I have been lucky enough to eat in some superb restaurants in my time, particularly when I used to have a proper job and the lunches were on expenses. However there is nothing i have found quite so saliver inducing as the crispy coating of Kentucky Fried Chicken. I suspect that to me, the 11 herbs and spices of the Colonel's secret recipe are every bit as addictive as Thomas De Quincey's 19th century smack.

That was however until about a year ago when I watched one of Hugh F-W's programmes (seriously, who's got the time to type his name?? And yes, I'm aware of the irony in the fact taht I've subsequently typed considerably more in stating I'm not going to type his ridiculous name than I would in actually typing it) This was pre the whole 'chicken run' thing with jamie and though that was a laudable attempt I did find myself becoming quite de-sensitized to the horror of the situation through over exposure in the same way the farmer or a nazi commandant must do. However, this particular programme - chavs eat chickens, I think was the title - took a group of people for whom chicken was a mainstay of their diet, either through KFC addiction like me (and I actually think if the priory started a little offshoot programme they'd be on to a winner) those that had roast chicken 3 or 4 times a week to feed their families, unable to resist the '2 for 1, for god's sake we're practically giving them away you'd be absolutly nuts not ot buy them' option, and so forth.

Hugh taught us many things on that programme: the difference between a happy chicken and a miserable scrawny battery beast; how to make several meals out of a really good chicken; eating the whole bird including the feet, and most importantly he taught the kfc addict how to make his own homemade version of colonel's cheeky kiddie meal, chicken popcorn.

I was converted. Seeing the misery of the cramped, forcefed, sun and fresh air starved existence I vowed I would never eat evil chicken again.

Aware of the impact this would have on my little KFC problem, I attempted to make my own, trying to remember Hugh's tips. I asked black friends who bother to make their own version how to make good fried chicken, recieved guidance from a friend who it'd turned out had worked in a KFC many moons ago and scoured the internet secret recipe websites for some hint on how to replicate the taste. My attempts had absolutly no bearing on the delicacy that is KFC/Dixy/Tennesse/and Kensey fried chicken. [NB: Living in East London, the number of fried chicken outlets per capita I would say is quite possibly the highest in the country and the variations on a name are too numerous to mention. However, I'm always slightly cautious of the Kensey franchise, not knowing who or where Kensey is: my concern being that it is a misspelling of Kinsey and that someone somewhere is doing even more unspeakable things to chickens.]

Anyway, my efforts at home made fried chicken were pathetic. The poultry, organic and free range though it was, went into the fat covered in something that I suspect bears no resemblence to the colonel's secret recipe and came out terrified and wizened, the meat scrawney and tense as if the process had literally shocked and scared it. The kitchen filled with smoke and I could sense the local fire station were at the ready. There was no resemblence between my sad little meal and the succulence that is the colonel's special meal deal.

Despite these lame results, Hugh’s programme stayed with me and I changed my buying habits beyond the humble hen. Only happy organic free range chicken, lamb, pig and cow for me. I visited butchers. I almost bankrupted myself aquiring the highest welfare turkey I could find for Christmas. It had a gold medal, and, I think, a couple of GCSEs. And as for eating out, I have only partaken of prawn curries since as frankly even vegetarians don't really care about prawns, but god, I miss chicken tandoori. My stand has forced me to make my own Thai green curry padded out with lots of aubergine and courgette cos have you seen the price of an organic free range happy chicken breast? My favourite thai starter is out of bounds: stuffed chicken wings. Yes, yes I can make it myself but frankly I can't be arsed and it certainly won't tast the same though I have been tempted to get my own free range wings and give them to my favourite thai restaurant and ask them if they’ll prepare a special batch for for me. It is overwhelming how this has impacted on my life. I can't go and grab a sandwich anywhere. Unless I want cheese and onion or roasted vegetables, I'm stuffed. Can't even do egg and cress as only waitrose uses free range. There are no supermarket ready meals that use high welfare meat. Supermarkets surely you are missing a trick here?

However I have a confession. My efforts to make happy fried chicken have been unrewarding and over the year, the urge to visit the the colonel has become overwhelming. Like Thomas d Q and all addicts before me, the obsession grows vaster and more invasive in my mind.

In the same way that drug addicts feel when the internal battle becomes too great, it is not to the drug that one finally succumbs, but simply for the mental respite. The thought of accessing your drug of choice becomes so overwhelmingly monumental that not one single solitaray waking second is not tainted by the shadow of your nemisis.

And so eventually, after much mental anguish, a wise friend said to me, 'For god's sake, just go and eat the bloody thing, get it out of your system. If you only do it once a year, think of all the chickens you're saving.' This was the guidance I’d been searching for, taking further comfort from the fact taht this friend is a vegetarian.

And so, with reverence, to the land of buckets I went. If I'm gonna go for broke, I may as well do it in style.

'Three peice variety meal, please' I shouted into the walky talky post held together by gaffer tape.

'you want to go large?' the post responds

'no' I'm not here for the chips, mate

'drink?' it barked back

'diet coke' as if that's going to take the edge off the nine million calories I'm about to consume

the moral battle in my head was so loud.

Think about those poor chickens living life's of misery. Come on, you've done nearly a year of this.

yes, i know, i know but what about my sanity?

But their poor pathetic lives?

SHUT UP SHUT UP!! I CAN'T HELP MYSELF. RESISTANCE IS FUTILE.

and so I took my brown paper bag of food. I drove. I parked somewhere quiet. I got out my ‘bucket’. I placed my handy wipe on the dashboard. I sprinked my salt into my bag of chips and shook.

I paused for a moment. And then I bit. Into one of the hot, chilli, crispy wings.

Oh. It was bliss. It was as good as I rememberd. Sweeter, for not having tasted it for so long. Hot. Spiciness had been preceeded by the inevitable tiny ejaculation of hot oil, for let's face it, this meal is off the scale when it comes to weightwatchers points.

I gorged myself as i tried to push the thoughts of the chickens away. trying to salve my conscience by telling myself this is the one and only time. Once a year. Once a year only on the 31st March. Then and only then! That will be Chicken Day! For Harry and St George!!

Inevitably after eating such a vast quantity of calories I felt slightly sick.

Bugger, I thought as I drained the last of my diet coke which was immediately absorbed by the the dead sea of salt I'd just consumed, I should've gone large.

Surely there must be an opportunity for some wise entrepreneur to start the OFC: organic fried chicken so I and millions of others can enjoy some guilt free chicken? M&S. I beg you. Can’t you start making some homemade fried chicken from happy birds. Surely a range of free range is a good business plan?? Hugh? Are you listening?

A few hours after my indulgence, I started to feel a bit unsettled. That unnerving gurgling in the abdomen, a watery palate. Oh dear. It may have been poor hygiene standards in my local KFC, or simply guilt, but in my moral world I like to think the chickens wreaked their revenge on me that night and well into the following day. And that, my clucking friends, was even better aversion therapy than I could have hoped for.