I've done some dumb things in recent months. I entered a competition and won a massive throne festooned with dildos; I replied to every single one of my PR emails for a month with the words "I love you"...
But none are quite as profoundly, dangerously stupid as this experiment - eating a deep-fried Mars bar every day for a week.
Why did I do it?
Well, I was in Edinburgh, you see. And Edinburgh does strange things to you. A land without vegetables or running water, it is essentially a city made of batter. I had decided to tackle its grease, its excess, and its calories head-on.
I was going to do this, even if it killed me.
Here's me having my first one after a bloody lovely Thai meal.
This was about 10.00 at night. I had to eat the majority of it in my hotel room with a cup of tea because the prospect of gobbling it up au naturel was too disgusting to contemplate.
I got a little bit of chocolate on the bed, but other than that, it was manageable. Just.
Incidentally - bit of gossip for you. Moments before this photo, the man behind me had his fish dramatically knocked onto the floor, at which point the woman responsible apologetically offered to buy him another. Once he had been silenced with a replacement fish, she seemed to become distraught and the man behind the counter started stroking her arm. Welcome to Edinburgh.
Say hello my second deep-friend Mars bar, eaten at about 8.45pm. My wife described this one as looking like a turd with wings. This is partly why I married her.
One deep-fried Mars bar, by the way, contains 1,200 calories. A man's daily recommended calorie intake is 2,500 calories. This means that two of these in a day and I wouldn't need to eat anything else. (Well, maybe a pea.) These bastards are filling.
Strangely enough, however, I found this one easier to eat than my first. It was tastier and, with tea, not bad at all. Maybe one a day was actually a really good idea...
Here's the third. 7.30pm. You can't tell from the photo but I was actually enjoying them more and more.
When I started the experiment I thought I hated deep-fried Mars bars. As the days wore on and I became more familiar with my greasy brown friend, I have to say I became rather fond of him.
Looking back, I think this was simply Stockholm Syndrome.
I ate my fourth one - that's 4,800 calories of Mars bars so far - at 9pm on Saturday. Though they were still astonishingly filling, I was beginning to like the little fellas.
Not long after this one, however, I did start to feel a bit shit. I had a headache and when I drifted off to sleep I felt nauseous.
This could be how I die, I thought as unconsciousness enveloped me.
With the finishing line in sight, the fifth Mars bar was tougher than all that had preceded him. I washed this miserable bastard down with water at 10.30pm, and longed for the challenge to be over, cursing whoever came up with the idea.*
By now, as you can tell from my face, the experiment had stopped being fun and had become a form of torture. I longed for a night when I was not contractually obliged to shovel over 1,000 calories into my mouth just before I went to sleep.
I worried that at my funeral my friends and family would be saying, "Nice guy, but Jesus Christ what was that Mars bar stuff all about? Even if he'd stayed alive it wouldn't have been that big a deal. What an absolute bell-end."
Here was my penultimate feast, at 11.30pm. This one was slightly burnt and I won't lie to you, ladies and gentlemen, I didn't quite finish it. YEAH, AND WHAT? HANG ME. YOU'RE NOT THE BOSS OF ME.
Why didn't I finish it? a) Because it was slightly burnt; b) Because the prospect of finishing it was remarkably depressing. Suddenly an unfinished Mars bar signified success and a finished one signified utter misery.
Here is me eyeing up my final deep-fried Mars bar.
I had bought this oily wanker at 11.45am and was planning to eat it on the train home to London from Edinburgh. However, I was feeling shaky enough on the wobbling train as it was; I decided not to consume enough food to incapacitate a small horse, and left it till 9pm.
This was a mistake. I hadn't eaten any of the others piping hot but, left uneaten for half a day, this one wasn't just luke-warm, it was cold. Cold, I tell you. As my mama always used to say, "Son - there ain't nothing more depressing than a chilly-ass deep-fried Mars bar."
I know you're going to hate me for saying it but I couldn't finish it, and I didn't finish it. I DON'T CARE THAT YOU THINK I'M A WIMP. I TAKE YOUR DISAPPROVAL AND I STUFF IT INTO YOUR MOUTH. I COULDN'T CONSUME ANY MORE FILTH.
I'd had enough fucking Mars bars. I couldn't bear the sight of them. I never want to see one again.
Don't do this, kids. This was a seriously stupid experiment and if I survive the next fortnight without having a heart attack, it will be an absolute miracle.