I would describe myself as slightly competitive.

Others may argue that I am completely underestimating my competitive nature. Surely no one actually likes losing, do they? Where is the old git going with this, I hear you ask. Well, if losing is the duvet, then failure must be the duvet cover.

I have a couple of confessions to make. I recently failed in two endeavours and have said nothing about them, but in my defence, neither was really my fault and I am here to fess up.

The first was a unique one for me. I held an awareness talk which was, as they say in Eurovision “Nul point” or in awareness talk terms: no-one attended.

It started well enough with my 33 in12 campaign, where I will be visiting all 33 London boroughs at least once to deliver an awareness talk. As I was financing it myself, I had to look at libraries as they were the least expensive option. Yes, I agree with you, probably not the best place and is my target audience attending libraries? Probably not. I emailed the library booking manager and she was so impressed by my idea that she waved the booking fee for the prestigious ‘glass room’, a transparent glass room in the middle of the library floor. I knew that they had lots of advertising screens in the library so I asked if I could I send a promo picture for display. She was only too delighted to help. Did I have any posters?  I did indeed and excitedly posted them along a week before the big day.

On the morning of the presentation my friend called me to tell me that one of our pastors, a well-respected and loved individual, had died. I kick myself now because there were a couple of points when I said I was going to text or call her, but I didn’t. She had been battling ovarian cancer for about a year and a half. It was discovered during a routine check. She swore my friend and a few others to secrecy about her condition, so most people didn’t know. He was gutted that he couldn’t tell me but not as much as I was to not know.

RIP Pastor Lorna.

I didn’t want to go to the talk. I swayed continually between being angry and heartbroken. I know I was not in the frame of mind for the talk, but I didn’t want to let anyone down. Let’s compound the day issues and make the mistake of deciding to drive there. The drive was long and horrendous, but I got there in plenty of time. There are a few London boroughs that are not driving friendly at all, I happened to find probably the king of them all. I drove around for 30 minutes trying to find somewhere to park. In the end, with five minutes to spare and a good walk, I said a few choice words to whoever oversaw parking in the borough and just decided to take my chances in a resident bay. I just didn’t care anymore. Only thing that was going to top that day off was someone arguing with me about natural remedies and I was hoping someone didn’t end up with a natural remedy in an unnatural place.

I burst into the library with 3 different bags looking like a smart street bag man, located the room that I was using and marched over.

Tumbleweed moment.

It was dead on 12.30pm so maybe they were just late stragglers. From just outside the room, I could see anyone wanting to come in and watch the monitors at the same time. I watched that silly screen for a full 10 minutes and not once did the picture I supplied come up. Also, my posters where nowhere to be seen. When we got to the fifteen-minute mark and no-one attended, I walked out too sad and peeved to care.

“Barbershop Uncut Stories is a groundbreaking theatre production that brings to life the rich, raw and deeply human conversations that take place in Black barbershops across Britian, and possibly across the world. Born from a desire to address the silence around Prostate Cancer in Black communities, this project uses the barbershop – one of the most trusted and intimate spaces in Black culture – as a stage for stories that need to be heard”

The barbershop is a CIC and their main remit is that the characters need to be anonymous to the public. They are selected and then they talk to a researcher who conducts an in-depth recorded interview regarding their prostate cancer journey. A scriptwriter then selects the stories and creates a screenplay for the actors, who then act out their stories. The authors of their stories are told beforehand that their story will feature in a upcoming run of the play – they are held up and down the country.

Colleen, one of the founders came along to my talk in Norwood and afterwards asked me if she could interview me. I was delighted to help in any way that I could. A couple of weeks later I was sitting at my table and gave a very detailed and colourful account of my story. She was shocked, amazed and had a good laugh at various points of my tale. I included how I was diagnosed by chance, my determination to talk, the blog, the operation, joining prostate cancer UK, the talks, the 1st and 2nd rounds of radiotherapy, hormone treatment, podcast and then the CIC and of course all the connecting parts. She interviewed me for about one and a half hours and was amazed and very satisfied with the results.

A couple of weeks later she called me to say that my story would be incorporated in the next barbershop show. I was ecstatic, this was a totally unique experience. I was quite proud. In all the things that have happened this was like a confirmation that my story mattered and I had done something good. I told a few people about the play coming up and had a complimentary ticket which I allocated for Lauren. Colleen told me they always sell out of tickets quickly and she wasn’t joking. Within two days of release they were all sold.

It was six weeks away and I was the cat with the cream. It has happened very rarely on my journey, but I allowed myself to be ‘proud of myself’.

Lauren could not make it in the end so I would just tell her all about it afterwards. The day of the play arrived and in the foyer of the theatre was an expectant buzz. Along with Mr K, we were VIP’s so no need to worry about queuing with the riff-raff. Front row seating, thank you very much. There was a young stagehand walking up and down with a big sign saying “Please do not take photographs or video” so I behaved myself, put my phone away and sat down to enjoy the one act performance.

The setting is a barber shop on one side and a doctor’s office and kitchen setting on the other side of the stage. Three barber chairs are at the back, and the main chair is in front of the audience. The doctor’s surgery setting consists of a desk, with two chairs. The kitchen setting is a dining table with two chairs. The sets are separated by a door arch which the actors walk between.

First up was the story about a man who, having been given a diagnosis he opted for surgery. Following that he grappled with erectile dysfunction and stress-induced urinary incontinence, having always been a fit and health individual. At one stage he even contemplated taking his own life. When he reached out to friends, he realised that it wasn’t just himself going through personal struggles. He then channelled all his energies into founding his own charity and support group, where men had a safe space to talk.

The second story was about a woman, with dreads and her battle with cancer. When she first came into the barber shop another guy was just getting ready to sit in the main barber’s chair. After some prodding by his friends, he lets the lady go first. She came in wanting to get her head shaved bald. After the barber repeated requests for confirmation, she gave the background to her story. She had just recently given birth and went to see her doctor because something wasn’t quite right within her body. The doctor stated that as she was breastfeeding there couldn’t be anything wrong and sent her away. She would be sent away two more times before a different doctor would finally look into it and they discovered she was now stage four ovarian cancer. They would give her a couple of years, but she has massively outlived that estimate and is an advocate for getting women’s voices heard.

The third story was a young man trying to convince his dad to get tested as his granddad and some of his uncles had died from prostate cancer. Through fear or ignorance or a mixture of both the dad was having none of it and wasn’t testing any time soon. The young man swung between fury and pleading to try and get his dad to take this seriously, to little avail.

The guy that previously gave up his place for the woman, stood up and took the main chair. He said that he had been diagnosed with prostate cancer and that he was on hormone treatment. He is suffering from a lack of libido and hot flushes. He then said that he was volunteering for his local surgery and started his own CIC.

The barber had a final exchange with the guy who gave up his place for the woman with dreads:

“And you are not getting boobs”.

Then before I knew it the actors were holding hands, taking a bow and the audience were clapping wildly.

I sat there wondering what had just happened. I started to clap out of politeness and soon quietly stopped. You know when you get to an event and you are the first or only one there and you double check you have the right address. I did just that but in the sense of what just happened? The men and women whose stories the plays were based on were quite emotional when interviewed directly afterwards.

But what about me?

I felt like I had just been mugged by a penguin and then it followed me home and turfed me out of my bed.

Eventually, I reminded myself that this was a one act play.

Finished. Finito. Lift your feet so I can sweep underneath them.

I left the theatre and stood by the prostate cancer table outside. They were still all in there – production team, actors and the people whose stories were just told. I just stood quietly, numb, dumb and bitterly disappointed.

I answered a few enquiries at the table, but my heart wasn’t in it and there was a real danger of my bottom lip tripping someone over. I stayed about ten minutes and then I left, without saying anything to anyone. This was their collective ecstatic moment, and I wasn’t about to add my long lip to spoil it for anyone.

On the way back to the car, I looked back and could hear the excitement still going on. My feeling had changed, slightly. I felt like I had been just ejected by security and he gave me an atomic wedgie to make sure I hadn’t forgotten my transgressions.

Haagen dazs, malibu and diet coke it is then. Keep the silly bed, penguin.