Back in the early noughties, the indoor smoking ban led to an outcry over “the nanny state”. The same happened when cigarette advertising was banned, and when manufacturers were required to plaster packs with images of diseased lungs. Yet over the past 40 years, according to Cancer Research, lung cancer rates in men have dropped by around 60 per cent. We may think we crave the rugged freedoms of the Marlboro Man, but given the facts, it turns out we don’t actually want to die.
And yet when it comes to alcohol, one of the world’s biggest killers, a key driver of cancers, heart disease, strokes and obesity, there are no images of rotting livers on the chilled Sauvignon. The presentation of booze in the supermarket aisles is as benign as kitchen roll and chicken pie. It’s described on restaurant menus with biblical reverence, it’s advertised on TV in a hazy, golden-hour glow, and every other greetings card carries a hilarious reference to the booze-addled nature of the recipient. It is both normalised and celebrated, despite being the fifth greatest risk factor for death in the UK.
Now, a group of major medical and health organisations have signed a letter to the Prime Minister calling for alcohol to carry explicit warnings that its consumption can cause cancer. The World Cancer Research Fund, which spearheaded the letter, cited “shockingly low” public awareness that alcohol raises the risk of seven types of cancer – these being breast, bowel, stomach, head, neck, liver and mouth – and insisted that “bold and unambiguous labelling” is urgently need to help save lives.
Token efforts have long been made by the industry to toe a wavering line of responsibility – the number of units a bottle of wine contains written in a font the size of a gnat’s IKEA instructions, or a glancing mention that pregnant women shouldn’t drink. According to the Advertising Standards Authority, “Lively, but responsible, social interaction or party scenes with alcohol present are allowed but…no behaviour may be adolescent or childish.” If only that diktat held true in real-life “party scenes.”
Initially, like much of Gen X and our wine-necking Boomer parents, I was resistant to the idea of cancer warnings. If I wanted to slowly kill myself in a responsible and socially acceptable manner, I felt it should be my choice to do so. But after another night of drinking slightly too much with friends, waking bathed in shame and a light prosecco sweat, I reconsidered. Women, particularly, are at risk of harm from alcohol, simply because we’re smaller. If every time I picked up the wine bottle to top up my glass – over a healthy dinner! So civilised! – it reminded me that I was increasing my risk of cancer, I suspect I might put it back down. Humans like to ignore the dangers when it’s something we want to do until it becomes impossible to turn a blind eye.
But this time, it’s not so much the consumers resisting warnings as the enormously powerful drinks industry. It’s already up against Gen Z’s wellbeing crusade, with a tsunami of kumbucha and kefir washing away the old-school shots and spirits from nights out. The risk of drinkers murmuring, “Actually, I don’t think I do want seven types of cancer” and switching the kettle on instead is a step too far.
A spokesperson for the Portman Group, which oversees UK alcohol labelling in the UK, says: “Whilst we do not dispute the link between alcohol and certain cancers… blanket cancer warning labels…can create unnecessary anxiety, eroding trust in health advice and alienating the very people who require support.’
As an argument, this is weaker than a sixth-form debating point scribbled on the bus. Imagine the motor industry saying, “Road signs create unnecessary anxiety. Let’s not warn people that they might crash, lest we alienate drivers.”
The spokesperson added that most alcohol products already include advice to limit drinking to 14 units a week, and claimed that “most people drink within guidelines.”
According to NHS Digital, however, 24 per cent of Brits drink more than this, while the charity Drinkaware has found that 32 per cent of men and 15 per cent of women regularly sink more than the recommended limit – and it is a limit, not a target. Doctors repeatedly warn that there is no safe level of alcohol consumption, and in April, the World Health Organisation advised that women should drink no alcohol at all to avoid a heightened risk of breast cancer.
I’m aware that even reading this is annoying. I share the general British resentment over finger-wagging admonishments from the Fun Police. I want to say, “You’ll prise my Picpoul from my cold, dead hand.” The only thing is, I’d rather not be cold and dead – and I’m increasingly convinced that warning labels can only be a good thing. Although, of course, we must be careful how we approach this new regime. After all, we wouldn’t want to alienate anybody.
