“I don’t want to be the best,” said Porky Withers, ripping open a plastic packet of pink Vienna sausages with his teeth. “I want to be the best of the best.”

“Then you do want to be the best.”

“No, better than that.”

“But the best is the guy better than everyone else. ‘Best of the best’ is kind of a meaningless statement, because anyone you’re better than can’t be the best.”

“Okay, okay, fine,” said Porky Withers. “Then I just want to be the best.” He does. Porky Withers really, really wants to be the best at something. Over the years, through trial and error, he regretfully let go of some of his first choices, like best poker player or best lover or best leading actor in a feature film. For a while he had some hippie girlfriend who persuaded him he should just try and be the best Porky Withers he can be. He gave it a go.

“If that’s really the best Porky Withers you can be,” she said, just before she left him, “you should maybe consider not being a Porky Withers at all.”

I don’t even think Porky Withers has ever been best man at a wedding. Mind you, that’s not surprising; I think I’d rather listen to a crying baby playing with a car alarm while Noeleen and Peter de Villiers do backing vocals than Porky Withers giving a speech, and besides, his best chance for being best man was when his best-ish friend Sad Henry got married. Porky wasn’t even invited to the wedding.

“Janine said his face didn’t go with the theme,” said Sad Henry when we asked him about it later. You could see her point – Porky Withers’ face resembles a par-boiled potato that has been used as a shuttlecock. It’s not something you want to see on the happiest day of your life.

But now Porky Withers has found something that might work for him. Porky Withers wants to be a competitive eater. He’s been studying the career of Joey “Jaws” Chestnut, five-time world hotdog–eating champ. Porky has been a Joey Chestnut fan ever since JC swallowed his way to triumph in the 2005 deep-fried asparagus championships, and admired his work in the ravioli and chicken-wing speciality leagues, but if you want to be the world’s premier gurgitator and enjoy the glory and the groupies that go with it, you have to conquer the dog.

Joey Chestnut trains by stretching his stomach with litres of water, like water-boarding, only he does it to himself, and he swallows. Porky Withers doesn’t fancy that.

“I’ll do sit-ups instead.”

“You can do a sit-up?”

“I’m working on it.”

“Porky,” I said. “Why are you doing this?”

“Do you know what it’s like,” he asked, “to have never been the best at anything? At anything? I just want to be someone.”

“Most people aren’t the best at anything,” I said. “Most of us aren’t any good at anything at all. It doesn’t mean we have to ingest 11 000 calories. Find some other way to be famous, if that’s really what you want.”

“I don’t want to be a Kardashian, or a radio DJ. I want to be famous for something. ”

And that kind of moved me. “All right,” I said. “I’ll help you train.”

Porky hunkered down over a mound of dogs with intent in his eyes. He didn’t just want to eat those dogs, he wanted to ravish them, to punish them, to bend them squealing and gasping to his unstoppable will. His intensity was quite impressive – but also very revolting.

“Go.”

Porky ate. His eyes bulged, his cheeks bulged, his body bulged. His hands were hot-dog-handling pistons. His face flushed the deep, unhealthy colour of old tomato sauce. Around the three-minute mark, he started making a slight sobbing sound.

“Stop,” I said, at 12 minutes.

Porky stood trembling like a condemned whale that has been given one last go at the all-you-can-eat plankton buffet before the harpoon. We counted the dogs. Joey Chestnut’s record is 68. Porky ate 17.

There was silence.

“I’ve got a way to go,” said Porky at last. “But I’m going to be the best. I am.”