A-Z Causes of Cancer: According to The Daily Mail


A colleague just sent me this list below of what causes cancer according to The Daily Mail. I just had to paste it on Jack of Hearts.
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The hilarious role call of fatal threats takes me right back to my summer holidays when my step-grandmother would talk about these incessant cancer scare articles over afternoon tea in the garden. Little did she know of course that gardens can give you cancer.

My favourite is 'Turning On The Lights At Night To Go To The Loo' (read the article here), followed by Till Receipts (how?!)

I'm trying to imagine what your life would be like if you avoided all of these perilous features. Lamb, left-handedness, large heads and modern living is quite an amusing cancer combo.

Tea, coffee, fizzy drinks, caffeine and water are all on here, so it looks like cookies and milk is the way forward.
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Being a man and being a woman will give you cancer, which is good news for Nadia Almada. Although blow jobs are a no-no, so maybe not so great for the reality TV star.
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I'm particularly upset that both perfume and deodorant are listed here, but that does explain that woman I see on the tube each morning reading The Daily Mail.
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Stress, which is definitely a real cause of cancer, isn't on the list. Nor is Little John, or, even more surprising for The Daily Mail - being gay.
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B has to be the saddest section, what with biscuits, broken hearts and bubble bath, it's as if a Mail journalist has gone through Bridget Jones with a big black cancer pen. CEREAL - CANCER! SEX - CANCER! CITY LIVING - CANCER!
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Have a look at these:
(Sorry about the spacing, I had to delete loads of dead links, and also Blogger is TERRIBLE at spacing)


ABORTION AGE AIR POLLUTION AIR TRAVEL ALCOHOL ALLERGIES ARTIFICIAL FLAVOURS ARTIFICIAL LIGHT ASBESTOS ASPIRIN BABIES BABY BOTTLES BABY FOOD BACON BARBEQUES BATH WATER BEEF BEER BEING A BLACK PERSON BEING A WOMAN BEING A MAN BEING A SKINNY GIRL BEING SOUTHERN BISCUITS BLOWJOBS BRAS BREAD BREAST FEEDING BREAST IMPLANTS BROKEN HEARTS BUBBLE BATH BURGERS CAFFEINE CALCUIM CANDLE-LIT DINNERS CANNED FOOD CARBOHYDRATES CARS CEREAL CHEESE CHICKEN CHILDLESSNESS CHILDREN CHILDREN’S FOOD CHILLIS CHINESE MEDICINE CHIPS CHLORINE CHOCOLATE CITY LIVING CLIMATE CHANGE COCA COLA COD LIVER OIL COLD TEMPERATURES & LACK OF SUNLIGHT COFFEE CONSTIPATION CONTRACEPTIVE PILLS COOKING CORDLESS PHONES CRAYONS CURRY DENTAL X-RAYS DEODRANT DIETING DOGS EGGS EGGS ELECTRICITY ENGLISH BREAKFAST FACEBOOK FALSE NAILS FATHERHOOD FIBRE FINGER LENGTH FISH FIZZY DRINKS FLIP FLOPS FLY SPRAY FRUIT FRUIT JUICE GARDENS GRAPEFRUIT HAIR DYE HAM HEIGHT HONEY HOT DRINKS HOUSEPRIDE HRT HUGGING HULA HOOPS IVF KIDNEY TRANSPLATS LAMB LARGE HEADS LEFT-HANDEDNESS LIPSTICK LIVER TRANSPLANTS LONG RING FINGER MENOPAUSE MENSTRUATION METAL MILK MOBILE PHONES MODERN LIVING MONEY MORPHINE MOUTHWASH NUCLEAR POWER (there is no hint of irony in this article) OBESITY OESTROGEN OLDER FATHERs PASTRY PEANUT BUTTER PERFUME PICKLES PIZZA PLASTIC BAGS PORK POTATOES POVERTY PREGNANCY PRINCE CHARLES ORGANIC CRISPS PRINGLES RADIOACTIVITY (again, just no irony whatsoever) RICE SAUSAGES c RETIREMENT SEX SHAVING SKIING SOUP SPACE TRAVEL SUN CREAM TALCUM POWDER TEA TEEN SEX THIRD HAND SMOKE TILL RECEIPTS TURNING ON THE LIGHTS AT NIGHT TO GO TO THE LOO VITAMINS WAR IN IRAQ WATER WELL-DONE MEAT WI-FI WORCESTERSHIRE SAUCE WORKING X-RAYS

Thankfully the Daily Mail is not on this list so let's all keep reading Britain's most wonderful trashy and tragic daily.

My Internet Addiction: Is It Too Late?


I was nine years old when a lady called Mrs. Hart was introduced to everybody at morning assembly. She had a warm smile, strawberry blonde Cleopatra-esque hair (quite like Anna Wintour’s actually) and wore what must have been a Laura Ashley dress. She reminded me of Claire from Guess Who:

The theatre department’s storage area (a strange dusty attic space in a converted coach house) was cleared out and ten computers were moved in. Mrs. Hart was an ICT teacher.

In our first lesson with her I was told off for looking out of the real windows as Mrs. Hart demonstrated to us Windows 95 and how to use what looked like a talking box of Pringles, but was actually the UK's first favourite search engine, the irreverent Ask Jeeves.

I was worried that day because I’d found some large planks of wood behind the rugby boots shed, and wanted to use them as part of a tree house my friends and I were building each night after tea. However, I’d foolishly mentioned it at morning break to another boy in the year above, who then promptly said “Ah cool, Fraser can use that in his dam”.

Little did I know that this annoying concept Ask Jeeves was part of a much wider enigma, the internet, a phenomena that would go on to dominate my life, define it, and taking an educated guess - probably one day destroy it.

What Mrs. Hart was trying to show me, tapping a mucky grey mouse with her very varnished fingers, was a tool that I would one day use to promote large companies, broadcast opinions, hurt people and fall in love.

My first thoughts were: Google looks like a box of Cheerios, the acquisition of vengaboys@hotmail.com is the coolest thing ever (although who will I ever need to email apart from my friend in Canada?) and the clip art image of a man about to smash a computer with a mallet was quite amusing.

I am not going to blog about how SCARY the internet is, or how we share too much information about ourselves (“Oh the irony” - yawn) and run the risk of being victims to a future data mine. And, I’m not going to fill the Jack of Hearts with concerns about existentialism and whether we’re willingly signing our lives away, plugging ourselves into a matrix.

But how much internet usage is too much?

This evening I Googled ‘How many people are currently living in space?’, inspired by a boy on GrindR who had a rocket as his profile picture, and before I knew it I’d spent two hours reading about space missions, intergalactic wars and catastrophic romance triangles between real astronauts. And like the Milky Way, Wikipedia binges can spiral out of control. I ended up trying to trace a Kit Kat commercial from the late 90s, and discover which fashion designers had used spacesuits in their collections.

I fell asleep on the sofa and dreamt about directing a gay action thriller set in space. The film was produced by Addison Lee. He was a tall Asian gentleman, very good at getting from A to B, but the wall-mounted ashtrays in his house were a bit odd. I woke up, startled, and instantly set about deciphering whether Addison Lee was a real person.

Because I work in digital PR, online strategy is part of my life and so I have an excuse for being online most of the day. Still, in my free time I do this blog, I write my blog for Gay Times, I write a blog for work and more recently, online pieces for The Guardian. I watch pop music videos obsessively on YouTube. I talk to attractive strangers on dating sites. I follow a couple of hundred people on Twitter and I read my friends' blogs. And then of course there’s the free time vortex... that website we practically live on... the F word.

I no longer see things, I photograph them on my iPhone with a view to sharing them online. I don’t think things, I tweet them. What are the side-effects of this almost exclusively online life? If history, literature and knowledge become online entities, then won’t the truth be too easy to edit and erase? Will we reach a saturation point and become post-millenial hippies, camping on a windy desolate beach throughout our sixties in an attempt to bring about some kind of catharsis due to technological over-exposure?

Are we using the internet too much? Is it possible that we don't deserve the knowledge, people, opinions and landscapes that we receive, online gifts that in the past would never have naturally crossed our eyes? Then again, you could say that about anything, like, because I was born in Leicestershire should I be allowed to eat prawns? Should anyone know what the otherside of the world looks like?

Are these tedious questions brought about by a squidgy brain of the digital age? Is it not weird that I get paid to generate hype around illusory projects and immaterial concepts whilst in other countries people have never seen the internet and are pulling ploughs?

Sometimes I miss those childhood evenings spent climbing trees.

I wonder where Mrs. Hart is now?

I remember she once angrily ordered a student called Christian Finney out of her makeshift ICT classroom for being a bully, and told him to go and stand outside the headmaster's office. What he had done was walked up to the girl next to me whilst she was in the middle of some painstakingly girlish game called Granny's Garden, and said “Oh – I wonder what this button does” – and pressed the reset button on the girl’s PC.

I felt sorry for her and thought Finney had been really cruel. Whilst she waited for her computer to restart I kindly let her play Jez Ball with me in multiplayer mode.

Sometimes in meetings today I hear Finney’s cheeky voice in my head and fantasise about walking up to the boardroom computer, declaring "Oh – I wonder what this button does", and then skipping out into the street giggling.

Because what's the difference between standing outside the headmaster's office, and sitting in front of a screen?

Further reading:

In a moment of madness Elton John announces that the internet must be shut down:

http://www.thesun.co.uk/sol/homepage/news/article251007.ece

How many people are currently in space:

http://www.howmanypeopleareinspacerightnow.com/

Also - that Vengaboys email account isn't mine, so if you contact if, expect a reply from a strange Brazilian.

Bros Before Hoes! My New Year's Resolution 2011? Stop Sleeping With T***s

Supporting a football team? Walking to work? Doing sit-ups? Or perhaps not dedicating your ludicrous imaginative flair to bitching excessively about people based on a first impression of them? I’ve never managed to successfully stick to a New Year’s Resolution.

The very notion of pin-pointing and terminating a lifelong habit, like the inevitable moment when a Bond villain rotates his arm like a lighthouse beacon onto his sidekick and shoots them dead, strikes me as unnatural. You may well have a strong motive, an incentive, or a reward prospect, what many of us don’t have is the ability to self-examine ourselves with a critical eye and say ‘THIS is where I’m going wrong’. As Emily Dickinson once penned - “The truth must dazzle gradually – or every man be blind”

In January 2007 I decided as a New Year’s Resolution I would join a gym. And I did. The problem was, at around about the same time, I also embarked upon a year-long hair project that would transform me from being the typical curly short-haired Anglo-Italian brunette that I was to becoming the male embodiment of Barbie. The gym and boy Barbie didn’t work without headbands, purple knee-highs and hot pants, which was fine for the twelve weeks in which American Apparel was acceptable, but impossible thereafter. It wasn’t until years later when Gay Times gave me an editorial carte blanche with my Gay Times Roadtrip (and it dawned on me that I’d be sampling some of Europe’s most hotly vyed-for sex clubs) that a personal trainer was on the cards. £350 for ten sessions, and it was the best money I ever spent. Although I have now pepperonied my way back into physical normality, indeed, Pizza Express and Strada all but sponsor my twenties.

So in January 2008 I loftily set myself the task of supporting a football team as a New Year’s Resolution. I’d identified a major gap in my knowledge – sport. My whole life I’d been aware of this gap but never saw a problem with it, there were always Björk albums I hadn’t yet listened to or Thomas Hardy novels I’d not read, why on earth would I want to learn about one of Victoria Beckham’s husband’s secondary jobs? Zero interest.

Critically, my Dad never introduced me to football (or any sport) in my early childhood, and then at public school football was swept under the carpet too (unlike rugby – at which they won the Daily Mail cup consecutively and spawned world-celebrated players like Lewis Moody, football was little more than a pink plastic sphere being spanked around a sports hall whilst some ‘duty tutor’ turned their nose up and thought about Monet). At university, away from the boarding school bubble where conversations wrapped themselves tightly around hyper-parochial occurrences, I realised that men didn’t always talk about burnt toast and killing animals, but talked about football. A lot.

Even Russell Brand is a massive football supporter. To hold a conversation about football was evidently of paramount importance for anyone who carried a cock between their legs in forging a career. This particular New Year’s Resolution was a MASSIVE failure, largely due to the fact that Sugababes had two transfer windows that year. Luckily football knowledge is now easily forgeable though thanks to the iPhone’s ‘FL Football’ App. It tells me everything I need to know about Millwall, from players lists to match results, and for an extra 79p live streaming from the showers. Yes, I decided to support Millwall. Like totally Millwall babe. And if you're a Millwall supporter - I probably know more about Millwall than you - deal with it. It's okay, I'm happy for you to be an inferior supporter.

Last year I set myself the task of not bitching about people based on a first impression. A badly timed resolution some might say, because it coincided with my first week working in Vogue House on the website for one of the world’s biggest A-List womens magazines GLAMOUR. Luckily everyone there was professional, very down-to-earth and lovely, but the challenge came during outside events. There is no better way to instantly bond with a fellow journo than to bitch heartlessly about a farcically incompetent PR person, especially after they’ve simultaneously spelt your name badge wrong, spilt Champagne down the back of your pants, given you a goodie bag full of Tampax and stabbed you in the thigh with a BIC. I learnt that all of the most intelligent people form rapid first impressions, and it doesn’t count as being pre-judgemental, as long you make every effort to constantly refresh those impressions, like a self-saving Google document.

So last night I asked my friend what I should give up for 2011. Straight-away, while the question was still forming itself between my lips, he burst out with - “Sleeping with T**ts!”

“What do you mean?” I ask, genuinely puzzled.

“All the T**ts you’re obsessed with Jack. You know so many nice people who you could hang out with, yet you’re constantly obsessing over absolute knob heads, just because they have pretty hair or a nice tummy, when all of your friends think that they’re a dick”.

“But I don’t even introduce most of them to my friends”

“Exactly!!!”

“Well how do you know that they’re t**ts”

“Because your Facebook wall is full of people who I know are lovely, like me, wanting to catch-up with you over coffee, saying they never see you, and inbetween each ignored wall post is a notification saying you’re friends with a new boy. I click on their names and there are NEVER any mutual friends.”

Holy shit, I thought to myself.

“Oh, and because I read your texts sometimes when you go to the toilet” he adds.

“I see”

“And we did get introduced to –

- OK!! JEEZ!”

I got my phone out and sure enough, neglected missed calls from people I once picnicked with in Leeds, scattered amongst barbed-wire bootie calls and embarrassing feigned attempts to hang out with people who don’t even have the decency to text back within the hour.

“But I’m like Alexandra Burke” I proclaimed in my defence.

“What – you’re a glass collector?”

“No, the bad boys, they’re always on my mind” I say, wondering why I’m quoting a completely rubbish pop act. Were there not at least fifteen Erasure quotes that would have been better?

“Well forget them Jackie. Try and focus on your friends this year, get an early night once in a while, finish your novel. The bad boys will still be there in ten years time, cocking up their lives, like, what else are they going to do?”

He’s wrong on several levels. I’ve barely started my novel, I never have early nights – even if I’m not doing anything, and in ten years time the bad boys will have lost their pretty hair.

Still, he’s also very right. This year – NO SLEEPING WITH T**TS!

Starting tomorrow.

..... Or maybe in just a couple of days...

Here's the marvellous Andy Bell in Erasure, singing the fabulously apt song Victim of Love: