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 the Daily 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.
