'So shall we do it?' I said. 'Shall we not drink two litres of water today? Shall we purposely skip breakfast? Shall we avoid walking briskly? Shall we do it, Colin?'

'We shall!' he says. 'Who wants to eat bran? It's madness! So when? When do we do it?'

'Today!' I shout, pointing my finger in the air. 'Carpe diem, Colin! Carpe diem! Big Mac City!'

'I AM LOVIN' IT!' he yells, cleverly. 'But today is Wednesday. I go to the gym on Wednesdays. And also, tonight is The Apprentice, and I always watch that with Jo. It's like a rule.'

'Right.'

'Another day, though.'

'Yes. Another day.'

But no. Today is the day. Because I am a bloody maverick, and my rules are there for the breaking ...

I have passion in my eyes and a fire in my belly. I am Danny Wallace - social maverick. It has been decided: today, I will eat a Big Mac!

I leave the house, thrilled by my own bravery. I am a man! I am a man reclaiming my manhood! Not for me the petty guidelines, protocols and etiquette of modern-day living! Not for me the constant worries about whether my behaviour is frowned upon! Why should my bananas be Fairtrade? Who needs a dramatic focal point in their living room? Who cares if my carrot batons are organic?

I check my watch. It is 10.19am. I know what to do. I head for the pub.

You see? I think, smiling as I carry my illicit pint outside. I am not alone in this!

My eyes scan the tables around me. There are men here. Real men. Men who do not worry about how others see them. Each has a pint and is staring into the middle distance, lost, probably, in thoughts similar to mine. On any other day, of course, they may just look like loners, hunched over sad morning pints on the fringes of society. But not to me. To me they look like comrades. OK, so one of them is talking to his feet. But none of them looks like they're concerned about how much bran they're eating, or whether or not a can of Tango counts as part of their five-a-day. And today, nor do I. I sip at my lager. It tastes strange so early in the morning. But perhaps this is merely the taste of freedom. A taste I have not tasted in quite some time.

I sit, quietly, revelling in my liberty. But like the Littlest Hobo, I must keep moving on. I try to catch the eye of the man nearest me as I leave. To perhaps raise a single eyebrow at him and exchange a glance of precious solidarity. But he is still talking to his feet, and so I leave it. But he knows.