I'VE been chewing for the last 10 minutes and - unlike Leicester City - there's not much chance of this morsel going down.
I got over the first stage comfortably enough, actually putting it in my mouth, but I'm finding the last hurdle nigh on impossible to get over.
I just can't swallow it.
It's mind over matter I know - but it's my mind that is the matter. I'm wrestling with my brain to stop reminding me of what it is I'm actually eating. And I'm losing.
Every time I convince myself to get it over with and just swallow, my brain kicks in with a cruel reminder of what it is that has been going round and round in my mouth like something in a washing machine, before instructing my body to go on the defensive and rejecting my advances to swallow.
"You might have got it in your mouth," the brain screams, "but there's no way that's coming into the body. No way."
I'm eating squid. That's right, squid.
Slimy, rubbery, straight-out-of-the-sea-with-tentacles-and-beady-eyes squid.
I thought I could handle it but in hindsight it was an act of bravado that I couldn't back up. These past three days have seen me break down all of my gastronomical boundaries and try things I would never have dared in the not-so-distant past.
I've been in the Costa Del Sol with a gaggle (or giggle judging by the state of them) of assorted journalists from across the North West to be shown just what delights the area has to offer. And for the most part that includes sea-food.
Prior to the trip, the only sea-food I had dared to encounter came fresh from the chippy, swam in batter and was lying on a bed of chips.
My heart actually sank within the first hour of landing down at Malaga, as we were whipped off straight to Torremolinos for lunch.
I had harboured thoughts of a juicy steak, washed down with a nice glass of red wine. Oh, and with chips of course. But it soon became apparent that meat would not be on the menu. My Spanish may not be so good but the waiters dressed as sailors and the overall fish-feel to the place kind of hammered it home.
Our genial hosts insisted on ordering for us and as we all sat around the table, a plate of clams was dumped before us. Followed by freshly-caught prawns (one of which I'm sure was still alive) and a school of assorted fish dishes.
At first I left them well alone and nibbled instead on my bread roll. My good old dependable bread roll. I tried to avoid the eyes of our hosts and thought I could get away without trying anything. I was wrong.
The girl sitting opposite me had the right idea when she stuffed her portion in a pocket of her bum-bag. They may be the biggest fashion faux-pas in the past 20 years but I wish I had one now.
"You are not hungry?" came the Spanish-voice as a plate of clams was pushed underneath my nose. "You try?"
Out of sheer politeness I gingerly picked up a clam, scooped out the edible bit, put in my mouth and swallowed it. Along with a huge glass of water.
Surprisingly I enjoyed it. I tried another, and then another. Soon I was eating them without the water. I tried to pass on the wisdom to the bum-bag girl but she was standing firm. I was suddenly thankful that I didn't have a bum-bag after all. Especially not one full of fish.
Before long I was tearing off the heads of tiger-prawns and sucking out the innards (avoiding the one that was still alive) and wolfing down anchovies.
Days later I had tasted lobster and even sampled sushi. Squid seemed like a walk in the park -- especially when it was cunningly disguised as an onion ring.
But soon at it entered my mouth I knew I had met my nemesis. Like Dr No to James Bond, Moriarty to Sherlock Holmes, Liberty to Hear'Say.
I've still got the other half of the squid in my hand and my efforts at trying to swallow are beginning to attracting funny looks from our hosts.
I tried washing it down with water but it's stubborn, I'll give it that.
Eventually I admit defeat and have to lay it to rest in a tissue and dispose of it on the floor. I grab a piece of chicken instead. I've learnt my lesson and am going to stick with what I know!
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