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<div>URGENT  Glioblastoma surgery on Monday 2nd November
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<div>My Story. My Boys. My Fight. ❤️
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<div>I never imagined I would be writing a post like this. But here we are. And if you know me, you’ll know that I don’t do things by halves.
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<div>A few weeks ago, I was performing aboard a Princess cruise ship, heading towards Split, Croatia. I had two shows that evening and was sitting in my cabin working on a wedding ceremony when I noticed something very strange.
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<div>My left hand simply wouldn’t behave.
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<div>I’m a proficient speed typist, and suddenly I couldn’t coordinate my fingers. Initially, I blamed the wrist I’d broken last year, but deep down I knew something was neurologically wrong.
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<div>My lovely friend Tony, another entertainer, insisted I visit the ship’s medical centre. They suspected a stroke and strongly advised me not to perform.
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<div>So, naturally, being the stubborn Australian that I am, I went onstage anyway.
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<div>It was the single most frightening performance of my life. Two hours of feeling like a rabbit caught in the headlights. But I needed to get paid. I needed to support my family.
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<div>The following morning, the ship’s wonderful South African doctor, Nicholas, wanted me medically disembarked for an emergency CT scan. I was terrified that if they found something, I would be kept in hospital in Croatia, away from my children.
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<div>So I signed myself off the ship, booked a flight home and asked my boys to collect me from Stansted.
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<div>Michael drove me straight to Northampton General Hospital.
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<div>A scan revealed a 2.6cm lesion in my brain. Initially, there was some suggestion that it might be a bleed.
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<div>But at Oxford’s John Radcliffe Hospital, everything changed.
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<div>A neurosurgeon sat opposite Michael and me and said, “I need to share some news with you. How would you like to hear it?”
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<div>“I’m Australian. I don’t do bullshit. Just tell me.”
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<div>I had glioblastoma. One of the most aggressive forms of brain cancer.
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<div>A primary brain tumour. Incurable.
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<div>I asked for my options.
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<div>Option one: Do nothing. Palliative care. Potentially less than a month to live.
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<div>Option two: A biopsy followed by treatment, with a prognosis of approximately 6–12 months.
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<div>“Okay,” I said. “What’s option three?”
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<div>There wasn’t one.
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<div>The NHS neurosurgeon explained that the tumour’s location made surgery too dangerous. He wasn’t prepared to operate.
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<div>Michael and I sat there utterly devastated. It felt as though we were facing a firing squad.
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<div>I underwent the biopsy and spent the next few days in Oxford, where the Macmillan team were wonderful. Michael and I held each other, trying to comprehend what had just happened.
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<div>And all the while, my beautiful 19-year-old Nathaniel was at home, unaware of the enormity of what we were facing.
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<div>Telling him when I returned home was a conversation no mother should ever have to have. Even now, thinking about it breaks my heart into a million pieces.
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<div>From that moment, I went into lockdown.
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<div>I surrounded myself with ALI’S ARMY — my closest, most treasured friends. People I trust with my life and, more importantly, with my boys. People who can come into my home, hold space for me, listen without judgement and understand that this is not about them.
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<div>Subsequent appointments confirmed the diagnosis.
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<div>I call my tumour Mr Nasty. And believe me, he’s a particularly unpleasant houseguest.
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<div>My left arm is now paralysed, and my speech has become impaired. So if you receive a text from me that looks like it was written in a completely different language, please feel free to ask ChatGPT to translate it! 
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<div>The NHS treatment pathway left us with very limited options, and I knew I had to look further.
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<div>Then something extraordinary happened.
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<div>Through a chain of friendships and one remarkable woman, I was introduced to Professor Keyoumars Ashkan, a highly respected private neurosurgeon.
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<div>Within days, we were having a consultation.
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<div>He explained the significant risks of surgery, including a risk of further paralysis, but expressed confidence that he could remove approximately 50–70% of my tumour.
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<div>Not a cure. Not a guarantee.
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<div>But potentially more time. More quality of life. More precious moments with my children.
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<div>During the surgery, I am more than likely to be awake, so he can brain map. He will also be extracting vital DNA from my tumour, to freezing it for future vaccination at a later point should I wish to go down that route.
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<div>And that, my darlings, is everything.
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<div>My operation is planned for Monday 2 November, provided we can raise the necessary funds in time.
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<div>And this is where I urgently need your help.
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<div>The funds must have cleared with the hospital by Friday 30 October for the operation to go ahead.
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<div>That gives us just a few precious days.
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<div>If you are considering donating, please do so as soon as possible. Donations take time to process and transfer, and every hour matters.
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<div>I have had to cancel tens of thousands of pounds’ worth of work, and my family faces substantial costs over the coming months. But I am determined to give myself every possible chance.
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<div>Please, please don’t apologise if you can only donate a small amount. I’ve had people doing exactly that, and it breaks my heart.
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<div>£5 is wonderful. £10 is wonderful. £20 is wonderful. Every contribution matters, and I am profoundly grateful for every single one.
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<div>And if you cannot contribute financially, sharing this appeal could make an extraordinary difference.
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<div>❤️ MY GOFUNDME PAGE:
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<div><a href="https://www.gofundme.com/f/private-glioblastoma-surgery-on-monday-2nd-november" target="_blank" class="" rel="nofollow noopener noreferrer">https://www.gofundme.com/f/private-glioblastoma-surgery-on-monday-2nd-november</a>
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<div>I have officially given you my blessing to share this link far and wide. All I ask is that you do so with love, dignity and without drama or gossip.
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<div>My lovely girlfriend Anna is helping me manage the fundraising page, as responding to messages has become physically difficult. Please don’t mistake my silence for a lack of gratitude. I feel every ounce of love coming my way.
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<div>There is something else I want to share.
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<div>Six months ago, long before any of this happened, I made a conscious decision to change my life.
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<div>I sold my house, moved closer to Michael, brought my boys closer together and began creating a quieter, happier existence.
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<div>I made some difficult decisions about the people and energy I wanted in my life. Decisions I stand by completely.
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<div>And now, more than ever, I understand just how precious peace really is.
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