Why a Dying Pastor Calls These His Best Years

Guest: Allan Finnegan

Allan Finnegan was given two months to live in January. He says these are his best years — and means it. The Baptist minister, stand-up comedian and author of 'I Didn't Ask For Any Of This' tells Matt how comedy saved his faith, why he tried to engineer being sacked from the ministry, and what he's learning about finishing well — even now, with terminal cancer.


On the 20th of January 2026, a Baptist minister from Liverpool was told he had two to three months to live. Four months on, Allan Finnegan is still here. He's just done his last sermon. He's just done his last comedy gig. And he's saying something most of us would never dare say out loud.

"Despite the circumstances," he says, "the cancer years have probably been the best years of my life."

Allan is 59. He's been the minister of the same Bootle church since his early thirties. He's a stand-up comedian who got four yeses on Britain's Got Talent in 2020, including a standing ovation from Simon Cowell. He's the author of I Didn't Ask For Any Of This — Church, Comedy and Cancer. And he's currently in palliative care for ocular melanoma that has spread to his liver.

This is a conversation about how a man ended up calling the years he was supposed to dread the best ones he's ever had.

The minister who never wanted to be one

Allan didn't choose ministry. He drifted into it. His Baptist church in Bootle had collapsed from over a hundred members down to twenty after a painful split, and the denomination wouldn't fund a replacement minister. Allan was pushing them for options. They pushed back.

"He said to me, I can't, we can't put a minister in here anyway," Allan remembers. "He said, because you are the minister."

Allan's response was honest. "I don't wanna be the minister. Too much hassle. I've seen what it does to people. I've seen what it did to the last fella. It nearly killed him."

He took the job anyway. Mostly out of pride. Partly because he couldn't think of a reason not to. He admits he's wanted to quit "every week since I started." He had a fallback — the building company he used to work for kept asking him to come back, on better money. The only thing that held him in was a vague sense of call.

For years he was the man at the front of the room who privately thought he was the worst Christian in it.

The night he cried in a Tesco's car park

A few years into the job, Allan hit the wall.

His wife was in with friends one evening. He thought he'd go and see one of his mates. Then he realised something that floored him.

"I had nowhere to go. I literally had nowhere to go. I was like, I've got no mates."

Becoming a Christian at sixteen had cost him every friendship outside the church. Every relationship he had now was somehow connected to his role. There was no off-switch. "You're always the minister, you're never off. It's a goldfish bowl. Even if you get invited to places, you're still the minister. On holiday, you're the minister."

He drove around aimlessly until he ended up in the Tesco's car park in Litherland. Then he sat there and cried for an hour.

"That was the lowest point I got to."

He never went to the doctor. Looking back, he thinks it was probably a breakdown. What he did do — eventually — was look up the lads from school he'd cut off when he found Jesus thirty years earlier. He turned up at a pub in Bootle one Monday night.

The greeting he got isn't fully repeatable on a family-friendly blog. But the gist of it was this.

"We thought you were dead. Where have you been for 30 years?"

He's been going back nearly every Monday since.

How comedy saved his faith

Allan never planned to be a comedian. He was a trainee Baptist minister doing a homiletics module — preaching class — when he got into an argument with his tutor. The tutor said one-person-one-microphone was dead. Nobody listened to it anymore. Allan, who had just been to see Peter Kay at the Liverpool Echo Arena ("11,000 people shouting more after an hour and a half"), wasn't having it.

The tutor's response was to make him do a six-week stand-up course at the Comedy Trust in Liverpool, and write a reflection comparing comedy and preaching.

He ended his first gig with another comedian booking him for a second one — without asking. "He went, you do now," Allan laughs. He never stopped. "That's why I say I didn't ask for any of this."

What he didn't expect was the people he'd meet in the green rooms. The atheists. The ex-churchgoers. The ones whose stories started with the four words he says he can no longer stand to hear.

I used to go to church but…

"I was hearing all these people saying to me, I used to go to church but. And it became a bit too much for me to ignore."

He'd lived inside what he calls a "Christian bubble" for decades. Try harder. Be better. Do more. Revival is round the corner. Let's have a rest for a bit, Allan thought. I'm knackered. The questions he'd been suppressing for years started crawling back up. The people he'd dismissed as backslidden turned out to be doing the things the Bible told him to do — they just weren't doing them inside a church building.

"My theology was telling me they were going to hell. And it just didn't all square up with me. It was messing me mind up."

Something quietly broke. And then something quietly healed.

He went into comedy thinking he'd be a missionary on the circuit. He came out of it realising the mission field was him.

"God sent me there for the mission. It was — I was the mission."

The dog collar he'd never owned

Britain's Got Talent in 2020 was supposed to be Allan's breakthrough. The producers headhunted him. The London Palladium audition went brilliantly — four yeses, Simon's standing ovation, Dec shouting "Hallelujah" as he left the stage. Cowell said it was the best audition of the night.

Then the producers asked him to wear a dog collar. He'd never owned one.

"They would say they didn't, but they kind of very, very strongly suggested it. The producers would really, really like this if you did this, you know."

They also took away his £110 shoes and replaced them with a £9 pair from Primark. "It's the only thing I got out of Britain's Got Talent. It actually cost me to go on it."

Then COVID hit. The semi-final was reshot in an empty studio with a Zoom audience and a seven-second audio delay. They put him in a giant pulpit at the back of the stage. He choked in every rehearsal. The producers had to send a welfare officer to his dressing room afterwards.

He talks about it now without bitterness. But he learned something that mattered. The dog collar wasn't him. The pulpit wasn't him. The version of "vicar" the cameras wanted wasn't him. Authentic Allan, even when he was bombing, was still better than a manufactured version of himself.

The freckle in his eye

Mid-pandemic, Allan went for a routine eye check because he'd been seeing flickerings in his left eye. The consultants found something in his right eye instead. They called it a freckle.

"I was like, well, it can't be that bad, it's only your eye, innit? Worst case, you lose an eye."

What he learned at St Paul's Eye Hospital in Liverpool was that ocular melanoma is rare and ruthless. There are two genetic markers. One has a 20% chance of recurrence within five years. The other has an 80% chance — usually within two — and a 90% chance of death within a year if it returns.

He had the second one.

The treatment shrank the tumour. He got two clear scans. Then on the two-year anniversary scan, they found something on his liver. A main tumour, plus lots of smaller ones scattered across the organ. Incurable.

He went on the only NHS treatment available, then a last-chance one. Neither worked. On the 20th of January 2026, his consultant told him he had two to three months left.

He's still here. We won't tell you, in this blog, what's keeping him here — that's his story to tell on the episode. But we will tell you what he said, sitting in his front room four months past his expiry date, when Matt asked him what he's learning about finishing well.

Finishing well, when you can't do it yourself

When Allan became a Christian at sixteen, someone gave him Philippians 1:6.

He who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion.

He's carried that verse for forty-three years. He admits, on the recording, that he's only just understood what it actually means.

"I always thought it was about me and my efforts finishing well. So I'll finish well, I'll do it right, I'll finish that project, I'll finish this. What I'm finding is God's finishing it for me."

He looks around at his life and sees things being tied off without him having to do them. The church is doing well without him. The grants for the building came through. He preached his last sermon last Sunday — "loads of people turned up to see that." He did his last comedy gig for the same fella who booked him for his very first one, all those years ago, without asking.

"It feels like God's saying, look, everything's all right, everything's all right, look, have a look, it's good, it's all good, you can go."

He laughs at himself for saying it. "Sometimes when I say all this I'm a bit like, wow, you're a bit mad, you lad."

But he means it.

Why these are his best years

So how does a man with terminal cancer end up calling these the best years of his life?

He doesn't dress it up. He's not pretending it's easy. He's on a syringe driver pumping medication into him round the clock. He doesn't want to die. He's still up for a miracle, "definitely up for it," even though he's not expecting one.

But something happened in the stripping. Comedy went. Ministry went. The building work he loved went. Every single thing he used to define himself by got taken off the table. And underneath it all, he found he was still here.

"I'm finally comfortable in it. I'm not beating myself up for my shortcomings anymore."

Then he says the thing that lands hardest, almost as a throwaway, near the end of the conversation. Asked what wisdom he'd want to leave for someone who's drifting from church, or buried under the weight of trying harder, or quietly sitting in a Tesco's car park of their own.

"Just keep turning up. Just keep going. God will finish it."

Where the conversation goes from here

There's a lot we haven't told you. The night three strangers knocked on a stranger's door and prayed him into faith at sixteen. The £200,000 GoFundMe that started because his mother was about to sell her flat. The audiobook narration AI couldn't do because it couldn't understand his Scouse accent. The story of a Baptist nudist from Yorkshire that probably shouldn't be in a podcast at all but absolutely is.

You can hear all of it — and Allan's own voice, which is still very much working — in the full episode of What's The Story.


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