:

“A police detective goes undercover in the sleazy and underground gay subculture of New York City to catch a serial killer who is murdering numerous gay men”

I shall leave the rest to your imagination and finish this by saying I have no idea why I was dressed like this, clearly I thought it may possibly be the next big thing.

When we arrived at the SECC, we quickly decided that the bar should be the first stop. Now this night was the first night I had drank since I had been not well and I was so looking forward to a nice cool beverage as I love beer as much as a Redneck. We all waited in a queue so long I imagine the only thing that would compare to it would be the queue in to hell. However, I imagine the queue to hell is slightly more organised and has way less scary folk in it. We waited for 40 minuets hoping to God that this was actually the bar queue and not the queue for the toilet. Finally we got to the front only to realise that none of us had our bank cards with us and that between us we only had £22. Now in places that hold events of any kind and also sell alcohol they tend to hike the prices up to resemble the liquors’ weight in gold. The SECC is no different. £4 a bottle for 1 bottle of Miller! So what we managed to get for our measly £22 was 5 bottles of Miller. Which when divided up between the three of us and poured into a pint glass equalled just over half a pint each. I mean I could have drank all three of our d rinks and still been eligible to drive (perhaps not in the UKbut most probably in at least one American state). I actually could have gotten more intoxicated by drinking half a pint of mouth wash and at least then I would have come out smelling minty fresh. This is actually true, I googled it and apparently mouth wash contains twice the amount of alcohol as wine. Anyway we took our millilitre of beer and went to seek out our spot in the crowd.

The house lights went down, the spot lights came up, the guitars started and “Dumpweed” blasted out the speakers. Ladies and Gents, at this I jumped and I did not stop jumping until the very last “well I guess this is growing up” of “Dammit”. For the entire gig I never stopped dancing once. There was actually a circle of people around Courtney, Sharon and myself much like what happens anytime any one does a dance in any American film. I would like to think this is because they were in awe of my amazing dancing skills, but in all honesty I dance like what you would imagine an epileptic person would look like if they took a fit and stayed standing through out it. That, coupled with the fact I was dressed like a gay male New Yorker from the 80s, no wonder people were staring.  But I couldn’t stop, partly because if I stopped I may not have been able to start again, and partly because I was dancing for that 16 year old weirdo that still lives inside me with the energy of 100 Lucozade bottles and a strange obsession with The Matrix. I never for one second thought of what the consequences were for a 22 year old with M.E to dance about like an idiot for two hours.

The next day was not my greatest; it wasn’t my worst but by no means was it my greatest. I had invited Kylie and the Queen around for dinner that evening. They came expecting an evening of lovely M&S food and my usual brand witty banter. What they got instead was some lovely prepared M&S soup followed by a stir fry that tasted like lemon scented washing up liquid. I didn’t really register what was going on around me due to feeling like a zombie and trying to hide the pain that my muscles were in due to my epileptic dancing, which I hear now is sweeping the dance floors of Glasgow. It took me about a week for my muscle to stop aching, the head ache to clear and to get my energy levels back to where I was before I went to gig dressed in an outfit that would turn Oscar Wilde’s head. But after that week it still never really sunk in that I shouldn’t really be doing that kind of thing because, in the end, they were just going to make me ill. So I thought, ‘You know what, bugger it! (no pun intended) I can do what I want – full speed ahead Captain!”

Everyone say it with me:

“STUPID BITCH!”

…

 *Please note all the names of people in my blog have been changed to their celebrity or fictional character counter part to protect their identity. Under no circumstances should this be a reflection of the named celebrity or fictional character.

Title taken from the song “Adam’s Song” by Blink 182

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Every year on the 27^th October (the day after my birthday) I perform a solemn ritual – listening to The Cure’s song ‘Inbetween Days’ purely for the lyrics, “Yesterday I got so old I felt like I could die, yesterday I got so old it made me want to cry.”

When you’re a kid, birthdays are great. You get presents, cake and everyone has to be nice to you. When you get older this happens too. However, every birthday after the age of 21 serves as a dismal reminder that you are another year closer to retirement (and subsequent death) and that you haven’t even came close to achieving the goals you set out for yourself. For instance:

Age 21 – Win first Oscar (Best Supporting Actress)

Age 22 – Achieve Prime Ministerial status

Age 23 – Become the greatest singer/songwriter theUKhas ever seen, with the exception of Lennon, McCartney and Mel C aka Sporty Spice. Incidentally, Mel C is actually the 2nd the most successful song writer in British history – Lennon and McCartney being the first, based on record sales world wide.

I didn’t think that was too much to ask for.

But when I turned 23, instead of being upset over my failed acting, political and song writing careers, I was in my bed ill due to M.E. To get to that however, we need to head back to the “Stupid Bitch” phase.

After my epileptic dancing at Blink 182 and only feeling ill for a week (ONLY!) I decided, “Fuck it, I can do what I want, M.E isn’t going to stop me”. So I did. Over the month of September I did everything any normal 22 year old would do: I went to work, I went to the pub, I hung out with friends, I even went on a day trip to Rosslyn Chapel (Yes that is the one from the Da Vinci Code and yes I do realise this is not a normal thing for a 22 year old to do) and ignored all the warning signs M.E gave me.

At the beginning of October, when some of my friends decided to go camping, I thought to myself, “Yeah, I can do that!” (Chant with me now folks “stupid bitch, stupid bitch”). In October 2010, Sandra Bullock, Cook, Emile Hirsch, Mr Bean,  and myself all headed off to our very own LostIsland. Unlike most people, my friends and I don’t go camping in the local field or in each others gardens, instead we get a Viking with long flowing locks of blonde hair to pick us up on his barge and take us to his island in the middle of Loch Lomond for a few days (I imagine Americans would love this shit). When I described the island before as the Lost Island, I wasn’t joking. I mean, there are no polar bears, black smoke and nor is there a computer in a hatch which demands the input of certain digits every 108 minutes and the only ‘Others’ are The Viking and his family whose house is on the opposite end of the island. But it’s still rather creepy and there are strange goings on. You can also see an Island of Wallabies from it. I mean, we’re in Scotland, why the hell are there Wallabies jumping about?

After wasting several hours in Tesco buying food (I want to point out that even though we were going camping I was still eating really well – no tins of beans for me – at least I was listening to M.E in that respect), a boat ride out to the Island and putting up the tents, it was time to sort out some wood for a fire and for Cooks outside oven, so he could realise his dream of becoming the next Jamie Oliver. Cook also being the ‘Jack’ of the group (I am more of a Sawyer girl myself) came prepared with a chainsaw. I had never used a chainsaw before, but I had seen lumberjacks on television with their checked shirts and it looked pretty straight forward, so I stepped up. Bloody hell, it was hard!  Not only did you have to use all you strength to lift the thing, but it was also vibrating like I was attached to an electric chair. After 20 minutes I had not sawed further that 5 cm. Needless to say, I quicky decided Lumberjacking wasn’t really my thing and returned to camp where I sat and did nothing for the next couple of days.

Just like any other group of 20 somethings, when we go camping there tends to be a lot of drinking involved and usually I am the first one in there with a bottle of tequila. Although I was still going full speed ahead at this point, there were certain things I scaled back on. Drinking was one of them. I mean, I drank that weekend but when all the drinking games started I sat back, relaxed and watched Sandra Bullock get drunk enough for both of us. While the rest sat drinking, Cook decided it was time to build his outside oven in which he was going to cook a whole chicken. Now, from the first day he suggested this, I thought this is destined to fail. Either that or we were all going to get the shits on an Island we had no way of getting off of. This would inevitable force us to hijack someone’s tent and turn it into a ‘toilet tent’ where everyone could go and relieve themselves and then be sick as they were standing in everyone else’s crap. Much like you see skanks do at festivals. But after watching Lost for 6 years religiously, I should have known better to doubt our very own Jack. I don’t normally post pictures here but I am still so impressed by Cooks efforts I want to share with you all his outside oven made with wood and moss he found in the forest, and a bit of duct tape! We all ate it and I am pleased to say we are all still alive. Inspired by Cook’s impressive outdoor cooking, Mr Bean and Emile Hirsch tried to replicate it using the camp fire. Emile decided his dish of choice would be pork joint. To cook it he wrapped it up in tin foil and placed it under a rock in the fire. It actually worked out OK. Mr Bean however, decided to try something more commonly purchased by Glaswegian students after a night of hard partying. Chips and Cheese. 2 days 4hrs and 16 mins after the chips were places on the camp fire they were finally ready. After the day’s Master Chef Competition, we were all ready to sit back, relax and enjoy our last evening.

The next morning when the Viking came to pick us up on his long boat and took us back to the main land.

Once off the Island , it was time to head back to my day job (which surprisingly is not Blog writing). It was the week before my birthday and the day after it I was meant to be heading off to Alton Towers to be abused by some more mean rides (in an actual Theme park this time) and to celebrate my good friend Kevin Costner’s 30^th birthday. Unfortunately for me, M.E had another idea. It was time for the Landslide to bring me down. After already spending four days at work, I got up to go in for the fifth day and realised I was more tired than usual (1^st sign). By the time I got to work, I was starting to get a dull headache (2^nd sign). By mid day, I was reminiscent of a zombie from Michael Jackson’s “Thiller” video. I couldn’t do the dance though (3^rd sign). By 4pm, I was Darth Vader (myself, having missed all signs went straight passed GO, not having collected £200). I went home and retreated to a place that had become all too familiar; my bed. I tried to convince myself that this was would just be a weekend thing and by the time it came to Monday I would be fine, when deep down I knew that wouldn’t be true.

Monday came and went and Darth stayed with me. Wednesday was my birthday and Darth decided he wanted to help me celebrate. His present to me being: muscle aches, headaches, fatigue and a general feeling of shittyness. I spent all day resting in preparation for the evening as I was having a birthday dinner with Demi Moore, Posh Spice and Jack Branning (My older sister and future brother in law), Rumour Willis and her boyfriend (This is my younger sister, you may think I called this purely because her mother is Demi but she does actually look like her) and Courtney Love.  After dinner, Faith Evans and Hilary Duff also joined us. Sitting having dinner and chatting doesn’t seem like it would take a lot of effort, but to someone with M.E who is in the middle of a relapse it feels like your running a marathon and your using up that little energy that you body has stored. I knew I was lucky to have all these wonderful people around me to help me celebrate my birthday (even if I did look like a corpse) and couldn’t really make conversation, but part of me couldn’t help but blame myself for me feeling like this. No, I didn’t give myself M.E, but I did carry on for weeks before like nothing was wrong, not thinking of what was most surely going to happen. I had forgotten the most important rule that Jonathon Kent taught Clark- actions have consequences.

When you have M.E that lesson becomes more apparent than ever.

*Please note all the names of people in my blog have been changed to their celebrity or fictional character counter part to protect their identity. Under no circumstances should this be a reflection of the named celebrity or fictional character.

 Title taken from the song “Landslide” by Fleetwood Mac  

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Since I have been diagnosed with M.E (and subsequently spent a shit load of time unable to walk and in bed) many people have said to me, “Do you not just think, why? Why out of every one has the big man upstairs chosen you to have this?” To this, I always reply with the same thing – “No.” And here is why:

At the end of November, my two oldest friends – Hilary Duff and Faith Evans – joined me on a trip to Scotland’s 2^nd largest and 2^nd best city (no offense to any Edinburghers out there, but to me Glasgow will always be the greatest city in our small country) to soak up some of the Christmas atmosphere that Edinburgh sweats out at that time of year. After waiting for what seemed like a decade in the snow, we finally managed to get on a train packed out like pre-pubescent teenagers at a Justin Bieber concert and eventually, we got to the ‘Inspiring Capital’. Now, as we had a bit of a journey to get there, we quickly decided that the first stop of the day would be to refill our energy stores and have some lunch.

This lunch was no different to any other lunch the three of us usually have. It started off with Miss Duff asking a rather exasperated waitress twenty different questions about what she would recommend and eventually deciding that she wanted the chicken, but with the side from the lamb, the dressing from the beef, the salad not the fries and, if it was possible, could the waitress serve it while she did the Macarena? No matter how many times Faith and I have sat through this pre-lunch ritual of Hilary Duff’s, every time is even more amusing than the last. After finally choosing what we were going to eat, we then moved on to our usual topics of conversation: work, when Adam Levine was going to ask Faith Evans to marry him (it happened in April 2011), contraceptives and jobbies. Now for those of you who aren’t Scottish and don’t know what a jobbie is, a jobbie is another word for a shit. Don’t ask me why, as I have no idea, but ever since we were about fifteen every time the three of us are in a room together the topic of conversation always some how gets on to our bowel movements. Many people may find this a rather strange topic of conversation for three 23 year old females to talk about, but for me it would be stranger to have lunch and for this topic not to come up. For the record Faith’s and mine were normal. Hillary however was having a bit of trouble with hers.

After the usual topics of conversation were over, we moved on to my health – or to be more precise – the lack of it. We talked about how M.E had changed the way I lived my life now, how hard it had become for me to do simple everyday things and about how this was impacting on my dwindling social life. Then Hilary Duff said something that made me think. She said, “…but do you know what Samantha?” (Hilary and Faith are my only two friends who refuse to call me Sam. They both state that as they have known me practically from birth they have to right to call me by my full Christian name) “…I was thinking the other night, out of the three of us you’re really the only one who can handle and deal with something like this. If this happened to me or Faith we wouldn’t be able to cope.”

So ever since then I have known why I am fighting this illness. I am fighting it not only for me, but for Hillary and Faith, for my family and friends. But most of all I am fighting this because God, Allah, the superior aliens in the sky or whatever greater power you want to believe controls things, decided that out of all the people I know, I was the one strong enough handle this, and that one day I would be able to conquer it.

*Please note all the names of people in my blog have been changed to their celebrity or fictional character counter part to protect their identity. Under no circumstances should this be a reflection of the named celebrity or fictional character.

Title taken from the song “Get by with a little help from my friends” by The Beatles  

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Unfortunately when you are ill with M.E, it means that sometimes you are unable to attend …. that otherwise you wouldn’t have missed for the world. After returning to work in November, I had another M.E relapse in December which meant I was off work sick until the beginning of January. During this time, one of the most vulgar and hilarious women I had ever worked with found new employment. Unable to party the night away with her to grieve her leaving, I decided to write her a speech instead.

So here it goes:

My darling Joan Rivers,

I have decided to write speech for you leaving today, as most likely the last time someone wrote one for you was on your wedding day and you were too fat and pregnant to enjoy it. Probably the best thing would be to go back twenty odd years and give you a speech about contraception, but unfortunately my time machine is quite ready yet, so you’ll just have to make do with this.

I had actually wrote another speech for you, in fact it was more of a performance, where I compared you to a prolapsed womb that hung below a women’s knees dragging her ovaries along the ground like an apes knuckles. After that, I compared you to the matron of a nursing home, who smeared shit in residents’ faces, but it required a lot energy which I don’t have right now. 

Anyway Joan Alexandra Molinsky Sanger Rosenberg Rivers, we are all gathered here to say a mournful farewell to your slightly psychotic ways. Jean Paul Richter (a German Novelist) once said “Mans’ feelings are always purest and most glowing in the hour of meeting and farewell.” So Joan – this is from the heart.

Over the course of the past four years, we have shared many good times together; such as the time we decided it was a good idea to dismantle a set of monkey bars or the time you invited us all around to your house and myself and Cheryl Cole drank the whole bottle of your £70 champagne and then Colin and Justine ended up being sick all over house. Or the time you got divorced to that plonker who used to all always phone and say in a stuck up voice, “Mr Rivers here, can I speak to Joan?” However, there were also some not so good times. Like when your daughter moved to Australia or when you fell over banged your head, ended up in hospital and we all thought you were going to die. But through both good and bad times you have kept us laughing in both joy and disgust and left us in a constant state of soiled underwear.

I can honestly say I have never met anyone quite like you in my life and doubt very much I ever will. You are one in a billion Joan and all I can say is if you bring half as much joy to the lives of you new co-workers, they will be very lucky people.  I shall miss you “like the desert misses the rain” and I wish you good luck in your new job and any other employment venture you fall into after it. But most of all, from the bottom of my heart I wish both you and the Welsh man all the joy and happiness in the world for your future together.

I was going to end this with something memorable. I thought perhaps the last line from “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” would be appropriate. but that happened to be “Cat! Cat!” So I decided to go for something from Tom Petty instead, “You and I will meet again when we’re least expecting it. One day in some far off place I will recognise your face. I won’t say goodbye my friend, for you and I will meet again.”

Needless to say she loved it!

 *Please note all the names of people in my blog have been changed to their celebrity or fictional character counter part to protect their identity. Under no circumstances should this be a reflection of the named celebrity or fictional character.

Title taken from a Joan Rivers quote.

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Today is the 25^th January 2011. It was my first day back at work after being off for a period of six weeks due to another M.E relapse. When you are fit and healthy, having six weeks off your work seems like you have won the rollover jackpot in the Euro Millions. However, when you’re feeling like you have just woken up from being in a coma for over a year after being ran over by Military Battle Tank several times, those six weeks off feel more like you have been sent to hell to be tortured by demons as punishment for a crime to horrifying to speak of.  Hence, when those six weeks were up, I was actually really looking forward to going back to work. I thought I was feeling well enough. I thought would be able to handle going back. I thought if I took it easy and didn’t try and do too much that everything would be ok.

I thought wrong.

I have realised now that it has become way to easy for me to pretend to everyone that everything is fine by put on a smile, laughing it off when I feel as if I am going to pass out after walking up set of stairs or to ignore the fact that my arms and legs are aching to such an extent that all I really want to do is sit down and not move them for a minimum of seven years. This however, is only a short term solution. In the long run, it doesn’t quite work like that. In the long term, the more I try and pretend that everything is ok, the more apparent it becomes that everything is far from being alright.

After my first day back at work (on reduced duties I would like to add) I came home feeling as shit as I did at the start of those six weeks of hell. I am not ashamed to say that when I came home I cried. I cried because I was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to sleep for the rest for this year and the next. I cried because at 23 I couldn’t even do a single days fucking work without feeling like absolute crap. I cried because I was annoyed that I would have to go through everyday feeling like shit, uncertain as to when I would start to feel normal again.  But what I cried for most of all, is that this stupid fucking Myalgic Encephalopathy or Chronic Fatigue Syndrome or what ever the fuck you want to call it has changed me and changed my life to such an extent that I am no longer living life, I’m just existing. And there is fuck all I can do about it.

RANT OVER

*Please note all the names of people in my blog have been changed to their celebrity or fictional character counter part to protect their identity. Under no circumstances should this be a reflection of the named celebrity or fictional character.

Title taken from “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” By Truman Capote

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When I was 16, I was lucky enough to take part in a World Team Challenge trip to Tanzania. This was how I met my good friends Sandra Bullock and Jennifer Aniston (Jennifer, you haven’t been introduced to yet, but I feel it’s only a matter of time). During this trip we worked in an Aids orphanage, went on Safari, climbed Mount Meru and spent some time relaxing in Zanzibar. Through out our 5 weeks in Tanzania, the one piece of advice we were given over and over and over again was not, “Don’t get eaten by an animal” or “Don’t wonder off on your own” or even, “Don’t take a malaria tablet before you got to your bed with no water as it will burn your oesophagus and you will have to go to the hospital where a fat man will lean on your neck” (advice I could have been doing with). No. It was in fact “Under no circumstances get the shits”. Now until this point in my life the shits had not really been my main concern but after all this fear mongering, I went out my way too make sure I never caught the terrible condition that inspired this song:

“It comes out your bum like an automatic gun – diarrhoea, diarrhoea

I was walking to the chippy and I fell on something slippy – diarrhoea, diarrhoea

When you think your friends are joking but your pants are brown and soaking –diarrhoea, diarrhoea”

It wasn’t until January 2011 that finally got over this fear.

My older sister Posh Spice is getting married to the Soap Awards sexist male in summer 2012. Now most brides to be tend to be slightly scary – and by that I mean bloody psychotic. Posh Spice however, is the complete opposite. She is so relaxed about her pending nuptials and the organising of her wedding I am starting to think she may know something we all don’t. In all honesty, this works better for me as I am the maid of honour and if she started freaking out and becoming a bitch about it all I would have to slap her across the face extremely hard. It’s not just brides that are crazy when it comes to weddings it’s also people in the wedding business. We went dress shopping once – and only once as it is an experience I would like to never repeat again in my life. So much so, if I ever get married I am considering walking down the aisle in my jeans, Bruce Springsteen T-shirt and a pair of Converse. One shop we went into every single person who worked there shouted at us in what I can only describe as a Glaswegian neddy high pitched whine, “When’s the weddin’?”

I actually thought I was under attack and so jumped to the ground and took up the foetal position. Another shop we entered made Posh Spice try on dresses that made her look like a 56 year old drug-using prostitute, who to escape life on the streets decided to marry one of her “customers”. Now this is in no way a reflection of my sister. Posh Spice is by no means a drug-using prostitute and certainly does not look 56.  In fact she is actually very good looking and I am not just saying this because she looks like me. What this is a reflection of is how crazy people in the wedding business are. So when the mother of the bride (who is one of those psychotic wedding people) decided we all had to go to The Bothwell Wedding Show, to say I wasn’t looking forward to it was an understatement.

At this point I had been back to work for two weeks and although M.E was kicking my ass slightly (as you may have seen for my other blog) I had taken it easy, had the whole weekend off and thought I would be well enough to walk around the wedding show and ignore all the crazy people. Life, however, had other plans. On the Friday after coming home from work and taking to my bed, I was really warm. Normally I am always freezing, even if the central heating is on full I am still walking about with about 16 layers on and a blanket, so this was strange to me. On this night I was so warm I thought that I had final managed to bend the space time continuum and transport myself to theCaribbean. When I opened my eyes though, I was still in my bed room in Moodiesburn and extremely disappointed. On the Saturday when I woke up, I was wasn’t feeling great but I thought to myself, ‘It’s fine it’s just because I it had been back at work and just need to rest’. So that is exactly what I did until 4am in Sunday morning.

At 4 am on Sunday morning I awoke suddenly with terrible abdominal cramps and had the thought, “I really have to get to the toilet.” An hour and a half later I returned from the bathroom, after losing half of my bodily fluids, and went back to bed. An hour later the same thing happened and this then continued through out the rest of the morning.  By the time Posh Spice came I looked like a heroin addict who was attempting to come off an opium high that I had been on for the last 10 years. Due to being gaunt and ill a lot I tend to always look like a bit of a junkie (which I prefer to call heroin chic) but this was taking it to a whole new level. There is way no I was managing to leave the house never mind walk around a wedding show full of the mentally insane. So while Posh Spice and Demi headed off I sat in my room hoping to God this was not another symptom of my M.E and seriously gutted about missing the wedding show (not).

Luckily I had booked a doctors appointment with House the previous week to discuss something else. The next day I headed off to see him, dreading that he would say, “Oh this is just your M.E. You are going to have to put up with this from time to time”. I really didn’t think my intestine could have handled that. When I got to the doctors, still looking like a detoxing drug addict, House greeted me in his usual friendly and concerned manner. After checking me over he came to the conclusion that I had caught a stomach bug that would pass in a couple of days. I was handed a prescription for antibiotics and sent on my way. When I left the doctors I was ecstatic. I, Samantha McInnes, who has this really crappy illness that no one knows jack about, was sick like normal everyday people. I had the shits and I had never been so happy because I knew that after a couple of days I would be fine. I actually wanted to scream at the top of my lungs, “I have the shits. YAS!” but I thought I may get locked up in some institution where there were likely to be a lot of ex-wedding planners, so I held it in and screamed in my head.  After I left the doctors I had to phone my work to tell them I was sick again. When I phoned at first I think they thought I may have won the lottery. I was so happy to be phoning and telling them I had the shits I would get over it in a couple of days!

And that, Ladies and Gents, is how I got over my fear of the shits!

*Please note all the names of people in my blog have been changed to their celebrity or fictional character counter part to protect their identity. Under no circumstances should this be a reflection of the named celebrity or fictional character.

Title taken from The Tanzania Motto meaning Freedom and Unity

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