At what point do I start to say, 'No thanks, I will pass on the
ribs'. Photograph: Alamy
Last
night my dinner was to die for. I don't just mean it was good, though it was; I
have long had an intense, vaguely adult relationship with choucroute, the great
Alsatian dish of sauerkraut laden with salted pork belly and sausage. I mean it
contained a bunch of things that, apparently, are going to kill me. It's not
just the cured pig products, which we know have been fingered as a cause of
bowel cancer. It was also all the salt, excess consumption of which can, we're
told, lead to stomach cancers. Recently I was informed by Professor Peter
Barham, an expert on the science behind our food, that the compounds produced
during the process behind American barbecue, one of my other passions, are
highly carcinogenic. That explains the high rates of throat cancer among men in
the barbecue belt of Texas and Tennessee. Throat, stomach, bowel: that's pretty
much the whole of my digestive tract waiting to erupt in tumours.
In
other news, a recent study found that if you want to increase your life
expectancy significantly you should start by reducing your food intake by 40%.
Anecdotally, we know this makes sense. We have all seen those tooth-aching
television interviews with desiccated Japanese men who have made it to 114 years
old. Asked for the secret of their longevity, they always mumble something about
not eating too much.
Perhaps
it's time for me to face facts: I am eating myself to death. I am more than
capable of brooding on these notions. At 45 I am probably more than halfway
through my span. Five years ago I was completely in the clear. I know this
because, as many men turning 40 are, I was sent for a colonoscopy. Having worked
out what I do for a living, the doctor insisted on discussing with me the best
places in London for dim sum, which didn't entirely distract from what he was
looking for. All was fine, he said, and nobody would need to have another look
for 10 years. Shame. It was a fun day out. The question is, at what point do I
have to start putting my hand up, palm forward, with that irritatingly resolute
look on my face, and say "No thank you, I'll pass on the ribs"?
After
much careful thought I've concluded: never. Partly it's the old gag about
self-denial not actually making you live longer but just making it feel that
way. Do I really want to live to 114, just so I can get all the patronising gits
from the telly round to celebrate the achievement of not dying? No. I have one
shot at life and while that doesn't mean I'm going to start slapping my veins
and injecting the junk just for kicks, there is a life out there that needs to
be lived. Plus, there are the odds to be played. It's true we know a lot more
about what might kill us these days. The Advanced Journal of Scary Crap That's
Going to Do You In – or theDaily
Mail as it's known – carries
detailed reports every day. But that doesn't mean it's how you will die. Indeed
life expectancy in the UK has risen dramatically over recent decades, from just
on 70 half a century ago to over 80 today. I don't drink excessively, no longer
sniff glue, and have given up the lion taming (the outfits just didn't work for
me). That restricts my risky behaviour to long-smoked brisket, bacon sandwiches
and choucroute. Friends, I'll take my chances.
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