Walk this way, please

5 April 2012

Is there anything more shocking than Troupe disease, the terrible affliction that causes seriously unwell stars of stage, screen, and radiotherapy to turn their sad physical decline into a threering media circus, insisting that "the show must go on" when they ought to be quietly convalescing instead?

Roy Castle, Marti Caine, John Diamond, Helen Rollason: all are sorely missed, but each slow death in the spotlight was painful to witness, as they defiantly "shared a laugh and a joke with the nurses" (whenever the cameras were rolling), and generally turned their private tragedy into public soap opera.

It was hell to watch, but watch we did, for the same ghoulish reason that we secretly love to peer through the smoked-glass windows of an ambulance just after a road accident, even though we know we'll feel guilty afterwards.

Meanwhile, thousands of unknown uncelebrities ( technically known as "non-entities") are struggling quietly and anonymously with their own mortality, stoically appreciating that there is at least one positive aspect to having been diagnosed with cancer. Which is that you lose the fear of being told that you've got cancer tomorrow.

Nowadays, of course, we're told that "cancer isn't a word to be afraid of." Which is true. Cancer as a word isn't terrifying at all, whereas cancer as a malignant disease raging through the lymphatic system remains something to be very afraid of indeed, but surely that's no reason to despair.

The 15,000 people who'll be taking part in The Moonwalk 2004 at midnight on Saturday certainly don't think so, and the Discovery Health channel is following the progress of some of these participants each evening this week, as they train for this annual power walking marathon.

The event is sponsored by Playtex and participants are encouraged to wear flamboyant bras to emphasise breast awareness, a practice which sadly cannot be imitated by sufferers of other forms of cancer.

As I found to my cost when I once tried to persuade Pampers to sponsor a Bowel Cancer Moonwalk, only to discover that surprisingly few people are willing to parade 26 miles through London dressed only in a giant nappy.

Much of last night's programme was devoted to Rachel, a likeable twentysomething who'd never walked further than the bus stop before agreeing to take part in this marathon, and who told us early on that "I work with a guy called Rick."

Together, this pair are apparently a professional broadcasting duo known as "Rick and Rachel in the Morning," who I have to confess I'd never heard of, probably because they work for one of those obscure FM radio stations where the management edict "imagine you're talking to just one person" is not so much an instruction as an ambition.

As part of her training, fitness guru Jane Wake and Olympic gold medallist Sally Gunnell walked her slowly round part of the course, advising her on the physical torments she'd have to endure, and stopping off at every photogenic tourist attraction en route, including the Globe Theatre in Southwark.

Thankfully, we were spared the agonising spectacle of grown men in tights waving swords about while exclaiming incomprehensibly in iambic pentameter, but it nevertheless seemed an appropriate place to discuss aches and pains, because the acting I've witnessed there has usually been as wooden as the excruciatingly authentic audience benches, seemingly designed by Torquemada.

Avoiding the disagreeable mixture of mawkishness, ostentatiousness, and self-righteousness that afflicts so much televisual charity coverage, the programme emphasisedthe enjoyable challenge of the midnight Moonwalk, as well as its continued success as a fundraiser (over £12 million since its launch six years ago).

However, the appearance of a man who proposed to traverse the entire course in a diver's helmet didn't fully convince me of the event's innate hilarity, and he certainly wasn't as funny to look at as that man you often see at marathons who dresses up as a decrepit and deranged pensioner in a fright wig and utters strange unearthly cries (I think his name is Savile).

Being someone who is currently approaching middle age (as slowly as possible), I don't feel any urge to take part myself this weekend, but perhaps the marathon bug will strike me in later life, as it did with my great-grandmother, who started walking five miles a day when she was 60. She's now 97 years old, and frankly, we have absolutely no idea where she is.

Although it's clearly made on a shoestring, this is a rare example of a TV charity series with integrity, promoting a good cause rather than the flagging careers of fading media celebrities. Indeed, when somebody I'd actually heard of (Annabel Croft) did turn up, she made the shortest and most selfeffacing celebrity appearance I've ever seen on TV (two seconds), then sensibly vanished again.

The programme dutifully reminded us that most cancers are curable nowadays, but personally, I'd still prefer to smear myself with Bovril and take my chances with a half-starved panther belonging to Siegfried and Roy, rather than contract a dose of "C."

And even if I did, you lot would certainly be the last to know, because why should I announce it in this column, thereby giving TV production companies throughout the land an excuse to throw spontaneous parties?

Walk this way, please

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