Not just for Christmas

I adopted a pet at the weekend. Or, rather, a pet adopted me. It woke me up early on Sunday, tapping at the front door. When I opened the door, it rolled right through my legs and into the lounge where it keeled over by the radiator. Poor thing. It must be freezing.

It’s a giant Hula Hoop. 

Well, I say giant - it’s the size of a tennis ball so not that big really, but compared with a normal Hula Hoop it’s massive. 

I don’t know what flavour it is. Obviously I can’t just take a bite, and I suppose even a lick could be considered an indecent assault. Maybe I could tell by smelling it, but every time I try to pick it up, it rolls out of reach under the sofa. It’s skittish, that’s for sure. I’ll just have to bide my time and somehow gain its trust.
I have a feeling it’s been ostracised by the crisp community due to its size. Don’t ask me why, it’s just a hunch.
I think I’ll call it Barry. It’ll be nice to have a new addition at Christmas.

A parent speaks

Your mother and I are seriously concerned about your crisp problem for which we feel largely responsible.

Where did we go wrong? You were never dropped on your head when you were a baby; you were weaned onto solid food at an early age; you were given fluoride tablets; you watched "Knight Rider" and "The Dukes of Hazard"; we thought we gave you a balanced diet. Yes, we fed you crisps (not only ready salted but salt and vinegar and cheese and onion too), but never realised we were giving you a push down the slippery slope of addiction!

Perhaps if you had had at least one other sibling you might have learned to share and therefore avoided the excessive consumption of which we (uncaring parents) were never aware.

You have taken a very courageous step in attempting to rid yourself of this addiction.

Now having read your accounts of horrific experiences created by your overwrought brain in its attempts to protect itself from the even more horrific reality of a life without crisps by creating these imagined traumas, we are able to begin to understand what you are experiencing. The explosive crisp packets, the attacks you have imagined - attempts by crisps to attach themselves to your flesh - are the crisp-addict's equivalent of nicotine patches: an attempt to ease the pangs of withdrawal.

Things will get easier and you are not the first to have to face up to the problem which has existed for hundreds of years and affected some of the highest in the land. Shortly after mentioning a king and several dukes, Shakespeare speaks of crisps having had their day (Henry V, act 4, sc. 3): in other words, an addiction has been overcome.

At this time of year we are reminded of another famous king who was very seriously affected:

"Good King Wenceslas passed out

Eating crisps with Stephen".

In the end, he overcame his problem so well that he was made a saint, an example for others for all time! So the reward for perseverance can be tremendous. Stephen seems to have been forgotten by history but I would like to think that he made it as well.

Love and best wishes from you worried but hopeful parents!!

Fraternising with the enemy

I think it’s about time I contact the enemy to see what they think about our campaign and see what we can do for each other. Here’s a message I’m sending to as many crisp manufacturers as possible.

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Dear Crisp Manufacturer,

I’m writing to you with details of an exciting promotional opportunity that is sure to generate interest in your delicious products. I’m not a Nigerian with large quantities of money that need transferring out of the country, but merely a crisp addict who’s made the difficult decision to abandon crisps for a year.

That’s right, 365 days without crisps, with two of my colleagues. You can follow our progress here: http://www.365dayswithoutcrisps.blogspot.com. You won’t find a more popular blog about a year-long crisp abstention. ‘So what?’ you might ask. If I’m not buying crisps that means fewer sales. That’s bad, right?

Wrong. For two reasons:

1. The Cosmic Crisp Consumption Quota (CCCQ) - if someone starts eating fewer crisps, someone else will eat more to make up the shortfall. It’s a fascinating but poorly understood phenomenon.

2. Crispageddon - the day when our crisp drought comes to an end and we go mental. It’s here where you come in because at this point a difficult decision will have to be made. What crisps should we eat first? That first packet is bound to be special and could spark off a life-long love affair. It's potentially very lucrative for you.

So my challenge to you is to come up with a reason why we should pick your crisps to celebrate out victorious feat of willpower. Complete the sentence below in less than 50 words:

“The first packet of crisps eaten on Crispageddon should be [name of your crisps here] because...”

We’re asking other major crisp manufacturers to do the same thing, and the entry we judge to be the most humorous, philosophical or just plain spot on the money will be crowned the Official Crispageddon Crisp. It’s a rare honour, so think of all the kudos and publicity, to say nothing of getting one over your competitors.

We’re also raising money for the British Heart Foundation, an organisation that is surely no stranger to unrecovered crisp addicts, so there’s an ethical dimension to our challenge.

I look forward to hearing from you.

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I'll post any responses I get. 

Death By Crisps II

Wednesday evening in The Spread Eagle.
“Same again?” I point to my companion’s empty glass.
“Yeah.”
As the barmaid pulls two more pints, I glance around. It’s pretty quiet tonight. Two young women I’ve not seen before start laughing at a nearby table. They’re fashionable; too fashionable and pretty to avoid drawing attention to themselves. I notice a couple of the regulars staring - weather-beaten, wiry men with musty leather jackets and too much blue denim.

Bob’s sat at the bar as usual. No matter what day you go in, he’s always there, hunched over his pint of mild like a morose panda, his dyed, slicked back hair shining in the spotlights. He never says a word, never even has to ask for another drink: the barmaid has one ready whenever he finishes. I know he’s married, and I wonder what his wife does during those long, frequent evenings he’s here. Bingo with friends? Watching TV? Or sat stony-faced staring out of the bedroom window? Maybe that’s just what happens to a marriage when you both hit your 50s.

A shout makes me turn.
One of the young women is standing up, holding a packet of crisps over her face and making a muffled screech. What the hell? Then I realise she’s not holding it in place, she’s trying to pull it off.
The packet is attacking her.
Her friend jumps up and tries to help. Woman no.1’s screech turns into a bona fide scream as she tugs at the packet, her friend pulling too. They struggle for a few moments, the people in the pub staring in bewilderment, until abruptly the packet does come off, and the woman’s scream doubles in intensity. Her face is a glossy, deep red and for a split second I wonder why she’s painted herself with lipstick.
It’s blood, you idiot.
I glance at the packet still in her hand. It’s writhing and struggling to escape from her shock-fuelled grip, and I notice something stuck to the side of it. Something red and floppy, like a dripping cloth. I stare back at the woman’s face and realise what it is. Not a cloth.
Skin.
The packet of crisps pulled half her face off.
Her friend vomits over the table then collapses in a faint.
The sound of smashing glass from the bar makes me turn away from the horror. The vision that greets me is less gruesome than the faceless woman but is enough to make my insides condense into a lump of ice.
The display of crisps and nuts has come away from the wall, and packets are leaping onto the counter. More spring up from the boxes underneath. Lots more.
The barmaid is overwhelmed in seconds, dragged down out of view, her screams cut short with shocking speed.
A packet of Nobby’s Nuts flops down and begins firing out chilli-flavoured pellets so fast they’re just a blur. An old couple are hit in the forehead and drop like marionettes with their strings cut.
A different packet flops down on the counter and swivels to face me. The end rips open and a flat disc shoots out towards my head. Instinctively, I put my hand up and feel a sharp tugging sensation. When I look, I see that the top half of my forefinger is missing. Blood is pumping out in a small, steady jet.
Oh. My. God.
There’s a whitish powder round the stump. I can’t help but brush it with the forefinger on my other hand and taste it. Salt and vinegar. Very strong salt and vinegar. My finger was severed by a Salt and Vinegar Disco - the most harshly flavoured crisp ever created. My brain realises what’s going to happen a millisecond before it actually happens.
The burn.
The agonizing burn as the flavouring seeps into my open wound like paint-stripper, and the pain shoots half-way up my arm. I clutch my injured hand and stagger sideways.
What follows next is nothing short of a massacre.

A woman screams.
I look up, and she has a hand over her eye, blood seeping out from underneath her fingers. Another victim of Nobby’s Nuts.
Someone bumps into me and I go sprawling over a table. My eyes alight on the chair opposite, and I’m staring at a pack of Mini Cheddars. It stares back, twitching slightly as if it’s shocked to see me in such an inviting and vulnerable position. But before it can pounce I roll off and land heavily on the floor at the feet of my drinking companion. He’s slumped back in his chair staring into infinity with glazed eyes, his throat split wide open. A tell-tale sprinkle of white powder surrounds the crimson wound. As I watch in horror, the packet of Mini Cheddars leaps up onto his chest. My friend’s neck starts pulsating grotesquely as the packet burrows its way into the wound until only a corner is visible. A small, detached part of my mind can’t help but notice the irony in his gruesome demise - he’s a horror writer with a penchant for gore.
“Open the fucking door!” someone yells. It’s Bob. Bob who never says anything. He’s standing in the middle of the pub clutching a half-broken pint glass. His face is a grimace, a few strands of oily hair stuck to his forehead. A packet hurls itself through the air towards him, but he disembowels it with a swipe of his glass and it drops to the floor shedding crisps.
Someone rattles the doors. “They’re stuck!” Not the best night for a lock-in, I think blackly.
“Kick them in!” snarls Bob, lashing out like King Kong atop the Empire State Building as more packets throw themselves at him.
A single blow to the doors, and then another scream. No more door rattling.
My legs give way as shock and blood loss begin to take their toll, and I slide down the wall by the fruit machine. By the time Bob finally succumbs to the assault, the last man standing, everything’s going grey and fuzzy before my eyes. A horde of Quavers is advancing menacingly, but they won’t find much resistance from me.
Last orders at the bar.

Commuter dreamzone

I’m pretty tired at the moment.

A combination of having a five-month-old son and staying up too late watching (frequently strange) films means that, on the bus to and from work, I’II often enter that weird dozing dream state, where time slows to a crawl and you’re neither fully awake nor fully asleep. The noises around you still permeate your brain but they become ‘dreamified’ and incorporated into a surreal experience.

So the drone of traffic becomes a hypnotic soundtrack to the alien-like jabberings of other passengers. Mobile phone ringtones and the subsequent ‘Hello?’ become radio transmissions through space, and the rhythmic vibrations of the bus itself become the thrust of a rocket’s hyperdrive.

Then the bus brakes suddenly and you jerk awake, slowly becoming aware of the drool on your chin.

Take all that and throw in crisp withdrawal and it’s only a matter of time before I’m subjected to a nightmarish, potato-based experience.

Edit: Oh bloody hell. I've just turned on The Apprentice and it's about making and selling crisps. Currywurst crisps. Lord Sugar, you utter *beep*.

An apology...and introspection

It’s been well over a month since the last update, which is an unacceptably long hiatus in blog terms. Apologies to my avid reader(s).

I’m sure some of you will be suspicious - have I failed and simply been unable to make the confession? Did I crack one evening and scoff an entire 12-pack of McCoy’s, crying at my capitulation and yet unable to stop shovelling the flame-grilled flavoured ridged crisps into my mouth?

Happily, the answer is no. I’ve not cracked and, in fact, my resolve is stronger than ever.

But recently I've been watching the widget on the right count down to Crispageddon, the blowout to celebrate our year-long crisp drought. It's quite hypnotic. But it's also another countdown - when it finishes I'll be another year older. Another year closer to the grave.

I'm at that stage in life when those feelings of immortality you have as a child and young adult have faded and you become increasingly aware of your body's fragile existence, of your finite lifespan. You are an ageing organic entity, at the mercy of disease and physical trauma. The little things you notice: grey hairs, creaking knees, the time it takes to recover from a hangover, the severity of a hangover. And also those sad tales of people you know, people your age with life-threatening illnesses, struck down and struggling to survive. That hits you like a blow from an ice block. You are mortal.

Will abstaining for a year have any measurable impact on my life span? Maybe it’ll extend it by a couple of minutes. I wonder, when you get right to the end, what would you give to spend just a little more time to be with loved ones? Would you ask for more life, like Roy Batty in Blade Runner?

Anyway. To lighten the mood, I’ll leave you with a poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. It’s a beautiful and well-known sonnet, widely understood to be about the man who would go on to become her husband - Robert Browning - but which, in fact, is about her love affair with crisps.

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height

My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight

For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.

I love thee to the level of everyday's

Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.

I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;

I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.

I love thee with a passion put to use

In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.

I love thee with a love I seemed to lose

With my lost saints, --- I love thee with the breath,

Smiles, tears, of all my life! --- and, if God choose,

I shall but love thee better after death.

Death by Crisps I

The supermarket’s deserted.

The lights are on, the shelves are stacked but there’s nobody home. I walk slowly along the brightly-lit aisles, feeling like the last man in a post-apocalyptic world, albeit one with fresh food and electricity. I normally loathe supermarkets, but I’m surprised at how enjoyable I’m finding this. Maybe it’s not the shop but the shoppers I loathe, with their annoying trolly habits and gluttonous insistence on stockpiling discounted food.

The rattling hum of the chiller cabinets fades as I walk towards the deli counter, drawn by the mouthwatering selection of fresh produce. It’s normally out of my price range except for special occasions, but not today, I think, as I pick up a whole salami and take a bite.

Let the orgy commence.

Halfway through a tub of anchovy-stuffed olives, I hear a noise. A scratchy, rustling noise.

I turn round, swallowing a mouthful of olives, but can’t see anything.

The rustling gets louder, then a movement near the ground draws my attention.

A packets of crisps sticks its head round the end of an aisle and stares at me.

Wait.

Packets of crisps don’t have heads. Or eyes. And yet I just know it’s sizing me up.

Slowly, as if trying to avoid startling a wild animal, I put the tub of olives on the deli counter and step back.

The packet carries on staring...then starts walking towards me. It makes a sharp, crinkling rustle as it totters along on its bottom corners.

It stops a couple of feet in front of me and looks up like an inquisitive squirrel.

Ready Salted Walkers.

It starts twisting and squashing itself, like it’s doing some strange exercise. I can hear the crunching sound of crisps being broken.

Without warning, the packet rips open as if by invisible hands and vomits its contents with surprising force into my face.

My sluggish reflexes don’t protect me as hundreds of tiny shards of salty crisps fly into my eyes and nose, and embed into the delicate sensory tissues.

I stagger back, gasping at the pain, eyes scrunched so tightly I see exploding circles of light like supernovae, tears and snot streaming down my cheeks, coughing, choking, helpless. It stings, by God, it stings!

It’s like I’m nowhere, completely unaware of my surroundings, where there’s no time and I exist only in my head, stuffed full of pain.

Eventually, I find myself again and open my aching wet eyes.

The light seems unreal.

I’m leaning against a shelf stacked with eggs. A couple of boxes are on the floor, egg white seeping out.

The empty packet of crisps lies a few feet away, twitching feebly.

And...oh God.

Behind it, in row after row, are hundreds more packets. All Ready Salted Walkers, all still, all staring at me.

I’m surrounded.

For a moment, I see the funny side of this surreal situation, and let out a nervous giggle, but it doesn’t sound good in the empty supermarket.

A rustling sound, like wind in the trees. Are they talking to each other?

Come ON! They’re only crisp packets. The first one took me by surprise, that’s all.

I lurch forward and stamp on the nearest packet. There’s a crunch and it opens with a pop. Two more get the same treatment, then something hits the back of my head. No, something’s hanging on to the back of my head!

I reach round and pull off the packet, glancing briefly at it wriggling in my hand before throwing it away. But as soon as it hits the floor, it’s up and running back into the fray.

That seems to be the cue for a mass attack. Packets leap up at me from all directions.

I brush them off violently and stomp around as much as I can, taking grim satisfaction from the crunch underfoot, but the tide is great, and for every packet I stomp, two more jump up at me. How the hell do they hang on?

I let our a roar and lash out like I’m in a drunken mosh pit. Packets go flying.

Then one jumps right into my face

Reeling back, I claw at its smooth exterior, but in an instant my feet go flying as I step into the spilt egg white.

I land with a crunch - more packets destroyed - but they don’t cushion the fall, and I let out a cry as pain shoots across my hip.

As if sensing my weakened state and exposed position, the packets go into a frenzy and renew their assault.

I stand no chance.

My screams fill the empty supermarket, and for a long time after the only sound is the harsh rustling of crisp packets.

This time, it sounds like chewing.

Milestone

That's it.

The first major milestone has been reached: one month without crisps.

For those of you who thought we'd crack by this point, I have just one thing to say: how do you like them pommes de terre?

11 months to go. Bring them ON.

Although having written that, I realise we're approaching the dark months, literally and figuratively. Literally, because the clocks go back and the night will draw in sooner. Figuratively, because as a result of the changing hours our resolve will face its sternest test - we all know what horrors await when evening arrives. When it's cold outside and the wind moans past the window. It's comfort-eating season, and what's more comforting than eating deep fried potato slices? Well, eating deep fried potato slices under a slanket.

Yeah, that's right, I've worn a slanket. And a pink one at that. What are you going to do about it - take away my bag of Flame Grilled Steak McCoy's Man Crisps?

Seduction

"Hey, Nick," she says, voice thick with mischief. She's staring at me intently.

Oh boy, I think. This is something else.

"It's pretty quiet here."

"Uh-huh," I say, nodding. For God's sake.

"Too quiet for my tastes. And it's warm too."

She leans back in her chair and undoes the top button of her blouse in one graceful move, eyes never leaving me. I swallow hard.

"I've been thinking about you a lot recently."

"That's good," I mumble. "It's nice to be in someone's mind."

"Oh yes," she replies. "It's nice to be wanted, but...it’s even better to be had."

A punching feeling as my stomach flips about.

Her eyes bore into mine. "Don’t you agree?"

I do a half-laugh, half-smile thing. I want to slap my face, I'm so embarrassed being me.

“I think it’s time we got serious,” she says, leaning forward again, hand raised...

(this is it!)

... and she reaches up to her face and starts to peel it off, like in Mission: Impossible.

Only underneath it's not Tom Cruise, it's the psychotic, grinning pink Monster Munch monster.

"Nooooo!" I lurch to my feet and reel backwards, but the chair leg catches mine, and I stumble to the floor painfully.

The monster looms over me, laughing like a retarded troll, and then it's waving an open packet of crisps in front of my face. Pickled onion flavour, of course.

The bastard.

I scream. And wake.

My son stands in front of the bed, alarmed.

"You OK, dad?"

"Yeah, uh...just a bad dream."

340 days to go. Jesus.

Britain: a nation obsessed

I had grand plans for an in-depth article about just how crazy we are for crisps, but someone at the Guardian got there before me a few weeks ago.

I'll take one stat from the article: on average we eat 150 packets of crisps a year. No-one can match us, except perhaps the Americans. We're obsessed by them. Crisps with sandwiches, crisps in sandwiches, crisps in a bowl watching TV, crisps on the bus, crisps at a picnic or barbecue, crisps while reading the paper, crisps in the pub, crisps at home after the pub.

The most I ever had in one sitting was eight packets of ready salted Hula Hoops one night in the college bar. A small group of us got through a whole 48-packet box, and I even kept one ripped side of the box for a few years as a memento of the historic achievement. What a loser. You wouldn't get students in France or Spain doing that.

Since starting the challenge, three colleagues have told me they've started to eat more crisps than normal, but couldn't tell me exactly why. It's as if there's a cosmic crisp consumption quota that has to be filled in order to prevent the universe from collapsing in on itself, like an empty crisp packet shrivelling up when thrown on a fire, and we British seem to instinctively know when there's a shortfall.

If I was more of a nationalistic person, I'd spin our unhealthy addiction into a Daily Mail-esque headline about how this great country is single-handedly preventing a premature Big Crunch by scoffing our way through 6 billion packets a year. And all this heroism despite the avalanche of illegal foreign savoury foodstuffs that are threatening to destroy our proud snacking heritage.

So for those of you who aren't sure what to eat when you next get a hunger pang, just remember: eat crisps, save the universe.

They mostly come at night. Mostly.

One week in and it’s not too bad during the day. Just focus on those menial tasks, keep talking, make endless cups of coffee - anything to stop your mind from drifting into that dangerous territory and your hand absently searching the desk drawer.

But at night... the horror, the horror! As the sun sets and the curtains are drawn, they slowly emerge, laying siege to your resolve and testing your mental defences with their Siren-like enchanted calling. (Editor’s note: insert picture of a singing, bikini-clad crisp)

The cravings are here.

Relentlessly, they seek for a weak spot in which to drive their sharp, poisonous talons. Smokers have nicotine patches, heroin addicts have methadone, sex addicts have...cold showers. But what can wretched crispites call upon to act as a crutch?

At first glance, we appear well served, but this year-long abstinence is more than just obeying the letter of the law; the spirit must be upheld too. A good rule of thumb is if you can buy it in a pub, it’s banned.

So Twiglets - banned. Mini Cheddars - banned. Dry roasted, salted or chili nuts - banned, banned, banned. The aforementioned pork scratchings - banned so hard that they squeal.

But the snacks that remain are simply too virtuous and too bland to fill that crunchy, salty, fatty vacuum. We’re taking raw, unsalted nuts. Rice crackers. Oat cakes. Of course, they’re nutritious and it’s hard to argue against their inclusion in a well-balanced diet. But crisps have never been about nutrition and balanced diets. They’re junk. And as any junkie will tell you, there’s nothing like the hit of the real thing.

Day 2: Rationale

It's about thresholds.

With pretty much all foods, there's a breaking point. A point where one more bite is one too many, a line which says 'If you cross me, I'm going to render you physically dysfunctional for the rest of the day. It's up to you.' It's with alarming frequency that I'm punished by culinary excess - first the brain slows, then the physical lethargy sets in, and I know it's not long before I'm going to be reduced to a useless, sofa-bound wreck. I suppose I should learn. Every time I go for that third sandwich I should stop and realise what it's going to do to me. But I can't. Food is Too Great.

With crisps, it's different. The only thing that limits my crisp intake is immediate accessibility. I can and will keep going until there's nothing left - no crumbs, no solitary grains of flavouring, nothing.

I can only imagine that watching me eat crisps is akin to watching a Henry Hoover at work, but with the 'I'm here to help' friendly smile replaced by the wide-eyed, deranged visage of a madman. Nothing will stop me, not even the weary complaints of friends and family that 'the-industrial-sized-bag-of-crisps-I-just-opened-has-already-all-gone-and-I-didn't-get-any-I'm-never-buying-crisps-again-I-actually-can't-believe-you-ate-that-many-so-selfish-etc-etc-etc'. I just can't stop.


I read recently that it takes 20 minutes for a potato to become a Walker's crisp packet, and got to wondering how many packets I could get through in that time. It's an alarming thought. So when I saw that Nick was going cold turkey, I decided to seize the opportunity. (This was quickly followed by waves of panic, insecurity and general confusion, but…I’m sticking with it).

I must admit that when people ask 'Why?!' (the interrobang is seemingly mandatory in asking this question), I'm not sure I have a great answer. It's not really for health reasons - I know that crisps are entirely awful for you, but I’m only going to replace them with biscuits, chocolate, doughnuts, and variations thereon. It’s not financial, because frankly I’m completely happy to piss hundreds of pounds up the wall on crisps as long as it gives me that kick.

Really it’s just to see if I can. It’s the ultimate test of willpower, something which I’m generally not very good at.

So…Let the Great Experiment begin!

ps For the record, my favourite crisps are as follows:

1. Walkers Prawn Cocktail
2. McCoy’s Salt & Vinegar (the stronger the better)
3. Honey BBQ Kettle Chips
4. Quavers
5. Paprika Walkers Max

Day 1: The challenge begins

Crisps. The succubi of the snack world.

Pity the poor addict, such a wretched being. He's helpless to resist the titillating shapes, the alluring textures, the provocative flavours. But beyond such base pleasure lies only a fate of obesity, hypertension and coronary heart disease.

The addict cradles the packet carefully, wary of causing unnecessary breakage. He opens it with practiced fingers, and pulls out the first slice of fried gold. He sighs as the crispness yields to his teeth and the first wave of that glorious salty grease caresses his tongue.

Soon, too soon, the packet's empty. It was nothing, just air and a few crumbs. A second packet follows, and it's then the fever hits. Like a Victorian cad tugging at the bodice of a breathless wench, the bug-eyed addict rips open the third packet, his lust driving him beyond all thoughts of rational control. Maybe he tears through a fourth; it's all a half-remembered blur by this point.

Finally, his stinging taste buds short-circuited from the savage assault, the addict slumps to the floor and wipes the crumbs from his face with shiny fingers. He contemplates the empty packets with mounting guilt. They stare back at him as if mocking his pathetic weakness. Silently, he squashes them into the bin. He avoids looking in the mirror as he brushes his teeth. Such a wretched being.

But enough is enough. It's time to make a stand.

Our challenge: go a whole year without eating a single crisp. Or, indeed, any foreign variation on the crisp. The obligatory poppadoms and pickle tray while browsing the menu at an Indian restaurant. The grease-spotted brown paper bag of prawn crackers from the Chinese take away. The harsh triangularity of the corn tortilla. And definitely no hairy pork scratchings.

There are doubts, oh yes. Will we need restraining when approaching the aisle of doom in the supermarket? Will we fail due to a momentary lapse at a child's birthday party. And of course there’s the biggest test of them all - the post-work visit to the pub.

But we can do it. There's money at stake - charity money. And, more importantly, there's pride. It's a matter of public record now: 365 days without crisps.

They begin today.