Hardly a day goes by that I don't think about the man who went into a "production room" and came out again after 45 seconds. This wasn't just any old production room, and definitely not one where movie producers meet to discuss whether they want to get Dwayne Johnson on board for their picture. This was an NHS production room where men go to (in local newspaper parlance) perform a sex act on themselves and then emerge a short time later clutching a pot in a clear plastic bag. I say a "short time later, " but 45 seconds is way too short.

Forty-five seconds is more than twice the length of time So Solid Crew gave themselves with their 21 seconds, but they weren't doing what that man did in an NHS hospital. Those 45 seconds covered the man going into the room, wiping down surfaces, getting comfortable (which is difficult when you can hear the sounds of Loose Women from the waiting room), and then finishing up and wiping everything down again.

Rest assured, when I was assigned production room one at the hospital after he'd come out, I spent much longer than 45 seconds wiping down everything first.

I thought about that man while at the Tate Britain art gallery this week. Not because any of the artworks were about the NHS, but because while I was there, I received an email about that 2023 appointment.

Even without me wondering about the 45-second man before me, it's not an experience I'll ever forget.

I did it before I started treatment for my incurable bowel cancer because one of the oh-so-joyous side-effects of the chemotherapy is that it might have made me infertile.

The NHS paid for my samples to be stored in a big freezer for two years, and I have now been asked to attend a "fertility surveillance visit" (that's NHS speak for a fertility test). Apparently, those happen at two, four, and five years post-freezing, and then the funding for the storage runs out, and then my samples will be thrown away.

Back in the summer of 2023, I was nervous about the future and didn't know how long I'd live, but still held on to hope that I'd meet the love of my life while looking for reduced rolls in Co-op.

That was why I froze my sperm, just in case I was in a position to have children in the future. But now my body has been ravaged by chemotherapy, I'm wondering whether it is worth continuing to keep them in the freezer.

With a face and a body like mine, I'm not exactly a catch, so I'm now used to the fact that I'll die alone.

So is it really worth spending the NHS money? But then what if I do meet someone while stocking up on Christmas biscuits in Co-op's seasonal aisle? Then I might need the semen in three years' time to make lots of little Fisks.

One thing is for certain: I've spent a lot of NHS money already, as I'm now on my 50th cycle of chemotherapy.

The NHS is still spending the money on me because I'm fighting as hard as I can to stay alive.

One part of the fight is the mental health battle, and that's why I'm leading the Daily Express's Cancer Care campaign. The Government and the NHS needs to ensure that all cancer patients have access to mental health support both during and after their treatment.