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 . . .

It was a new millennium and my mother was covered in blood. As usual, it was entirely my fault. I should explain: My best Christmas—aside from the year I was given a puppet of Ernie from Sesame Street—was undoubtedly the one somewhere in the middle of my long teenage malaise, when my parents got me a video camera. I dropped hints for months until finally, wonderfully, they conceded. It was a family camcorder that made everything look like the nightmares of . . .