The magazine I worked for produced a “fast” themed issue. My retarded altar-ego got the wrong end of the stick and went on a 48-hour fast, instead. These are his diary entries.



Have my last meal for 48 hours. I have an extra piece of toast, which constitutes the main plank of my cunning plan to get through the next two days. From now on, all I can have is water, tea, coffee, juice – and barley sugar, so I don’t fall into a coma or actually die.

Not too hungry yet. I have a cold, which is a worry. What do they say? Feed a cold, starve a child, or something?

I go to a caff for lunch. The people I am with have a chicken schnitzel, quiche and chips. I have a coffee and a barley sugar, followed by a glass of water. For the one and only time in my life, I know how a supermodel feels. Without the money, long legs and vomiting, obviously.

If I can have a juice, maybe I could juice a kebab.

I think I’m running a fever. I could be very ill. I’m becoming emotionally unusual. My attention span is only eight seconds. I have only missed one meal.

One of my so-called friends takes a barley sugar, as if from my starving mouth.

Go home. Stop off in a shop for more barley sugar, but they don’t have any. Nearly fly into a low-glucose rage. Control myself.

Everyone has dinner. I have barley sugar. I am going off barley sugar.


I seem much thinner. My pants don’t hurt me anymore. Maybe I don’t actually need solids. I could live on soup and celery juice. Maybe I’m special. Maybe not.

I want a pizza.

I want a pizza

Everything irritates me. Especially the fact that I can’t have a pizza.

I now realise how much time I spend on food. If I’m not planning a meal, I’m making it, eating it, talking about it, digesting it, or remembering it. My life is empty without food.

So is my tummy.

Have an enormous cappuccino, so I can sneak the chocolate sprinkles on top.

I feel like a maniac thanks to all the caffeine. Someone tells me I should be having barley water, not sugar. This makes me pointlessly annoyed.

It is someone’s birthday. There are cakes and biscuits and everything. I sit in a corner and try not to cry. Someone tells me I should just give up, that no-one would ever know. But I’d know. I’d know.

I have no energy. I slump at my desk like a punctured sex doll. I need to lie down. It’s all over for me now. I have some water. My stomach is not fooled.

Someone tells me to come to the pub and have a vodka. If I had a vodka I’d probably get on the floor and start eating the carpet. I have a cranberry juice, which is surprisingly delicious. Compared to water.

I find out I am doing to wrong kind of fast for the fast issue. It makes me angry. Then fine. Then angry. Then fine. Angry. Fine. I should probably go home.

Twelve hours to go. I can’t watch a TV channel for more than half a second at a time. All I think about is food. By morning there may be nothing left of me but a pair of glasses.


Am I dead? Is this heaven? It must be. Here is a piece of toast.


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