PEOPLE with at least three years of higher education are at greater risk for cancerous brain tumours than those with no more than nine years of schooling, perplexed researchers said last month.
“There is a 19 per cent increased risk that university-educated men could be diagnosed with glioma,” said Amal Khanolkar, a scientist at the Institute of Child Health (ICH) in London and lead author of a study in the Journal of Epidemiology and Community.
For women, the risk rose by 23 per cent.
“It was a surprising result, which is difficult to explain,” Khanolkar said. In reality, the increase in risk is minimal because such brain tumours are rare.
At the lowest level of education, the chances of glioma were reported at five in 3,000.
At the other end of the educational spectrum, the odds increased to six in 3,000. But the question remained as to whether the gap was real and, if so, what caused it.
Earlier research exploring a possible link between education or social level, on the one hand, and the frequency of brain tumours, on the other, had been inconclusive.
To “put to rest” conflicting findings, Khanolkar and colleagues at Karolinska Institutet medical university in Stockholm used a new approach. Rather than comparing a small number of brain tumour patients with healthy individuals, they sifted through the health records of 4.3 million adults tracked by the Swedish public health system from 1993 to 2011.
The researchers distinguished between three kinds of brain tumours – two of them non-cancerous – with different causes. The strong link between education level and tumour incidence held for all three types, but was strongest for deadly gliomas. An even higher risk gap was found between lowincome manual labourers and high-income men and women who did not work with their hands.
Gliomas are malignant brain tumours that grow rapidly and cause severe symptoms, including migraines, nausea and memory loss. The survival rate is very low. The study did not seek to explain the link between higher education and tumours, nor did it
consider the potential impact of environmental and lifestyle factors, such as smoking or alcohol consumption. The most common explanation for risk levels that rise with years spent in the classroom is that people with a higher education or income “have
a better awareness of symptoms,” Khanolkar concluded. This would mean they are more likely to seek help and receive a correct diagnosis. But while this may be true in a country with a health system that clearly favours the well-to-do, the argument is far less convincing in the Swedish context, the researchers said.
“Sweden has a universal, tax-based health care system,” said Khanolkar. Everybody has roughly the same access to treatment. Moreover, gliomas form very rapidly – often within 48 hours – and are excruciatingly painful. “The symptoms are not avoidable – you can’t sit at home and not seek care,” he said.
The team will canvass an updated version of the database for possible correlations between ethnicity and brain tumour risk. Underlying genetic variation in populations from different geographic regions could be a factor, Khanolkar acknowledged.
One expert, commenting on the study, pointed to other possible culprits. “Two additional factors which might be of interest are height and, in women, hormone replacement therapy (HRT),” said James Green, a clinical epidemiologist at the University of Oxford.
“Risk of brain tumours – as of most cancers – is higher in taller people, and taller people tend to be richer and more educated,” he noted. “
HRT increases risk of brain tumours, and its use varies by socio-economic group.”
Jay's grandma’s popcorn from Gujarat is now selling out everywhere.
Ditched the influencer route and began posting hilarious videos online.
Available in Sweet Chai and Spicy Masala, all vegan and gluten-free
Jayspent 18 months on a list. Thousands of names. Influencers with follower counts that looked like phone numbers. He was going to launch his grandmother's popcorn the right way: send free bags, wait for posts, pray for traction. That's the playbook, right? That's what you do when you're a nobody selling something nobody asked for.
Then one interaction made him snap. The entitlement. The self-importance. The way some food blogger treated his family's recipe like a favour they were doing him. He looked at his spreadsheet. Closed it. Picked up his phone and decided to burn it all down.
Now he makes videos mocking the same people he was going to beg for help. Influencers weeping over the wrong luxury car. Creators demanding payment for chewing food on camera. Someone having a breakdown about ice cubes. And guess what? The internet ate it up. His popcorn keeps selling out. And from Gujarat, his grandmother's 60-year-old recipe is now moving units because her grandson got mad enough to be funny about it.
Jay’s grandma’s popcorn from Gujarat is now selling out everywhere Instagram/daadisnacks
The kitchen story
Daadi means grandmother in Hindi. Jay's daadi came to America from Gujarat decades ago. Every weekend, she made popcorn with the spices she grew up with, including cardamom, cinnamon, and chilli mixes. It was her way of keeping home close while living somewhere that didn't taste like it.
Jay wanted that in stores. Wanted brown faces in the snack aisle. It didn’t happen overnight. It took a couple of years to get from a family recipe to something they could actually sell. Everyone pitched in, including his grandmom, uncle, mum. The spices come from small local farmers. There are just two flavours for now, Sweet Chai and Spicy Masala. It’s all vegan and gluten-free, packed in bright bags that instantly feel South Asian.
The videos don't look like marketing. They look like someone venting at 11 PM after scrolling too long. He nails the nasal influencer voice. The fake sympathy. “I can’t believe this,” he says in that exaggerated influencer tone, “they gave me the cheaper car, only eighty grand instead of one-twenty.” That clip alone blew up, pulling in close to nine million views.
Most people don't know they're watching a snack brand. They think it's social commentary. Jay never calls himself an influencer. He says he’s a creator, period. There’s a difference, and he makes sure people know it. His TikTok has around three hundred thousand followers, Instagram about half that. The comments read like a sigh of relief, people fed up with fake polish, finally hearing someone say what everyone else was thinking.
This fits into something called deinfluencing; people pushing back against the buy-everything-trust-nobody cycle. But Jay's version has teeth. He's naming names, calling out the economics. Big venture money flows to chains with good lighting. Family businesses with actual stories get ignored because their content isn't slick enough.
Jay watched his New York neighbourhood change. Chains moved in. Influencers posted about places that had funding and were aesthetic. The old spots, the family ones, got left behind. His videos are about that gap. The erosion of local culture by money and aesthetics.
"Big chains and VC-funded businesses are promoted at the expense of local ones," he said. His content doesn't just roast influencers. It promotes other small food makers who can't afford to play the game. He positions Daadi as a defender of something real against something plastic.
And it's working. Not just philosophically. Financially. The videos drive traffic. People click through, try the popcorn, come back. The company can't keep stock. That's the proof.
Daadi popcorn features authentic Gujarat flavours like Sweet Chai and Spicy Masala, all vegan and gluten-free Daadi Snacks
The blowback
People unfollow because they think he's too harsh. Jay's take: "I would argue I need to be meaner."
In May, he posted that he's not chasing content creation money like most people at his follower count. "I post to speak my mind and help my family's snack biz." That's a different model. Most brands pay influencers to make everything look perfect. They chase viral polish, and Jay does the opposite. In fact, he weaponises rawness and treats criticism like a product feature.
The internet mostly backs him. Reddit threads light up with support. One commenter was "toxic influencers choking on their matcha lattes searching their Balenciaga bags." Another: "Influencers are boring and unoriginal and can get bent." The anger is shared. Jay simply gave it a microphone and a snack to buy.
Jay's success says something about where things are going. People are done with curated perfection. They can smell the artificiality now. They respond to brands that feel like humans rather than committees. Daadi doesn't sell aspiration. Doesn't sell a lifestyle. Sells popcorn and a point of view.
The quality matters, including the spices, the sourcing, and the family behind it. But the edge matters too. He’s not afraid to say what most brands tiptoe around. “We just show who we are,” Jay says. “No pretending, no gloss. People can feel that and that’s when they reach for the popcorn.”
Most small businesses can't afford to play the traditional game. Can't pay influencers. Can't hire agencies. Can't fake their way into feeds. Maybe they don't need to. Maybe honesty and humour can cut through if they're sharp enough. If the product backs it up. If the story is real and the person telling it isn't trying to sound like a PR script.
This started with a list Jay didn't use. The business took off the moment he stopped trying to play by the usual rules and started speaking his mind. Turns out, honesty sells. And yes, the popcorn really does taste good.
Daadi Snacks merch dropInstagram/daadisnacks
The question is whether this scales. Whether other small businesses watch this and realise they don't need to beg for attention from people who don't care. Right now, Daadi keeps selling out. People keep watching. The grandmother's recipe that was supposed to need influencer approval is doing fine without it. Better than fine. Turns out the most effective marketing strategy might just be giving a damn and not being afraid to show it.
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