Our ever-hungry designer – who spends most of his working days eating us out of an office – sacrifices blood, sweat and tears as he takes on the gruelling FirePit chicken wing challenge.
Words: Paul ‘chicken legs’ Stimpson
“I reckon I can do it, you know,” Matt says as he confidently struts into the office on a warm Wednesday morning. Since we got him onboard to do the challenge (with the record sat at a pretty darn impressive 67 wings), Matt’s training has been thorough. Like a sports scientist before a football match, except with chicken. The research has been done and tactics are being discussed. “I’m having a glass of water to start with, then a diet Coke on the 40th wing. And I’m gonna get the sauces involved on the 50th wing.”
An hour before the challenge, Matt began to feel the anxiety. No longer was he upbeat, looking forward to immortalising himself in West Street’s hall of fame. On the drive to FirePit, he was shouting and screaming like a big man-baby. The guy was HANGRY.
The first plate came out with 10 chicken wings on it. They were gone in a minute, maybe even less. “They need to be coming out in 20s, mate.” Matt isn’t here to make any friends, he wants the crown – a sign of a true champion.
Our wing man (wuhey) breezes through the first 50. This is far too easy. We’re going for 100. Five wings later, we’ve got a man down. How can we go from being so confident at 50, to down and out at 55? The difference between the good and the elite is that the elite keep going. Despite these very words of encouragement, Matt had enough as he got to his 60th wing. “I feel horrible,” said the loser as we prepared to take some defeated shots. We were just about to throw in the towel and trudge out of the bar, when I heard: “Fuck it, it’s only eight more.”
We ordered a diet Coke, lined up the eight wings and went for the record. By this point, an excitable audience had gathered including an actual real life American person who gave Matt some words of encouragement. “These chickens probably voted for Donald Trump.” Right on, brother.
We hit 65 wings. There were carcasses, used napkins and toppled sauces all over the gaff. Matt was perspiring at a pretty alarming rate. We’d exhausted pre-discussed tactics, now it was about joining the elite. It was about powering through the pain. “I suppose 3rd place isn’t bad.” NO! This isn’t how it ends. Not today.
It looked like 66 and 67 took an age to swallow. I ran to the bar to grab another water and looked back to see Matt bent double on the table, sweating into the hot sauce. The 68th wing, the record, the crown, was in his mouth. After 20 minutes of chewing, Matt took one last gulp of water and smacked the table. He’d only gone and done it. A round of applause went up from the spectators and the ceremony began.
Donning his little inflatable king’s hat, milking the adoration from the crowd, Matt takes a victory lap and nails one last wing to take his total, and the new FirePit wing record to 69.
All hail the King of Wings, Matthew Crowder.
Results:
Exposed: 32
Challengers: 42
Draws: 3
