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.