On 8/12/2013 7:08 PM, Jay Stevens, the jyotishithead - not a doctor, not
a Hindoo, just a fraud - lied:
> Glasgow: the vegan capital of Britain?
>
> The Scottish city is often associated with rather less
> healthy dietary trends, but it turns out to be a hotbed
> of healthy animal-free food
Shut your goddamned drooling mouth, Stevens, before I bang a shovel into
it. You're not a "doctor", you ****ing squat-to-**** faggot.
"The sickest city in the West "
http://www.heraldscotland.com/sport/...-west-1.782595
GLASGOW -- At a store called A&S Greengrocer, the only greens for sale
are cans of ''marrowfat processed peas''.
piles cases of cola where the fruit used to be. One wall holds 24 types
of potato chip. The cooler chills squares of lard. In the window sits a
hangover cure called ''healthsalt,'' an abandoned scale, and an ad for
cut-price cigarettes.''
''My best seller,'' Mr Qaddus says.
A few doors down at Remo's Fish and Chicken Bar, there's no fish or
chicken. The lunch menu is a 35-cent ''roll and fritters'' -- sliced
potato, soaked in batter and deep-fried in a vat of beef fat, served on
a buttery slab of white bread. At night, the shop sells steak pies and
pizza. The pizza is deep-fried.
Clutching a greasy paper bundle, the day's first diner shrugs off
healthy eating. ''I'm on the seafood diet -- I see food, I eat it,'' he
quips, patting an ample gut. Glancing skywards, he adds: ''When the Big
Man wants you, you go.''
In Glasgow, the West's sickest city, people go uncommonly young.
NO Fresh Fruit: This is the lung cancer capital of the globe. Glasgow
also is tops for heart attacks, with coronary death rates 800% higher
than in Japan. Life expectancy is on a par with Cuba, and trails the US
by about six years.
This grisly resume has made Glasgow a laboratory of unhealthy living,
with medical sleuths probing Scottish recipes, ashtrays, stature -- even
rainfall -- in search of clues. ''For lifestyle-related disease,
Glasgow's in a class of its own,'' says David McQueen, a behavioural
scientist who left John Hopkins University to survey Scottish habits.
''People are literally eating and smoking themselves to death.''
Telling shards unearthed so far: 50% of Glasgow's residents get
virtually no exercise; 83% of its middle-aged men have been regular
smokers at some stage of their lives; 30% of men in some districts eat
no fresh fruit at all. Such habits, though, are part of a lethal
cocktail of hazards -- cultural, environmental, and economic -- that
puts some Glaswegians at much greater risk than others. ''If you're out
of work and you've got black fungus crawling up your walls, changing
your diet isn't at the top of your list of priorities,'' says Aine
Kennedy, a health worker in Drumchapel, one of the city's poorest
districts.
THE Fourth World: In Glasgow, living dangerously has always come with
the territory. Wealth first arrived with the import of sugar and
tobacco; the city still has streets named Jamaica and Virginia -- and a
famed addiction to nicotine and sweets. (Across Glasgow more than a
third of people wear dentures by the age of 35.) Glasgow later became
the workhorse of the British empire, producing a third of its ships and
trains. Industry also bred smog and slums so foul that a parliamentarian
branded Glasgow ''earth's nearest summit to hell''.
The city has long since scrubbed the soot from its sandstone and
turned itself into a cultural centre, but for many of Greater Glasgow's
1,000,000 inhabitants, the legacy of the industrial revolution remains
etched in arteries and lungs. ''This is the Fourth World -- the one the
First World used and threw away,'' says Thomas Riley, an unemployed
factory worker, touring a grim concrete housing project teeming with
idle adults.
Mr Riley lives in Drumchapel, a post-war ''township'' built to replace
Victorian slums. A generation later, with more than 20% of Glaswegians
still jobless and 75% receiving some form of public aid, these cramped,
damp tenements have become new slums, with 22,000 people crammed into
some of the city's poorest streets, In Mr Riley's two-bedroom flat,
which he shares with a family of five, mold speckles on the floor and
wallpaper peels off within days. In winter, when the Rileys can afford
to heat only one room, he says: ''It's colder inside than out.''
SOLE Survivor: Mr Riley, 43, is the only surviving adult male in his
building of 14 people; four other men died in their forties and fifties
from heart or lung disease. ''I used to use their coughing as an alarm
clock,'' he says. Now, if there's a noise or suspected burglar in the
night, ''I'm the one all the kids come running for.''
Across the street, Daniel and Josie Lough's four children caught
dystentery when a pipe burst this winter, spewing raw sewage. Now their
10-month-old daughter has bronchitis. Ms Lough fills the baby's bottle
with a sweet fizzy soft drink called Irn-Bru. ''It's cheaper than milk
and it keeps her calm,'' she says.
Mr Lough, an unemployed labourer, sits hand-rolling ''coffin nails'',
the harsh, unfiltered cigarettes favoured by Glasgow's men. He says
healthy living is easy for ''posh people'' but hard for families such as
his, getting by on state aid of $200 a week. Like most Glaswegians, the
Loughs own no car, so they shop at poorly stocked local stores. With a
cucumber costing as much as a 5lb bag of chips (french fries), ''I buy
what's filling,'' he says.
As for smoking, Mr Lough knows he should quit. ''But I can't afford to
go to the pub, to eat out, to do anything,'' he says, nursing the stub
of his cigarette, ''Smoking's the only pleasure in life I have left.''
Others, however, find solace in drugs and drink. One fast escape: a
cocktail of fortified wine and methylated spirits known as ''electric
soup''.
A few pockets of Glasgow do enjoy good health, quashing notions that
the city's climate or water may be deadly. But there is a line
connecting the black dots of premature death across Glasgow. It's
poverty. Drumchapel is among Scotland's sickest districts. Yet a few
streets away, an upper middle class area called Bearsden is among the
healthiest, with death rates half what they are next door. ''In terms of
health, this is Scandinavia and that's Romania,'' says Michael Kelly, a
public health expert, driving along the park separating Bearsden's wide
lawns from Drumchapel tenements.
One factor is that chronic unemployment has so dislocated life in poor
families, with sleep and meal times jumbled, that basic domestic skills
are eroding. ''I never really learned to cook, except for dumping chips
in the Masterfry,'' says Ms Lough, the Drumchapel mother, echoing a
trend observed by public-health workers across Glasgow.
Scotland's national pantry includes a rich selection of foods to die
for, and from: desserts called ''cream crowdie'' (cream, oatmeal, sugar
and rum) and ''hattit kit'' (buttermilk, cream, sugar, nutmeg), a
breakfast of Scotch eggs (hard-boiled eggs wrapped in sausage and
deep-fried, forming what one tour book describes as ''a greasy
cannonball''); and refreshments such as ''heavy'' (bitter beer) and ''a
nippy sweetie'' (a glass of spirits, usually whisky).
DEADLY Obstinacy: The machismo and conservatism of Glasgow men make it
hard to wean them off such foods, particular in favour of fruit and
vegetables. At a health food fair near the river Clyde's docks,
middle-aged wives compare their husbands' favourite dishes. ''Sugar,
spice, treacle, sugar,'' Evelyn Dick says, listing the ingredients of a
desert called clootie dumpling. ''If there's any left over, you add
sugar and fry it for breakfast with bacon, black pudding, sausage and
eggs.''
Ms Dick's husband died of a heart attack at 59, a few months shy of
retirement. She still thinks about the tour of Scotland they had
planned, and also about the meals she cooked him. ''I feel guilty,'' she
says, staring into her salad. ''He was always a stubborn man and loved
stodgy food. But maybe that's what killed him.''
Across the table, Margaret O'Neil nods sympathetically, and talks of
her own husband, a maintenance worker. ''I cooked him some greens last
year,'' she says. ''He said, 'That's for cows in the field, not for
men'.''
Her husband, Frank, rolls up his sleeve to reveal a bulging bicep
tattooed with the words, ''Scotland the Brave''. He's 36, smokes, and
has high cholesterol. ''All that stuff, it canna touch me,'' he says,
squeezing a hand-grip that measures strength. ''I'm young. I'm strong.
I'm insured.''
In western Scotland, a cold, wet region that traditionally has had
little produce in its diet, consumption of fruit and vegetables is so
low that doctors still encounter scurvy and rickets, vitamin-starved
conditions that vanished elsewhere decades ago. Such deficiencies may
affect the immune systems of Glaswegians, helping to explain, for
instance, why smokers here have rates of lung cancer double those of
comparable smokers in the US.
READY for a Funeral: Another major suspect is asbestos. Exposure to
the fibre may hugely increase the risk of lung cancer among smokers, and
is linked to a very rare and lethal cancer called mesothelioma. In
Glasgow's riverside districts, where asbestos from shipyards once misted
the streets, rates of mesothelioma are among the highest in the world.
''I keep a black suit at the office, just in case another mate pops
off,'' rasps Bert Connor, an ailing former shipyard worker who runs an
asbestos victims group from a tenement marked by a skull and crossbones.
''Like many Glaswegians, he harbours odd notions about health.
Cigarettes coat the lungs, protecting them from asbestos,'' he says.
Such folk-wisdom even infects Glasgow's health-food stores. Eric
Miller, who runs a grain shop, stocks buttery shortbread and
additive-rich prepared foods amid the lentils and bran. He also smokes,
as do the women running a nearby health-food cafe (non-smoking areas a
novelty here). ''Smoking and food have nothing to do with bad health,''
Mr Miller claims. He points at six pubs nearby. ''Clearly, it's the
booze.''
In a city where people have always died young, from scourges such as
tuberculosis and smallpox, fatalism is rampant. Men in their early
forties talk about triple by-pass as if it were a wisdom-tooth
extraction: inconvenient but inevitable. Others hide behind a wall of
denial. When people visit Karla Kinsella to have their palms inspected
or tarot cards read, ''a lot of them say, 'If there's anything bad about
my health, I don't want to know'.''
Scottish stoicism compounds the city's health troubles, often causing
the stricken to delay calling for help, says James Pickett, a 25-year
veteran of Glasgow's ambulance crew. Alochol also fuzzes judgment. ''I
found a man who'd been dead for hours while his mates just sat there
drinking,'' he says. ''They reckoned he was catching up on his sleep.''
THE Dying Scotsman: Mr Pickett now drives a paramedic van fitted with
heart-start gear, part of a new campaign to boost survival rates. Siren
wailing, hands clutched on the wheel, he hurtles down the rain-slicked
streets beside the River Clyde. The radio crackles again:
Male. Collapse. Chest pains.
''Our commonest call,'' Mr Pickett says.
Cutting through empty factory lots, Mr Pickett reaches the caller's
home to find an ashen-faced man slumped beside a butt-choked ashtray.
The stricken man quit smoking three years ago, following a coronary, but
started again after a few weeks. ''He was feeling OK by then,'' his wife
explains.
Mr Pickett gives the man oxygen and loads him into a waiting
ambulance. Then he speeds off to rescue a drunk, a drug addict, and a
battered wife. During a rare quiet spell, Mr Pickett pulls into a
hospital driveway. A parking attendant -- a potbellied smoker in his
mid-thirties -- ambles over to tell about his night at the pub. ''I made
it home without anyone walking on my hands,'' he boasts. Meaning, he was
drunk but not so drunk that he had to crawl.
As the man wanders off, lighting a cigarette, Mr Pickett shakes his
head. ''Another dying Scotsman,'' he says.
Education can help change the habits that kill. In the US since the
mid-1960s heart-disease deaths have fallen by 37% and rates of adult
smoking by almost half. The UK is a health-promotion laggard, but
Glasgow has started its own aggressive campaign. New ads show young
hipsters saying no to cigarettes and beer. The city has issued vouchers
to shoppers for healthful but costlier goods, such as whole-grain bread.
The campaign also has harnessed Glasgow's famed wit and ''patter'' to
drive its message home. One TV cartoon featured a stunted, drunken,
chain-smoking bloke who returns from the pub to a wife who complains:
''So you've had another six pints of yon contraceptive.''
But Glaswegians also deploy humour to deflect health worries. At the
Quarter Gill pub, Rob McKay sits with a friend tossing back whiskies and
beer chasers. The talk turns to health and diet. ''You have to take all
that with a wee grain of salt,'' quips Mr McKay. Adds his friend:
''Salad's for rabbits. Haven't had one since I was a bunny.''
The two men laugh, then tally up the funerals they attended the month
before, eight in all. This prompts a recital of local slang for being
dead, or, as the Scots say it, ''deed.''
''Snuffed it,'' quips Mr McKay.
''Lights out,'' his friend fires back. ''Up the road.''
''He's pan-bread,'' Mr McKay says. Pan-breed. ''Or Sam Snead.''
Mr McKay, an obsese man of 39, then cheerfully reveals that he had a
coronary a year ago and was told to avoid booze and fried foods. He
hasn't. As he orders another round, he jokes: ''You can smell the clay
on me already.''