Content warning: This piece contains graphic descriptions of bodily functions.

‘You need to get your f*****g act together.’

It was not the kind of thing I’d expected to hear from my GP, and I’m confident it’s not the sort of advice he regularly gives to the old dears and sore-throated children waiting in the surgery, but I’ll be forever grateful he said it.

Let me take you back a bit…

I have had pretty minimal need of healthcare in my life so far, I’ve had nothing but great service from the NHS, but I’m also aware that I don’t have the kind of complex condition or care needs that often highlight its failings.

We are all very quick to eulogise about the NHS, but we would be wise to consider those who have found it frustrating and inefficient, a bureaucratic battle for support, one that can take over your life.

Not only have I been very lucky, I’ve also never been reluctant to seek out help on the odd occasion when I needed it.

Some men, and I think it is especially older men, have an infuriating reluctance to ask advice, attend regular screenings or cause ‘a fuss’.

Maybe it’s a generational thing, but the stress and after effects of keeping things to yourself invariably falls on other shoulders to bear, which I’ve always thought was kind of selfish. But then I’d never really had anything to worry about, so who am I to judge.

And then it happened.

Before leaving for a golf trip to Portugal, I went for what bore all the hallmarks of an absolutely classic trip to the toilet.

Most folks go for a classic toilet break between three times a day and twice a week. How I envy those twice a weekers! How much spare time they must have! I bet da Vinci was a twice a weeker.

My record is probably double figures dawn to dusk – no wonder I didn’t invent the helicopter. I’ve probably got IBS but when you work from home most of the time it’s not that bad, it breaks up the day, and anyway, since ‘Pale Ale + Bang Bang Cauliflower gate’, I know the worst triggers.

Anyway, all was going swimmingly, before I felt something odd.

In 37 years one gets used to a broad spectrum of toilet sensations but this was a new one on me. So I paused before flushing for a brief hello.

How to put this.

Well, you know sometimes when you’ve forgotten you ate beetroot, and you have a brief panic before you remember you ate beetroot and the relief is overwhelming? Well, that, except I hadn’t eaten beetroot.

To put it more plainly, it looked like I’d been shot in the arse.

So after Googling myself into an early grave, I left for Portugal. As luck would have it, my annual golf trip is made up of two comedians, a travel agent, a dairy farmer, two journalists and, here’s the kicker, 18 doctors.

Though the dairy farmer kindly offered to don his long plastic glove, I turned instead to the surgeons, urologists and GPs that gathered in the clubhouse.

The great thing about medical folk is that, it’s impossible to put them off their dinner. And so they quizzed and advised over pizza and Sagres, and the resounding opinion was that it was probably nothing, but best check it out.

And so four days later, I sat in my GP’s consulting room ready for the usual advice about booze. I used to drink far too much, and I’m sure it’s writ large somewhere in my notes, but since then, I’m much more in control due to a number of key initiatives, The No Spirits Protocol, the Two Days Off A Week Directive, The Hundred Days A Year Campaign, Dry Jan and a No Beer Stronger Than 4.5%abv Policy.

But this time the tone was different.

‘You say you have a fiancé? If you start a family do you want to be the kind of dad who drinks five pints a night?’

This seemed more serious than it had been in the past, and then I realised why.

I’m 37 years old and I’m bleeding out of my arse.

I suddenly felt incredibly fragile, and had the overwhelming feeling that I was made of organic matter, stuff you could damage, things that one day wouldn’t repair. I mentioned my cunning plans and achievements, Dry Jan! Days ticked off! My numerous initiatives! And will remember his reply for the rest of my life.

‘All that is irrelevant if the level you are drinking is toxic to your body.’

I paused, thinking of the pathetic red crosses on my Queen calendar. He moved in for the kill.

‘You need to get your f*****g act together.’

I’d sworn a few times when describing my symptoms and, like all good communicators, he’d used my language to try and get through to me.

It worked.

It felt like something clicked during a discussion we had, and it made me think just how important our local practitioners are. Not just as a resource, but how they speak to us, the words they use, the questions they ask and the tone which they adopt.

After all, the vast majority of our experience with the hulking labyrinth of the NHS will begin with a GP. They are the gatekeepers and referrers to the scans, drugs, consultants, examinations, X-rays and tests that make up the majority of the health service.

So how they talk to us matters hugely, luckily for me, mine nailed it.

As a result of his thoroughness, the blood tests I had revealed I have an overactive thyroid.

This is completely unrelated to the bowel issue, but when the symptoms were read out to me, it was like they’d distilled my personality into a condition: anxiety (tick), mood swings (once cried at a property restoration programme), aversion to heat (I have a 10 point plan to cope with summer), fast heartbeat (sometimes I can feel it in my teeth), weight loss (I can still fit into a T-shirt I bought in 1996), difficulty sleeping (see heartbeat) and fatigue (If I don’t have a daily nap, property restoration programmes can be a real rollercoaster).

So I’ve now got pills for that, and am preparing to lose my colonoscopy virginity. I’m referring to the prep for it as ‘fast and blast’, as I write the fast bit is well underway and I should be blasting by about 7.30am tomorrow.

I’ll let you know how it goes.

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