Fully covered

Standing in front of the student at Boots, two packets of Imodium and anti-bacterial wetwipes in front of you on the counter. Do you:

(a) explain it is precautionary because you are about to catch a flight to Kilimanjaro; or
(b) let her assume you have overdone it severely at Christmas?

Not yet nervous, I confess not knowing what to expect is causing me some concern. Have I got enough stuff? Have I got too much stuff? Will I be warm enough? Will I overheat when not on the mountain? It's too late now - I leave in 30 minutes.

On the positive side my beard is just about adequate. look at photos of successful mountain climbers of years gone, they almost all have admirable beards. Therefore (QED) all you need to climb a mountain is a beard. I am only hiking up a mountain, which is fortunate because I can only achieve an unkempt and patchy chin covering but I think that will be enough. That and the goretex jacket Edward rushed home for yesterday. There was a bit of concern when it was discovered I was planning on going onto the snowy -10 degrees (-16 with windchill) peak without a coat.

The cost of being polite

It had to happen at some point - a challenge that failed through not even taking part.

I had written two poems that I thought would at least not be considered rubbish. One of them even name checked Ronnie Rosenthal. I had practiced reading them out loud (alone) and almost knew them well enough not to need them written in front of me. I went to the venue to register at 7pm exactly as instructed. I paid £6 to go in and as I walked through to the foyer an announcement was made to queue at a table for registration. Out of politeness I let a few others in front of me in the queue, assuming we would all get to take part. I got to the front of the queue, I was told I was 14th and there were only 12 places. I put my name down as second reserve but it clearly wasn't happening. I had somewhere else I could be so stayed and watched the first couple of people and left.

Manners cost me my chance. If I had not let the woman with purple ribbon in her hair and the man with an artistic goatee in front of me I would be regaling you with a tale of how women were stunned and men swooned at my revolutionary use of a novel variation on iambic pentameter. I am disappointed, of course. That disappointment is tempered by relief. The standard of the people I saw was phenomenal and they did not read from paper. I would have been embarrassed. However, I am going to do this, it will be outside the challenge year but I am going back, this time with them properly memorised.

The only thing we have to fear is poetry

Whilst the order may vary the content of a list of the most common phobias is quite predictable - it's a category I would chose to play on Family Fortunes. I'm confident that spiders, flying, heights, death, open spaces, enclosed spaces, vomit, snakes and water would all be included. The raspberry wouldn't come for a while.

If I have a phobia I am not sure what it is I quite like water, spiders and snakes and have something of a talent for being sick. Spaces of any kind are irrelevant to me. I just accept the others as being part of life (except death which I suppose is not part of life per se but the two things are traditionally closely connected).

Public speaking will be on that list too. Most people get nervous before public speaking, that is not a phobia that is normal. At some point for some people the nerves must get uncontrollable and then it becomes a phobia. I don't now when that is but what I do know that I am metaphorically crapping myself at the thought of tonight's challenge. A poetry slam. Standing up in front of a group of strangers, performing a poem I have written and then being judged on that poem and performance. It's beyond public speaking. Nobody has ever scored one of my speeches. Also I'd be a lot happier if I thought my poems were any good and if I had ever seen or heard a slam poem before.

Part of me is hoping that I will be too late to register (you can only sign up on the evening), part of me is thinking about just not bothering, part of me is saying this is the point of the challenge year get on with it. I have to answer a crucial question, what is worse - the fear of the challenge, the fear of failure or the fear of not trying?

The Money Shot

What do (approximately) 4,000 people attempt, 1,400 achieve and 100 die doing each year?

What do I have in common with Gary Barlow, Ronan Keating, Alesha Dixon, Chris Moyles and a few other "celebs" that I can't be bothered to remember?

What was the main character doing that led to his death in a short story by Earnest Hemingway that I read years ago and made this an ambition of mine?

What challenge is going to see the culmination of this year?

Answer to all 4: Climbing Kilimanjaro (in the case of the celebs put "planning on" before the answer, otherwise it just doesn't make sense).

If all goes well I will be standing on the roof of Africa on my 31st birthday, if it doesn't I will have spent a lot of money on a wasted trip. And possibly be dead. And, even worse, face the rest of my life knowing that Chris Moyles (potentially) has achieved something I couldn't. I'm thinking bear traps might be the answer. Even if I don't get Moyles I might manage to take out enough people to stop a couple of reality shows next year.

Chilling Out in Kent

PE lessons during winter usually meant football or rugby. For someone like me, who enjoys playing football and rugby, those were good days. The bad days were when the pitches were frozen or waterlogged. That tended to indicate cross-country runs.

“What about dodgeball, sir?” someone would ask. Others agreed. The gym was a far more appealing option than the cold and/or wet outdoors.

“Yes. Sir, that way you can join in, it’s always better if you play too”. A PE teacher, pretty much by definition, is competitive. He would play to win, regardless of whether the opponent was a grown man in Sunday League football or a group of snot leaking 13 year olds, awkward in their barely pubescent bodies, running around the school gym as the teacher hurled day-glo fluffy footballs at their heads. A good lesson involved knocking the inch thick glasses of the nose of the least sporting child in the class.

Sometimes this schoolboy psychology worked. Sometimes it didn’t. When it didn’t you would spend maybe thirty minutes of your school day splashing, slipping and tripping around muddy fields with number fingers and saturated trainers. You actually looked forward to communal school showers, poorly cut school uniform and, in several years time, leaving school, to never having to face a winter cross country run again.

Never.

Never?

150 people in Kings Wood, Churrock Hill, Kent had forgotten the teenage oath. Or maybe it had been worded wrongly because with heavy settling snow and gusting northerly winds it certainly felt like hell was freezing over. Paul (dongoling Paul, not 3 Men in a Boat Paul) and I had hidden in the car for as long as possible, watching the thermometer fluctuate around freezing, me ruing not having gloves, Paul ruing not having long sleeves (he didn’t seem to have an issue with shorts). But you can’t hide for ever and at 9 o’clock the rasce started.

The first running lap, of two miles, wasn’t too bad. The snow had just settled and was a bit slippery but you could maintain a grip. I started quickly in the hope I would warm up, most people had the same idea. I slowed down for fear of being too tired to cope with what was to come. Most people seemed to do the same. My time for this leg was 17:25, it placed me 57th.

Next came the cycle. Three laps to give a total distance of ten miles. I had been worrying about my knees but needn’t have wasted the energy. My body had gone so numb by the time half the first lap was complete I could not feel anything at all. My strategy was simple, hold onto the handlebars as tightly as possible and only when absolutely necessaryy pull the brake or change gear. The cycling was proper mountain biking, with some very technical parts. I’m not an experienced mountain biker. And by that I mean I have mountain biked once before in my life, going down a volcano in Guatemala about 8 years ago. My previous experience also involved riding a mountain bike and no snow. In this case I was on a cyclo-cross bike in the snow. The big advantage of cyclo-cross bikes generally is that they are light and skid over the surface. On steep hills you just get off and run up the hill with them over your shoulder. The disadvantage is that they are light and skid over the surface, so if you are technically incompetent and riding on snow it is kind of like ice-skating down hill, you spend most of your time trying to slow down and hoping you can maintain your balance next time you skid out of control. Also, if you are going mountain biking during a snow fall it is a good idea to wear untinted glasses, this will stop you being blinded by the flakes as you cycle into the wind.

With each lap the snow and mud got churned up a bit more, I had given up racing and focused solely on survival. I made no attempt to overtake anybody and let others go past me because the idea of manoeuvring with other cyclists close in front or behind was too unappealing. Finally, the third lap was over. What had been a very slow lap became even slower in transition, my fingers were so numb that I could not remove my helmet. I found a guy who had finished the race and asked him to help me, he kindly obliged, telling me he had kept his helmet on for the run because he had the same problem. Total time for the cycling leg was 1:06:25, my position for the leg was 88th.

Then started the second running lap, exactly the same two mile course as the first. It was initially a relief to be on legs rather than wheels. This was short lived as the running course had now been churned into a slippery bog. There was no chance of getting momentum because with each step your feet were sucked into the mud and all your energy was used pulling it out again. I had started quickly with the intention of making up ground on the cyclists but this was a reckless approach that resulted in me slipping, tripping and slipping again. The only reason I did not fall was because a well placed tree painfully helped me stay upright. Even with a more cautious approach after that I made up time on a lot of people. The last guy I overtook was a victim of his own pride when, in deciding he was not going to be overtaken so near the finish he sped up and took a tumble that allowed about 10 people past. My time for this leg was 18:07, I placed 47th for the leg. This gave an overall time of 1:41:57 and final position of 80th out of 124.

Back in Paul’s car we sat with the heater at full blast, waiting for the involuntary shivering to stop. This was a different cold to Tough Guy cold. That had been a suck the life out of you cold. This was an attack every sinew cold. I had been worried that a duathlon would be less challenging than this year's other components. Once again I was punished for underestimating. This had been as hard as any of them. The agonising conditions just capping an event that was, in any circumstances, difficult. It is nice to know my perspective has changed since being 13, it turns out that, whilst not as good as football or rugby, cross-country is actually good fun. More varied and interesting than road running. I'm certainly not going to say "never again". However, next time, if I am making my way to a duathlon and the thermometer is going down whilst the sun is coming up (albeit hidden by snow laden grey clouds) then, rather than race, I will remember what I learnt at school. I will find a group of stereotypical computer nerds, a sports hall and a football spend the morning sadistically knocking their glasses off.

And Pienally... My True Story.

I was famous once. Television, radio, and newspapers clamoured to tell my story. I was getting emails and Facebook messages from people I have never met. I was Londoner of the day on 20 November 2008. Everybody wanted a piece of me. I hadn’t courted fame, it was thrust upon me. My story is one of overnight success, an exciting mix of glorious highs and agonising lows. It is a story the world should hear but unlike these fly by night celebrities capitalising on their moment of fame with rushed autobiographies I have waited to publish. I want my story to be a fair and realistic representation of what really happens when a mortal is thrust into the spotlight.

[I have skipped the dull first 300 pages about my childhood for you]

The morning of 18 November offered no clues that it would be the day that changed my life. At first I followed my usual routine, get up, breakfast, shave, dress, gym, dress. I dressed the second time not in a suit but in jeans, a t-shirt promoting the Stroke Association and a coat. This marked the point my day stopped being a work day. Instead of going to the office I headed to Hammersmith to pick up a rental car. I drove to Wookey Hole, two and a half hours through sunshine, drizzle and downpours.

Wookey Hole is a village in North Somerset, near Wells. At Wookey Hole there is a tourist area, it has caves and a museum, a circus-themed theatre and a restaurant. It has a car park and that is where I parked my car. It has an entrance, and that is where I went in. It has tables and at one of these tables I confirmed my arrival and filled in a form. The form asked my name, my contact details and my eating specialty. I gave my name, my contact details and put “none” as my eating specialty. It was 11.40am.

There were a lot of people in the entrance area, sitting standing, chatting, laughing. I stood amongst them and waited to be called through. At 11.55am I was called through, along with about 26 other people who had also been waiting. We were taken to the start of the museum area and given t-shirts – we had a choice of size, extra large or extra extra large. We then stood around for a little longer.

A man came through and called the names of the competitors in the order we were to enter the eating arena. We lined up in order. A man from ITV, who was also taking part, interviewed the largest of the people in the queue – he had come from Birmingham for the competition. I used this time to chat with the people next to me. They recognised the event for what it was, a bit of fun. At the same time they wanted to win. I consider that to be a sensible attitude.

We were then taken into the theatre and called one by one down to the main show area. We stood behind trellis tables that had been set up in a U shape and laid with trays covered in mince pies and jugs of water. Below it were a lot of orange buckets. A man dressed as a ring master told us the rules. Eat as many mince pies as possible in ten minutes. If you’re sick you’re out. Photographers and cameramen stood amongst the tables, an audience sat in the viewing area.

The ring master counted us down to the start. We started eating. The man next to me with a turkey hat on his head (his nickname was “the Gobbler”) knelt down to eat. I stayed standing. I ate. My theory was to get into a rhythm of eating and, when necessary, drinking water to stop the pastry drying out my mouth. I concentrated on this so intently that I stopped being aware of what everybody else was doing and just focused on eating. I was in the zone, shutting out all internal and external distractions. The rhythm was everything.

The photographers and cameramen moved around the group, the ringmaster commentated and gave time readings. He said three people were doing very well. I was one of the people he was referring to. I ran out of water and signalled to a woman that I wanted more, she thought I meant more pies and put another tray in front of me. The pies on my first tray were disappearing fast but that seemed optimistic. I kept eating. We were told there were only a couple of minutes left. The photographers were suddenly all in front of me. I kept eating. The Countdown thirty second music started playing just as I was eating the last pie on my first tray. The ringmaster said 15 seconds and I decided to force down one more from the additional tray. Pie then water, I swallowed “dum dum, dum dum diddly dum” went the Countdown music. The competition ended. I looked around me, nobody else had an empty tray in front of them – not even close. The significance of this did not register. The bloated feeling in my stomach did.

A guy patted me on the back, “You know you just ate 40 pies” he said.

“That doesn’t sound right” I answered.

“It was definitely 40, there were 40 pies on each tray”.

“I ate one off that tray too”.

“You just ate 41 pies”.

“How long do I need to hold them down for?”

“Until the prize money is safely in your pocket”. More excellent advice.

The photographers kept taking pictures. People were coming up to me with notebooks, asking me my name, where was I from, how did I feel. I thought about how I felt. Uncomfortably full, almost painfully full, like eating far too much Christmas dinner. I also felt a bit dazed. I put that down to the sugar. Some people were going to each table counting how many pies were eaten.

The ringmaster announced the results but by then so many people had told me I had won that I was pretty sure I had won. The photographers were in front of me, waiting for the announcement. I knew I had to give some sort of reaction so when my name was called I raised my arms in victory. Cameras were flashing. I was given a cheque. I put it in my pocket. I smiled for the cameras, they told me to hold up pies, so I did. They told me to move to a table with a big pile of mince pies, so I did, I was asked to do all sorts of ridiculous poses. So I did. I was feeling a bit absent from my own body, just responding to the instruction. My only thoughts were, I really want a napkin and I’m going to have my picture in the press wearing a T-shirt 3 sizes too big and holding mince pies. Close ups on my mouth, open wide. I had to push my upper body through a banner for the competition and hold mince pies. Smile, head up, eyes down, left arm forward, mouth a bit wider. A woman interviewed me whilst holding a video camera. The guy from ITV interviewed me and I showed him my stomach. Then they left, they had deadlines. I left too, I had a deadline, I had to get the car back.

As I was walking back to my car the guy who organised the competition asked me if I was available for publicity. Graham Norton was interested, Eggheads were interested, Jonathan Ross was interested. That was when I started to doubt exactly how likely any of this was going to be. I didn’t think the Jonathan Ross Show was going to happen. He also told me that they were going to get in touch with the American Professional Speed Eater Organisation to see if they would let me take part. He asked if I was interested in doing that. I told him that if the logistics allowed it then why not.

The rain had blown over and the day was now glorious. I drove back, stopping at the services to be sick – a sort of syrup came out of me. No solids. I still felt full. As I drove I was taking phone calls from the press. Then I realised what I had done – shown my stomach on ITV – how embarrassing. Also 41 pies is a lot of pies. I had no idea it was that many and have no idea how I did it.

Car back, I went to the gym. After the gym I was sick. Syrup again. I was still full.

All afternoon and evening I was getting texts from people who had seen it on television or heard it on the radio. I was an ITN “and finally” piece. My story was all over the internet and also made it into a couple of the hard copies of the newspapers. Phone calls still came in. Real People wanted my story so I gave it. Radio Star for North Somerset wanted to interview me live on radio, as did BBC Radio Northampton, I spoke to them both. But my star was not going to shine forever. A new “and finally” story broke, maybe an escaped farm animal or a skateboarding squirrel.

It wasn’t completely finished though. George Lamb wanted to speak to me on his BBC 6 Music show on the Friday at 12.40. I agreed and waited to be called. 6Music never called but a member of The One Show on BBC1 production team did. They were planning to do a Christmas Food special with Gordon Ramsay the following Tuesday and wanted me to have a mince pie eating race with someone on the production team. I agreed and was told to expect full details after the weekend. Over the weekend the News of the World reported that Gordon Ramsay had been having an affair. In light of that he dropped out of the show and my race was scrapped. My reputation was safe but my fame was over.

I feel sorry for Gordon Ramsay, an unwitting victim of the News of the World’s ongoing revenge campaign against me. It is no coincidence that News Group are one of the only newspapers not to have told my story. Well they succeeded. My phone stopped ringing, the emails stopped arriving and my new friends abandoned me. Graham Norton never called, Eggheads never called and there is no news of America. The system that embraced me has spat me to the kerb like the gum from an irresponsible chewer. For one year I can call myself a pie eating champion but mince pies are seasonal. Who will care when Easter comes around?

So now I sit here, alone in my flat surrounded by empty packs of Mr Kipling Battenburgs and Fruit Fancies. All I have left to look forward to is my “true” story appearing in the 11 December issue of Real People and an invite to be on the next series of I’m A Celebrity Get Me Out of Here. Actually my fame hasn’t fallen that far.