Oh do fuck off

On my commute to work I am surrounded daily by a truly terrifying quantity of Daily Mail readers. It gives me the fucking willies, I tell you.

Anyway, I’m not sure if it was a Mail-related magazine, or just some HELLO, OK, JUST FUCKING BUY ME type magazine designed to separate “beauty technicians” from their cash, but gazing slackly out at me from several glossy spreads this morning was the doughy face of Jade Goody, as the headlines blazed on about her “Toughest Test Yet” and how she has “always been a fighter”.

Do me a favour, and just fuck off, will you?

Yes, I know she has been diagnosed with cancer. Cervical cancer too, which must be an utter terror for women everywhere. Know what? My mother-in-law was diagnosed with bowel cancer a couple of years ago. The same kind that carried off my best mate’s mum a few years ago and another great friend’s dad a few years before that. They were both fighters, and they didn’t have lucrative TV and press deals to shore up the medical insurance. In fact, they didn’t have medical insurance. And now they are dead.

Cancer will kill a quarter of all people, at least in the UK. Think about that. Look around you now, and pick four people that you know really well. Now kill one of them. That’s cancer.

And yet we are invited to drop everything and care about someone more purely because they went on telly and demonstrated to the world how legendarily dense they are? Go jump off a fuck.

I am in fact sorry for Jade. It’s a fucking shame that anyone gets hit with the cancer stick. But I can feel that without 20-page spreads about her struggle, thanks.