The Pounder

My pal GH has been getting his local McDonald's to put the contents of four Quarter Pounders (minus the pickles) onto one bun. He calls it the Pounder.

After he told me about his Frankenburger creation and I had a good laugh, we began recollecting the eating comps in which our group of friends once engaged. Newcastle was the perfect place to do so as there were four or five affordable, all-you-can-eat restaurants. Even Pizza Hut and KFC had a crack at the format before realising hungry hippos like us were scoffing more than our money's worth.

Yesterday, in my lunch break, I decided to go a step further than the Pounder: I'd consume four separate Quarter Pounders (with the pickles).

The first three were easy. On the rare occasions I dine beneath the Golden Arches, my standard order's a trio of Filet-O-Fish plus a pineapple juice. This wasn't much more filling than that, although the grease increase was noticeable.

At the 3.5 burger mark, I experienced what professional gurgitators call the "meat sweats". In effect, my body was saying, "I've had enough of this gunk, you can stop now." I didn't, but the final half was slow going.

With four Quarter Pounder cardboard boxes stacked in front of me, I felt (a) a perverse sense of achievement, and (b) no desire to repeat the feat. Too bloated to punch the sky "Breakfast Club"-style, I waddled out of Macca's 9200kJ richer and badly in need of a breath mint.