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.