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The curse of Last of the Summer Wine struck again and the curse of Carry On and the curse of Eastenders. Owen, Phillips and Treacher all taken too young.
A nice piece in the Mirror today about me and my bollock(s) though I should point out I was exaggerating to compare my post cancer stress with PTSD. I do however think it’s worth pointing out that even if you survive cancer and even if you’re physically fine, the psychological impact is still quite heavy. Even though all my scans are clear (aside from my weird but harmless bollock bollock cyst) I am constantly aware that cancer could return or that my body might let me down in other ways. It’s not constant, but it’s there in the background. And in many ways I have found this year harder than last. Which given they took off my bollock and gave me chemo is saying something.
It's OK to feel stressed about this, of course. I just don't think it's something that is thought about enough.
It’s not bad to be reminded of your mortality. As long as both my parents are alive I sort of assume I will live as long as them and so have another 30 years in the tank. Now I don’t assume that. Last year, at times, I was imagining I might have months left and that’s not such a terrible way to think about life. When you think it might be days or weeks your priorities change. Do you want to go and waste a whole day doing some stupid job or activity that you really don’t enjoy and don’t have to do? Not if you think that you might only have 30 days to go. Do something that makes you happy instead!
I am still wasting time, of course, but have made more of an effort to get my priorities right. Hopefully there are still 30 years left in me (the curse of Fist of Fun does hang over me though), though 20 would be fine. Not that I am in the position to bargain. And it all depends on circumstances. Eighteen months ago I might have settled for five years if they could be guaranteed. And I’d be nearly a third of a way through my remaining time by now.
It doesn’t matter. Life isn’t real. We’re in a simulation. It’s more likely than not. What would the chances be of being born at all? Then as a conscious being? Then as an intelligent being? Then at a point where life is relatively cushy and protected rather than 250,000 years ago when the nearest to an iPhone you could get was a big stone with some bits chipped off? Then in a country where you have a decent chance of making it to 75 and having clean drinking water? Then in a family who love you and give you a good start in life? Then in a job that you love and that you manage to make a decent living in spite of not being in the least bit funny?
It’s just a video game guys, and you’re not even the main character - I am. So relax. Chances are we’ll all just get another crack at it if we die. Ever felt deja vu? That’s cos you played this bit before and then fucked it up. Ever seen a ghost? That’s a glitch in the programme, where some of the olden days characters have inadvertently appeared in the wrong place? Ever found yourself walking up against a wall, unable to turn round? That’s the clincher.
Some cracking snooker tonight - up in the usual places on Wednesday
