As a gentleman in his early 40s, with a fairly busy life balancing working, parenting, pubs and other similarly salubrious pursuits, I blamed this general busy-ness for my permanent feeling of knackeredness. I concluded in mid-2024 that I was overweight and lazy and should probably tackle this instead of just moaning about being tired all the time. So I started eating (more) sensibly, drinking (somewhat) less, and surprised myself when I found that I enjoyed running for pleasure rather than just for buses. I felt I was acquitting myself pretty well of this self-improvement project, and felt fitter in many ways than I had for an unreasonable number of years. I still felt tired, but hoped that would pass with time.

In February 2025, I started to get strange but brief episodes of disassociation and dizziness. Sometimes impressive headaches, which I usually just blamed on too much screen time. Given that I felt otherwise pretty fit, I wasn't too worried; but my partner was, and she told me to go to the GP. I did. I had some blood tests, and I had an ECG, and I passed with flying colours. Huzzah! The GP assured me I'd had a decent MOT, and I didn't need to worry. So I didn't worry! But the strange episodes grew more and more frequent, and by late March, some of them were accompanied by music - but music only I could hear. That did worry me a bit. So I went to another doctor, who immediately referred me to a neurologist, and a couple of days later I had my first ever MRI scan. A day later, I had a phone call from the hospital telling me that I had a large growth and I would need some medicines to stop the seizures (as the episodes were now known), and probably some surgery. I was so surprised, I didn't really feel much about it all apart from "let's get it sorted." Anyway, I was then referred to a neurosurgeon at a specialist hospital. I had another scan, and then had to go for a conversation with the neurosurgeon. The results of the MRI implied a high-grade glioma, and surgery needed to happen sooner rather than later so that a biopsy would give a better idea of prognosis. If it was what it looked like, I could expect to be around for months rather than years, and probably not desperately comfortable for those months either. I went to hospital on 15 May to experience one of the least enjoyable things I've experienced to date, an awake craniotomy, at which the majority of the tumour was removed and sent off for analysis.

(Amazing bit though: given the location of the tumour right in the area that deals with speech, memory, language and communication, I expressed concern that I might lose my ability to read, write, speak and understand English; and the NHS, amazing overstretched but compassionate creature that it is, responded by getting a person into the operating theatre while intensely talented people were removing parts of my brain to check that I was still able to speak, and stopped removing bits when doing so threatened to stop me being able to do so. All hail the NHS, and the nice and presumably strong-stomached person listening to me.)

The surgery was, on the whole, fine. I can't remember whether the hospital's kitchens produce the finest food, I'm afraid, so you'll need to check out TripAdvisor for more details. I went home a couple of days later, mostly because I'm stubborn and would prefer to inflict misery on my loved ones than on professionals who might be less tolerant of my nonsense.

A few weeks later, reasonably good news: the type of tumour wasn't quite as grim - a lower grade of astrocytoma than suspected - and this type of cancer can be treated, though not defeated: it will come back, but hopefully not too soon. My radiotherapy began in August and ended six weeks later. I had a few weeks' break, and I started chemotherapy (PCV, if you're interested: procarbazine, lomustine and vincristine) in October. This will go on now until the middle of 2026. I don't feel too bad. I don't feel amazing – I feel permanently knackered, thus having effectively come full circle in the space of a year or so – but I'm certainly not complaining. All being well, this plan of treatment will give me an unspecified number more years than I expected back in May, though rather fewer than I might have expected (if I'd thought about it) a year ago! But I'm taking this very much as a win.

All cancers are appalling things that affect directly or indirectly so many people; and they take, change and turn upside-down countless lives. My friends and family are phenomenal sources of support and strength to me. I would have drowned in self-pity were it not for them. And sometimes, it's the most ridiculous things that really lift your spirits. One of the most obvious aspects of chemotherapy is that you can't drink alcohol. Now I know that nobody NEEDS to drink alcohol, but nevertheless, I miss my beloved whisky (and wine, if I'm honest). And so Guy's pledge to "stay dry" until my chemotherapy ends in July 2026 meant a lot to me, because it's a bit of normality that I won't have, and he's voluntarily forgoing it too to boost my morale.

My experiences over the last few months have left and continue to leave me astonished by the NHS, by Macmillan, and by the incredible Brain Tumour Charity. The knowledge, compassion and dedication of all three organisations appear bottomless, but their resources most certainly are not. This is especially so for the Brain Tumour Charity, which helps to raise funds to research cures for currently incurable cancers, such as mine. So Guy's pledge to stay dry can benefit not only my morale, but any donations you might choose to make to his good and noble cause will also help the Brain Tumour Charity to continue its work and, hopefully, help find a cure for brain cancers before they take too many more away from their families and friends. On a personal note, it will be particularly satisfying to know that Guy will be enjoying a dry Christmas and New Year period this year. Make it worth his while!