Jeremy Clarke Jeremy Clarke

The call of a blackbird’s full-throated song

How I have longed for a green field, for England, for home

[Photo: Sander Meertins]

Speaking pretty good English, Dr Tayeb came straight to the point. Was I eligible for the ground breaking new cancer treatment? He was afraid not. The radioactive test scan had illuminated the bone tumours very nicely, but the more dangerous one in the liver had remained occluded. So in my case the new treatment – a series of targeted infusions – could have only a ‘suboptimal outcome’. He was therefore not recommending that we go ahead.

This was at 8.30 in the morning. I’d been in a taxi since 6.30. I’d hardly slept the night before, due partly to anxiety about what Dr Tayeb might or might not say, and partly to euphoria after Andriy Yarmolenko had secured the Happy Hammers a place in the draw for the Europa League quarter-finals on a historic evening at the London stadium. The normally woeful Ukrainian striker has returned to deadly form since his country was invaded. A widely held opinion among West Ham fans is that if only the Russians had invaded Ukraine at the start of the English football season, we’d be top of the league by now.

Catriona never admits to fancying anyone but she fancied the big Ukrainian

‘Have you any questions?’ said Dr Tayeb. I shut my eyes and shook my head. He stood up. I stood up. Ten minutes later I was back on the motorway heading north. Just over an hour after that I was back in the cave eating a solemn omelette and telling Catriona that Dr Tayeb had said no.

Ping! A text message. From the hospital. Details of an appointment with the oncologist for an urgent review of my situation. He and I were rather pinning our hopes on my qualifying for this new generation last chance saloon chemical-infusion treatment. Apart from aspirin and a manly handshake, I can’t see now what else he could have in his repertoire that might be of any use.

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