New Year Same Old Story

I hope you all had a wonderful Christmas and a festive New Year. We had a relaxed Christmas and spent it at home with with Jay's parents Den and Pegs and sister Gaylynn. We were all thoroughly spoilt and overfed and warm and couldn't ask for more.

On New Year's Eve I managed to watch Jools Holland and the fireworks on TV and then was fast asleep by 12.05.

Fast times and endless excitement in the Allardyce household. Not being able to drink or be particularly mobile takes the jam right out of my party-animal doughnut.

Back in the day those who know me well can testify that my theory for the sucess of any type of party was to throw in a bottle of Sambuca to be consumed with total commitment by everyone in the room, no matter what the time or situation.

This made me pretty unpopular with those wanting to go home and popular with those raging against the dying light. Those days are long gone. However, I really do miss drinking and dancing.

I went for a MRI scan in December and I can honestly say it was the most painful 90 minutes of my life, even though I had dosed up on morphine and every other painkiller I could find. I cannot lay down flat at the best of times, let alone on a hard plinth, unable to move a muscle.

Again choosing the music option proved to be another fatal error. I chose a 'rock radio station' rather optimistically, whilst my decent CD selection was somehow left in the car. A mixture of big-hair spandex 80's aural tripe followed. Once the scan was finishing, a Pearl Jam song I love came on just to remind me what could have been.... Oh the indignity.

Luckily, I was in so much pain none of it really mattered too much.

So a week later when we went to meet the oncologist to discuss the results, I was expecting the worst. I have been feeling terrible and my pain has skyrocketed and I have increased my OxyContin doses and now on top of it al,l I also take Abstral, which is a type of Fentanyl. 

Quick quiz.

Which famous musician has died from taking too much Fentanyl?
a. Tom Petty
b. Michael Jackson
c. Symbol/TAFKAP/Prince or Prince Rogers Nelson as his mom knew him
d. All of the above

The answer is D as Fentanyl is much much stronger than most ordinary opoids, but more importantly for me, it really works. It also seems to kill people rather easily if they misuse it.

So back to the matter at hand. The oncologist said that the scans showed some stability and told us I need to continue the Etoposide Chemo for now. I am now on Round Five of chemo and getting progressively more lethargic and listless.

So while the scans look better, I am feeling no better. People - yes, I mean YOU readers - have a tendency to over-react to any good news as a sign I'm somehow recovering or that your prayers have been answered.

This isn't the reality, and as I said, I generally feel worse, but I am taking each day as it comes. My pain has to be managed carefully, otherwise I spend all day writhing in agony and nervously sweating like Oscar Pistorious faced with an obstacle course of Cattle-Grates with only his blades on.

Jay has the uneviable task of trying to get me to take painkillers regularly, but for some unknown reason I have always been resistant to taking them. But I am now admitting defeat on that count and now take the drugs as soon as I need them.

In unrelated news we have been trying to remain busy and keep our minds off things, and went off to the British Motor Museum and found loads of interesting cars to look at, including a few that had made it through my home town Bulawayo en route from Cairo to Cape Town, as well as a few vehicles from the movies.

In other unrelated news, my giant bottle of Pino Silvestre shower gel is finally finished after nearly 500 days.

Farewell sweet prince, and do not go gentle into that good night. That is my poetic mash up for the world's hardiest showel gel.

However as much as I loved Pino, I prefer regular soap and not some heavily pine-fragranced nuclear-waste lumo green alternative that is shaped and sized like an artillery shell.

But it was fun while it lasted. This should be a salutory warning to all to make sure you check the size of something on Amazon before clicking 'buy' otherwise you too could end up with 1500ml of shower gel. I hope you all appreciate this life lesson.

Love to you all.

Baldies United- shaving their heads in solidarity

When in doubt what to do with yourself when things look grim? Hmm? Any ideas? Socialise it seems.

 Since I last appeared I have been trying out my new chemo.

From day 1-21 no real side effects.

The day I stopped on Day 22, my hair started falling out in clumps. That's the definition of ironic.

It looked like a brown labrador had been sleeping in my bed. Oh well if vanity was an affliction I suffered from then I would topped myself a long time ago with all the psoriasis, steroid face, pressure sores, losing a nut etc.

So I am going to get my head shaved and go full Walter White from Breaking Bad. I'll look out for the Heisenberg hat n'all. Even my beard is on shaky territory. Apparently eyebrows aren't affected. What a bonus.

The pain is still bad, but I am dealing with it by starting my own opiod epidemic. I always stupidly  thought taking painkillers was a sign of weakness and I was a bit of a cowboy, trying to tough it out for 5 years by grimacing a lot.

That was until the pain went to DEFCON ONE (That's the most serious btw) and I realised what proper pain was. It was when I couldn't think straight and was sweating like only male Hollywood producer at an feminist conference.

Look there is a positive flipside to all of this. My friends and family have descended en masse and I have seen my Mom and sister Kim from Australia.

My uncle and aunt are coming over from Botswana for a week tomorrow.

My sister-in-law Gaylyee came for a week from Spain. My cousins Ryan, Ross, George, and Katie and their other-halfs have all been around loads. I know I've forgotten someone. If I have, remember I love you and I blame chemo brain for my forgetfulness.

 That list isn't counting numerous visits from good friends, people sending food so my poor wife doesn't spend her life cooking, generous gifts and loads of messages and support.

No matter how bad the situation, and you really cannot polish this particular turd, I may not have the best luck, but I have the most supportive wife, friends and family I could wish for, and that's enough for me right now.

Love to you all.

Our NHS charter: Come in sick and leave sicker

Hello people

I hope this finds you all well. Thanks for all the messages while I was in hospital.

When I last left you we were in the middle of our trip to Scotland. The doctors had just told me that my disease progression had accelerated and I needed immediate chemotherapy. We had already booked a holiday and were told it would be a good idea to just go on our trip, as the future was a bit murky.

So after a quick 10 hour drive we spent 10 wonderful days in Edinburgh, Lochgilphead and Stirling. It was well worth the trip, but was very painful and uncomfortable. I started my therapy the the day after we returned and was pretty sick from the begining and was suffering from severe sweats and pain throughout.

Unfortunately all of these symptoms culminated in a trip to A&E at St. Georges Hospital for 3 days with a suspected infection and severe vomiting. They scanned me and thought the IV antibioics were causing the technicolour yawns so kept changing them. They discharged me and I came home and promptly got worse the next day. I couldn't speak and was totally disorientated and was rushed to hospital, where CT scans showed there was pressure on my brain. This is called hydrocephalus and isnt't a good sign. Google it, if you have the energy.

This pressure is caused by excess spinal fluid which is a result of the tumour growth, which in turn was causing the sickness and temporary madness.

I can just about cope with the pain and constant discomfort, but when your brain goes, then you start to worry. It is very strange knowing what you want to say, but being unable to say it coherently. They gave me a huge course of steroids to reduce the swelling and booked me in for a range of MRI scans.

The problem was that when I was admitted the second time, I was left on an A&E trolley for 12 hours during which I was in and out of conciousness. Because of this time spent on a flat hard surface and because I was on an MRI trolley for 3 hours a few day later, I now have pressure sores on my sacrum and I am now totally bedbound as the skin and flesh has broken down.

I spent nearly a year and a half stuck in bed with a Grade 4 pressure sore and managed to recover. We are so careful at home and on holiday,  but after a couple of days in hospital I now have a debalitating pressure sore. Being stuck in bed for that long last time was a form of mental disintergration I don't know if I can repeat, I am happy that it is already showing good signs of improvement thanks to the efforts of my darling pressure sore-whisperer wife. What a job, eh?

We are obviously upset and p**sed with us and the hospital for letting it happen, because I have to lie on my side to take pressure off my butt, which hurts a lot with this tumour. It also means I cannot get up and go anywhere or do anything for longer than a few hours. I also have to change position every few hours and this means Jay cannot get a break or even sleep properly.

On Monday we met up with the oncologists and they told us what the scans have shown.

There is now significant damage to the top of my spine and neck, as the disease has progressed considerably from the scan of 3/8 till the last one on 29/9.

I am now onto the last resort in terms of treatment. I have started Etoposide chemotherapy and we will see if that makes a difference. Side effects are bone marrow loss, hair loss and the usual infections, but I have no choice but to take my poison and hope for the best.

We have always known that this would come eventually, but it doesn't make it any easier. You have to roll with the punches and take each day as it comes. I meet the oncologists next Monday and I'll have a better idea whether the treatment is doing anything positive by then. My mom and sister are out here from Australia visiting us which is great and I am slowly getting my pain medication working for me, as I am have been so uncomfortable recently.

Thanks for all the messages as always and take care.

Queasy Rider

Greetings all,

My throwaway comment about this year being better than the last has gone for a ball of ****.  It seems as if it is much worse than anyone expected, a bit like Neville Chamberlain telling the British public to not worry too much about the Nazis, as they just love dressing up, brass bands and marching.

Terror and disasters seem to be closer to home than ever, and hopefully the great and the good will make a concerted effort to alleviate people's problems. I just can't work out who the great and the good are yet.

My darling wife continues to expand the yoof's grasp of the English language. Things took a strange turn a few days ago, whilst she was engaging in an activity with two of her pupils.

"Which word rhymes with the word 'back'?", she said.
"Sack", one piped up.
"Crack", the other added.

Ah the old back, sack and crack male grooming regime. I can only hope they are too young to see the funny side of it.

We recently went to a diabetes foot clinic as my right foot is constantly a worringly purple colour. We were in the waiting room for ages and I was being my usual impatient self.

A nurse walked out and screamed "Alice Diaz!"
Again "Alice Diaz"
I looked at Jay and shook my head.
Bloody Alice Diaz keeping me waiting I thought to myself.
Jay whispered that it was probably me.
Of all the bastardisations of my lovely but unique surname, Alice Diaz has to be the worst. Instead of Allardyce, I have been called A Lard Ass and Acid Arse before.  So of of course Alice Diaz was indeed me, and I gave the nurse my most withering look as I wheeled past. My foot is fine in case you were wondering.

Recently I have been in excruciating pain and managed to get an emergency MRI on my birthday. Magnetic Resonance Imaging is the gift you give to the man who has everyhting. When my pain levels are this high it is always a bad sign.

We went in to the Marsden last Monday and waited for the news. The first sign of trouble is always the sight of the head oncologist coming into the room.  The poor man must be able to see the despair and dismay his patients exhibit whenever he walks into a room. If it is good/average news then they always send in the Registrars or other minions to tell us what's going on.

So the sight of the El Commandante, Dr. Saran, made us both extremely worried.

The actual tumour has grown a bit, but the main concern is that the scans have shown significant signs of change north of the tumour including swelling, which would account for the pain in my sides, back and neck.

So things are not looking so good. I am immediately back onto high doses of steriods after spending months reducing them and gradually losing weight. They also have to start me on chemotherapy treatment as soon as possible. This is where it gets interesting.

I was given three options for chemotherapy:
A. Chemotherapy that has a high percentage (10%) of causing permanent irreversible hearing damage. As simplistic as it sounds, I couldn't bear to lose my hearing, as music is one of the few things that has kept me happy and sane during this little adventure.
B. A course of Avastin that costs between £60,000 and £90,000 for a year, including all blood tests and administration. It is not funded by the NHS as it only adds 3 months on average to your life expectancy and is therefore not seen as a cost effective treatment.  I always wondered if there was a real price on human life and that is it.
C. Something else I have tried 6 years ago. I had stopped listening by then.

When your choices are this bad, the only setting I have is my default maximum denial setting. So I told my Doctor that I had a holiday to Scotland booked and we all agreed we would worry about me 'elf when I returned.

So we drove up to Scotland last Thursday and spent a couple of days in Edinburgh seeing our friends Glynn and Anita, who treated us to a lovely lunch at a restaurant at South Queensferry. We also met up with our mate Ryan at a seafront mall called Ocean Terminal which somehow contains the Royal Brittania.

As I wheeled around a corner of the mall I saw an enclosure containing some huge fake ferns and foliage that interested me. On closer inspection, the foliage moved to reveal a huge mechanical T-Rex towering over me. I screamed like a six year old. One of the problems with being in a wheelchair (No.675) is that you have a tendency to never look up, thereby giving dinosaurs the opportunity to frighten you.

We are now staying in a cottage in Drimvore near Lochgilphead in Argyll. It is really beautiful and quiet here and the air is so fresh. The cottage is fully accessible and is really comfortable. And I have enough morphine to sedate a drunk herd of Alt-Right protesters. My ever practical wife made me look up the nearest hospital just in case.

We are off to Oban tomorrow to try and find some decent seafood and have a birthday meal. That is the great thing about having our birthdays so close together, as you can save a wee penny or two by having a combined birthday dinner. So the scallops had better start shivering as we are coming hungry.

I meet with the Doctors on Monday 21st August and choose my posion for the forseeable future. So once again I rejoin the magical roundabout of treatment and once again the future is uncertain. Until then I am going to re-read Cormac McCarthy books and ponder my existence. I am also reading a book written by a pastor that attempts to answer questions about Christianity that sceptics have. I am a sceptic, but I also have an acute fear of missing out. Jay is loving the countryside and taking some incredible pictures as always. She is also birdwatching and exploring the Scottish flora and fauna. Be afraid Instagram, be very afraid.

At least it is serene and peaceful here and there is no phone signal. I am working on developing a death-ray I can send down the phone to the various imbeciles that cold call me every day about non-existent PPI claims and imaginary car accidents they think I have been in. In the meantime splendid isolation is one way of not letting the b***rds grind you down.

Peace out.

Sticks and stones

Greetings earthlings.

I hope this finds you all well.

Let us hope this year is a better one than last year. It is highly likely it will be, but having a fatalistic attitude has served me well down the years. My expectation levels are always reassuringly low, so nothing comes as a surprise anymore.

I often see disabled people on TV who are doing amazing things and fighting adversity. They are inspirational and often exceeding what we thought was possible.

I don't fit into that "can do" category.

Instead I keep on discovering things I can't do.

For those of you who know me too well, I am a bit retentive. I hate mess and I am constantly tidying up, or more realistically, stuffing drawers and cupboards to give the impression of being tidy.

Anway this brings me on to "Things I cannot do in a wheelchair No.1435." I recently managed to burst a bag of split peas when trying to make a lentil curry.

I learnt that I cannot pick up individual split peas off the floor, either with my hands, or with a reacher. This took me a painfully long time to realise and was accompanied by horrendous industrial language. I spent the rest of the afternoon with the mess on the floor, taunting me, before I decided I'd leave it for my poor wife.

Another thing to add to the "Things I cannot do in a wheelchair" list. Ski-jumping and Ballroom Dancing are not things I'm resentful about not being able to do, but not being able to clean up the kitchen floor seems to have sent me over the edge.

I have been complaining to various medical professionals about a burning sensation in my side. This has gone on for about 3 years and I have been prodded, tapped and had an x-ray in my wheelchair. In the meantime I've been using hot packs, painkillers and oils to relieve the pain, all without much joy.

I was referred to a Gastroenterologist at the Royal Marsden in Chelsea as my stomach has been destroyed by steroids, chemo and radiotherapy and of course I had my mystery pain. I finally got to see him and was sent for tests and scans of all descriptions.

I don't think I've ever had so many weird and wonderful tests. This included a version of Orifice Countdown, where your only options are a big one from the top and a little from the bottom. For those of you who have no idea what I'm talking about, this involves what looks suspiciously like two garden hoses being shoved where they have no right to be. The probe down my throat was especially brutal on the way out, and felt like I was regurgitating a snake.

I now know what it feels like to be a rotisserie chicken.

I was also informed that having x-rays in a wheelchair are pointless so two other hospitals obviously have no idea what they are doing. The Marsden in Chelsea did it properly by laying me flat and found out that I have some pretty serious intestinal blockages.

They followed this up with an ultrasound and found that I also have many many gallstones.

I am also having two Radio-Isotope Nuclear Medicine scans to complete the tests and will be slightly radioactive for a few weeks. The letter says "avoid children for 2 weeks in order to prevent exposing them to harmful radiation." Hopefully I'll get the summer glow.

So hats off to Royal Marsden Chelsea for actually doing a thorough job and I feel like I am getting somewhere. Essentially I am full of c**p and an assortment of stones. Who knew. I'm just sorry it took so long to get the right tests done.

Whilst I am on the topic of missed medical problems, I was also told recently that I have Type 2 Diabetes. All the pin prick tests I have been having when I see the oncologist are not the most effective way of testing for diabetes. My thirst was ridiculous and I was constantly tired so I asked for a proper blood sugar test and it showed very high blood sugar levels. Being on steroids for six years has now given me diabetes. At least that is manageable. The ironic thing is we had almost eliminated processed sugar from our diets ages ago because we watch loads of health-paranoia telly and thought processed sugar was the devil. I was a few years too late it seems.

Apart from the blockages, stones and diabetes all is well. I am hoping that in the next couple of months I'll start to feel better.

Jay is well and has been creating a variety of writing exercises and grammar booklets for her pupils. English grammar is pretty complicated and it appears I have been guessing my way through the English language my whole life. I cannot believe how much 11 year olds are expected to know.

They are in safe hands with Jay as she is determined to help them as much as possible.  Plus drawing dragons once in a while in a while takes their mind off the past perfect tense and how to spell words most adults never use. Nice one government - whoever thought the best way to improve literacy amongst 11 year olds was to try and make it impossible for them to pass exams and be expected to be Dickens needs his or her head examined.

We recently went to a local borough Home Ownership day  after many years of renting our place and I spoke with various mortgage brokers. The first guy thought I was joking, the second was very grave and respectful and the third looked at me like I was mad. It turns out that lenders aren't very keen on the terminal illness thing. I did try and point out that technically I should have been dead 5 years ago, but they weren't impressed.

It looks like I'll have to invent something or design an app for a phone to make any money. I have no idea how to become a tech millionaire.

Have a good summer or winter depending on your hemisphere and I'll keep in touch

Love to you all.
Bruce

There's a Gorilla in our midst....

There's a Gorilla in our midst....

Hello everybody,

I hope you are all well and had a good summer.

I have now completed my one year of Temozolomide Chemotherapy and have thankfully been given a break from treatment, after scans and a consultation revealed no growth of the tumour.

I had the MRI scan last week and was asked the million dollar question: 'Do you want music during the scan?' Experience should have taught me to say no, but I rolled the dice. After I said yes, I was asked what music I liked and after making a joke about preferring Peruvian Psychedelic Rock they stared at me blankly and said they'd put on some music. One horrendous pop song later I was cautiously optimistic it would get better and then Bruno Mars came on.

I have nothing against the little melted troll but the CD stuck about 20 seconds into the Bruno Mars song.

For 1 hour.

I waited for 20 mins to see if my zen-like demeanour would be altered by the combined sound of a hammering MRI machine and a very loud stuck CD.

I waited another 20 mins because I am patient and didn't want to stop a scan because of a stuck CD.

I then waited another 20 mins because the bell thingy they'd given me to alert them if there was a problem didn't actually work.

So after 1 hour they stopped the scan to inject me with contrast dye. I was very clear I didn't want any more music. It had been like Guantanomo Bay style mental torture. At least the song wasn't Barbie Girl on repeat.

A few days after the scan we had a meeting with my primary oncologist. He was smiling and jumping up and down. Maybe they'd found gold in my spine? No. The scans showed that it still looks a complete mess.

However, the tumour has not got any worse and according to him I am part of a group of less than 1% of his patients that survives this long. He really is such a positive guy, but for some reason he rewarded me for still being alive by slapping me really hard on the back. Never in my life have I had to stifle a scream so much - getting slapped on a tumour is pretty painful. Anyway, it certainly woke me up a bit.

Thank goodness for that and that means no chemo until at least February when I get scanned again. When I was taking chemo, I would eat sugar-free sweets to take away the nausea and taste of the pills. Then I got to the stage where the taste of sugar free sweets made me feel sick. By last month thinking about sugar free sweets made me feel sick. Nausea is a real pain. The feeling of almost being sick the whole time. Luckily the anti-nausea pills are pretty good but have side effects. They really bung you up. I mean really bung you up.

Being an inquisitive person I googled potential solutions and found a website created by expectant mothers taking this drug, Ondansetron, for morning sickness. I thought I had it bad, but some of these women were carrying more than babies. One was carrying 'more than a baby' for 3 months. 3 months without a toilet break resulted in a trip to the hospital for an induced delivery of the backlog. Wow.

Now my next problem is to get off steroids. They make you get fat quickly and after a year I can barely fit into my wheelchair. Too much sausage, not enough skin. So I am trying to reduce the steroids slowly without alerting my tumour to the fact. Last time I went off steroids the little chap decided to grow. So I am doing it slowly and hope to see the results.

I spent a year in South Africa and Botswana years ago taking huge amounts of steroids without anything to counteract their mood altering effects. At least this time I take medication to counter the paranoia, anxiety and rage that they induce. So hopefully I am bit calmer and more rational. I still support Liverpool and the Springboks which means an unhealthy level of pre-existing anxiety. Physically, the roids have made my head and body puff up like a balloon.

One other thing my darling wife noticed is that I now have an uncanny resemblance to both Harambe (R.I.P), as well as the smiling gorilla in the Gorilla Duct Tape Advert.

I suppose the glaring difference is no-one has tried to shoot me yet and if I ask nicely, I am let out of my enclosure once in a while. It doesn't bode well when you appear closer to a primate than anything else. Oh well. Hopefully reducing steroids will help reduce me to the size of a small primate.

I have had my cousins Cal and Ryan over a few times. They managed to arrive in Reading as part of a London adventure on the same day. Same place and same day, but one was travelling from South Africa and the other from New Zealand. Without ever communicating with each other. What a coincidence. They didn't find it that amazing. Having my two young cousins around, usually in some state of inebriation, has made me wish I was younger and also made me realise how old I am. It is pretty liberating to not have much to stress about.

Jay is well and is still reshaping young minds and ensuring the highest standards in grammar exist at her school. She has even created grammar booklets for the kids as an easy reference. I have been doing a lot of copy editing work recently and use the primary school grammer booklet often. It worries me slightly that I have zero recollection of being taught any grammar at primary school and that ten-year olds are now expected to know that much.

Jay and Carolyn also completed a 40-length sponsored swim at Brockwell Lido to raise money for Macmillan Cancer Charity. It was in the middle of October which means the water was seriously cold. We were freezing on the sidelines watching, sipping on coffee, so swimming must have been a nightmare. They both completed it in a really good time and raised a decent amount of money so thanks to all of you who contributed.

Speaking of getting wet, during the summer we tried to have a typical English short trip to the beach and booked a hotel room for the night We both even downloaded new weather apps for our phones just to be extra vigilant. We picked a day when it was meant to be hot and headed to Bournemouth full of optimism.

After 3 hours of intense traffic we arrived and found congestion so intense and ill-tempered that we decided to pay a lot for parking and be done with it. I didn't have the heart to tell my wife that my weather app on my smartphone had shown clouds following us the whole time.

By the time we had negotiated the heaving crowds and found somewhere fairly quiet it was pretty cold and a bit wet. It seemed that all of humanity had converged on Bournemouth Beach that day, specifically to take a few steps forward, then stop right in front of me and look around aimlessly.

The day at the beach ended with hot coffee and a message from friends in London, telling us it was over 30C there. I think they said uncomfortably hot. That really hurt.

When we finally got to the hotel we were told there was no parking. I nearly threw the blue badge at the parking guy and thankfully he made someone move. Day at the beach over.

Of course the next day we found a wonderful quiet beach with loads of facilities. It was still cold and wet though. Jay decided there was no point coming all the way to the beach without swimming and had little dip. The sea too, was cold and wet. After a minimum amount of swimming time Jay spent the next hour trying to warm up.

One of the main problems of being in a wheelchair, and there seem to be many, is that beaches are inaccessible. I have to park myself on the promenade and look wistfully out to sea. I have tried my wheelchair on the sand and it is a non-starter.

It is not too bad with other people around. However, when you are by yourself it is a bit weird just hanging out next to a dustbin with benches and the seagulls for company. It was still hot in London so we left the South Coast straight afterwards. Still, it was nice to get out of London for a day.

We recently went to Hammersmith Apollo to be part of the studio audience for the recording of two episodes of Live at the Apollo. Two shows, three acts each show and a lot of laughter. I recommend going to see Adam Hills, Gina Yashere and Michele Wolf if you get the chance. Special mention has to go to Sam Simmons for being a combination of a modern one-man Australian incarnation of Monty Python and a demented Super Mario Brother.

Nothing better than spending three hours laughing. And it was free.

So everyone, we are as well as we can hope to be, and looking forward to Christmas with family.

Have a wonderful Christmas and a festive New Year and I'll try and update the blog more than once a year.

Lots of love to you all.
 

The Allardyces of Archiestown

The Allardyces of Archiestown

What does Remembrance Day mean to me? I am a 36 year old with no military background or real understanding of the experiences of those who have lived through the horrors of war. This doesn’t stop me from being stirred by the Cenotaph ceremony or being filled with pride and admiration for the veterans taking part in the march-past every year.

Like so many of us, I have a familial link to those who we will honour on Remembrance Sunday as my family suffered tragedy on an unimaginable scale. As each year passes, it becomes increasingly important for us to never forget what happened.

As a child my grandfather told me the story of his father and his role in the Second World
War. He wanted to tell me everything, but still found the circumstances of his father’s death too distressing to discuss in detail. The photographs of my great-grandfather always took pride of place on our sitting room wall.

My great-grandfather, Captain Ransome McNamara Allardyce, was the youngest of four brothers, all born in Dublin to George and Janet Allardyce. His father, George Allardyce, was a Scot from Archiestown in the Scottish Highlands who had moved to Ireland to work as a master tailor, making riding habits for the gentry of Dublin. George and his wife Janet raised their four boys in a modest house in Ranelagh, in the south of Dublin. 

Three of the four boys would go on to train as doctors.



Father George Allardyce with William (left) James (Right) & Ransome (Sitting)

All of the Allardyce brothers would die in the two World Wars.

The oldest brother, George Gilmour Allardyce, started his studies to become a doctor in Dublin before moving to Australia at the age of 17. Following the outbreak of war in 1914, he enlisted as a Private in the 4th Australian Field Ambulance, giving his occupation as a medical student, and by 1915 he was fighting in Gallipoli.

By 1917, whilst serving on the Somme, where he was gassed and later evacuated to England. He was selected for officer training and by 1918 he was appointed 2nd Lieutenant in the 4th Battalion Australian Infantry and returned to fight in France. After suffering injuries to his head and leg, he was again evacuated to England where he died from his wounds in 1918. 

George was 22 years old.

The second brother, William Swirles Allardyce, was training to be a surgeon at Trinity College Dublin and was a third year medical student in 1916 when he enlisted in the Navy with the rank of Probationer Surgeon. He was lost at sea that year when HMS Negro collided with the destroyer leader HMS Hoste, resulting in the deaths of over 50 sailors.

William was only 19 years old.

By the time my great-grandfather, Ransome, began his studies to become a doctor at Trinity College Dublin in 1920, he had already lost his two eldest brothers.

Ransome’s surviving brother, James Craig Allardyce, had chosen a career in the military and entered the Royal Military College in Woolwich in 1916. He was promoted to Captain in the Royal Artillery in 1918 and served in both World Wars. During the First World War, he served with the Indian Mounted Artillery in India, in the Mediterranean and in Iraq. He was later wounded in France but after the hostilities had ended, James remained in the Army.

He was seconded as a Lieutenant in the Auxiliary Forces in India where he married Kathleen Louise in Lucknow in 1924. He was promoted to Captain by 1929. During the Second World War he saw service in Assam, Syria, Burma and Ceylon. Due to ill health, he was sent home to England where he died at the Military Hospital Fulford in York in 1944. He had finished his distinguished military career as a Brigadier General in the Royal Artillery.

He was 45.

My great-grandfather, Ransome, was the youngest of the four boys. He trained as a doctor at Trinity College Dublin, and practiced as a General Practitioner in Manchester, before moving to Japan in 1934 in order to work as a surgeon.

Ransome Allardyce

He moved to Japan with his wife Madeleine and their three small children: my grandfather George and his sisters, Jean and Anne. Ransome worked as the Superintendent of the International Hospital in Kobe-Honshu until 1939, when life became too dangerous for them to remain there. He sent his family ahead to seek refuge in Australia, as passage to Europe wasn’t possible due to the outbreak of World War Two.


Ransome with wife Madeleine, George (left), Jean (centre) & Anne (right) Japan

His family arrived safely in Australia and were given refuge in Sydney and later in rural Armidale. Before leaving Japan, Ransome gave most of his possessions to his servants, destroyed his car and smuggled out some pearls. He was briefly reunited with his family in Australia before he took up a position in Singapore as a Captain in the Royal Army Medical Corps.

He was working as a doctor at the Alexandra Road Military Hospital in Singapore in February 1942 when the country fell to the Japanese. When Japanese troops broke into the hospital and began firing indiscriminately, Ransome decided to challenge them. As the only person who could speak some Japanese, he hoped to reason with the soldiers. 

A Red Cross representative witnessed Ransome walking down a hospital corridor to speak with the Japanese soldiers. He was never seen alive again. His body was found the next day in a mass grave and he was later buried at the Kranji War Cemetery in Singapore. More than 200 people were shot or bayoneted over those two tragic days in February 1942, in what later become known as The Alexandra Hospital Massacre.

He was 39 years old.

After the Japanese Army occupied Singapore, his family still had no definitive news about Ransome. They assumed he had been taken prisoner and Madeleine became ill from worry during this uncertain time. In 1943 the family were erroneously informed by the War Office that Ransome was still working as a doctor in occupied Singapore, however, they later found out that he had died during the fall of Singapore.

They were eventually repatriated back to the United Kingdom. Madeleine and her three children embarked on the five-week voyage to London in March 1947, before travelling up to Scotland. They left summer in Australia and arrived in the middle of a harsh winter to live with George and Janet Allardyce in the village of Archiestown. 

Madeleine had lost her husband and her children, their father, and George and Janet Allardyce had suffered the unimaginable tragedy of losing all four of their sons.

After a few months in Scotland, Madeleine and her children left Archiestown and moved to Dublin where they finally had a home of their own and could try and rebuild their lives. Thankfully, my grandfather and his sisters recovered to lead full and happy lives as the memories of the war gradually began to recede. The trauma of what had happened never completely disappeared but simply faded into the passage of time. 

In the village of Archiestown, in Knockando Parish, there is a war memorial that honours the names of all the men who lost their lives in the two World Wars. A short service is held on Remembrance Sunday every year to remember the young men of the parish who answered the call to arms in 1914 and again in 1939. All of these men, including the Allardyces of Archiestown, paid the ultimate price and their sacrifice should never be forgotten. 

Of all things the bed is the best/ If you can't sleep you still can rest - Italian Proverb

As usual, once I start writing updates for my dormant blog, it occurs to me I haven't written anything for months.

No matter what is happening in our lives, time marches swiftly on.

Nine years after starting my post-graduate course at the London School of Journalism, I finally wrote all of my exams and submitted my work and somehow graduated with a decent mark. I wasn't merited for my speed.

When I started at LSJ so long ago, I actually fancied myself being a bit of a John Pilger, exposing heartless corporations and ruthless governments, and making a nuisance of myself.

A few years of hospital soon put paid to that. You can still write from home or find stories if the locations you visit have wheelchair access, but it does limit your scope a little.

Obviously getting sick on top of that really doesn't help your journalistic career. Spending over a year in bed was pretty unhelpful as well.

However, whatever I am lacking in the necessary skills to be a decent journalist, I am lucky enough to make up for with a surplus of stubborness running through my veins which allowed me to finally finished the course. So the epic battle of trying to imagine articles to write without leaving my flat is finally over thank goodness. I have managed to get a few jobs as a copy editor. Not very exciting but money is money.

In October last year my condition deteriorated and scans showed the little b*****d had been growing considerably so it was back on the chemo again.

Since then I have had seven courses of Temozolomide chemotherapy and the latest scans this year have shown no real change since the tumour got worse in October.

Of course part of the treatment plan involves taking industrial doses of steroids again which means all the nasty side effects are coming back to haunt me.

I spent years reducing steroids only to be put back on them again. Unfortunately, I have returned to being like an inflatable beach toy with a giant head, but apparently I really need steroids.

To prove the doctors wrong and to limit the side effects, I stupidly tried to reduce my dose a bit and all it has done has put me in more pain.

Generally speaking, the plan from my oncolgists is to continue monthly chemotherapy, monitor my bloods, have scans, take steroids and hurry up and wait as they say.

I am in pain most days now and have recently started taking morphine as well as the usual painkillers to deal with it. I find being a Springbok and Liverpool fan hasn't helped my pain or stress levels.

For some reason morphine just makes me a bit goofy and itchy but doesn't provide much relief. The best thing to do in these situations seems to be to just go to sleep and hope the next day is better.

These days, by six in the evening, I am pretty much done and have to get into bed to give my back and mystery pain in my side a rest.

So I am not much fun at parties anymore, but I'm sure my previous one-man crusade to rid the world of Sambuca and lonely pints at closing time isn't missed by many, especially my wife. I suppose we all have to grow up eventually, whether we like or not.

Speaking of my lovely wife, we recently celebrated our 5th wedding anniverary (16 years in total) and we are going to treat ourselves to a meal at a decent restaurant.

Jay is still teaching in the afternoons and has designed loads of grammar booklets and activities to help the poor little nippers through their exams. I really feel sorry for kids these days. Not only are they continually assessed and analysed, they always seem to be under pressure to meet unrealistic expectations.

Of course, that means teachers have to work doubly hard to manage everything.  I get to listen to loads of teacher talk when we have teacher friends over...

At the same age, all I did was pick my nose, daydream, draw cars and talk a lot.

Nowadays kids are expected to explain the ins and outs of the Large Hardron Collider in their Standard Assessment Tests (SATs) or explain why English has loads of silly grammar rules. I tried to answer a maths question aimed at an eleven-year old and nearly had a nervous breakdown.

Gone are the days of rocking up at school dressed as a swordfish or telling your teacher you have a pet dragon. In the old days in Zimbabwe, if you could spell your name correctly on your exercise book, count to ten and use a toilet dilligently, that usually ensured a safe passage to high school.

We went up to Scotland for our first mini holiday in four years. We visited some good friends and did a bit of sightseeing, including a trip to a tiny village in the Highlands where my great-grandfather and his three brothers hailed from. Their deaths in the Great Wars (yes all four brothers died) are commemorated on a mini-cenotaph.  It was quite an emotive experience seeing their names and visiting their village. I'll put their story on my blog at some stage.

All things considered, we are both okay and looking forward to some sunshine and summer socialisng. Given that I am supposed to have expired some time ago, things could be worse. I appear to have taken on the fatalist attitude of a Russian novelist who has just been told by the doctor to give up vodka and is trudging home with a stone in each of his shoes. This morbid outlook seems to work for me.

Most of all, I am looking forward to going to sleep nice and early. Not exactly exciting but essential.

So take care, see some of you soon and to everyone else have a great summer.

Polio virus to treat GBMs - finally something positive

This looks like the first realistic possibility of treatment for Gliobalstomas.

http://www.forbes.com/sites/davidkroll/2015/03/30/60-minutes-covers-dukes-polio-virus-clinical-trial-against-glioblastoma/#1822d22869b5 


The 60 minutes show is available online

http://www.cbsnews.com/news/polio-cancer-treatment-duke-university-60-minutes-scott-pelley/
http://www.cbsnews.com/news/polio-cancer-treatment-duke-university-60-minutes-scott-pelley/