The comedian and writer was 47 when he became a parent. Here, he talks about how his cancer diagnosis changed his relationship with fatherhood.Richard Herring has two children, Phoebe and Ernie, age 10 and seven

Genevieve Robers March 19, 2025 

When Richard Herring answered a phone call from his GP that would change the way he looked at life, he could hear his children, at home because it was lockdown, playing in the next room. The doctor broke the news that the comedian probably had testicular cancer.

“It felt like a film, we’d all been laughing together and then the GP’s voice was shaking. He sounded scared,” he remembers. Herring spent the next 90 seconds pinballing through emotions – and is reassured that his first concern was for his children, Phoebe and Ernie, then aged six and three.

“It was initially – and mainly – ‘oh God, how will they cope with losing a parent and not having a dad’, and I want to be there to help them through the more difficult teenage years,” he says. A good friend had recently died of a really terrible cancer, leaving a seven-year-old son.

“I was crying, and quickly realised that although it was partly for the kids, I was also crying partly for myself. I didn’t want to die. I was annoyed that after all the work I put into the kids, they wouldn’t remember anything about me, and they’d have a new dad within a year and I’d be forgotten. I also thought it would be better if I die straight away, before they have a chance to remember me, so it doesn’t psychologically damage them.”

He spent the next weeks under a non-medical self-diagnosis that he had two months left to live. So he tried to make events memorable for his children, building a snowman, only the snow was speckled with dog and cat poo from his lawn, and wondering how to make several hundred thousands pounds in 60 days to see them through university.

It was only a month later, when his testicle was removed and he was given the diagnosis of completely curable cancer with a 99 per cent survival rate, that he realised he didn’t have to live every day as his last. 

But his understanding of mortality has remained. “It’s obviously not nice to lose a body part but equally, instead of dying, I’m glad I had that time to understand what the absence of myself would mean.”

Herring was 47 when he became a parent. While I’ve been described as a “geriatric” mother, it’s not a description – or insult, if you’re feeling sensitive – often aimed at dads. “I became a dad late and that is the fear – that you’ll leave them too soon. And you can still die as a younger man. Even if cancer doesn’t take you, there’s a million other ways you can exit early. It’s not a bad thing to be prepared and think what it means to you,” he believes. “There are no guarantees.” This is my recurrent 4am fear – and one I’m sure I share with a huge number of parents – but it must feel much sharper after a cancer diagnosis.

On a more prosaic level, he’s more tired than when younger. “I feel an affinity with kids because I’ve quite a childish brain and I love playing stuff,” he says. “But I’m not as much fun as I thought; I’m too exhausted. My wife plays more than I do.”

All the same, Herring is pleased he had children in his fifth decade. “Before 40, I struggled to remain committed in a relationship; my job was all encompassing. Until I met Katie, I wasn’t ready to properly settle down,” he says. “I’d never been in a relationship longer than two years. I love my job, but it doesn’t feel the most important thing now. If I had to do one thing, it would be a Dad – I suppose that’s what everyone thinks but it’s not even close – that’s more of my identity now. I always really wanted kids and I would have risen to it. But it might have been more difficult to have a stable relationship [working away].”

Cancer brought Herring’s priorities into focus. “I want to spend as much time with the children as I can,” he says. I’m chatting to Herring while he’s on his way to Cardiff to perform his show Can I Have my Ball Back? He’s sold out gigs nationwide turning the most serious of subjects into moving, heartwarming material. He’s aware of the irony of leaving his children to talk on stage about how much they mean. “I was away three days last week and my son said: ‘If you want to go again, you have to ask my permission and I’m not giving you permission.’ He missed me, and I missed them as well.”

His work schedule, which includes book writing and podcast recording at Leicester Square theatre (I’d highly recommend watching) alongside touring (three or four nights is the longest he’s away), allows him more family time than the average parent. “I’m lucky. I’m working from home a lot, and really appreciate being around,” he says. Phoebe’s now 10, while Ernie’s seven.

“They’re in a lovely space, we have fun and conversations and create stuff – and they don’t fight too much. Even though I was never going to die, I had the feeling I was going to die, so it all feels like extra time. We went on a 10-mile bike ride in Cheddar and I thought: ‘We would never have had this.’” 

Herring delights in Ernie’s glee at his own jokes and says Phoebe shows affection by trying to get him to laugh – and trying not to laugh at his jokes. “We communicate through humour,” he says. “She’s very good at burns and has a good wit.” They were recently watching Would I Lie to You together and he was delighted they laughed at the same bits. “They both make little videos so there’s every danger they’ll follow the same route,” he says, though he certainly wouldn’t push them into a comedy career.

While cancer gave him a sense of perspective, he was always a laidback parent who rarely shouted. “I’m quite patient: I sort of see them as hecklers and if you lose your cool then you’ve lost. So I try not to let them get to me. Sometimes I fail though,” he says.

This sounds like a brilliant attitude: I resolve to treat my own children as mini-hecklers when my patience wears thin. “I might raise my voice once a month, but not in a serious way, just to try to control the situation. And that happens less since the cancer, too. I find most of the stuff they do that’s bad quite funny. I try not to laugh,” he admits. “My wife takes things more seriously and more to heart. I’m quite good in the morning, even when I’ve been at a gig, and I wake up early anyway now, so I usually take the mornings regardless.” 

Would he describe himself as a “gentle” parent, I ask, conscious the term has taken a bashing of late. ‘Yeah, I’m pretty gentle,” he says. Herring recognises himself in some of his son’s behaviour: he remembers as a child feeling upset by criticism but pretending it wasn’t bothering him by ignoring it, so when he sees Ermie doing the same he just feels “empathy – and guilt for passing it on.”

While he’s not anti-technology – Phoebe recently got her first smart phone and used it to have a “brilliant conversation” with him about how she baked a cake – he’s treading carefully with internet use. “It’s on the understanding that we get to look at it all the time,” he explains. “My wife wants to stop them looking at YouTube, which I’m not sure is the best way. I think the thing is to be with them when they’re doing it, so you can monitor. It’s a terrible minefield, because things come up so quickly.”

Herring’s parents, both teachers (his dad was headteacher of his school) were stricter than he is with his children. “I think they slightly envy our generation for being a little bit more friendly with our kids. They were and are good parents. My dad instilled a sense of decency in me, an underlying thing even though my job is the opposite,” he says.

“I don’t remember my dad not telling me loves me, but I don’t remember much of him telling me he loves me. I had a happy childhood, though, and don’t feel especially screwed up – especially for a comedian. There’s a few things in life where I go: ‘Am I doing that to try and impress my dad?’ He has a couple of times said he’s proud of me the last 10 years, whereas I tell my kids I love them and I’m proud of them all the time, probably ten times a day, which is too much.”

I’m left wondering if it’s ever possible to tell children we love them too much.