So, at the end of the previous blog I posed a question; what does MRI stand for? I was inundated with responses (4) and unfortunately, all of you were wrong.  MRI stands for (m)Claustrophobic (r)Fuck (i)Hole.

I’ve had two in the space of the last few days, so I thought I’d take the opportunity with the blog to give you an insight into what it’s like and what I had to do during them.

They say ‘first the worst’, and the first of the back to back MRI’s was indeed the worst. This was known as a functional MRI scan and involved a series of activities I had to perform while a fancy machine tracked brain activity by detecting changes associated with blood flow.

I wasn’t looking forward to the MRI that much as I knew it would be pretty intense but let me paint a picture of my state of mind before entering the claustrophobic fuck hole. I only booked in the MRI the day before with Dr Z calling me late in the evening saying they had a last minute slot for me, and to be honest, I didn’t quite trust him as he sounded like a dodgy salesman trying to do me over but as I was already in the hospital that day for my shoulder results I thought I’d go along with it.

Turns out it wasn’t a scam and Dr Z was a fun loving guy. Anyway, as I got in there Dr Z informed us they were running over an hour late so we could go grab a coffee so Sarah and I went out to grab a cup of joe at one of the many Costa establishments around LGI. When I got back to the room, the most serious lady ever on reception checked me and Dr Z came to collect me. I was a little stressed already and you could tell Z-Man had, had a long day already as he went through my instructions but the most important of all….DO NOT MOVE YOUR HEAD. He made it very clear that if I move my head within the 50 min scan they have to start the segment again, he said every person that day had moved or not done an activity right so they’d had to go again. Jeeze, pressure, I wanted Z-Man to get back to watch a re-run of the Vicar of Dibley.

The first 25/30 minutes of this MRI was the most intense hellish experiences I’ve had, now either I’ve been extremely sheltered but I don’t think it’s exaggerating too much.  Imagine, a fog horn going off near your ear every 30 seconds while a spinning camera zooms inches from your face while you lay in a small tube with your head sandwiched between two plastic rests….while also thinking….DON’T FUCKING MOVE.  With this MRI you can’t have music and this 25/30 minutes felt about 4 hours long.

Now to the tasks; so above my eyes there was a mirror that points toward a blue screen with a plus sign on it, it then changes to display the words task where it starts measuring brain signals.

TASK 1 – The Wiggle. During this activity, the same foghorn sounds and the spinning blade of doom is still in motion, oh, and if you move your head Z-Man will probably castrate you. Now, the wiggle is pretty simple, when you see the word task on the blue screen you wiggle your fingers, when the plus sign returns you stop. This goes on for about 10 minutes, easy.

TASK 2 – The Waggle. Again, foghorn, blade of doom, when there’s a plus sign you rest when you see TASK, you task.  This task involves you wagging your tongue from side to side keeping your mouth shut, without moving your head, don’t you dare move your head.  This one we had to practice (before going into the MRI), because it’s quite hard not to move your jaw and thus move your head. The best way I found to do it is moving your tongue side to side by touching your molars. 

TASK 3 – The Wander. Again, horn, blade, plus sign, TASK, you get it, I hope. This time, you had to imagine a trip you do regularly and imagine talking through it in great detail. This time when the task turned to the plus sign you had to stop your journey and talk about (without talking, don’t you move that fat head of yours) what you could see.

TASK 4 – The Watcher. The final task involved quickfire pictures coming up on the screen which you had to describe without speaking of course.  The pictures ranged from a man skiing with some giant skis to farm animals. Each picture was on the screen for about 2 or 3 seconds to make your brain work quickly and make you go into overtime.

That’s it, done and I don’t want to blow my own trumpet, but I was the only person that day to nail it first time so Dr Z could get home and snuggle up with a glass of chateauneuf du pape and watch 90s comedy.

I did ask him some questions about how my brain looked as one of the consultant’s concerns is the location of the tumour on blood vessels and because I’m left handed and it being on the right side of the brain (where my coordination and speech is).  Although he couldn’t give me exact answers, he did say that I’m uniquely brilliant. Well, not quite, but he did say that like only 10% of left handers I use both parts of my brain for speech and coordination.  I’m not sure if this is a good thing or a bad thing about getting rid of Timmy but it’s a pretty cool fact and would put me in a 1% global group.

Day 2. This MRI was a lot shorter (30 mins) and as I didn’t have to do anything, I had the luxury of Radio Aire in booming through my ears.  The aim of this MRI was to use contract dye injected into my bloodstream to make tissues and blood vessels show up more clearly so they could see what the tumour was sat on.  It was also used for seeing if my tumour had grown.

This went pretty quickly, the only odd things really to happen was that the MRI was done by a private company (AllazoHealth) so the machine was in a truck in the car park of St James’ Hospital and the lady who completed it was Lancastrian so it was funny listening to her saying Radio Aire.

To try to get through this MRI I decided that I’d count the number of songs I’d listen to and then I might know how long I’d been in there (as you can’t see a timer or clock).  I thought if each song lasts 3 minutes, they talk for 3 minutes in total between songs and there will be 6 mins of adverts.  So, 7 songs and I’m done.  Time flew, listening to Lady GaGa, Liberty X and Nelly Furtado but try not bopping your head around and gyrating your hips to ‘Just a Little’.

That’s about it, but I could do with a favour from you guys. The blog has travelled pretty well so far, getting over 600 views last time out and travelling across 6 continents but I would like it to go further and hopefully help people with brain tumours laugh rather than you just laugh at me. So, I’ll make a bet with you all.  You have to share the blog if at any point during reading this you wiggled your fingers, waggled your tongue, said ‘Radio Aire’ in a Lancastrian accent, or gyrated to/sang  Liberty X then you have to share the blog via Instagram or pass it to a friend or family member!

Thanks for listening again and remember, don’t move your fucking head!

Highs and Lows as the Process Slows


Right, let’s start with some positive news. On the 19th February I had a call from LGI’s Neuro department saying that the original grade 3 diagnosis may not have been fully accurate and after the specialists in Leeds had taken a more thorough look at my scans they’re hoping it’s a grade 2 tumour.

Now, the emotional outpour while the lovely lady was giving me this news was pretty overwhelming, to the point where I had to pass the phone to Sarah as I couldn’t hold back the happy tears.  Needless to say, I was ecstatic with the possibility of a grade 2 over a scarier 3 and it gave me so much more hope than I’d felt over the last month.  I’d like to think that I’ve stayed as positive as I could be, but I guess beneath the surface you’re always thinking; fuck, I could be dead from this unknown intruder in my head without seeing my kids grow up.

I mean, it’s great to hear the prospects look better and that the tumour may have a reduced risk of being cancerous but there’s a lot to learn about different types of tumours and different rates of growth. 

I saw my consultant at LGI soon after the call as we began to discuss through my treatment and learn more about Timmy and his eviction.  

Firstly, as touched on above, there are more types of tumours than there are species of reptiles but basically, you can have cancerous/non-cancerous and fast/slow growing. Presently, we don’t know either of the answers and we won’t until they chop into my head and put little Timmy under the microscope.  This unknown is probably the scariest thing and I won’t know much until I’m dazed and confused after the craniotomy. 

Throughout my life I’ve been compared to many people; Di Vinci, Pele, Jimi Hendrix, Eminem, Morgan Freeman and although a lot of my own talents do surpass the aforementioned names, I can agree that we’re all left handed.  What this means in tumour land is that I am more likely to use the right side of my brain for things like speech and coordination, things you kind of need.  No prizes for guessing where Timmy has set up temporary camp.

With T-Dog cooking his smores over the open fire and tucking himself into his sleeping bag over some pretty important nerve areas and blood vessels on the right side of my brain, my consultant has recommended that I have an awake surgery.  This means that they’ll put me to sleep, cut a jigsaw hole in my skull and pull back my head apart.  They’ll then wake me up and perform tests and talk to me as they complete the debulking of the tumour. You may have seen recently there was a video on the BBC of a woman having the surgery while playing the violin….it has 44,000 views on YouTube, 43,765 are me. I’ve been sent the video more times than I can count and although I like the gesture, it’s scary as shit. Also, I tried playing the violin when I was about 6/7 years old, I was shit then and I don’t imagine they’ll have me making cold calls or tinkering with excel spreadsheets through my surgery.  However, if you want to check it out;

One slightly concerning part of my consultation was my doctor saying that because of where it sits it is unlikely they’ll be able to fully remove the tumour in 1 operation so I may have to have a 2nd op and/or chemo and radiotherapy to try to get rid of the little turd bag.  Again, a lot of this depends on the type of tumour so little much more I can say here in regard to a full removal when it’s all done.

Lots of information, but that was the ‘high’ element of the post and trust me, the prospect of facing a grade 2 over a grade 3 is most certainly a ‘high’.

The ‘low’, and I’ll make this brief as it was a momentary lapse on my part. The consultant’s and nurses I met at Carlisle and Leeds all agreed one thing; DO NOT USE GOOGLE to learn about your tumour.  Whoooops. I googled, I googled dark things, one of which was life expectancy for grade 2 tumours. I trawled through articles and nothing really looked good the only concrete numbers I had were from some 2014 Canadian health website saying life expectancy was between 2-7 years.

Now, I had come to terms with the grade 3 diagnosis and have come to terms with likely not getting a 100th birthday card from the queen but seeing grim stats hurt. I did manage to keep my shit together and I wasn’t planning on telling anyone about my naughty google, but when Sophie came home from nursery, I couldn’t keep my shit together anymore. I think that it was seeing Sophie and thinking I wouldn’t get to see her grow up older than 11.

Right, sad bit over. Retrospectively, if I’d have thought this through with logic over emotion, I’d have thought 2014 is a long time ago in medicine. 6 years is a long time full stop, think about where you were 6 years ago, I mean, I don’t think selfies were even a thing.

My shoulder dislocation has taken a bit of back seat in my thoughts but a quick update here too, I’ve had more x-rays and they found a 2 small breaks in my arm and shoulder socket so I may have to have an operation to sort my shoulder out.

Moving on, the operation date isn’t until the end of April, in that time I’ve got to have 2 MRIs, a CT on my shoulder, a baby to have and weddings to attend. While you all wait expectantly and patiently for the next blog entry, I have a quick quiz question to which you’ll get the answer to next time out; What does MRI stand for?

Thanks for listening!

Friends, Family, Fatigue, Floppiness, Fighting and other Fings


I remember from A-Level & GCSE English Literature that alliteration helped amplify the writer’s points as well as engage the reader, so, today we’re going to investigate Friends, Family, Fatigue, Floppiness, Fighting and other Fings.


I’ve learned a lot about my friendships in the last month and I’ve learned more about how I need to interact more with people.  I’m not too sure if this is normal but I have 373 contacts in my mobile and I text about 3 people regularly and the other 370 sit obediently next to their devices waiting for my message. So, when I started telling people about Timmy I either expected a one off text back, (I’m sure Google or Apple have an auto-reply for these situations) “So, Sorry to hear about it, that’s awful, you’ll make it, keep fighting…”. However, my friends surpassed all expectations, not only have I been inundated with lots of messages I’ve been sent Just Eat vouchers, Hello Fresh meals, a PS4, lots of phone calls, lots of visits with sweets, soups, ready meals, a pop socket and much more. 

This got me thinking, am I a bad friend? Do the other 370 people all message each other talking about how bad a friend I am for not messaging regularly? I mean, probably not, but you get my point.  Now, I know life gets busy and I’m in a fair few WhatsApp groups and I like pretty much everyone’s Instagram posts (Even if they are of your dog for the 56th time) but I will make a conscious effort to send more messages and keep in touch more and if one positive thing that comes out of all this that I can be better friend to everyone then there we go.

A message I get a lot from people is; “I’m not very good at these things”, this always makes me chuckle to myself. Who is? On the human Top Trumps, it doesn’t read;

1.       Intelligence – 50

2.       Speed – 16

3.       Strength – 36

4.       Conversation Skills – 43

5.       Consoling Messages to Cancer Patient – 98

I know I’ve thanked everyone already who’s helped and sent aid, thank you again, I do appreciate every, single thing.


All our family has been fantastic. Bringing food, helping with Sophie, keeping us company, keeping us smiling, everyone has been great.

I’ve said all my thank you’s to everyone and I don’t want to use this blog to continue doing so.

One difficult aspect out of all of this was losing my relationship with Sophie, I didn’t realise how quickly a 2 ½ year old would stop giving me so much attention and forget how close we were.  She went from being my little best mate to avoiding me at all costs.

It’s also been tough to see Sarah (7 ½ months pregnant) doing all the chores around the house while I basically sleep and try and do one handed activities (keep your dirty thought to yourself).


The first 2 weeks of diagnosis were basically in and an out of sleep through the day and no sleep at night. This was down to pills and recovering from the general anaesthetic procedure as well as having to sleep in awkward positions.

After this, and get ready peeps cause I’m about to drop some brain tumour facts right at your feet, 40% of brain tumour patients suffer from fatigue and sadly I’m one of them and it’s a right fucking ball ache.  Honestly, I feel pathetic, as someone who is usually full of beans, I now go out for a coffee with friends for 90 minutes and have a major fatigue meltdown.  We went to the Deep in Hull and I went to put the parking ticket into the car, about a 100 metre distance, it was raining, I jogged, I nearly ruptured a lung.  Another example was I carried Sophie for minutes in Ilkley and had to sit down in a shop for the same amount of time to recoup the energy.  This is a change from someone who could get up and do 10km run without any preparation and could likely muster the strength to do a half marathon with little to no training.

The fatigue is one of the most frustrating parts of this so far, and with it brings mild headaches…. but now there is no such thing as a casual headache.  Man, do I miss the thumping hangover headaches where I stick my head into my pillow and moan to Sarah. Now a mild headache is panic o’clock.  So, now every time I have slight dehydration or I’m tired and get the mildest of headaches Captain Anxiety kicks in and I end up panicking that this is it, I’m a goner.


Mum, Mother-in-Law, GGs skip this part. Just do it.

So, after the seizure, no, wait, you’re still reading.  Honestly, stop reading this part, no good can come of it.  Just skip to fighting.

So, usually, I’m clockwork with morning glory.  I wake up, he’s there, I pee, he goes away.  After the seizure, nothing, not a slightly hardened sausage.  It was slightly worrying, I mean not brain tumour worrying, but still, I didn’t fancy having to drive down to an M1 service station toilet to get the number for erectile dysfunction pills.

I spoke to a few people about it (nonmedical) and most people just made fun of old floppy cock. I noted it down to ask my consultant next time I was in hospital…..but no need, the day before my next visit, back he was. So if you’re worried about this after your own diagnosis and you’re reading this….mine came back!

Now – Mum, Anne, GGs – If you read this, I did warn you.  The rule is now, we never talk about it, and I mean never. 


What does fighting cancer mean? People keep telling me ‘I gotta fight it’ or ‘I’m strong enough fight it’ and although I appreciate the sentiment, I don’t really understand what it means just yet, unless ‘fighting it’ means sitting at home in my PJs playing on a PS4, napping, going for 15 walks and watching ‘Love is Blind’ on Netflix. 

I’m sure I’ll learn a lot more about this as I get nearer the operation and post-operation time if I have to undergo chemo and/or radiotherapy, but at the moment I don’t think I fully understand the concept. However, saying this I would very much like to come out of the other side of this ordeal tumour free and will do pretty much anything to get that result, so I guess I’m battle stations ready! 

Other Fings 

At the moment the actual date is March 4th and I’m trying to trace my steps and tell you about things as they happen and go back in time with my feelings and experiences so I’m pretending right now we’re about February 10th. 

At this point, I’ve taken my sling off so I can shower and get rid of the horrible stench in my arm crevasses. I’ve written an emotional post on Instagram, I’ve realised how pathetically bad I am at FIFA, I’ve had to give up my golf and gym memberships and give up my place on a stag do in (undisclosed destination).  I’m also the best man for a stag do in May, but as I don’t know much about operation dates at this point, I’m not entirely sure I’ll be able to fly for this one either. 

Over the last couple of weeks, I’ve wondered (quite selfishly) why me? With 11,000 people diagnosed with a brain tumour in the UK each year and the odds of me getting ‘selected’ being about 6000/1 or <0.02% so, why did Timmy choose me? Who’s to blame? Is it genetic? Stress related from being a Leeds United fan all these years? My old recruiter bosses making me cold call so much and all that radiation from the phone? A result of sticking my head in the microwave too much? Well the frustrating truth is, nobody knows why they occur so you’re all off the hook! 

I’ve had my driving licence revoked because of my seizure I can’t drive for 1 year (based on my last seizure or last brain surgery) so I’ve acquired a chauffeur in the form of a wife – I like driving so this is annoying but at the same time there’s also something nice about being driven around like the little prince I am.  To replace my inability to drive I get a disabled bus pass to allow me to travel freely across our great nation’s unreliable bus services – thanks for that.  I think I also get 33% off train fares so still have to take out a small loan to get into Leeds City Centre.

I’ll leave it here, for now, thanks for reading and I hope my points were amplified and you remained engaged.

Center Parcs and The Three Fucks

#1 Center Parcs & The 3 Fucks

So, for the last 5 years, Sarah and I have taken my parents out for their birthday’s in January as part of their Christmas present.  This year was no different and after several drinks in Leeds and some food we returned home. In the middle of the night I had some odd experiences of feeling dizzy and trapped and was imagining being trapped on a sinking ship, while at the same time feeling like a cloud of blood soaked fog was filling my nostrils, it was some trippy shit.  Anyway, slightly embarrassed and confused I went about my sleep.  In the morning, my wife went off to work and her parents who had babysat the night before were playing with Sophie downstairs.  I took the opportunity to have a shower and felt the same symptoms but felt like I was fighting passing out. After the ‘episode’ passed I robed up to keep some dignity and shouted for someone to come upstairs and make sure I was okay.

We decided to ring 111 and was advised to go to A&E, something I hadn’t done since breaking my arm in 2003/4.  Now, try explaining to a serious doctor that you were sat in his office (I’m sure they have a special name for their offices) that you smelt blood fog and you were stuck on a boat feeling dizzy. He was probably thinking who is this crazy fucking moron? Prognosis, I was having stress induced panic/anxiety attacks. Well I’m not really a panic guy, but I do get anxious, so I accepted this and was told to go to my GP if they continued.

I had several more night ‘episodes’ as well as a few morning ‘panics’ so I went to the GP a few more times before being given the diagnosis of Panic Disorder. At this point I’d been on Web MD and although panic disorder was on a long list of possible identifications, I was sure I was dying. However, I thought I’d listen to my GP and I downloaded some mindfulness apps to do some meditation.  Sarah, Sophie and I then decided to book Center Parcs and have a week off work to destress and regroup as a family.

Now, you’re probably thinking, come on Alex, get to the fucking juicy tumour stuff, I don’t want to hear about you being trapped on a boat and going to bloody Center Parcs who entitled little shit, but stay with me.

We’d enjoyed a few nights in Center Parcs in Penrith when on the 3rd evening (The next part is based on Sarah’s experience not mine as it’s a blur) I had a seizure.  Luckily, for me, Sarah is a nurse and she sprung into the hero she is. I was thrashing around and couldn’t talk, I imagine something like a scene from the Exorcist or an Alligator devouring their prey.  Putting me in the recovery position, she rang those famous 3 digits to get some help.  In the time they’d arrived I’d verbally abused Center Parcs staff who’d come into the apartment and managed to start speaking.

In the ambulance, I started to come around and was told I’d had a seizure and most likely dislocated my shoulder – FUCK! number 1.

In A&E I was looked after by some excellent A&E nurses and doctors who after X-Raying my shoulder confirmed the dislocation which I’d managed to do backwards officially known as a posterior dislocation, bingo! I was sent off around the same time for a CT scan to see if anything had caused my seizure.

I’ve been pretty lucky in life not to have huge amounts of pain, I damaged my MCL while snowboarding but fuck me, does someone trying to put your shoulder back into its rightful place hurt. While sucking on gas and air and someone giving me some liquid opium to suck on through some kind of syringe I had a long haired chilled out doctor apologising to me while 2 nurses pinned me down and another doctor was yanking my arm in an out while I shouted “stop apologising and get my fucking arm back in”…well they couldn’t and off I went down to put me to sleep and get it back in.

Success, it’s back into place.

Now, off I go to a recovery room where I’m put with 4 blokes who can’t talk and what I considered to be far worse than me and the most northern healthcare staff imaginable. To be honest, in and out of sleep I was having fun, making fun of myself and the state I must have been in.

So, here I am, sat in recovery with Sarah chatting about nonsense and what our plans were for the rest of the week when one of the Lead Consultants comes in and says “While we were doing a CT on your head we’ve seen something that we’d like to look at more, we’d like to do an MRI and some more tests” – FUCK! Number 2.

Sarah returned to Center Parcs **Side point, my parents came up from Skipton to look after Sophie and entertain her in Center Parcs, we didn’t leave Sophie to fend for herself in the lake district. I did send out an invoice to them both, but I’m yet to hear a response** and I spent a night in the hospital with Sir Grunts a lot and someone I’m pretty sure was on day release from Her Majesty’s Prison Dumfries – but I slept.

Sarah came back to my side in the morning and I’m soon whisked off for my MRI.  For those who haven’t had had an MRI, it’s a big whirly machine that they stick your head in and it makes loads of whizzing and buzzing noises.  To keep from you going crazy they kindly give you periscope esq. mirror to look at people.

At this point I hadn’t really thought about what they could find, I imagined it wouldn’t be great but my shoulder had taken up a lot of pain and energy, so I hadn’t thought a great deal.

Later that day and I’m sure you’re thinking finally, he’s getting to the point, we were given our first diagnosis.

So, I can’t imagine how hard it is to give people a damning prognosis but the way this was delivered wasn’t how I’ve seen it done in the movies or on Gray’s Anatomy.  The Lead Consultant, comes toward me and closes the curtains to shut out Sir Grunt a lot and Carlisle’s most wanted and immediately you think, this ‘aint good.  Then he kneeled down next to Sarah’s feet like he was about to propose or kiss her feet and said: “We’ve found something” …… “It looks like a grade 3 glioma (brain tumour)……FUCCKKKKKKKKKKKKKK, SHITTTTTTTTTT, WANKKKKKKKKKKK Number 3!

So, we chat for a bit, we talk about debulking, chemotherapy, radiotherapy and things I thought I’d never have to speak about.  Now, I’m not an emotional person, in fact, I remember crying 2 times since my 18th Birthday, my first girlfriend dumping me and my Grandad dying and in that day alone I think I cried so much that between Sarah and I could have filled Lake Windermere. By the way, I’m not proud or boasting of not being emotional inept, I wish I was more emotional and I wish I could talk openly about feelings but when it comes down to doing so I’ll likely just make a joke or duck and dive to avoid the subject at all cost.

So, now we’re waiting to be discharged from the hospital.  The last time Sarah and I were in this situation we were taking Sophie out as a new born as delighted and terrified new parents. This time we were coming out with Timmy, terrified.

While waiting to be discharged Sarah and I explored the hospital although with Carlisle Infirmary only being the size of a 2 up 2 down semi-detached suburban home it didn’t take long. In the time we spoke to McMillan support and grabbed a coffee.

Here I find myself in quite a surreal situation, I started the week painting plates and swirling around in Center Parc’s water rapids by Thursday I’m google life expectancy of a grade 3 glioma, people are talking to be me about fighting cancer, the excitement of having baby number 2 in two months has turned into what the hell is going to happen and will I even meet him? I’m thinking about the prospect of chemo, radiotherapy and brain surgery while all at the same time thinking thank god Sarah made me get life insurance and make a will 6 months ago.

After my discharge, I returned to our lodge in Center Parcs joining my parents and Sophie to eat Chinese and start taking some nice new tablets.

I’ll leave it here for this entry, well done for staying with me. I hope the first proper entry has been informative and slightly interesting while giving you a little smile along the way.


As it’s my first bash at any type of blog I thought I’d start with a little
bit of background about who I am, what I’m blogging about, why I’m putting you through reading this and when it all started.


I’m Alex, a 31 year old from Leeds, Yorkshire. I have a wife, Sarah. A
daughter, Sophie, who’s 2 and a baby boy on the way.

I’d say I’m slightly above average across the board, emphasis on slightly,
cue my friends making phallic based jokes. I own a recruitment
business and I’m relatively fit and healthy.

I’m from a privileged background and have been lucky enough to grow up in a
nice house with excellent parents and had a good education. I’ve been given
lots of handouts throughout my life but wouldn’t class myself as entitled as I’ve
worked hard in my career and pushed myself.


The reason I’m writing this blog, and sorry if you’re learning this for the
first time via a blog (but you should have kept in touch more to be honest) I
have a big filthy, dirty brain tumour who I have nicknamed, Timmy.  I was given a book, Pear Shaped by my best friend and recent best man, Sav, that gave me the idea of jotting down my thoughts and
giving people a better insight to my state of mind, provide me with an outlet
while not working rather than just galloping around on a virtual horse on a PS4
game but importantly, help others in a similar situation learn about my experiences. 


I’m going to be writing about all aspects of my own experiences of having a
tumour from diagnosis to what I hope is full recovery, warts and all.  Now, think of this like a disclaimer. I’m
from Yorkshire so it’ll be to the point, I’ll be honest about my feelings about
what happens and finally I’ll probably throw a few dark jokes about pretty
serious shit, so if you’re easily offended I’d look elsewhere for your morning read
on your commute to work.


I was diagnosed with a brain tumour on the 29th January 2020 but
if you haven’t been bored senseless and want to read on I’m going to get more
into Timmy in future posts. However, to reiterate it will not be all cutesy and
they’re will be fucks, shits, and wanks (verbal not graphic details on my sex
life and bowl movements).

See you soon, Alex & Timmy