Jerry Eze in Manchester

More Than an Internet Personality

A search for him on the web reveals that he is an internet personality, a description that barely captures who he is. He is the founder and lead pastor of Streams of Joy International and the convener of the New Season Prophetic Prayers and Declarations (NSPPD), a 7am online prayer broadcast that grew during the pandemic into a global movement across YouTube, Facebook, Instagram, TikTok, and Mixlr. With the kind of following he commands, he is an arresting presence who has mastered the social media platforms to spread his message.

An AI-generated infographic on the blog content. (Click to enlarge.)

My scepticism had a particular source. I am no stranger to Pentecostal and Evangelical settings, and I have long followed English, Australian, and American "Word of Faith" preachers, whose cultural and social frame of reference I have grown accustomed to and readily taken in. This, however, is a specific brand of exuberant Nigerian Pentecostalism that I never encountered even during my years in Nigeria. A shared heritage does not always guarantee a shared instinct in worship.

Years ago, a friend sent me links to recordings of prayer sessions, both rowdy and cacophonous, in which I could not fathom what was going on. My sensibilities, broadly Anglican and attuned to the liturgical, would have felt criminally assaulted.

Yet this, I suppose, speaks to the mystery of a God who is as attentive in all our noise as He is in our orderliness. I should not be too much of an Englishman for God; I know that He understands, listens to, and answers Englishmen too.

Getting to Old Trafford

The venue for the NSPPD UK Prayer Conference [YouTube] was Manchester United's football stadium, commonly known as Old Trafford, and getting there was quite an ordeal. The buses were filled to capacity by the time they reached the second bus stop, so we had to board a tram. I spent the ride recalibrating our journey, and we opted to get off five stops earlier, since it proved the nearest stop to the venue on foot by that route.

We met up with friends, a couple I had not seen in forty years, and as we queued to gain entry to the grounds, we reminisced about our times of youthful religious innocence. I learnt that I was the one who had ministered to the husband when he gave his life to Christ some forty-one years ago. I simply had a recollection of where his conversion had happened.

A Feat of Organisation

On finding our seats in the stadium, we sat together, and from our vantage point the ground was almost at capacity on three sides, save for the area behind the stage. The whole setup was a logistical operation involving troops of security personnel, guides, ushers, helpers, and many more volunteers. It was a feat of organisational ability that left me quite impressed.

Something about the ministry of the man Jerry Eze suggests that prayers are answered, exemplified in big notices such as "We Dey Pray, E Dey Show" and "What God Cannot Do Does Not Exist." The first, in Nigerian Pidgin English, carries the sense that when we pray, the answers show; the second is the ministry's confident refrain that no situation lies beyond God's power.

This outfit caters for a broadly black audience, with a few attendees of other races. Patrons had travelled long distances for a touch of God through the ministration of this man.

Swept Up in the Sound

When the sound of praise and worship enveloped the stadium like a roar that would put an ecstatic football crowd in the shade, I was swayed by the sheer volume, and one could easily be caught up in the mass hysteria of congregational participation.

Most of the earlier songs were unfamiliar to me. I felt like an alien impostor, persuaded beyond my comfort zone to engage as I tried to appreciate this thing. The worship leader might have allowed the microphone to carry her singing voice to the speakers, rather than appearing to perform in a stadium yet losing out to sometimes unintelligible shouting. In fairness, the sound and acoustics did seem to improve as the event went on.

Another worship leader, apparently a Nigerian gospel singer, stirred my participatory enthusiasm at the prompting of old-time songs drawn from the recesses of my memory. Closed-caption signage, readable from my seat, could have helped, nearly as much as sign language would have. The default, as I saw it, was the ability to create a raucous din through the extreme exertion of voice and bodily movement, all for maximum effect.

Give Me Substance

The most impactful message I heard in this setting came in the lyrics of "Let It Show [YouTube]" by Kaestrings, partly excerpted below:

Give me substance,
Give me proofs,
Give me presence,
Give me You;

Give me substance,
Give me proofs,
Give me evidence,
Give me You;

Give me Your substance,
Give me proofs,
Give me fire,
Let it show that I met with You.

These words clearly identify with what this ministry is all about.

Yes, I was looking for ways to engage, even as I was overwhelmed by spectacle, performance, agitation, and vigorous incantation. It was so different to me that at times I was left a total observer, waiting to be shaken out of my stupor.

Prayers and Declarations

My concern was heightened as I heard many prayers and declarations with no punctuation, and no invocation of the name of Jesus except in the songs; as things progressed, however, we heard more in that respect. The many names of God were mentioned, but prominent in the list was El Roi, the God who sees me, first spoken by Hagar, an Egyptian servant to Sarai (Sarah) in the book of Genesis and the mother of Ishmael, Abraham's first child.

All the representatives who appeared on stage to take the microphone, regardless of how far afield they had come, including from Canada, prayed in the same almost riotous manner, one I had difficulty connecting with. It brought to mind the trigger behind the story of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego, the three Hebrew men who refused to bow to King Nebuchadnezzar's golden statue. I simply imagined it as, "at the time ye hear the sound of the cornet, flute, harp, sackbut, psaltery, dulcimer, and all kinds of music."

I concede that far more people are attuned to this environment than I am. It yields results, judging by the testimonies of impossible situations transformed and the amazing, mind-blowing stories of triumph in life and circumstance. I probably need a better interpretation of the goings-on.

Testimonies Before the Man

In the run-up to Pastor Jerry Eze coming on stage, some testimonies were shared. A few spoke of answers to prayer received at previous conferences, and others of breakthroughs that had come through attending the 7am meetings online.

These accounts appeared to steady the atmosphere and to remind the crowd why they had gathered. Whatever my own difficulty in connecting, the conviction in the room was plain, and the testimonies carried a weight that the spectacle alone did not.

Gospel Royalty on Stage

Three hours into the orchestrations and events, Pastor Jerry Eze was somewhere in the background, yet to be ushered to the podium, perhaps long after I had gone. Then Nigerian gospel royalty came to perform: Mercy Chinwo, the winner of the second season of Nigerian Idol in 2012 and now one of the most celebrated voices in Nigerian gospel, known for anthems such as "Excess Love" and "Obinasom." I know none of her music, yet even I could muster the swagger, deigning to move to it.

After her, Dunsin Oyekan, the worship leader affectionately called "The Eagle" and known for immersive songs such as "Fragrance to Fire", became like John the Baptist, preparing the way for the man of God.

That figures of such standing would grace his stage said something in itself. It lent a weight beyond the capacity crowd, and confirmed that Jerry Eze is a good deal more than an internet personality.

An Acquired Taste

At the fourth hour, Pastor Jerry Eze mounted the stage, first articulate in a call-and-response declaration over the dry bones in our lives, commanding them to rise to life and living, before we were led to see that the place we were in was too small and that we needed to break out. After being led in prayers to bare our hearts and souls to God, we were blessed by the preacher to celebrate the answers to our prayers.

Then it was testimony time, and we rose to leave. I heard that proceedings drew to a close barely half an hour after we departed.

In concluding this piece, my honest opinion is that Pastor Jerry Eze is an acquired taste; it has to grow on you. I am glad I attended, for it was revelatory, and I tried to remain as open-minded and receptive as I could, even where those long conversant with his ministry were plainly carried along and I was not.

This should not in any way diminish the wonder and miracles that others have experienced by attending this conference, for which the testimonies would tell of a God who sees me, where I am, and touches me in miraculously stupendous ways.

A Gemini Notebook AI Podcast on this blog

Essential Snobbery 101: Good Food Is No Substitute for Good Manners

A Daring Customer

I am that kind of customer, sometimes daring and adventurous. I have ordered prescription glasses online, and I have been fortunate enough to order clothes, suits, and shoes from a catalogue without the need to return them, because they fit.

Most people would prefer a brick-and-mortar shop or a high-street store for such articles, where they can try before they buy; the daring, for me, is in trusting that they will fit at all.

I rarely try on clothes in a fitting room, except for tailored suits, where I expect the service personnel to be knowledgeable about style, fit, comfort, and suitable choices. That is their métier. Whether I am buying blind from a catalogue or standing at a tailor's counter, the thread that runs through it all is the same: service.

Curiosity and Its Rewards

Walking down a street, I might find an ethnic goods shop and step inside, my curiosity piqued by a sense of nostalgia; the same goes for restaurants too. What I expect is friendliness, professionalism, and service. Our common familiarity, if we choose to converse in our own language, still requires that standard to be kept.

Nine years ago, I walked into such a shop in Edinburgh, and what a welcome I received. A smiling, affable proprietor, ready to assist, presided over an Aladdin's cave of mouthwatering and irresistible delicacies. Amidst all the pleasantries, I treated myself to ready meals and drinks, but I could not leave without taking pictures of the shop.

A Tale of Two Reviews

A few days before, in the same city, I had visited a Nigerian restaurant, and I had a worse time of it than Dr Foster's visit to Gloucester. The service was abysmal. I was not attended to when I arrived, the place was dirty, dishes had not been cleared from the tables, and the personnel were glum. I had travelled far, and I should have left.

I wrote about both experiences. I write reviews about forgettable and extraordinary things, rarely about anything in between.

An AI-generated infographic on the blog content. (Click to enlarge.)

I published a review on my blog, along with an accompanying Google Maps page, and the shop has since garnered over one million views. Every few months, I get messages from the proprietress thanking me, though I thank her simply for being good, and for being good at what she does.

Blog - Edinburgh: MaDeb African Shop (June 2017)

Choosing Where to Spend

There are businesses I have visited that have never had a return visit, for all sorts of reasons: unprofessionalism, bad customer service, bad manners, a lack of attention to detail, or lapses in honesty, probity, and integrity.

There is also food served so hot that it scalds the fingers, usually because it has just come out of a microwave, and service so tardy that by the time the food arrives you have lost your appetite and it goes home in a doggie bag.

Sometimes it is the mild infractions that speak volumes; cutting corners, or bad vibes. In the latter case, it might be a me rather than them issue. Just as any business can choose to whom it opens its doors, I have the option to choose to whom I give my custom.

The Okra Stew That Never Was

A sudden desire for some home food had me grazing through Deliveroo last week, and from the menu I chose okra stew and semolina, asun and fried fish. Some time after my order was accepted, I received a call: they had run out of okra stew. I settled for egusi stew, when I should have cancelled the order altogether, but the logistics of getting my money back, coupled with hunger, had me settle for less.

However, I was promised that okra stew would be available the next day, or later in the week. Before I placed my second order, I rang ahead to find out whether it was on offer, and it was not. I would not go for second best if I had not already ordered or paid for anything.

Today, I called again, hoping to get my preferred choice. As soon as the male voice heard the words "okra stew", he simply hung up. All he had to do was say that it was unavailable, or off the menu. Service is the first component of an enduring business.

Good Food, Bad Manners

I did have my eye on bigger orders after sampling those portions. I am a random customer who chose this outfit from a list of options, and I will not be placing orders here again; good food is no substitute for good manners. That was the sum of my review.

In my view, how I am treated as a stranger could well be the experience of others. I do not assume I was singled out for the best or the worst a business has to offer. Nor do I wait to express my opinion on a service; I was on their web page, tapping away, and that was the seed for this blog.

The Call That Saved a Name

Halfway through writing this, I placed an order for Italian food from Vapiano, a global chain, using a 40% voucher Deliveroo had offered against any order, to be used by the end of the month. I had not used Deliveroo in over four years until last week. The discount left scope for a generous tip for the courier.

Then came a phone call. It was the man from the restaurant where I had wanted okra stew, pleading that he was returning a missed call. There was enough elastic stretching the truth to turn a wristband into a waistband. He had answered my earlier call, and I had spoken more than ten words before he hung up; that could hardly be called a missed call.

It is likely he had read the review I posted on their web page, and that this call was meant to ameliorate, to soothe my feelings. I had to hear him out before I remonstrated. That call saved them from being named and shamed in this piece. I have to write of my experience, though, rather than of my expectations.

This is the sentiment that governs every review I have given or written, and it follows that notable quote from Maya Angelou: "People will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel." You rarely ever get another chance to improve on a bad impression.

A Gemini Notebook AI Podcast on this blog

Seventeen Years of Blessed Time

A Diagnosis and a Diary

I have just read through the blog I wrote 17 years ago today, and I can only be amused at the humour that infused those pages: an admission to hospital that lasted 18 days, a cancer diagnosis, and the possibility that I had only five weeks to live. That earlier writing found the light amid it all, and reading it back now, I am struck by the tone I managed to keep.

An AI-generated infographic on the blog content. (Click to enlarge.)

That was how serious things were. I was in unbearable pain that medication did not seem to manage, and could barely tolerate. As long as I was lying flat, I was fine; the moment I put my left foot down, I was in agony.

The Path to Referral

I still remember the conversations that led to this, beginning on the Wednesday before. From the moment I saw my doctor, who took one look at the sole of my foot and immediately said, "This looks serious, I need to refer you," things moved quickly. She was soon on the telephone, urging the hospital to register me for the next available appointment as a matter of urgency.

She bandaged my foot, sent me home with painkillers, and secured an appointment for the Friday. When I attended the hospital that day, the staff decided I had to see the internist, who was not available until the Tuesday. No further palliatives were on offer, yet I somehow survived the weekend without the need for an emergency evacuation.

Admission Day

On the Tuesday morning I was chaperoned to the hospital. I took only a change of underwear, for I had no idea what to expect. For the first time in my life, I sat in a wheelchair, exhausted by the pain, when the internist, after the briefest of introductions, did not hesitate to say, "You're not going home; we have a bed for you upstairs."

I was registered, prepped, and soon wheeled on a gurney to the ward, where my vitals were taken and the process of medical triage and diagnosis began. They first ruled out diabetes by taking my blood pressure at my extremities, at my lower arms and below my calves. Then I was cannulated and given an intravenous infusion of saline solution with antibiotics. Thus began my first day in hospital. The very next day, my netbook was delivered to me, and with it the chance to write from my bed.

A Note on the Bread

With the netbook at hand, I set about recording the daily indignities, and here is the sort of thing that occupied me at the time.

"I ended up with the gluten-free bread meant for the patient in the next bed – tasteless, YuK! Yuk! I was, however, bothered because the bread was clearly labelled for the lady; I do not remember undergoing a gender reassignment overnight."

That, more or less, was my state of mind: frightened, in pain, yet still affronted by a bad slice of bread and a case of mistaken identity.

A Prognosis of Weeks

From a medical perspective, I am not expected to still be here. At prognosis, I was told my condition was treatable, but only if I could tolerate the treatment. The internist, who was also an MD, said, "If you cannot tolerate the treatment, you probably have only five weeks." Beyond that, studies at the time suggested that people presenting with my symptoms did not last a decade.

As it turned out, I could tolerate the chemotherapy, and it worked. For me to be here today, 17 years on, is a miracle of mercy and grace, blessed time rather than borrowed. I am thankful for each day. I have even survived another episode of cancer, and it is almost two years since I completed radiotherapy for that. That day is etched in my memory, and I am grateful to God, to my doctors, the nurses, my friends, my neighbours, colleagues, and the many well-wishers. You are all part of this amazing story.

Between the Pain and the Healing

I shall borrow an excerpt from the blog I wrote about my admission then, the closing paragraph, and whilst recollections might vary, through the pain and the ordeal I also saw beyond it. "Even in all this, one has many things to be thankful for; health is wealth, any day, any time. For all that suffer, I wish them a speedy recovery – yes, I got my netbook delivered to the hospital – there is much to talk about, between the pain, the sheets and the healing." (Yes, I used em-dashes in 2009.)

Thank you.

Blog - In hospital to kill the pain (September 2009)

A Gemini Notebook AI Podcast on this blog

Wine is a Mocker

An Early Acquaintance

My story with drink is long and interesting, yet these days I do not have a ready palate for alcohol.

My first taste of alcohol came with palm wine. My paternal grandfather had palm trees; though I do not think he was ever a palm wine tapper, he had the kind of demeanour that suggests he might have clambered up a tree at some point in his youth.

Traditional alcohol was offered to children, but bottled alcohol was completely forbidden.

At ten, away from my parents, I did drink Tennent's Light, a low-percentage lager in a can. None of the adults frowned on my consumption, and I always drank in moderation; there was never a second one, even when offered.

Lessons from the Brewery

My first job, at fifteen, was in a brewery, where I worked in the laboratory; I doubt I would have been allowed that opportunity outside Nigeria. My days were spent testing water quality, peering at dead yeast cells drawn from the fermentation tanks, and running quality-control checks at the end of the production line. There was enough in all of that to put me off lager, and consequently beer, ale, and cider.

Strong drink was an acquired taste that I eschewed rather than developed.

Yet in my family we have no history of the abuse of drink or drunkenness; everyone held their drink with dignity, and it would appear that more of the generations close to mine are teetotallers.

An AI-generated infographic on the blog content. (Click to enlarge.)

A Discipline of My Own

In social settings, I drink wine, preferably with meals, and never alone. It is a standard and a discipline I have set for myself, and I find the loss of self-control brought on by drink you have chosen to consume, rather than been forced to ingest, literally contemptible. Even the wine I enjoy is rarely more than a single glass, and I doubt I drink more than once in two months.

Once I had a sherry, from a bottle the barman probably had to prise out from a mooring of cobwebs spun by spiders long deceased, kept well out of sight, and then a glass of port, which does go well with Stilton cheese. I was soon sick all over the place, at home.

At any sense of feeling tipsy, I never wait for my legs to give way beneath me; one instance of apparent inebriation was a lesson for a lifetime. I also refuse to lend my tongue to the looseness that alcohol affords, as some people, who are no longer friends, once did to break the friendship.

Carried in the Blood

I do, however, appreciate that people have a drink problem for all sorts of reasons, including a congenital predisposition, for which there might be a need for intervention if a person has lost the levers of moderation.

There are those for whom the pull towards drink is not merely habit but something carried in the blood. A grandparent or great-grandparent who could not master it may leave a predisposition that surfaces generations later, and I would not dismiss that as fancy; the science of inheritance is real enough.

Yet a predisposition is a tendency, not a sentence. It explains the steepness of the hill; it does not excuse refusing to climb. Indeed, the one who knows such a weakness runs in the family has all the more reason to be watchful, for he has been warned by his own lineage.

Recognising a Problem

Even so, that warning is of little use to the person who will not hear it, and denial remains the first obstacle. I know people who will not admit they have a drink problem. You definitely have one if you soon lapse into incoherence and find that the marshalling of your faculties has deserted you.

In some cases, it is borderline; and when at the border, we cannot assume it has not already been crossed.

Whether there are excuses that stand the test of reason is debatable, but steeling yourself for any endeavour should not be achieved through Dutch courage, for it is a prop that would soon collapse under the pressure of application.

Wisdom from Proverbs

While my greater abstemiousness from alcohol is not religious, you only have to visit the Book of Proverbs to read the many admonitions regarding alcohol.

Proverbs 31:4-7

4 It is not for kings, O Lemuel, it is not for kings to drink wine; nor for princes strong drink:
5 Lest they drink, and forget the law, and pervert the judgment of any of the afflicted.
6 Give strong drink unto him that is ready to perish, and wine unto those that be of heavy hearts.
7 Let him drink, and forget his poverty, and remember his misery no more.

And yes, there are places where wine is the bringer of joy and festivity, as in the ritual use of wine in religious service; but in each case, one would expect controlled and measured use.

Elsewhere, in Proverbs 20:1

1 Wine is a mocker, strong drink is raging: and whosoever is deceived thereby is not wise.

These verses all suggest that the abuse of alcohol leads to unfortunate consequences. The refuge of drink opens the door to foolishness, destruction, and forgetfulness of the essence of living; there is nothing productive in it.

A Final Word

Before I come across as preachy, I am not advocating a temperance movement or a form of prohibition, but moderation that can still be moderated. For those who drink to excess, you leave those close to you, who do not partake as much, all the more worried that you have already taken a few too many.

And if, on reading this, you recognise yourself in these words, do not take it as an accusation but as a hand held out. If this is you, there is no shame in the recognition; there is only the next, better step.

Most importantly, seek help, because there is a great deal of help out there. Wherever you are, a first step is often as near as your own doctor. Alcoholics Anonymous and Al-Anon operate in most countries, and many nations run free, confidential helplines; a local search, or a word with a trusted clinician, will point you to what exists near you.

Alcoholics Anonymous (AA) – Wikipedia

Alcoholics Anonymous ZA/ZW

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Imperfection Is Not Invalidation

An AI-generated infographic on the blog content. (Click to enlarge.)

A recollection is, first and foremost, someone's story. That a memory may be imperfect does not invalidate the one who holds it, and denial by another does not disprove the event. On the Spencer revelations, and on why a recalled truth deserves more than a rebuttal.

A Book That Unsettles

The current serialisation, in the Daily Mail, of the 9^th Earl Spencer Charles Spencer's book "Swan Song: Diana, My Sister" is yielding quite interesting revelations about Diana, Princess of Wales, who died in 1997, and it has left the Royal Family reeling.

At the heart of the matter lies a phone conversation between the then Prince Charles and Charles Spencer. In the book, the earl recalls words the prince spoke to him in the days after Diana's death, to the effect of, "Rest assured, we'll forget her soon enough."

In response, the Palace has released a statement: "While we do not comment on books as a matter of principle, His Majesty is mindful that the pain of fraternal grief can cloud reason, affect judgement and colour memory in ways others do not recognise, even many years after such a loss."

Why Fabricate?

When I first heard this response, I did wonder why the earl would choose to fabricate such a statement and attribute it to the prince who is now Charles III. I am a supporter of the monarchy as an institution; at the same time, I appreciate that it is peopled by humans, just as you and I are, with all the vicissitudes of humanity in frailty, attitude, behaviour and conduct.

The conversation took place on the phone between two men who were, it seems, affected to differing degrees by the death of Princess Diana. The eulogy the earl gave at her funeral suggested there were issues between the Spencers and the Royal Family; I still remember the applause that rippled from the crowds outside into the church. I commend him for using that platform the way he did, even if a stuffy cohort felt it was improper.

Words That Stay

In my view, many conversations take place around us, and usually there is something within them that simply sticks; you never forget it. You hear it in your head, in the very voice in which it was spoken to you. For me, a medical professor stood by my hospital bed, after a cancer diagnosis, in September 2009, and one thing I remember him saying, amongst other things, was, "You probably have five weeks."

If I met that professor today and recounted that conversation, there is a likelihood I could be told that, in my pain, my reason had been clouded, affecting my judgement and thereby colouring my memory. Yet those words I heard clearly. Whether another might agree they were spoken is another matter entirely, and it does not invalidate my story.

The Survivor's Truth

This is not an abstract concern for me. I recognise the shape of this dispute, because I have watched the same manoeuvre used against me, where a memory is met not with denial of the facts, but with doubt cast on the one who remembers. I understand this better than I would wish to.

The same goes for other memories I recall vividly, whether it be child sexual abuse or serious emotional abuse, along with utterly reprehensible and unbelievable acts of cruelty meted out to me by people to whom I was a ward. I have heard denials, perhaps out of forgetfulness, or out of an inability to face the consequences of their actions, once committed in private, now brought to light. My experience and my story will not be erased by their blanking the event as though it never happened.

Any book I hope eventually to write as an autobiography will contain explosive revelations, and many of the nuggets already exist, scattered across almost twenty-three years of my blogs. The memories, even those from childhood, still play back like reels of film, each movement or sound relaying in emphatic slow motion, unmistakable cranial celluloid. I know what I lived through, how I felt at the time, and how some of it has affected me today.

When Memory Is Named

In the same vein, I am wont to believe Earl Spencer's recall of that phone conversation. A survivor does not owe you a convincing story; they can only tell you what they know. Whether you believe them, in the end, is entirely left to you.

Too often, a memory is renamed grief, pain, loss, misfortune or spite, or any other unfortunate experience that can be used to neatly dismiss it, or to cast doubt on its veracity. A memory may be imperfect, since we rarely have a recording to replay, but imperfection should never be mistaken for invalidation.

A Gemini Notebook AI Podcast on this blog

The Folly of Promises Before Practicalities

When Reality Meets Design

In a moment of lucid piquancy, we have come to realise that reality has a way of touching realism in ways so radically unexpected that a rethink is required. As I have written elsewhere, in my earlier posts on our laptop remediation activity, the theory and the terrain are rarely the same country.

I say this whilst appreciating the amount of work that has gone into crafting a "perfect" solution, only to find it unsuitable, or challenged by inconvenient situations that threaten the very premises we thought had accounted for everything.

Where Solutions Are Tested

When a solution is put to the test in a real-world setting, you find the gaps in your thinking first; then you discover the ways in which the common, the outlier, the exceptional, or the impossible render your solution inadequate.

In our case, a deployment to just 0.2% of the cohort revealed issues that will remain insurmountable until we have better data. Only then can we skew the solution towards those we can genuinely help.

What unsettles me is the arithmetic of it. If we are already encountering this many blockers with so tiny a group of testers, then the impact on the full 100%, had this gone out early, would have been more than a disaster; it would have been an overwhelming failure of insight and foresight, the very faculties none of us can afford to lack.

An AI-generated infographic on the blog content. (Click to enlarge.)

I remember a comment I made in an earlier blog: "we were working with architects whose confidence outpaced their familiarity with the environment in which their solution was meant to run." To use a colloquialism, the rubber has hit the tarmac and the tacks are flying.

The Value of Restraint

Within this morass lies the urgency to get the solution out, yet our initial reviews and feedback suggest that my reticence has forestalled a catastrophe. Restraint, however, never receives the honour it so well deserves.

We are at an impasse: how do we find normalisation amidst this chaos, so that a subset of the solution's settings can go out to the largest majority whilst we decide how to handle the difficult ones, and whether it is even worth our while to tackle them?

Promise Before Practicality

The biggest failing of this whole exercise is that promises were made long before the practicalities were addressed. The architects gave their assurances to the business before ever consulting the implementors on whether those ideas could be delivered, and that ordering, the pledge preceding feasibility, is where the trouble was seeded.

If you are not seeing through the glass clearly, you should not be gambling on the reality of the little you can see.

So, we do the only honest thing left to us: we wait for the data first, because only the data can tell us who we are truly able to help, and we promise nothing until it does.

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A Gemini Notebook AI Podcast on this blog

Photons on the Prostate: My Life After Prostate Cancer Treatment

A Diagnosis at Fifty-Eight

I was just over fifty-eight when I was diagnosed. As a black man in the UK, where one in four of us will encounter prostate cancer compared with one in eight of the broader male population, the PSA test ought to have been offered long before I had to ask for it, especially as other indicators in my blood work already needed addressing.

An AI-generated infographic on the blog content. (Click to enlarge.)

I asked for it in early February 2024, and by the end of March my PSA had risen from 3.5 to 4.0. What followed I have set out in full in my earlier series, "Men's things" and "Photons on the prostate": the examinations, the imaging, and the biopsy that confirmed adenocarcinoma in mid-June 2024. I will not retread it here. [Prostate Cancer UK: The PSA blood test] [Check4Cancer-Private]

Twenty Sessions Begin

Two years ago, I began twenty sessions of hypofractionated radiotherapy for prostate cancer. It was scheduled for weekdays alone, so I thought I could fit both work and the treatment in comfortably.

The treatment began on a Thursday, which gave me two sessions before the weekend. Little did I know how impactful radiotherapy would be. The chronic fatigue set in far earlier than expected, and the weekend literally wore me out.

A Toll on the Body

By the fourth session, I returned from the hospital and had to go straight to bed; I simply had no energy for anything. I obtained a sick note, though with the proviso that I would not be completely signed off work.

Then came a range of side effects. After the fatigue, my voice became a husky whisper, betraying such tiredness and exhaustion that, after one meeting, a participant asked my manager why I was still working. I had the capacity and the facility to continue, yet the toll could not be ignored.

Alongside this came urethral pain, bladder incontinence, and a greater urgency, all exacerbated by a prostate gland reacting to the radiotherapy. Coupled with nocturnal insomnia, I began to wonder whether I could be productive at anything at all.

Planning Around the Pain

Towards the end, I had to plan my outings carefully, as I could not go twenty minutes without needing to visit a toilet. I was prescribed paracetamol and codeine to ease the pain, along with Tamsulosin to manage the prostate issues, which I am still taking. I also obtained a RADAR key to access disabled toilets, and a "Just Can't Wait" card to show premises owners whenever I had an urgent need.

Four weeks later, I was ringing the bell, ending the treatment and ushering in a new life: the beginning of the story after prostate cancer. However, I needed to recuperate by taking long-term sick leave and having someone care for me, because home in Manchester was no longer convenient.

A Journey to Recover

Against the wishes of many, I jetted off to Cape Town to be with Brian, my partner. The trip was comfortable enough, because I used airport assistance for every leg of the journey. Even though I arrived in Cape Town literally a shell of myself, the weather proved almost as good an elixir as the companionship.

Much as I had every urge to return home, I took as much time as possible to recover sufficiently for general activity. My sick leave eventually ran to seven weeks, and I returned to work in January 2025.

In truth, I should have taken a phased return, but the burden at work was light, so I decided against it and settled in well enough. In time, working alongside an occupational therapist, we found ways to manage both the work and the pressure.

Two Years On

Two years on, some side effects linger. The loss of my voice remains unexplained, even after review by an otolaryngologist and her team, and I put it down to one of the rarer side effects. Bowel incontinence can be occasional, bladder incontinence is quite frequent, and sexual dysfunction is not helped by the mental stress of it. The nocturnal insomnia, meanwhile, should have me beavering away late into the night.

Now, better and more targeted treatments are available in the UK, including ultra-short five-visit radiotherapy, tissue-sparing focal therapy, and new at-home medicines, all a far cry from the twenty to thirty-nine sessions of hypofractionated radiotherapy. [ICR: Thousands of men with prostate cancer will now be offered high-powered radiotherapy on the NHS]

Even so, I do not think I would have wanted to wait for these developments, given my determination, once advised to pursue active treatment at diagnosis, to rid myself of the cancer as soon as possible. I would not have been persuaded of watchful waiting or active surveillance in the circumstances.

A Word to Men

Three check-ups at the Christie Hospital, every six months, have had my Prostate-Specific Antigen (PSA) test results read at the lowest level ever. I can only advise that men keep their prostate health in view, have it checked, and follow through on any adverse results.

A visit to the Prostate Cancer UK website for the risk checker, followed by an at-home review of your own symptoms using the International Prostate Symptom Score (IPSS), is a sensible place to begin. Not every prostate enlargement is indicative of cancer, but every such situation must be checked and kept under monitoring. Thank you.

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Blog - Men's things - Prostate Cancer blogs

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