I tried to eat a 72oz steak so you didn’t have to

It’s only seven dinners, roughly. You might order a 10oz steak down the pub and put it away comfortably. I’m ordering the equivalent of half a dozen of those – 72oz of meat to be exact. What’s the big deal?

I once ate 20 slices of pizza at a Pizza Hut bottomless buffet lunch. I fell over next to a bin outside the Hippodrome immediately afterwards and couldn’t get up. I missed my own birthday party that night.

A lot has changed since then. I’m bigger mentally, and maybe physically too. I’m not sure what’s going to be more important.

In terms of training, I can’t say much. Lanky, with small but slowly growing deposits of fat under my chin and on my lower back, I’m in the best shape I’ve ever been.

Last night I ate the equivalent of two portions of pasta. To stretch the stomach of course. This morning it was a custard pastry, two coffees (to ease the bowels and make space) and a tiny multi-pack bag of Haribo Tangfastics with no more than eight gummy sweets of varying shapes and sizes.

I’ve taken a minute to focus both my body and mind using a technique I learnt from a three-minute mindfulness podcast which I got halfway through about two years ago.

Optimistically, I have cycled to The Ashville in Southville.

“Is your entourage coming later?” the bar lady asks as I settle down at the table.

No.

“We’ll give you moral support.”

This is hard to believe, seeing as the £82.95 cost of the meal is only waived on completion of the challenge in less than one hour.

I’m the first person to tackle the challenge since it was launched this month, I’m told. That means I’ll walk out as the current record holder whatever happens. Silver linings are going to be important

I can hear some vicious frying sounds coming from the kitchen moments after ordering. (I’ve had to let the pub know a day in advance, by the way.)

As the sounds increase in volume, my stomach cowers. I’m really not hungry.

About 20 minutes later a bell pierces the frying and a waitress emerges. “Don’t get too excited,” she says to me as she serves a couple their burgers.

A few minutes later she’s back carrying a wooden board more than a foot in width. It’s piled with a sea of rough cut chips, four giant onion rings, a salad big enough for two, a bowl of green mixed vegetables, four grilled tomatoes, a small pan of peppercorn sauce and a small bowl of bearnaise sauce.

Oh, and a fucking massive T-bone steak the size of a small human baby.

I’m not going to go into great detail about the food because I write this with a giant steak hangover which makes me want to vomit at the thought of another mouthful. The memories are washing over me in waves of nausea.

Looking back through the meat-drunk mist of time I can remember cutting my first piece off the side of the steak and thinking: “that took a long time”. The plan was to tackle the meat first and the carbohydrates next, as advised by 14 Basic Strategy Tips For Winning Food Challenges.

The notes I made say that I started sweating quite severely ten minutes in. At 20 minutes I’ve written something about vegetables. 30 minutes, something about feeling sick. 45 minutes just says: “searing stomach pain.”

Then I think I had a second wind. A succession of small belches felt like someone removing a strait jacket and I tucked in again until the sickness returned about two minutes later.

I remember towards the end a small crowd had gathered and someone was recording what was happening on Facebook Live. I remember the phone pointed at me like a gun to my head as I cut smaller and smaller pieces away at the now cold hunk of beef.

As the clock ticked towards the hour mark there was an offer from the chef to blend the remaining food for me to drink in a pint or two. I politely declined.

At two minutes to the hour, the white flag was raised. Defeated, slightly fatter and mildly hallucinating, I dug my steak knife into the remaining flesh and tied a white napkin around the top.

Cue the patronising round of applause.

Before the plate is cleared into a doggy bag for me to finsh at home presumably, I ask the kitchen to fetch their scales to weigh the remainder of the steak. It sits at 26oz. I’ve eaten 47oz of prime beef.

As I stand up in celebration I realise my body no longer stretches to its fully upright position, leaving me hunched over, laden by loin.

Crippled, sweaty and with blurred vision I exit the pub as the current record holder. Good luck to whoever is next.

Read more: I followed a neo-nazi rally so you didn’t have to