And I certainly didn’t pitch it to any executives. I was happy where I was but everything is a fucking trilogy these days. I’m back in the chemo ward. The anti sicks have gone in. I’ve been flushed out. Then Atropin, a right stingy bastard but it’s supposed to stop the instant screaming shits. And now the main course. Folfiri is the catch all term for the three chemo drugs but right now it’s the starter, Irinotecan, and I can feel myself drifting off to that strange level of consciousness that only happens when the drugs go in. Just got a message from the bairn. She loves me loads and loads and loads xxx. The best thing in my world. I’m emotional already. I’ve never had three lots of loads before. I have six chemos booked before the next scan, my baseline CT scan is tomorrow, to check for ‘progression’. My scan in February showed the area of concern confirmed as disease in a PET CT but it has taken until today to get back in the chemo seat. I haven’t written much about it but it’s been a slog. To hear there was recurrence, again, was the hardest part throughout my journey. Recurring recurrence. I really thought I might have some non cancer time. The Macmillan nurse told me over the phone when I was in the car on the way to see Green Book. I can’t remember much about the film. It won an Oscar I think so I must watch it again. I parked up in the car park, had a short cry, a nanosecond of why me, then trotted off to the Costa for a big cup of tea to drink during the film. Message Board Time Served Season Ticket Holders will know my history but a short recap for those late to the party. At the start of 2017 I was 47, no really, with a job and a normal life. Never been to the docs in 10 years. Then stomach cramps, fobbed off by GP and urgent care centre until two months later an emergency trip to A&E as the tumour in my bowel had grown so big it ruptured the wall. It could have been 5 or 10 years old. No symptoms before the cramps though. I had it all removed with a fair bit of bowel. Then it was my first lot of chemo, Folfox, 12 rounds over 6 months. 2018 started with increasing pain, another CT showed I had spread in my peritoneum. It’s like the orange net bag that keeps the kindling in, except it keeps my bowely bits, liver, gall bladder and all that stuff wrapped up. And I don’t think it’s orange. This diagnosis was far worse. Chemo can’t cure peritoneal disease so I was put on palliative care. The slow road of resistance until the inevitable. There was a silver lining. There was a little known very expensive operation called Cytoreductive Debulking with HIPEC. This was a possibility if there was no further progress. And after 9 more rounds of Folfiri, there wasn’t. So I upped and offed to Basingstoke for the mother of all surgeries. Apparently it costs just short of 100k so thank you NI payers. I was the only one from the North East Trust to get it. And I was very grateful. The operation went well, they took out my kindling bag, took the scissors to the naughty bits, bathed my abdomen in hot chemotherapy for an hour then stitched me back together. We beat Gillingham away that night. It was one of the first questions I asked when I woke up in intensive care. The nurse popped over as a ‘Guy’ from ‘the message board’ wanted to know how I was, while I was surrounded by consultants telling me how the operation went. Reading back, that was the funniest moment when it finally made sense on the thread timeline, that it was you lot butting in while the consultants had to check their fingernails for a bit. I was in for 3 weeks, tubed up to fuck. The first operation was my first experience of a pipe up me tail but these went one better by adding a stent up me arsehole. I’d lost a bit of anus in the operation so the pathway had to be kept clear. Their metal mickeys were much posher than up in Durham. They even fed me through my neck while administering the drugs. It was all a bit painful. That button press thing made nee difference. Fast forward three weeks I had my first fart, followed by my first shite. Thanks for the prayers on here. You all helped that first shit. So they let me home with a bigger scar and a shitload of medication. Now, I love this place. I’m anonymous, I’m just a made up name with a picture of my first hero. I like that. I can write what I want, how I feel, on here and it’s very therapeutic. There are one or two in the real world who know it’s me who is me on here. I’d rather they didn’t but hey ho. Otherwise I feel very comfortable here. I didn’t think I needed the support, I just wanted to vent, but the response has been overwhelming. I won an award for fuck’s sake. Giv over and thanks very much at the same time. While I was less unwell this year, I managed to get to a few matches. Started with Gillingham ironically the home return match, I didn’t have to ask a nurse in Basingstoke, we won, I know, I saw it, then Plymouth, we won, then Bristol Rovers in the cup. I had a long trip down to have some time with the bairn and took myself to the ground to watch us progress to the final of the checkatrade. Then Walsall, we won, then Coventry, we lost. This also marked the last time I was able to go as my health had been going downhill for a while. I had a ticket for the final but sold it to a fellow dog walker. I was prebooked to go to Madrid with the boys and managed this with proper good support from them. I've sorted the wheat from the chaff in the friends terms. I am left with the wheaty ones and I wheaty appreciate it. I also managed to get out, have a few beers but was stuck in the fucking Bernabau watching that shite instead of us. I had to admit the level of football was breathtaking and that also applied to SD Huesca, the whipping boys of that league. It was later on so saw most of our match at the Irish Bar. Until Liverpool/Tottenham kicked off and they turned it over. I tried my best but was outnumbered. By about 200 to me. Bastards. I watched the penalties on the phone. We lost.