It started right here.

On the 10th of January 2025, three days before my surgery, I wrote my first entry on this Substack. You can still read it here: The Day Everything Changed.

I wasn’t sure what I was doing or why. My friend Lucy had suggested journaling as a way to claw back some control. I’d been in a personal hell since November, and I needed somewhere to put it all.

I told Emma I was journaling and asked if she thought sharing it could help someone else. ‘Yes, go for it,’ was her response. So, with her support, I did.

Those journals became the ‘OH SH!T’ series of books, supporting Bowel Cancer UK, and it’s thanks to each of you that it happened.

This week, those journals ended, no more diary entries. In all honesty, that makes me sad. Part 3 is written and submitted to the publisher, ready to be copy-edited, reviewed and hopefully released in the next few months.

This time last week, I had no idea how the diaries would end.

But now I do, and I think you’d like to know the ending too?

First, a flashback.

Surgery day. 13th of January 2025. Emma’s birthday, of all days.

14th of January 2025, Emma came to see me, followed by my Dad, who had done the nearly 500-mile round trip. I was on morphine, farting like a beast, and finally getting around to going for a pee in a cardboard tube, so dignified.

After they left, I dragged my dead leg out of bed and set of, drip in tow up and down a hospital corridor.

About 1,000 steps. That was everything I had, and at the time, it felt like a marathon.

That night, I told myself I’d get back to running, to beating my previous distance of 50km.

Much of what followed was documented here, in these entries, before it became the OH SH!T series of books.

The diagnosis. The surgery. The strange dark humour of recovery. Then chemotherapy, which, if I’m honest, was harder. The fizzing limbs. The cold aversion. The fog. The Aperol Shitz.

The days when I genuinely wondered if I’d ever feel like myself again.

But in between all of that, and I mean this, there was this community. People reaching out. Sharing their own stories. Offering advice, kindness, and the occasional reality check when I needed one.

Fast forward sixteen months

Last Saturday, my mate Wayne and I arrived at the start line of the Isle of Wight Ultra Challenge.

107.85 kilometres around the entire island. We’d trained for months, 900 kilometres each, and we carried copies of the books across the finish line at almost 3:30 am, medals around our necks, feet absolutely destroyed, grinning like idiots.

In my case, I was almost as high as the 14th January 2025 when I was smashing the morphine button.

1,000 steps to approx 140,000 steps in a single day. Sixteen months apart.

Don’t call it a comeback, it’s not that, but in an exclusive reveal, this is planned to be the subtitle for Part 3 of the OH SH!T diaries.

Why? I love a lyric and what a start to a song, and I’ve never liked ‘comeback’.

It’s a rebuild. Messy, full of rest weeks and zero weeks and weeks where life and Guinness just got in the way. But it happened. We got there.

And it all started here, three days before they wheeled me into surgery, when I just needed somewhere honest to put my fear.

Thank you for being that place. It means more than I can properly say.

— Dar 🏅(here’s how it ended).

Wayne and I are still fundraising; every penny counts. £3545 so far!

Bowel Cancer UK - Fundraiser

The OH SH!T diaries — Parts 1 and 2 are available now. Part 3 will cover the mental impact of leaving care, the rebuild, the ultra, and everything in between.

A portion of profits goes to Bowel Cancer UK.

Available in all good bookstores and via OH SH!T I've got Bowel Cancer

Actually, it’s become more like 108km. How does coastal erosion make it even longer?

If you’ve been here since the beginning, you’ll remember where this started.

Me, in a daze, recently told I had a tumour in my bowel, typing into my phone because I didn’t know what else to do with the noise in my head. No grand plan. No book deal. Just words, going somewhere, in the hope that someone might read them and feel slightly less alone.

That was late 2024. And in early 2025, prior to surgery, it became a substack.

This logo is where it all started….hurriedly crafted in Canva.

Since then, you’ve read about the colonoscopy, the diagnosis, the surgery on Emma’s birthday, the morphine, the bile bag, the farting (so much farting), four rounds of CAPOX chemotherapy, the Aperol Shitz, the creamy milk taste that turned me against pizza, the move to Congleton, the therapy, the dark thoughts, the good ones, the running, the Guinness, the dogs, the paella, and the very slow, very complicated business of trying to figure out who you are when the thing that was trying to kill you has gone but the fear of it hasn’t.

Eighteen months. One substack, three books. Somewhere north of 150,000 words.

And this Saturday, it ends, or at least, this chapter of it does, with Wayne and me running 106 kilometres around the Isle of Wight in a single day.

How did we get here?

You might remember the entry where I couldn’t get the London Marathon charity place with Bowel Cancer UK. I was gutted.

Then Wayne replied to a WhatsApp message. One of those replies that changes the shape of your year.

What a legend!

Since then, we’ve run hundreds of kilometres in training. We’ve done long Sunday walks, and a frankly embarrassing treadmill session in Bali in January, where neither of us managed more than four kilometres before giving up and ordering a beer.

We’ve had sore ankles, sore hips, the neuropathy in my feet that still fizzes when it’s cold, and I think we’ve both thought to ourselves, “I don’t think I can do this.”

We’re doing it.

What this run means to me

I want to be honest with you, because that’s the only way I know how to write these.

Just over a year ago, I was in bed. There were days when I couldn’t walk the dogs. I couldn’t lift a saucepan. Emma was giving me blood-thinning injections in my leg every night, and I was lying there watching the walls and thinking about how much of my life I’d spent worrying about things that didn’t matter.

And now we are running 106 kilometres.

I’m not writing that to be inspirational. I’m writing it because I still can’t quite believe it, and writing it down is the only way I know how to process things.

You know that about me by now; writing it here is so much easier for me than verbalising it.

What I also know is this: at some point on Saturday, probably somewhere around kilometre 70 or 80, when it’s dark, and my legs are gone, and my bowel is doing whatever it decides to do at the worst possible moment, I’m going to think about that hospital ward. About the bile bag. About Emma injecting me in the leg. About the chemo chair. About the day I had a camera up my hairy arse, and I saw a big fat ugly tumour come onto the screen.

And it’s going to keep me going (I hope).

Why we’re running

Wayne and I are raising money for Bowel Cancer UK, the charity that has supported this whole journey, from the resources that helped me understand my diagnosis in those first terrifying weeks, to the research groups I’ve been part of, to the partnership that helped turn these diaries into books.

Bowel Cancer is second only to Lung Cancer in the UK for taking precious lives. It’s also one of the most survivable, if it’s caught early. That’s the bit that matters. Early diagnosis saves lives.

The FIT test, the one that caught mine, is simple, free, and takes about two minutes.

If you’d like to support us, the link is below. Every pound goes directly to Bowel Cancer UK and the work they do to make sure fewer people end up sitting in a colonoscopy room saying “OH SH!T, I’ve got cancer.”

And the books:

Part 2, The Fog of Chemotherapy, is out now. Part 1 — the diagnosis and surgery, both are available in all good bookstores and via OHSHTIVEGOTBOWELCANCER

Part 3, which covers everything from the moment the treatment ended to the end of this weekend’s run, will follow later this year. It’s the strangest of the three to have written, because Parts 1 and 2 had a clear enemy. Part 3 is about what happens when the enemy leaves, but the fear doesn’t. I think it might be the most important one.

If you’ve read any of them and found something useful in them, thank you.

That’s the whole reason they exist.

And….if you have a story to share, I’d love to carry it for you in Part 3.

One last thing

When I started this Substack, I was writing to process. I didn’t know if anyone would read it. I didn’t know if I’d still be here to finish it.

You showed up. You subscribed, you commented, you sent messages telling me that something I’d written had helped you or someone you loved.

You made me feel like the words were doing what I hoped they’d do.

So before Wayne and I get on a ferry to the Isle of Wight and do something moderately ridiculous in the name of survival and Bowel Cancer UK……

Thank you. Genuinely.

I’ll write again from the other side.

Big love.

David aka Dar

To support David and Wayne’s Isle of Wight Ultra and donate to Bowel Cancer UK, visit the Just Giving Link

OH SH!T — I’ve Got Bowel Cancer (Parts 1 & 2) is available now. Part 3 coming soon.

Today sees the release of Part 2 of these diaries, subtitled ‘The Fog of Chemotherapy’.

In all honesty, it wasn’t until 16:00 yesterday that I realised today was the day.

For some reason, I was a day behind myself, so yesterday I hurriedly prepared some graphics for ‘out tomorrow’ and got those onto the socials.

At first, I asked AI to do it for me, and this is what it came up with… shocking.

Followed by this, which I guess is a bit better, I used neither.

This morning, as always, I woke up early, and the first thing I did was to start scouring the Internet for the book.

There it was on Amazon, on the Google store, in Apple Books, everywhere you would expect it to be.

It’s a good feeling to see something I’ve written out there, and equally, it’s scary. For the last few nights, I’ve had dreams that people hate me, and I think it’s got something to do with the book. I think I’m worried about people’s reactions, if they’ll buy the book(s), I have been waking up almost terrified at two or three in the morning.

It reminds me of being a kid when I used to be bothered about what people thought about me, and I suppose I still am; I guess I must be at least subconsciously.

As for the day, a book release day is much like any other day, and today really did prove that.

At around 06:30 am, Emma was heading off to the gym, and I was going out for a shakedown run. What I mean by that was that I was undertaking a fitness test using my smartwatch, which was the same fitness test that was conducted before we began training, just so I could see the differences between then and now.

But before going out on that run, I said goodbye to Emma as I put my shoes on whilst sitting on the stairs. I could smell something, and as I looked up, I realised that Emma was walking dog shit through the hallway.

Before I could say anything, Emma had left the house, and I was there staring at a big turd and a load of your urine. I’ve no idea which of our two dogs had done this, but as you do, I just got to cleaning it, and if I’m honest, later, when returning home after Emma met me with the dogs, we got home and discovered another great big turd in the dining room, and the house stank.

Welcome to new book day.

And that’s kind of summed up the day, really. On every other occasion I’ve released a book, I’ve been excited and anticipatory. I’ve written and released 5 books (1 co-authored), and today has just felt a bit of a damp squib.

If you’d have told me this would be me 5 years ago, I would not have believed you (on so many levels).

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not anticipating a party or the press knocking on my door asking for interviews, but ever since going through this cancer thing, these books have felt so personal to me.

I’ve written them to help others, I’ve literally put myself out there, and I think sometimes people think that’s easy for me, that I’m doing it for promotion or maybe to sell and make money, and I promise you that’s really not the case.

Yes, they are to help me with my mental health, but the main aim is to help others because I wanted to turn something negative into a positive.

But maybe that’s just me today; it is just a Tuesday after all.

Anyways…..back to life, back to reality.

The run that I did today is one of the last that I’ll do before Wayne, and I set off on our challenge. The enormity of what we’re about to do has really struck me today. Not really the run itself, but all the sponsors, it being in the local press, all of that is a layer of pressure - though I’m sure come race day, it will motivate us, not hinder us.

In terms of part 2, I’m now looking forward to seeing how it’s received, indeed, if it’s received, because writing books isn’t something that generates loads of money via sales, so thankfully, it’s good that I’m not in it for those reasons, but I really hope it helps somebody because the fog of chemotherapy is real. I’m still suffering with the after-effects of chemo today, so I hope that part two, and also part one of these diaries, is helpful to somebody.

Maybe that’s you? And if it is, please know that if you need anything, I’d be happy to help.

Until next time.

Firstly, and easily most importantly. Its Bowel Cancer Awareness month.

So I’d like to begin by thanking for sharing this oh so useful guide to the symptoms of Bowel Cancer.

Truthfully, I barely had any of these symptoms, and thats why Bowel Cancer can be so deadly and undetected for long periods. And its not beyond me to be crude, so as this is my blog I’ll continue by being crude - looks away now if you don’t like crudeness.

Crudeness incoming…

For me, it was point 3, a change in how often you poo, or regularly having diarrhoea or constipation.

A few years ago, I’d gasp in awe at just how big my ‘deposits’ were, like passing a Cumberland sausage on occasion, proper bowel emptyers.

Then, as time passed, I’d see more pencils than sausages, but I just thought it was age and my eating better (believe me, my diet in my 20s and 30s was a shocker).

It was only when ‘that’ steak got stuck and my belly made more noise than my mouth (or my arse) that I got checked - just a few months more, and I may not be here writing this now.

The moral of the story, if you see a pattern of change, go to the docs. It’s probably nothing, but it’s worth checking.

And for those of you wondering, (surely all of you) - now its back to cumberlands, in fact I’m back to standing back in amazement and weighing myself afterwards; over 4lbs for those interested.

Crudeness over…..in other news.

Anyway, I’m back from the toilet now and wanted to let you know that book two in the ‘OH SH!T’ series is coming out on April 21st, to coincide with Bowel Cancer Awareness month.

Its subtitled, ‘The Fog of Chemotherapy’ and its pretty manic.

Chemotherapy is weird. One minute you’re fine, and then the next minute your hands are fizzing, your jaw won’t open properly, and you’re wondering how on earth pizza, yes lovely pizza, has betrayed you.

Those moments where you think, “Is this actually worth it?” Yep, some of its grim, and hopefully, some of its oddly funny.

There’s a chapter called Aperol Shitz (thanks lovely Sophie) which probably tells you enough. There seems to be a theme developing on this post.

There’s also something I didn’t expect: using AI to track what’s going on. Symptoms, patterns, how you’re actually feeling. It helped more than I thought it would, so along with a fellow patient I’ve shared how to do it properly in the book (thank you Russ).

So, if you’re going through it, or close to someone who is, this might help. Or at the very least, it’ll let you know you’re not the only one thinking:

“OH SHIT”

Here is a peak at the cover:

I’ll share more as the publishing day gets closer.

Hopefully Wayne and I will have copies of the book with us when we run around the Isle of Wight on May 2nd. This past weekend we completed approx 69km of training (56km run, 13km walk) so we hope to be in fairly decent shape by the time the run rolls around.

If you can, we’d love it if you can support us in raising money for Bowel Cancer UK, I’ll pop the link below.

Just Giving - 106Km

Thanks for sticking with me, I appreciate it.

14 March 2025 – Part two

I leave home at about 10:45 am for my midday appointment. It’s in Guildford, which is approximately 45 minutes away, and I wanted to get there nice and early.

We soon discovered that arriving early probably wasn’t the best choice, as the person receiving a PICC line before me had only just arrived. Consequently, we spent about an hour waiting for my appointment, which commenced 45 minutes later than scheduled.

Having a PICC line installed is a fascinating process. It’s not painful. It’s just lying there with your arm out and having this line inserted into a main vein.

The nurse suggested that I had never smoked because my veins looked so good, but I told her I used to smoke until about seven years ago.

Overall, it was a painless exercise. The nurse completed the procedure in approximately 40 minutes. She made sure that I was well covered and sanitised, and then inserted 53 cm of PICC line into me.

She then cleaned it all up, put it in a bandage and sent me on my way.

Next step, I was in a bay that was full of people having chemotherapy.

It’s quite the sight, and the first thing that strikes me is that scene in The Matrix when Keanu Reeves is ‘birthed’ among all of those other people in their pods.

It could be the baldness. It could be my concern that this could be an industry that we’re all participating in, but ultimately, it’s just good old-fashioned fear, and it turns out that fear was pretty much unfounded.

My height and weight are taken once more, and today I’ve grown back to 6 feet again. Readers of the first diaries may recall how I varied between 5ft 9 in and 6ft, depending on who measured me.

And I’ve lost a pound, which is great. I believe my BMI is now spot-on, although I’m not truly 6 feet tall. I’ve just got a new pair of trainers, and I expect they might give me a bit more height.

I’m offered lunch, so although they say there’s no such thing as a free lunch, and I think chemotherapy kind of proves that, it’s a nice sandwich: chicken mayonnaise on wholemeal bread, which, incidentally, is beneficial because I am now eating fibre again, and I’m not experiencing any problems. I do eat the sandwich slowly during my chemotherapy, just in case.

I sit down, and it takes about half an hour before they attend to me. They reiterate all the side effects.

They inform me of their plans and provide very clear instructions on how to engage with the nurses if I experience any discomfort. They also discuss the 24x7x365 hotline as well as my appointments.

And then they connect me to my PICC line. I ask how long it will take. The response is two hours.

By this point, poor Emma has had to leave the room because she’s coughing, and she’s worried that she’s going to pass something on to people. So, I’m sitting there alone, but in truth, I’m perfectly happy to do so.

If you’re wondering what it’s like to have chemotherapy, one good thing to know is that you can bring somebody with you for that first one, and they can sit with you, spend time with you, take care of you. This was like a room where they’re doing that: lots of people helping out their loved ones.

Once I’m plugged in, the countdown begins. I sit there. I pop on Netflix, and I think if I watch this 40-minute episode plus another two, I’ll be just about there, as I’m told I’ll be there for two hours. Frankly, it’s fine.

I just sit there slightly dozing, watching Netflix, not feeling too bad at all. That’s when I wonder if it’s even working because I can’t see the contents of the bag going down.

It’s only when Emma comes back and lets me know that it has a dial indicating how many minutes are left and how many millimetres of the treatment are left that I become more confident that it’s all OK.

Before we finish, the pharmacist comes along to tell me about the multitude of drugs I’ve got to take.

It goes something like this:

4 x 500mg chemotherapy tablets twice a day, with meals, 12 hours apart. These should be taken for 14 days.

Days 1–3: Take two extra anti-sickness tablets in the morning, then one of these 3 times a day and another 2 times a day. The second should not be taken within 6 hours of bedtime.

Days 4–14: Take anti-sickness tablets as needed.

Days 15–21: Take a break.

After they told me all of this and asked me to recite it, I posed a simple question: Can I have a beer with this medication? Their response was: After chemo, you’d absolutely deserve one. So yes, you can, but don’t get drunk, as it can make a hangover worse.

And that is pretty much it. They unplugged me, and I feel OK, but then I take a sip of my drink – room-temperature water in a thermos I brought with me – and suddenly it tastes like when you’ve brushed your teeth, and everything is minty and cold.

It’s a weird sensation, not one I particularly dislike, but it is weird. And when the nurse asks me how I am, I mention this, and she said you need to be careful of the cold. It can make your airway close, and you need to breathe in warm air to make sure you’re OK. Wonderful!

And with that, when I leave the hospital, it’s 5:00 pm on a Friday, and I am dreading the drive home. From Guildford to our house, it’s normally 50 minutes, but at this time on a Friday, it’s a bit longer. I tried to think about how I will get into the car, and my hands are tingling with pins and needles. I realise having a heated steering wheel is a very good thing. I switch it on, and the fizzing and tingling go away. Off we go. We drive home, and as if by some magic, we do not hit a bit of traffic. We cruise through the countryside, listening to soul music. Emma is sleeping and chatting next to me. It’s just a nice drive, pleasant apart from the tingling in my ears, which is slightly off-putting.

When we get home, the plan is to walk the dogs, and I’m happy to do so, but first, I need to take an anti-sickness tablet, one of the many. I’ll be taking it for the next three days.

When I take that tablet and sip some water, it’s like my tongue has expanded. It feels numb, like when you’ve had anaesthetic at the dentist.

For just a split second, I feel like I’m going to choke on my own tongue, and then it goes, but then my nose fizzes, closely followed by my hands.

Bless Emma, she decides to take the dogs out on her own because it’s cold outside.

I go to make myself a room-temperature drink, and my hand freezes to the jug. I have to peel the jug out of my hand with the other hand and manipulate my right hand to straighten up again.

Again, it lasts only a few seconds. When I go upstairs, my nose is fizzing because I have my glasses on. Again, I take my glasses off, and the fizzing goes.

Ultimately, I am sitting here recording today’s diary at this time. I don’t feel too bad at all.

Maybe a little in the clouds, a tiny bit fizzy in one of my cheeks, but able to sit here and think clearly to write this, to not be in any pain.

So, was it as bad as I thought it would be this morning? Probably not, but I’ve still got a course of drugs to take, and so expect these diaries to be documenting interesting side effects, how I’m feeling, and with some hope, maybe having a pint over the weekend.

Let’s see how we go.

Part 2 of OH SH!T I’ve got Bowel Cancer began almost a year ago. And I wanted to give each of you a sneak preview.

This week will be the first entry written on my first day of Chemotherapy, it was an interesting day that called for three diary entries.

Let’s begin with how this logo looked a year ago…..

And here is an exclusive view of a mock-up of the potential cover art for book 2.

The Fog of Chemotherapy

We hope to release the book before Wayne and I take on the Isle of Wight Ultra Challenge in May of 2026.

14th March, 2025

Chemotherapy Day 1 - Part One.

I’ve decided to document today’s diary in two parts. The aim is to record this first part before my chemotherapy treatment, and then to write the second this evening, after the chemo.

My appointment is at midday, when they will install my PICC line, and I believe the chemotherapy begins at 1:00 pm.

Last night, before I went to sleep, people sent me messages wishing me luck for today. More than one of them said;

Until that point, it was never going to be an anxious day.

I had been relaxed.

But after reading those messages, I suddenly felt anxious. I began to worry. Am I going to die? How will I feel? I struggled to sleep for the first time in ages.

The people who sent me those messages are lovely and did so for the right reasons. However, if you’re reading this, or know someone going through this, I encourage you to think carefully about the words you choose.

They can have a real impact on someone who seems to be cruising through something, as in my case. I want positive vibes; if someone mentions anxiety, worry or stress, those words come to my mind immediately, but I guess everyone’s different.

Adding to my anxiety is the fact that Emma is still unwell. She was in bed all day yesterday and was quite poorly.

She ought to be resting in bed; however, we both get up, have a shower and take the dogs out for a chilly 1°C morning walk.

It’s a lovely walk, but it adds to my anxiety as I have read and heard that one of the side effects of my treatment is a sort of allergic reaction to the cold. I’m not someone who ever gets cold, so I find myself walking around wondering how I will feel tomorrow.

Until this treatment, I haven’t been an anxious person, but today, I can feel it intensely. As I record this diary, I sense a wave of nervousness and am using these few moments to talk myself out of that anxiety. I have about an hour and a half until we leave, so I’ve just enjoyed a good breakfast.

I’m going to iron some comfy trousers to wear. I’m going to put myself in a positive mindset. I will play some good music in the car on the way in and hope the treatment isn’t half as bad as I think it will be. Also, I have no idea how I will feel for the next two weeks before my treatment break, which worries me, too.

And I think that’s the thing. I don’t feel in control when I feel that way; it upsets me, from people sending me well-meaning messages about anxiety, to adverts on television discussing cancer, to hearing on the radio that someone’s died from cancer or needs help with chemotherapy, to walking around and dealing with the cold while worrying that I’m going to feel mad tomorrow.

All these things play on your mind. Hopefully, I’ll be recording this diary later, saying that for today at least, it’s not that bad.

Surely, it’s just a matter of turning up, installing a line, plugging into the chemotherapy matrix and then driving home.

That’s what I’m hoping for. Let’s see what we get.

Part 2 will follow next week.

This entry is as much a marker for me as it is a record of a journey.

Holidays are supposed to be about anticipation, excitement for what’s coming next. Yet, as we prepared to leave for Thailand, Bali, and Kuala Lumpur, what I felt most strongly was fear. Not a rational one, but a persistent, quiet dread: what if I feel unwell while I’m away… and never recover when I return?

I’ve always had travel insurance. This time, I upgraded it to include cancer-related symptoms. Ticking that “pre-existing condition” box felt fudging awful, like acknowledging something I’d rather leave behind.

My mind wandered to irrational places, Thai hospitals, Eric Sloane in a Bangkok hospital, worst-case scenarios. I knew it was nonsense, yet it lingered.

At the same time, something else was happening. I was in pain again and also had a mad rash; my body, it seemed, was trying to tell me something. I wasn’t convinced a three-week trip to Asia was the answer — but I hoped rest, moderation, and light training with Wayne might help.

Just before we left, I had a meeting that changed my perspective.

Through a friend, Denise, I met Ian, 57, who has created an initiative called ‘No Tier Snooker’ to support people with early-onset dementia.

https://notiersnooker.co.uk/

Outwardly, you wouldn’t realise these people were suffering. Usually, they are articulate, funny, still alive, but they also speak honestly about the strange limbo of diagnosis: the relief of understanding why things are changing, combined with the quiet wait for what is yet to come.

Ian has established this initiative that unites people with this condition and their partners — often their carers — through the simple act of sharing space and interests, in this case, snooker. Over time, the group has expanded, attracting support from snooker legends and raising funds and awareness across the UK.

As we talked, parallels emerged between this condition and cancer — not medically, but emotionally. The fear of becoming “less functional” in society’s eyes. The loss of work, friendships, and confidence. The gap between diagnosis and meaningful support.

I went to support Ian because I love snooker and believe in what he’s building. But I left knowing, selfishly, perhaps, that his quiet, determined work will also help me. If I can use my writing to amplify his efforts, I will.

And with that perspective fresh in my mind, we left for Asia.

Bangkok

After a long but surprisingly comfortable journey, we landed late and did what we always do: ignored common sense. Instead of going to bed, we stayed awake and watched Liverpool draw 0–0 with Arsenal at 5:30am, then slept briefly before repeating the mistake the following day.

Eventually, exhaustion forced us to slow down a little.

I found myself sitting in a temple, watching people of all cultures and backgrounds gather, some praying, some observing, some simply being. I’m not religious, but there was something grounding about it.

Perspective.

Only eight months earlier, I’d been worried about food, movement, sitting too long, and whether chemo would leave me unwell at any moment. Sitting there, warm and pain-free, none of that felt present anymore.

Yes, pain-free for the first time in a year - it only took two days on holiday.

Krabi: One Year On

January 13th 2026, marked two things.

Emma’s 50th birthday, waking up in Thailand.

And the one-year anniversary of my surgery.

Last year, Emma spent her birthday waiting at home while I lay in recovery, a tumour removed, the future uncertain. This year, we were together, albeit a little unwell with colds and self-induced exhaustion.

Fear still crept in. Will it come back? Will we do this again?

But the day softened. Poolside rest replaced big plans. That evening, we shared a beautiful meal in Ao Nang, a hectic, tourist-heavy town, not the one we remembered. We ended the night with frozen strawberry margaritas.

It wasn’t perfect. But it was ours, along with Michelle and Wayne, aka Michayne.

Letting Go

The days blurred in the best possible way.

On Railay Island, among limestone cliffs and warm water, we shared margaritas, laughter, tattoos, and still something unexpectedly profound: relief. I realised the pain I’d carried for over a year had gone. Not reduced. Gone.

If you’re reading this while struggling, physically or mentally, know this: pain does not always persist. You can aim for something. Set a marker. Time has a way of moving things on when you’ve given up hope.

In Koh Lanta, Wayne re-proposed to Michelle on the beach. Quiet. No spectacle. Just love and intention. Watching it felt like witnessing something real rather than curated.

Yes, Michayne, big love!

And then we moved on. rested, full, recalibrated.

Bali

Ubud felt like 2010 all over again. Art, chaos, heat, walking everywhere because traffic makes no sense. And yet, still no pain.

I began to realise how much of my discomfort back home might be anxiety-driven. Work, responsibility, unnecessary worry. Away from that noise, my body responded.

In Canggu, we visited Deus Ex Machina — art, bikes, tattoos, beer. It felt oddly familiar, as if parts of myself were reconnecting with what I’m all about.

One year ago, I was bedbound. Now I was here, on the other side of the world, writing and visiting somewhere I’d wanted to be for ages.

If these diaries help even one person recovering from surgery or supporting someone through it, then every word is worth it.

The Return

By the time we reached Kuala Lumpur, the pace slowed. Sun, alcohol, and mild illness caught up with us. But something else had changed: I wasn’t worrying about my health anymore.

I ate food that once would’ve terrified me: spice, vegetables, and richness, all without fear. My confidence in my body had quietly returned.

That alone made the trip worth it.

Our journey back wasn’t smooth. Missed connections. Twelve hours in Abu Dhabi. Long delays. And yet, none of it bothered me.

Fifteen months ago, it would have.

Now? Perspective does its thing.

We landed home after 35 hours awake. Liverpool had won 6–0. Life restarted. Work resumed.

But normal felt different.

Better.

A Quiet Milestone

Somewhere in all of this, these diaries passed 40,000 words.

That’s effectively a sixth book overall and the third in this series.

I also received Part 2 back, copy edited and almost ready for release.

Part 3 is not finished, far from it. With ultramarathon training ahead, more discomfort, more growth, and more reflection to come, there are plenty of stories still waiting.

But for now, this is the marker.

January 2026. Asia.

Perspective restored.

And for the first time in a long while, genuine confidence in my own body again.

You can help.

If you’ve got this far, well done.

The picture below was taken in May 2024. Wayne smashed the London Marathon two weeks earlier, and I had just run 52 km from Horsham to Brighton, not realising I was carrying a passenger—that pesky Stage 3 cancerous tumour.

Noe, Wayne and I want to challenge ourselves and raise money to help others (thank you, bro!).

We plan to run 106km around the Isle of Wight on 2nd May, and we’d love your support to motivate us through training and the race itself.

Fundraiser enclosed: JustGiving

Thanks as ever for your support.

Today I woke up feeling grateful. I wasn’t sure how I’d feel, but I feel buoyant and ready to go.

I’m relieved.

Why? Because a year ago today I saw that tumour on a giant screen and said the words ‘OH SHIT - I’ve got Cancer’.

Over the last year, a lot has happened.

Surgery, ‘recovery’, Chemotherapy, ‘recovery’, physical and mental strain, and the book that was birthed from my diaries and this blog.

So, I figure, why not look back and see what I wrote a year ago today?

December 1st, 2024 - The Colonoscopy

The day my world changed.

As the day began, I felt that the largest inconvenience regarding the colonoscopy was not being able to eat and drink for >24hrs and its timing, mainly because I’d be missing the Liverpool versus Manchester City game.

Incidentally, Liverpool would go on to win two nil, providing a weird parallel in life similar to when my Mum was slowly leaving this world. Back then, in December of 2019, Liverpool sat at the top of the league, too. It was the thing that kept me going during dark times. They hadn’t won the league for 20 years; this was the season they finally broke that spell.

And here, in 2024, as I was waiting for my colonoscopy, I couldn’t help but think, if Liverpool win todays game, does this mean I’ll be going through something bad in my personal life again?

The colonoscopy itself wasn’t that bad. I don’t like needles, but when they put in the needle to take my blood, it didn’t bother me too much, the same when they gave me a cannula for sedation.

I don’t recall feeling any sedation at all, and the actual procedure itself wasn’t painful. It wasn’t horrible. All I could feel was somebody rummaging inside me.

What was awful was when I saw the tumour on the screen. I know I’m no doctor, but I could see that this wasn’t right. A black mass with white fatty bits on it, seeing it looming into view, is something I’ll never forget.

I immediately said to the man with his tube up my arse that it didn’t look right. He responded, “Let’s talk about it afterwards” I then felt him put some other bits and bobs inside me, and I understood that they were taking biopsies to understand if what they found was cancerous or not.

And just like that, (thanks SJP) within 20 minutes the colonoscopy was done, I was sent out into another room where I ate some biscuits because I was starving and drank a disgusting apple juice.

Unbeknownst to me, they called my wife, Emma and said she needed to pick me up and have a conversation with the doctor and me. I was lying there with no idea the worry she was going through, even though I knew what I’d seen inside me wasn’t right. Poor Emma was already thinking the worst.

So we sat down, and the doctor came out. I can’t remember what he said, but he said he had found a tumour we needed to analyse.

I do remember saying.

“Are we be talking about cancer”?

He said it could be, but we need to analyse it.

My next question was how I could help myself. He suggested eating a low-fibre diet, which was pretty much the whole conversation, except for his suggestion that it would take 2-3 weeks before we got the results.

With that, we went to our home to Emma’s parents, who were visiting for the weekend. They were waiting, and we told them that a tumour had been found, possibly the most surreal evening of my life.

I tried to blank it out by putting the Liverpool game on. I already knew the score. We all sat silently for a few moments until I decided I needed to be alone and went to bed.

Believe it or not, I slept well that night. I have no idea why. Maybe it was the shock. Perhaps it was the lack of food for 36 hours because, believe me, I didn’t have any dinner when I got home, even though Emma had prepared a Sunday roast. I just went to sleep and held onto my pillow, and for a little while during the night, I cried.

Back to the present.

Looking back, so much has happened that I’m not going to spend this day of all days looking back in anger (hey, ’‘90s), but I’m going to plan forward.

This weekend we have booked a trip to Thailand and Indonesia. This morning I went for a run in prep for Wayne, and I running around the Isle of Wight, and right now, it's 07:45 and having already been up for 2.5 hrs, I plan to embrace the day.

Big love to you all. I appreciate the support.

p.s. the book is seemingly on a black Friday at Amazon:

https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1787785777

I was pretty gobsmacked when this letter from Sarah Russell, MP, dropped through the post yesterday in support of ‘OH SH!T, I’ve got Bowel Cancer’

The reception to the book has been incredible. I am so thankful that this Substack kicked it all off, and I find it mad that we’ve gone through diagnosis, surgery, chemo and now recovery together in just a tad under 12 months.

But most importantly, and as Sarah says, any contribution to raising awareness of Bowel Cancer UK and the need to seek medical advice early is what really matters. I truly hope the book and this substack help with that.

Thanks to IT Governance Publishing for helping to make this possible.

Thanks to you all for your support!

#cancer #cancerawareness #bowelcancer

It was a year ago that I was due to attend an event in this city called ServiceNorth. It was around that time that I was feeling unwell and had been to the doctor and received the results of my FIT test, telling me that I was on the two-week pathway to having a colonoscopy for suspected bowel cancer.

My brain was all over the place. I was in absolute bits, and my world felt like it was crumbling around me.

Today was different. I was at the event exhibiting with Tim, a man who has stood right by my side for that year.

Thank you Tim!

I can’t lie. I was a little anxious before going to the event, nervous about talking to people about my current health, worried because I knew of at least one person who has a close family member dealing with bowel cancer, and anxious because I might bump into somebody, an incredible man whose diagnosis is so much more challenging to handle than mine.

Along with all of this, I simply hadn’t stood up for so long. As I was leaving home, I wasn’t sure about my mental state, and still not 100% sure about my physical state.

I was also unsure that the jeans I hadn’t worn for almost a year would stay comfy throughout the day - a real world problem.

Arriving at the venue, I immediately bumped into people who very, very kindly asked me how I am.

It may seem ironic to readers of this entry that I still feel a bit shy and slightly embarrassed about people knowing that I have and am dealing with bowel cancer.

You probably think he shouts about it from the rooftops, so it’s easy for him, but it’s not.

I write these diaries primarily to help myself with my mental challenges—to get it out and off my chest. Over time, long-term readers will know that these diaries have become something that continues to do that and, in doing so, might help others. However, I’m still incredibly uncomfortable talking about my diagnosis, treatment, and recovery face-to-face.

Believe it or not, I actually don’t like being the centre of attention, which may surprise some people. Today I was able to catch up with people who have been so supportive of me during this year-long period, I met many old and new faces.

It goes without saying that the gentleman with whom I work, Tim, is at the very top of that list. He has kept me working at my own pace throughout this year. He’s allowed me to do what I needed to do, and he’s always been there for me. And today I’m working for him, exhibiting at his stall, and looking to generate business for him and the organisation.

Then there is Katrina, the lady who wrote the foreword for Part 1 of these books.

Katrina is from Australia. We’ve kept in touch and shared our challenges. Seeing her face-to-face was absolutely marvellous. Alongside Katrina, I was able to meet two other people who have been very important on this journey:

Sandra, whose husband has been dealing with bowel cancer, and who herself has also been living with the disease, I completely empathise with her because, like my wife Emma, it’s incredibly hard to live with someone going through this.

Then there’s Steve, a man with a diagnosis quite different from mine, but who is always smiling whenever I see him. Steve, I said it on the night, and I genuinely mean it.

All told, my worries were unfounded. What a day it was!

Lots of conversations about work, health, and everyday things, standard stuff, and I felt fantastic. It was so wonderful to see everyone, there are too many people to name, but I hope that if you’re reading this, you know who you are.

During this evening, a few of us went out for a drink and a bite to eat: people I know and others I didn’t know before tonight. I don’t think I’ve laughed that hard for at least a year!

Humour is such a great thing, but we just had this table of people where we all came from similar backgrounds, whether in age or outlook, and we all found the same things funny.

One day. I’d love to share what we discussed, but it’s too rude to put on Substack and LinkedIn; maybe it’s one for Part 3 of these diaries (Note: It will be in Part 3 - I just put it in there).

I guess it’s one of those ‘you had to be there’ moments, but it’s also the reason I chose to write this diary entry today, because I haven’t laughed that hard in so long, and it feels terrific to laugh again.

It does hurt, though.

Genuinely, my surgical site aches after so much laughter, but I suppose my point is, as I discussed with people at the event:

Life is indeed about making the most of it, and today, professionally, I feel like myself.

And personally, I think I’ve found some new friends, people who can make me laugh, and hopefully I do the same for them.

That’s what life is all about.

A year ago the world was falling apart around me, and here we are a year later, feeling so much better.

I also need to give a shout-out to the event for choosing McMillan as a charity partner. Steve and I, both of us suffering, felt we needed to do something to see if we could pull-in up more donations from the community. Steve and I stood up and, for a very brief moment, shared our stories with the audience and asked them to contribute to McMillan using the QR code in our hands.

In 5 minutes, that wonderful, wonderful community of people delivered, just as we knew they would delivering over £500 to the charity - in just those few minutes.

I’m still to look at what the total is this late at night, but that’s the closest I’ve come to crying in front of anybody in the last few months. It greatly moved Steve and I.

So I just want to say to Clare A, Dave A, Steph W, Claire, B, and all of you at SCOPISM: your event this week has been a massive turning point for me.

Your community and your conference. It’s incredible.

Thank you for having me there, and thank you to everybody there for making it such a great day.

It's been a mad few weeks, the book release, podcast recording, promo and managing my health.

Amongst all of this, I’m really conscious that I want to keep each of you informed and not just wait until Part 3 is released, so here is a little something for you, my diary extracts from a pivotal day this week.

October 21^st, 2025 – Part 1

Let’s divide today into two parts, because I believe this will be a pivotal day —arguably the most pivotal since these Diaries began on December 1st, 2024.

Today, I am having my follow-up colonoscopy. It was initially scheduled for June or July, but was delayed because we moved house.

Since then, I have experienced an incredible physical recovery. I hadn't realised how unwell I was last summer; I was in constant pain. Now, I am pretty much pain-free.

Mentally, I have been improving day by day, and in the last week, my CEA blood tests came back at less than 1, which is excellent. A CT scan in early October also showed no issues, so today should be the final confirmation that I am as recovered as I can be from bowel cancer.

This is just the first set of tests I will have over the next five years, but for me, this is a massive – actually, gargantuan – hurdle I have been thinking about for months now.

If you have not read part one of these Diaries, you won’t know that on December 1st, I literally saw the tumour that was my cancer appear on screen during a colonoscopy like this. Today is a massive day for me, and I am recording this in two parts: before the colonoscopy and after. I may well be writing Part 2 tomorrow due to the sedative after the procedure.

Preparation for this colonoscopy began days ago. I switched to a low fibre diet, which isn’t really that hard for me. I love vegetables, but fruit I can give or take, so I just cut the veg out of my diet, and then in the last couple of days went really low in fibre and avoided fatty foods.

Weirdly, from a bloatedness point of view, I probably feel the best I’ve felt since the last colonoscopy. I feel light, I don’t feel bloated, I feel pretty good.

Yesterday, the 20th of October, the real preparation began. My final meal at 13:00 was a very simple pasta and chicken with Cheshire cheese and olive oil. It was actually delicious. I need to make a note to eat that more often, and then at 6:00 PM last night, I began taking what’s called PLANVU. This is a powder you add to water that prompts bowel movements.

Since I’ve had COVID recently, I’ve experienced quite loose bowel movements, and I feel like these have prepared me well. From 18:00, I start drinking my watermelon-flavoured powdered drink, which tastes absolutely disgusting. I sip it over the next 42 minutes with some apple juice, and by around 7:30 p.m., I began going to the toilet. It wasn’t particularly unpleasant—I reckon I had about 10 visits, all quite liquid, more like a waterfall than a poo, and it really just felt like it was clearing me out.

Sorry for the TMI :-D

According to my Oura ring, I slept for 8 hours and 4 minutes—one of the best sleeps I’ve had in quite a while. I think it’s as much about recovering from COVID as about trying to stay relaxed about today.

It’s odd; I get really anxious about these scans and procedures, but in the days before the appointment, there’s nothing I can do. I can do my prep —mentally and physically —but I have to hand myself over to the experts and let them do their job.

At 05:50 AM this morning, the alarm went off and woke me up. This surprised me, as I’m usually wide awake at 5:00 AM. I went downstairs, prepared my second drink, and between 6:00 AM and 6:46, I drank that and another glass of apple cordial. By 07:30, I was off to the toilet, and that really is how that panned out.

I definitely feel more dehydrated today than I did last night, so I’m topping up with apple and mango cordial and Lucozade. Still, I don’t feel especially hungry, and bless Emma, she asked me what I’d like to eat tonight.

I can’t answer because I’m one of those people who doesn’t know what they want until they’re hungry. The only thing I can really think of is a Marks and Spencer’s Korean chicken sandwich, so maybe later I’ll be sliding one of those down my neck.

Now, as I write these Diaries at 10:30 AM, I’m in the last hour where I can drink, and then from 11:30 until my appointment time at 1:30, I’m nil by mouth. It will take us approximately 30 minutes to get to the hospital, which is very different from last time, when it took less than five. Still, I’m pretty confident I’m not going to shit myself on the way there.

If I’m honest, I’d like to be at that point now where I just lie on my left-hand side. They take a pipe with a camera on and shove it up my backside because I know that whatever we see is whatever we need to deal with after that moment, and ideally, that would be absolutely nothing.

I actually have my own ChatGPT agent that I use on these occasions. I think I’ve gone on record as saying not to rely on Google, but with ChatGPT, you can enter your test results and letters from the hospital, and it can at least provide some context about what you’re experiencing as a human being.

And this morning, I asked it a straightforward question: ‘On a scale of 1 to 10, what are they likely to find today?’

The table below shows what it told me, so it’s going to be really interesting to see what actually happens in part 2 of these diary entries.

October 21^st, 2025 – Part 2

It’s now 8:30 PM on the evening after my colonoscopy at Macclesfield General Hospital.

It’s been a long day. I slept really well last night, as you know, but I am massively dehydrated and haven’t been able to eat much since the procedure finished.

My appointment was at 13:30, so Emma and I left the house at 12:30 and arrived at the hospital just before 13:00. Once we found the endoscopy unit, it was quick, efficient, and everyone there was so lovely and friendly.

By the time my appointment arrived at 1330, I’d already been shown to a room, had my blood pressure taken, and my pulse checked, all of which was fine. I recall noticing that my heart rate was around 80 beats per minute at the time, and I felt pretty relaxed. I then had a cannula inserted into my right arm, changed into a gown and a lovely pair of paper pants, from which they could gain access to my rear end.

Once I’d taken another toilet break, I was then shown to a room to sit and wait. A room I shared with a couple of gentlemen who were also going through the same procedure as me, each of us encouraging and wishing each other well throughout.

Around 2:00 PM, I was asked to go into a room where I saw four lovely people. There was a gentleman who kept me talking throughout the procedure —a nurse who told me where to lie and how to lie there, and kept me entertained. The gentleman was carrying out the procedure, and someone was shadowing him, I guess to understand the intricacies of examining a bowel.

We chatted and discussed the book(s). I never miss an opportunity to tell people about the books, and this seemed like as good an opportunity as any. We talked about my case history, which reassured me they were aware of it and the circumstances surrounding it, as well as my history of surgery and chemotherapy.

And then we began. I was given some sedative through my cannula, and they inserted the camera into my bottom. I wasn’t sure whether I would lie there and watch what was happening, but I got distracted by the conversation, which was very helpful. By the time I decided to ask if we had passed the operation site, we were already on the right side of my bowel, which I’ve never seen before, because during that first colonoscopy, we didn't get past the tumour.

They examined the right side of my bowel and found three small polyps: one measuring 2 millimetres, another 3 millimetres, and the third 5 millimetres. The doctor told me that these were benign but would be taken for testing to check for any suspicious signs.

They then examined the rest of my bowel, gradually working backwards to my anus, and I learned something as we went through this test. I realised that you can see their location by little drawings in the bottom left-hand corner of the screen, and ultimately, you’re waiting for them to draw a question mark because once they’ve done that, they move to the far right side of your bowel. Then they start coming back.

They then went to my surgical site, showed me where I had been repaired, and it looked like a tidy job to both them and me.

The procedure itself wasn’t particularly uncomfortable until they inserted something into my rectum. To be honest, I’m still not sure what that was for, but it was a little awkward —nothing more.

Then they gave me good news: everything was fine apart from three small polyps, which will be tested; they seem benign and not dangerous. The rest of my bowel is in excellent health, as supported by my recent CEA blood results and colonoscopy.

Afterwards, I was wheeled into a waiting area and asked to wait a few minutes as the sedatives wore off. I then changed back into my clothes, had a glass of water, and spoke to another gentleman who’d also been for his colonoscopy. He told me it was his 14th. He had bowel cancer 10 years ago and is now more worried about something else than cancer. I found that conversation enlightening because, like me, he didn’t look like he had cancer. He just looked like a normal bloke who happened to be in the same waiting area, going through the same procedure. We had a lovely chat, and David, I hope you’re doing well, mate.

I heard them phone Emma and give her the good news, and then after a few minutes waiting to make sure I wasn’t going to fall over, we left the hospital. I gave Em a massive hug when I saw her. I went to the loo and gave myself a high five in the mirror, and we jumped into the car and headed home.

Earlier today, I mentioned in my entry that Emma asked me what I wanted to eat this evening. Because I didn’t offer a clear answer, she got me some chicken kievs to see if I might have that with some chips and perhaps baked beans.

All I really wanted was that sandwich from Marks and Spencer’s, and so we went there. I didn’t find the sandwich, but I did find a falafel wrap with red pickled cabbage, and it was delightful. This evening, I’ve only eaten that wrap, some Percy Pigs, some steak-flavour crisps, and I’ve drunk a can of Coca-Cola. I’m over the moon with all of those things.

I believe I’ll reflect on this more in the coming days, weeks, and months, but I genuinely feel like a huge, no, a massive weight has been lifted from my shoulders.

The last time I looked inside my bowel before today, I saw the cancer. I saw it and faced it head-on. Today, I saw some bits of flesh that looked a little like ears. I saw a series of triangles that joined together to form my bowel. I saw a couple of tiny polyps removed.

But for me, that was the end of the nightmare.

The nightmare that has haunted me every time I close my eyes since December 1st last year: the nightmare that has made me doubt myself, the nightmare that has made me wonder if I need therapy, the nightmare that has kept me miserable, unhappy, and unable to focus.

The nightmare that has led to me questioning so much about myself, but also discovering a great deal about others, too.

I feel like that nightmare is over.

Now, I feel like I can move on with the rest of my life, and importantly, I believe those around me can do the same because they no longer have to dance around me.

They know I don’t like to make plans at the last minute, but that’s all going to change tomorrow morning.

I’m going for a run, and that will be the first one I take on the way to running around the Isle of Wight in May.

I’ll get a lovely coffee, and I’ll start work feeling hopefully clear-headed.

After that, I think I’ll allow myself a few beers tomorrow and over the weekend. I haven’t drunk for 11 days now, and I was thinking about stopping altogether, but I feel ready to relax now.

I’ll enjoy those beers, and then, following Monday, the serious training starts.

It’s time to prepare for the Isle of Wight Ultra Marathon and the Three Peaks Challenge in 2026.

Thank you subscribers!

Thanks for reading this far, sadly this story doesn’t end here. I now have a few years of tests to go, but i want to thank you all for your support. I plan to keep these diaries as Wayne and I train for the Isle of Wight, and we hope the Three Peaks challenge in June of next year.

I’d love to know if you’d like anymore from this substack, please do let me know?

In the meantime here is a short from the PodCast thats just been released, you ca watch or listen more here:

Part one of these Diaries, the diagnosis and treatment, has been published as a proper book today. It feels almost as surreal as the diagnosis day itself, where I was lying on my side when the camera went up my arse, and that camera showed me a tumour in my bowel.

Writing a book is almost surreal. When you actually see the book being published, it feels a bit like an out-of-body experience, even though the book is chronicling my own feelings, anxieties, and worries.

Also, and by reading the finished version, I guess at that time, the very few high points that I had - it still feels like it isn’t me that went through those moments.

I’ve got to be honest; when I saw the manuscript a week or two ago, and it was prepared for launch, I felt really upset because I realised I had almost forgotten those feelings.

I’ve also changed as a person through this process.

Yes, I went through the anxiety, the uncertainty, the inability to lay my hands on information that would help, and I also had that feeling of being a burden to others, which in reality was never the case.

And that's why this book and this Substack exist —to help others not feel the way I did.

I am so, so, so incredibly blessed to have many wonderful people around me who offer themselves, not just physically, but by giving up parts of themselves to help me.

They revisit experiences they’ve never wanted to face. Each of us is fortunate to have such people in our lives, though it’s rare that we need them.

I just want to say, for the umpteenth time, thank you to everyone who has been there for me.

So, what does a book launch day really look like?

It’s much like any other day; most of the work happens before the launch. However, in my case, I foolishly decided to code my own website, a week before after a sudden idea that, “OH SH!T, I’ve got Bowel Cancer” would benefit from a press kit, some info about me and a landing page from which to buy the book – if only I’d have come up with this idea weeks ago, and chosen not to code it myself.

Idiot.

In doing so, I created a load of problems for myself that I hadn’t really considered.

I consider myself somewhat of a perfectionist when it comes to the web and how things function on different devices.

But then, imagine releasing that work into the public eye, using it as the vehicle to carry your product and to engage people with it.

Suddenly, it takes on a whole new meaning.

Now, imagine that this product relates to the subject of cancer—a topic that holds so much meaning.

And then, consider or know that in reality, a bunch of workmen turned up outside your door on the very day you’re releasing your book; the exact day you need to be clear for your audio recordings for podcasts, and they’re digging up the road.

That’s what happened to me today.

The work I do gives me a certain level of critical thinking, allowing me to weigh up the pros and cons of doing something with limited resources. Hence, today, I decided to do something different: I rented a workspace and went there to record.

And what that really means is that I worked a regular day job today, and I also participated in a podcast about the book. Additionally, I was invited to a future podcast to discuss the book, and I’ll follow up on that in the near future.

I also joined an event as a panellist, one related to my day-to-day activities, and quite royally fudged it up by using my MacBook as the microphone, inviting background noise galore.

And I call myself an IT professional……

And while in this workspace, I met a lady named Bekah, who is a local podcast producer; we ended up talking about what we both do on a day-to-day basis.

Of course, I mentioned that I have a book coming out today and obviously ended up telling her all about it.

We talked about Bekah’s Grandfather, a man who also suffered from bowel cancer, a man who didn’t die from bowel cancer and fought it and won, but what we also talked about was how stoic he was, how he just got on with it.

Bekah’s Grandfather had this thought or feeling that no matter what, something would ultimately get him, but he resolved it wouldn’t be Bowel Cancer. He’d do his damn best to stop anything from getting him until the point they couldn’t stop it anymore.

I think that’s the main message, a message to myself and maybe even to the last generations or two – sometimes it pays to be resilient in the face of adversity.

I’m not saying being stoic is the be all and end all. Still, I think a certain level of resilience is needed in any situation. It sounds like Bekah’s grandfather showed this in abundance.

So, Bekah, thanks for that chat today. It was really, really good. You gave me a lot to think about. You probably just thought it was a normal chat on a typical day, but what you did was help an anxious person, and for that, I thank you.

All in all, as launch days go, it went pretty well.

The www.ohshtivegotbowelcancer website received over 350 interactions (and just one complaint), and people engaged with and interacted through my LinkedIn posts about the book, as well as with my Instagram posts about the book.

I even went on Facebook, which, honestly, is something I really dislike because it feels more personal to me.

It seems more like those people in my life who know me but haven’t known me for a long time, and I feel like I’m giving something up when I talk to people on Facebook about my health condition.

And I was wrong.

Everyone who has interacted with me there has been caring, sharing, and supportive. So, once again, I’m wrong, and perhaps I should start viewing the world in a more positive light than I do daily.

And for those of you interested in writing a book and considering what sales might look like, let me tell you—on day one, I have absolutely no idea. In fact, I probably won’t find out how it’s going until six months or perhaps even twelve months from now.

But what I do know is that having engaged people, along with the support of friends and family—such as Bowel Cancer UK, Dorking Wanderers Football Club, and, I hope, Liverpool Football Club—who, incidentally, lost today in the Champions League, shows that with that kind of support, you can go places.

And last but not least, because I record these diaries as the day happens.

Today is a great friend of mine’s birthday, and I feel like in my mind at least his wonderful day, his birthday, was lost amongst my book being released, and I just want to say:

Wayne, spending the evening with you, having a couple of pints, watching our beloved Liverpool FC play in the Champions League and sadly lose, was a great evening because you, your family, and our extended friendship group have been some of my most incredible supporters.

It will never be lost on me, especially on a day like today, your birthday. It’s a day when something so personal to me—your support, along with your family and all our mutual friends—has meant the world to me.

Frankly, I’m not sure I would have got through this without you all.

Happy Birthday Wayne!

And this, dear reader, is what this book is all about—this support network, it’s about friendship, family, and support. None of us, not a single one of us, can hope to live our lives to the fullest without those things, whether in good times or bad.

So you may have guessed, I’m feeling particularly poignant on this day—the release of part one of these diaries into the public domain—and that’s because I am.

However, I ultimately want to stop there with some simple lines.

For those of you who supported me, those of you who have cared, those of you who have been there even without realising it — I love you, I thank you, and I will never forget you.

But let me say this as well: we’re not all very good at handling bad news.

Though I wish no harm upon anyone who hasn’t been there for me, rest assured, I know who you are.

No matter what happens in the future, if you need me, I’ll be there for you because there is no judgment here.

Bad news is the hardest thing to deal with, both for the person going through it and those around them- how you handle it varies from person to person.

We’re all different, we’re human. We are all flawed.

Let’s make the most of our time here and hopefully have a long one.

October 1st, 2025.

P.S. And then, a day post-launch, this came through. It made me so emotional.

Frankly, I am sh!tting it, scared nobody will buy he book, or people will dislike it, but as a good friend and fellow Cancer patient so eloquently said this morning, “f^&k em”, so I think that’ll do for me.

Genuinely, thank you all for your support, and I hope I can count on your continued support to promote the book, with the hope that it will help others.

You can find the book at: https://ohshtivegotbowelcancer.com/, which links directly to the product page and allows people to register their interest in parts 2 and 3.

Note: The publication of Part 3 depends on the success of Parts 1 and 2, so I’d appreciate it if you could sign up and encourage others to do so. I will not spam you; I’d always much prefer corned beef. (jokes)

Thank you!

Dar.

‘Diaries of an emotionless man’. That's what I was, not what I am now.

Since that day, this note has evolved into this Substack, and this has become a book —a book that will see its first part released on September 30th, which is why I want to share all of these extracts with you first.

You were here back then, and you are still here now, thank you.

I’d love it if you could share the upcoming release. If this book helps just one person, it will all have been worth it.

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For me, this week has been a touch mind-bending.

Taking this blog from a series of musings into a book published in partnership with Bowel Cancer UK has been a journey.

And that's without the medical complications.

I finished writing this, Part 1, back in March, Part 2 is in the can, and I have 20,000 characters in Part 3.

I've been writing on an almost daily basis for approx 10 months. That's over 100,000 words so far.

Adding on the copy edit, checking references and the wonderful forewords I’ve managed to gather and its become an almost full time job.

Getting the book cover ready has been ‘fun’ for my publisher and me. I’m not sure it’s ever ‘easy’ to get to this point, but having a book that’s so personal has meant that we’ve both had to exercise a little give and take.

Sometimes I've been a bit precious to be honest.

But here we are, with the cover, and the book will be launched as a ‘real’ book and as an e-publication on September 30th, 2025!

OH SH!T…..

Thank you all for your support. Your encouragement and your help!

I’ll share more details about where to buy and a possible launch sometime soon.

P.S. Does anyone have any ideas for a launch event?

September 30th via IT Governance Publishing 🤞

Thank you to all my subscribers, you are the first to learn this.

The publisher and I are planning to release the “Diaries Part 1 - Diagnosis, Surgery and 'Recovery” as a book on September 30th 2025.

F&^K!

OH SHIT!! - This is easily the most personal thing I've ever written, and I can confirm it will be released in collaboration with Bowel Cancer UK.

Hopefully I’ll be able to share the book cover with you soon, but here are some ideas I had - none of which will be the cover….but at least you can get a behind-the-scenes look at some of my mad thoughts.

I’ll be sharing this announcement on LinkedIn tomorrow, so please, if you have a moment, could you like, comment, or even share the announcement?

And finally, THANK YOU all, this would not be happening without you.

How are you all doing? Is it Autumn already?

Recently, I’ve been struggling with motivation, in all manners but mainly in work, which, when self-employed, is a little troublesome.

You see, Cancer strips life back to the essentials. Having undergone treatment, everything I thought was necessary —meetings, emails, conferences —it all suddenly felt hollow.

So I asked my professional network on a question, which broadly speaking was:

How do you rediscover passion for work when life has reminded you that most of it isn’t life-or-death?

Below is the post.

The answers blew me away, and I felt they merited a blog post of their own.

One person said: “Celebrate the passion of others.”

Where envy once crept in, they found joy in recognising and uplifting others. By celebrating someone else’s spark, they began to reignite their own.

Another reminded me that passion lives in community. Swimming. Teaching. Coding. Simply connecting with others.

That person left me with a line I keep returning to:

“Shared pain is lessened. Shared joy is magnified.”

Others grounded their answers in the small things. One person runs into the woods to “rough it” when they feel stuck. Another takes joy in starting creative tasks.

Then came reminders about perspective. As one put it,:

“Work works when it doesn’t feel like work.”

For them, deep reflection and leaning into what you love, even if you must endure some “folly” is where the endurance comes from.

There were also stories of resilience, of some people who had faced illness, grief, or trauma. One described rediscovering passion through training, as if they had found a way to “perform” again, to breathe life into something they had always loved.

And one voice captured it so simply:

“This was too deep! I don’t have a solution, but wow.”

Sometimes that’s enough, being honest that we’re all works in progress.

What ties all of this together is the truth that passion isn’t static. It doesn’t arrive once and stay forever. It must be rediscovered, over and over, through practice, perspective, and connection, maybe a bit of luck too.

And I suppose the opposite is also true; lacking passion or ‘get up and go’ and being stuck in a rut isn’t static either.

Cancer was the reset button I never asked for. However, it has shown me that passion and purpose are not luxuries.

They’re lifelines.

These are strongest when held together by community, with shared experiences, and with each other.

So here’s my takeaway:

Don’t search for passion in isolation. And don’t struggle with anything in isolation.

Speak out, ask the question. Share the struggle. Celebrate others.

That’s where passion starts to return. And its with that in mind that I’m going to make space to pick up two things, one is photography, I’ve neglected it for to long.

And the other is pottery, surgery, the PICC line and our move had put paid to that, but I plan to get back to the wheel soon.

And as a side note, since beginning to write this post I have FINALLY got my ongoing observational scans and colonoscopies sorted, this in itself has been a major and unwelcome distraction and I’m so happy its now in progress.

That in itself is a weight of my mind.

Until next time!

I wrote this in my diary the other day…..

July 29th, 2025

“Today, I write the following and nothing more….

I wrote this, as try as I might, negative thoughts keep creeping into my head - and it’s doing my head in (pun intended).

I’ve never been particularly optimistic, but I would consider myself realistic. Recently, however, this realism has begun to abandon me in moments.

From out of nowhere, I’ll start to think that cancer is returning to claim me, that the new life we are constructing will be taken away, and so on. This has happened during meetings, when out with friends, in mid-conversation, it completely derails me.

I recognise the likelihood of return and/or spread is improbable. I have an AI agent acting as an Oncologist from the world's finest medical research projects (yes, I know it's not real), and it offers a 7-10% chance of return, and it knows ALL my medical history. I now speak ‘with’ it at 3 am when I cannot sleep.

For example, I now live closer to a bus route, so much like cancer, there is an increased chance that a bus will claim me as I step out of the door - up to 0.00044%.

Not that I worry about the buses, but with cancer, it is also not such an increase that I need to worry excessively, but I do worry a lot.

Today, a few days later, I’ve self-referred to a therapist via ‘talking therapies’ where I hope to get some expert advice on how to handle these thoughts.

Telling each of you is a step in this process. Believe it or not, before January of this year, I was pretty private, but as I’ve shared surgery, recovery, and so much more with you, I wanted to share this too. And please don’t confuse this with ‘bad thoughts’. I have no dark intent; I just feel ‘different’, like I’ve been rewired, and I need to sort out that wiring.

Last week, I took part in a Bowel Cancer research project, the topic being ‘Chemotherapy Side-Effects’. All of us discussed the cognitive side, forgetfulness, a dull, cloudy brain, and a tendency to overthink things - hearing this from other people told me I’m not special. Still, I also decided to take the advice on board and see if I can reboot my brain.

Over here in the UK, you can access this service via: https://www.nhs.uk/nhs-services/mental-health-services/find-nhs-talking-therapies-for-anxiety-and-depression/.

I’m yet to meet anyone (it’s only been a day) but my worrying has led to my chasing the doctors and trying to get my colonoscopy booked - I’m even thinking of paying for it myself as I think I need that to be completed so i can banish the nightmares of seeing the tumour up there once and for all.

I’ll let you know how it goes in the coming weeks, do any of you have similar experiences?

In other news…

In other news, my pal Wayne and I have decided to spend a day running around the Isle of Wight next May, all 106 undulating kilometres of it. We are going to raise funds for Bowel Cancer UK, and we’d love for you to follow that particular journey. I’ll share the Just Giving page in the future.

I guess my point of posting today is to gather my thoughts and to check in on each of you, as well as provide a minor update.

I hope you are well, not going through SHIT, and if you are, I just wanted to wish you well and to offer some advice that I need to take myself: ‘stay positive’ and manifest goodness - that will help, I’m sure.

For me, I’m already feeling better having written this. I expect it will make today’s diary. Incidentally, I hope to have some updates on the book form of these diaries soon, including a release date.

Take care, and thanks for helping me to feel better already.

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