I start the week off quietly: with half a box of Strawberry Whoppers, which are alt-universe Maltesers, only strawberry. The result is my spit goes pink, immediately. God there is so much of it. I ate them before my shower and had to get out halfway through to brush my teeth. There is so much pink spit. It’s like a horror movie crossed with a Barbie princess.
Cinnamon Bun Bites are confusing – halfway between a bonbon and just a lump of white chocolate, but moreish, and so, so sickly. I quell the nausea with half a box of Swedish Fish. The top three ingredients are sugar, inverted sugar, and corn syrup, or “three kinds of sugar”. I’m so hyper I barely even calm down enough to sleep 15 hours later.
I have assigned myself theme days: Monday was “quiet day”, Tuesday was “things in boxes”. For Wednesday: “sour day”. I start with AirHeads: ha, these aren’t even sour at all! Americans are pansies! I try a Warhead. The cords in my neck stand out as though I’m having an especially brutal orgasm. Really felt hump day this week. Really felt it.
Today I ate like five chocolate bars: Almond Joy, Peanut Snickers, Peanut Twix, 100 Grand, Pay Day. Are Americans really that bad at chocolate, or do we have Mum’s Roast Dinner Stockholm Syndrome with regards to our own: that we grew up on it, so we are convinced it is the best? No, Americans are bad at chocolate. They just put peanut butter in everything.
And so the experiment comes to and end with “long day”: Cow Tales (a long stick of that fudge your Nan always brings back from bleak British seaside holidays), Laffy Taffy (long Chewit left in the sun to go fluffy) and a Big Hunk (some actually quite excellent long nougat). What have we learned? That eating candy for breakfast will ruin your skin, your blood sugar levels, and at one point you’ll find yourself hyperactively rapping to a cat. I feel unnecessarily confident. I feel alive.
Joel’s Verdict: Big Hunk was the best – although you can’t really imagine a name like that flying in the UK, can you? And the Mike and Ike jelly beans I secretly ate in a non-breakfast capacity. The worst bits of the week were the 11am sugar troughs and the sherbet so sour I nearly died off it.
The skinny-jeaned corpse of 2007 indie is risen and dragging its battered Converse to a venue near you