In April last year, I performed in a rather descriptively-titled show at the Melbourne International Comedy Festival called Luke's Got Cancer. It was funnier than it sounds. You see, back in November 2007, at the age of 22, a seven-centimetre tumour was discovered growing into the space between my right shoulder and lung. A generally unpleasant proposition made worse by the fact that this wasn't even my first turn through the cancer grist mill. (See? It's getting . . .

As a teenager, I went with my father every week for dinner at Sandra's house. Sandra is a little outrageous and at all times in the grips of some controversy or other, so sitting around the table with her kids on a Wednesday night, we would listen to the latest. Typically her stories involved members of junior officialdom, who likely regretted turning up for work that day, because Sandra is relentless when wronged by anyone in a position of authority. The more remote . . .