The Great British Hate Off
[dropcap]Y[/dropcap]ou see, before university I used to have these things called “guilty pleasures”. You know, like watching Penelope from Banbury cry into her Black Forest gateau on national television. Too bad the main ingredient of Penelope’s guilt tears is a tablespoon of lies.
As soon as the cult baking show moved from the relatively little known BBC2 to the mainstream screen of BBC 1, I had an epiphany. I have a public service announcement to make to my fellow students: It’s The Fake British Bakeoff.
I now realise that you can only care about one thing at a time. Back when I was a fan, crumb structure and oven temperatures were all I could literally think about.
As soon as the opening began, with its stock clips of cake and a small child pretending to understand the concept of baking, that was it. I was arrested. Just picture the scene: I was fermenting away in my chair with my eyes fixed to the screen; I was bread that had been left to rot in the proving drawer for days on end. I would be sat there, oozing away, short crust pasty falling into my lap and balsamic reduction dripping into my gob. I would merely forget about the world.
Austerity? I was too busy musing on how rich Jeff’s brownies looked. Gross breaches of online privacy? I was tweeting about how on point Mary’s jacket was in episode two. Scottish referendum? The dulcet tones of Hollywood’s accent seemed to be cultivated by angels and perfected by Merseyside, hair gel and egg-wash.
Life is just one binary. You have to choose between the real world or the realm of the Royal Baby. You can’t sit on the fence now and like things ‘ironically’ like a copy of Take A Break. I was just like you once. I was just like one of those Daily Mail apologists – that guy who buys a copy every day “just for the crosswords.”
No. It has to stop. It’s just a Better Together, yummy mummy fest with no other merits. It distracts from the big issues! It’s not like you can quite enjoy tips on baking or a playful double entendre on a Wednesday night, oh no. It’s literally impossible to remain a critical being that pursues the truth if you enjoy this show.
So, still want to see Terry from Slough sweating over a rum baba? Wake up, sheeple.
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