All Out of Columns (and Croissants): Why I’m Leaving Substack Like a Patient Evicted for Breathing Too Loud
After months of roasting NHS chaos and miracle jabs with nothing but sarcasm and sourdough, I’m off. But like an overdue scan, I’ll resurface; and probably where you least expect!!
As Kenneth Wolstenholme famously said during the 1966 World Cup final, “They think it’s all over… it is now!” Which, incidentally, is exactly what I muttered after finishing my last Substack column while simultaneously realising I was out of croissants. Chaucer, that poetic old rascal, once wrote “All good things must come to an end.” Though I’m fairly certain he wasn’t referring to weekly health columns, but the sentiment still stands.
So, dear reader after months of attempting to inject common sense into the baffling health policies of this country, armed only with sarcasm, fury and the occasional sourdough baguette; I’m off. Not forever. Just off this particular platform. Like a patient being wheeled out of A&E because a TikTok doctor needs the bed.
I’ve spent this short stint on Substack campaigning for cancer patients, slapping down stupid NHS policies and occasionally wondering if Wes Streeting is actually just ChatBot in a suit. I’ve tried to be funny while also pointing out that surviving cancer isn’t just about luck or access to treatment. It’s also about not being treated like a nuisance for wanting a scan before your tumour develops a postcode.
There’s been the rise of the miracle weight-loss jabs… Ozempic, Wegovy and Mounjaro. Or as I now call them, “Pancreatitis in a Pen.” Despite multiple side effects including mystery vomiting, contraceptive malfunction and, oh yes, a potential link to cancer, they’re still being injected faster than a Love Island contestant’s lips.
I’ve also had huge engagement from my now-infamous people-watching rants, especially the ones about John. You know John, the bloke who acts like he was starved of oxygen at birth. He’s the guy who enters a room as if he’s filming a Netflix documentary about himself. The guy with a personality built entirely on being rude and interrupting strangers by loudly ordering ‘just a coffee’ like he’s curing cholera in the Gobi Desert.
But it wasn’t all laughs. I tackled serious issues too; like the shocking treatment of those infected with contaminated blood products. These people were given HIV and hepatitis by their own government and they’ve waited decades for justice. If it were up to the Department of Health, they’d still be waiting; probably behind a pop-up COVID testing centre that doesn’t work.
And then there’s the Assisted Dying Act. At last, hallelujah and pass the morphine… MPs found their courage. But will the Labour government deliver it, or will they bury it beneath an avalanche of “consultations” and unread PDFs? This isn’t about policy. It’s about dignity. If your body is failing and your pain is relentless, you deserve choice; not a sermon from Angela Rayner and a six-month wait for a palliative care bed in a broom cupboard.
Then came the intolerable doctor strikes. Look, I get it. Pay matters. But so does the fact that cancer patients missed chemo, operations were delayed and lives were gambled like chips on a roulette wheel manned by the BMA. Strikes aren’t just politics. They’re personal when someone’s dad can’t get seen because junior doctors are busy forming a picket line outside Pret.
Let’s not forget NHS apps, Wes Streeting’s holy grail. The grand plan to replace GPs with software, even though my dad thinks “the cloud” is just a weather pattern. These aren’t health solutions. They’re clicky, confusing helplines designed by people who think everyone over 70 has a TikTok account.
Over the months, I’ve also written about some truly brilliant ideas; proof that not everything in the NHS requires a head shake and a blood pressure check. Take for example, the astonishing 3D-printed body parts coming out of a hospital in Bristol. Actual replacement bits, hot off the press like medical Lego for grown-ups. Then there are the sticky patches that could replace the need for syringes, scalpels and the annual NHS tradition of vein-hunting like a blindfolded vampire. These innovations hint at a future where cancer care doesn’t have to feel like something out of a Tudor torture manual.
But with every stroke of genius, there’s always a corresponding NHS brainstorm that seems to be the result of a lost bet. Like putting warning labels on cider, as if someone sipping Strongbow in a bus shelter is suddenly going to ponder their risk of throat cancer. Then there’s the utterly absurd suggestion that Bourbon biscuits are now only one nibble away from being classed as medication. What’s next? Prescribing KitKats for migraines?
Remember the NHS’s entry in the You Cannot Be Serious files? Tattoos. Yes tattoos. Apparently, we’re now so creatively bankrupt in cancer aftercare that someone thought it would be a marvellous idea to tattoo a nipple onto a breast cancer survivor. Because clearly, after surgery, chemo, and losing a part of their body, what every woman really needs is a dodgy doodle slapped on her chest like a Banksy tribute gone wrong.
Let’s just pause and consider this. After surviving hell, she’s rewarded with a fake nipple inked on by someone whose previous experience probably involves tribal designs on lads from Slough. It’s not medical. It’s not dignified. It’s trauma with a splash of shading.
Worse still, the very ink being injected into that fresh, vulnerable skin? It’s carcinogenic. That’s right, some tattoo inks have been found to contain cancer-causing chemicals. Irony, it seems is alive and well in NHS boardrooms. “Congratulations on beating cancer! Now let us permanently embed a potential carcinogen into your chest as a reminder.”
This isn’t cutting-edge care. It’s cut-price nonsense. Instead of funding proper reconstruction, psychological support, or anything remotely healing, we’ve got bureaucrats thinking a tattoo gun and a bit of pink ink equals closure. It doesn’t. It’s the healthcare equivalent of drawing a smiley face on a broken windscreen and pretending the car’s fixed.
And let’s not forget other truly awful policies; the ones that make you want to scream into your MyChart app before it crashes again. I’ve covered the rise of fake cancer cures, often sold by influencers who operate out of garages smelling faintly of joss sticks and pyramid schemes. Then there are the new dementia drugs, life-extending, mind-saving pills that exist, but only if you’re willing to remortgage your house or sell a kidney to afford them. And who could ignore the endless delays that plague the NHS like a recurring infection? GP appointments now feel like rare celestial events, only visible if you book a seance and hope the spirits can squeeze you in before next spring.
Throughout, I’ve shouted on behalf of men’s health, NHS patients, cancer warriors and even those poor souls trying to explain an app to their gran during a heart attack.
I hope Keir Starmer and Wes Streeting prove me wrong. I genuinely do. But right now, it feels like they’re using an Etch A Sketch to map the future of healthcare.
If you’re going through cancer treatment? please hear this… You are stronger than you think. I’ve been through hell, with chemo, radiotherapy, a bone marrow transplant, and enough scans to qualify as airport luggage. But I’m still here. Baking bread. Shouting about stupid health policies. And writing…
This is my final Substack column. But don’t worry. Like an NHS referral letter, I’ll be turning up somewhere else very soon. Probably late. Probably a bit cross. But still fighting. Still moaning. Still trying to inject common sense into Wes Streeting or whoever has replaced him, by the time you read this!
Thank you for reading, laughing, ranting and reminding me why this matters. Keep pushing. Keep questioning. Keep demanding better cancer care.
And if you need me; you know where to find me. See you soon. x
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Chris Geiger, Author of The Cancer Survivors Club.
Daily Dose of Disbelief!
Bsky: @chrisgeiger.com
Bsky: @thecancersurvivorsclub.com
Bsky: @dailydoseofdisbelief.com
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