Tuesday 8th July 2025

My uncle got sick. He told me it didn’t look good.

His last message was: “Take care of yourselves.”

Brave chap. He’d accepted his fate. I didn't want to believe it myself.

Pancreatic cancer took him down like a bullet.

I could tell this left part of my Grandfather broken.

At the wake of my uncle’s funeral, my phone rang. Grandad was my best mate and I was taking care of some of his affairs.

It was the doctor.

My grandfather had it too. It had already spread to the liver and beyond.

I had to break the news to him at my uncles funeral.

The hour-and-a-half journey home was a blur. We listened to Elvis on repeat. I asked him what was the secret to life.

Seventeen days later, my strong, powerful grandfather was barely conscious. It was my nan’s birthday. He held on until two minutes past midnight. There was no way he was going out on that day.

Fucking legend.

The problem is this: over 80% of pancreatic cancer diagnoses come too late because the symptoms are vague and blurry. After more than three decades of raising money for sick kids and cancer victims, I finally had to call one of these charities myself – and this one was there for me.

But more importantly, they’re on the edge.

On the edge of developing a breath test that could change everything. A test that will detect this ominous disease early and give the victim a chance of fighting back.

A test that would have given us a chance at chemo.

A chance to save these two.

A chance to avoid my family being blown apart.

So in 2026, I’m going to raise as much money as I possibly can for this charity.

Because you think it will never happen to you.

Well, sadly – it can.

And if the breath test these guys are working on becomes a reality, your mum, your nan, your brother, your sister – they could be saved.

Don’t you want to be part of that?

I do.

In memory of my grandfather Tony and my uncle Ken.

The legends.

The Kinnells. x