If you have kids, you have had that moment.

That moment when you put your full, bare-footed weight on that errant Lego brick that has just been lying there, silently waiting for you. The pain is instant, intense and swear worthy. It is guaranteed to send you into a one-legged involuntary jig. You rarely make that same mistake twice.

If little Jimmy or Sally or whoever took the step instead of you, rest assured you would soon hear all about it very quickly.

“It’s up to you, but I will give you a few days to think about it.” Those are the ominous words of a health worker when they are throwing a decision right back at you instead of offering advice. I am such a big advocate for men’s health, yet there I was, unable to make up my mind. I had the consultant tell me that I didn’t need it and he would cancel the appointment. Only, he didn’t. And this is why I had the nurse on the other end of the phone telling me to take a few days over the bank holiday, to decide if I wanted to go ahead with the appointment.

What was the agonising decision? Well, a few months earlier there was some blood in my stool. It was not running out of me but there was enough, and it was bright red. The next day there were still remnants but nothing like the day before. I had mentioned it in my last follow up meeting with the radiotherapy consultant and he suggested a colonoscopy.

Colonoscopy! That makes the digital rectal exam seem like a bag of sweets.

It took a day or two for me to come to my senses. I had gone through two rounds of radiotherapy for the cancer reoccurrence, and I needed to check everything. In the end I decided that as fate didn’t cancel the appointment, it was meant to go ahead. The nurse informed me that the prep beforehand was simple: don’t eat anything 12 hours before and to turn up at the appointment an hour before the stated time. Apparently, they never take account of the prep time when they make these appointments. That hour was so I could have an enema administered before the royal rummage.

I arrived at the allotted time only to quickly find that whoever made the appointment had decided to be the diligent one and had added the prep time. So I was now two hours early. To be fair, they realised their mistake and made me a priority so, I was soon out of my kit and into the fetching paper dress. I was expecting the whole drip on a stand experience when it came to the enema but that vision was shattered when the nurse turned up with some miniature bellows like a squeezy bottle. Fifteen minutes later I was suitably lighter and the fun could really begin.

Of course, this is me so something had to happen. Come on now.

Another nurse came around and asked me if I would like some painkillers.

“Does it hurt?” I asked.

“I don’t know, but everyone is different and most people like to have pain killers administered.” He replied.

Now, it seems a simple question. Come closer, within arm reach and I will punch you hard and square in the gob. You don’t have to actually experience the punch to know it’s going to hurt – unless you are Mike Tyson and it would be considered a mere smudge to his face cream.

“So, you are offering me painkillers, but don’t know if it will hurt? How can I make a decision based on that?”

He shrugged his shoulders and I politely declined. When handing me over to the other nurse he confirmed my name and the fact that I didn’t want any painkillers. As if I wasn’t in the room this new nurse asked me to confirm my name, why I was here and again that I didn’t want painkillers.

The last bit was like I wasn’t privy to some important information.

I confirmed everything and then I was wheeled the short journey to the ‘theatre’ where there about eight people in the room. Now unless I had some world record breaking alien type colon, I didn’t quite know why so many people were interested in mine. The only thing missing in this room was the ice cream concession man in the corner selling flavoured treats and programmes.

I would have had the vanilla or strawberry cheesecake.

Of course in the two minute journey from the ward to the theatre I could have body morphed, Mission Impossible style, into ninety year old Mr Jones from Somerset who fought in the last war.

The head honcho asked me again to confirm who I was, date of birth and what was I here for. After the final personal confirmations another nurse said I had declined painkillers and he wanted me to also confirm that.

I am now on the bed thinking have I made a mistake by not asking for painkillers. Having said that, if you are going to give me painkillers then I hope we are not talking about silly paracetamol. No, you have to go away and get another witness signature and get me a tablet of that proper narco stuff that you keep under lock and key.

Now for the third time in my life, I was lying on a bed with my knees tucked under my chin, while someone is about to ignore the exit only sign on my lower regions.

While they were watching my version of the colon world cup they did frequently enquire if I was alright – can’t fault them for that. To use fewer technical terms, they went up the straight bit and stopped at the right turn junction. They found two old Internal haemorrhoids and no other treasure.

Now to score the overall experience with the headings of brutality and discomfort in comparison to the digital rectal exam, I’ll put it in the range of 1 to 5.

Dr Cathcart, bless him a lovely man. My surprise digital rectal exam (DRE) scores a 6 out of 5 for sheer brutality. The colonoscopy would score a subsequent 2.5

For discomfort, which I am judging on the duration of discomfort, the DRE scores a 2 as the brutality was over quite quickly. The colon business would score a 5 as they were rummaging for a good 15/20 minutes.

Maybe they should adopt the Lego brick pain system instead.

Now to award the Lego brick.

I am a Christian. I go to church regularly and though not perfect I try to lead a good life and I don’t try to ram it down anyone’s throat.

As I have mentioned before, I am also a bit of a cynic when it comes to church and the prostate cancer fight.

A church is a community, especially in the black community. What better place then to carry the fight against prostate cancer. I mean if all your men die out – that will be just a little bit of a problem. OK, I might be exaggerating a little bit, but you get the drift.

I was recently invited to talk about my journey by Power of The Living Word Ministries International at their International Day. I have to add that I don’t wake up with a pre-arranged opinion of a church. I just turn up, say what I need to say and go.

Pretty much.

I was talking in the garden at the home of one of the pastors in south London. This talk had come about on the back of a corporate talk that I did at a company a few weeks earlier. There was a presentation about their outreach activities and then I was up. In all, there were probably about 30 people in attendance from the bishop and chief honcho and many of her titled peeps. They could not have been more friendly or accommodating, a lovely bunch of people. I had no presentation or speech prepared. I was going rouge and freestyle.

The fat man loosening his belt before sitting down at the all you can eat buffet.

Ellis set free.

I have effectively two presentations when it comes to my story. There is the ‘corporate’ version that I tell ninety-five percent of the time and then there is the version that comes from a spiritual perspective. I could freely express my spiritual side and when mixed with good food, good people and some sun, I am all in. We bashed men, the establishment, politicians and anyone else in our way. I had fun, they had fun.

Afterwards, I set next to the bishop and we talked. I told her more about myself both publicly and privately. I like her and she didn’t kick me out followed by prayer and a bucket of holy water so, I must have done alright. She was convinced that I needed to talk. That I wanted to talk and she was available.

I smiled and was having a heated debate with myself. Was I was going back for some more chicken or the cake that had been trying to seduce me all afternoon.

Bishop, bless her, gently reminded me that she was available. I had something heavy to shed. Unfortunately, it wasn’t my wallet. Her number two, whose house it was, suddenly upped the ante.

“He is coming from a place of deep hurt”, she announced publicly.

Cake it was. I really needed a diet coke to help it on it’s journey, but that was not to be.

I continued to mingle and was introduced to the head of the men’s ministry. We spoke and I told him about my disappointment when it came to church men’s groups when it came to talking about prostate cancer. I say we spoke, but it was probably a friendly mini rant said with love. I told him I could freestyle, present or even give a sermon. He could take his pick. He actually said the words ‘challenge accepted’.

Over a month later and tumbleweeds are blowing in the south London vicinity.

Officially awarding you, with love of course, the Lego brick award.