I have another confession to make. Last week I did, under full knowledge of my own actions, venture out at 1am and purchase a chicken kebab, with extra barbecue sauce. 3 Hail Delia’s ought to fix that and I can be on my merry way – to the gym.
As I sat there, on the verge of collapse on the exercise bike, I started thinking about the appeal of a kebab. “Why do I keep doing this to myself”? I thought. What is so appealing about a kebab at some ridiculous hour in the morning that you think “stuff the consequences!”? You eat the thing, and you go to bed relatively happy with life. And then the morning arrives, and you wake up to find the kebab remnants strewn across your bedroom floor. You sit up, rub your head and instantly go to brush your teeth to rid yourself of the taste of disappointment. You say to yourself, “that’s it, no more midnight munching.” You liar.
Later that day, I went home and decided to catch up on the happenings of Geordie Shore. If you haven’t seen this show, it’s basically about 9 people who live in Newcastle. They all live together and then they go out, get drunk and sleep with people they never want to see again. It’s not particularly educational (unless you want to learn how to apply false eyelashes), and it isn’t actually that entertaining. When I watch it, I am left with that same bitter taste in my mouth, as if I have just looked down and seen a kebab wrapper on the floor the morning after the night before. And yet, I keep going back to find out if Charlotte has finally stabbed Gary or not, and if James’ comb-over really does posses magical ‘pulling’ qualities.. Then it hits me, I have become a victim of the highly addictive, highly calorific Geordie Shore kebab.
I am sat there, fork in one hand and remote in the other, completely aware that I can put both things down that instant and go and do something productive. I could go and make a salad, I could do some studying, I could make a cheesecake! And yet, I never actually get round to getting up. I have never much been interested in reality TV. I hated Big Brother and The X Factor does not appeal to me at all. I am not keen on fast food and I hate the taste of grease. But for some reason I keep going back to the Geordie Shore Kebab. I need my fix.
What kind of path am I on? How long will it be before I am trading my possessions in order to pay my TV license and pay off the tab I have run up at the local takeaway? Why can I not get off this path of destruction? I am being pulled by a force stronger than myself – stronger than reason and stronger than my love of cooking. Stronger than my need for vegetables and nutrients. I can’t stop.
This may take more than 3 Hail Delia’s to go away. I might need to enlist the help of Saint Oliver, Lawson and Blumenthal at this rate. I could try going cold turkey, but I like my meat hot. I could join a programme, but I don’t think there is anyone out there qualified to deal with this kind of problem. I should lock myself in a room until the series ends and all the kebab shops in the world have shut down – it seems this is my only choice. Either that or I could just give in and succumb to the addiction. Darn my lack of self discipline… Pass me the remote – my order will be here in 15 minutes.