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Tuesday 9th March 2021

6674/19594
It’s been a long held fantasy for me that the Daily Mail was forced to write about my bollocks. Would’ve been front page if not for Meghan Markle!
Though that article is mainly just copy and pasted from this blog, so I guess I wrote it. Glad they left in the Ferrero Rocher gag that won’t make much sense to readers of the Mail, and also had me “gushing” about the NHS. Yeah, those stupid bastards. What have they done for me, except save my life? What do they want a medal? What, they want a pay rise? Won’t they just accept a medal?
Good to have my philanthropy confirmed in newsprint though.

I left the house again today and actually got in the car, as I had to drive for 50 minutes to meet my oncologist. I am not sure that a 50 minute drive was exactly what I needed, just 13 days after surgery, but it only hurt a little bit and it was great to be out in the real world in the early Spring sunshine.
I was heading to the Mount Vernon Cancer Centre in Northwood to meet with Dr Anand Shama (who seemed to want to get a name check and a nurse called Linda to discuss what comes next.
Dr Shama was pleased to see me. He had watched Taskmaster (though didn’t present me with my diseased ball to use in the prize task) and had googled me and found out about all my secret philanthropy and was hopeful that I might help raise some profile and maybe money for the centre. Of course, this had been on my mind already. I don’t want to gush about the NHS but they have given me the hope of seeing my kids grow up and leave home and the prospect of some time to myself once they’re gone. But you know, it can’t hurt having an oncologist who has a vested interest in keeping you alive. So sure, let’s raise some money for these guys. They said most people raised money for Macmillan Cancer, but those guys were all sniffy about me raising money for them via Talking Cock (even when I showed them the reviews) and refused to be associated it with it (their loss was Scope’s gain and we’re raised well over £300,000 for them over the last 20 years). So those fuckers aren’t getting a penny. But I’ll be doing something for the Lister hospital and the Mount Vernon centre. 
The doctor explained why I’d had to travel so far: my cancer is pretty rare there aren’t too many places equipped to deal with it. And just to allay all fears and not call the Daily Mail a ragbag of lies, my cancer has been dealt with. It was all in the ball - in fact the ball was almost all cancer. It’d had got big and left to its own devices would have spread its tendrils up into my abdomen. But they got it out and it’s gone.
However, it could come back. There’s about a one in four chance of that and I don’t really love those odds. I play poker and I know how often a 75% sure thing gets beaten. It’s roughly once in every four occasions. So I was offered the choice of only coming back for scans every few months for the next few years OR have the scans but also have one shot of precautionary chemo which reduces the chance of return for one in four to one in twenty. Those are odds that I could cope with (though again, about one in twenty times they’re proven to be deadly on the poker table), especially given that they are going to be watching me closely for the foreseeable future and that even if the cancer returns it’s still very treatable. 
As with all of this experience, it’s practically virtual reality cancer. Like I’m on the holodeck of the Starship Enterprise and am playing at having cancer (but accidentally caught my bollock in the sliding door -that’ll be in the Mail soon, should have put some asterisks in to help them. Also note to self, idea for Sliding Doors 2?), because even the chemo is play time chemo. One shot and it shouldn’t make me vomit or lose my hair. It might make be lethargic and it might weaken my immune system - obviously that one isn’t so great given what’s going on in the world at the moment. But even there I sort of luck out and can now jump the vaccination queue (I’ve actually got an appointment tomorrow - yeah take that people who haven’t had cancer - you must be feeling pretty bad now) to reduce my chances of getting Covid to about one in ten. There’s a part of me convinced that I’ll managed to defeat all these odds and end up getting everything, but I never win anything, so it’s probably not likely.
I asked how I got this cancer and the doctor said it was likely that the roots of it go back as far as being in the womb, creating the potential for this to happen. Maybe me hurting my ball when I got knocked over by a wave in Barbados twenty years ago accelerated stuff, but given the size of the problem area, it’s certainly been gradually growing over quite a length of time. Like Harry Hill’s mum and the mashed potato (find that routine on line if you don’t know what I’m talking about) I didn’t notice the tiny amount of growth. I guess I attributed any  difference in size to the effects of gravity on an old man’s balls, though I am pretty sure I had no inkling of this until January. Was there any suspicion before? I don’t think so.
I asked if it was anything I have done, aware that I haven’t always lived the healthiest of lifestyles - could it be down to too much beer or Diet Coke or sugar or having my phone in my pocket? But apparently not.
But even if this all hadn’t been an impetus to get a lot healthier generally, I was told that the operation will have changed my metabolism and it’s important I lose some weight and get fit again or I increase my chances of getting diabetes and high blood pressure and other unpleasant stuff. It’s OK. I am already making changes. I had a stir fry for breakfast this morning. And will be back to running as soon as my ball will let me.
So lucky, lucky bastard (loss of testicle aside) that this had all remained contained in my love egg. Do you reckon the remaining Mcsquirter Twin was responsible for both kids, or was I somehow firing with both cylinders, even though one cylinder was basically on its way to being all rust? And if one of the kids came out of the bad testes, will they be evil? They’re both pretty evil. What if the cancer testicle was the good one and the bad one injected it with disease?
Ultimately all of this is amazing and I am ever more positive that this will have a satisfactory outcome (though I understand that I may still die at some point, though if I raise enough money then surely Dr Shama can stop that happening too). 
It’s all been a great wake up call. Sadly my bollock slept through the alarm.


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