Batter-botherers are a bunch of masterbakers!
LIKE its viewers’ arses, getting fatter.
From 10 contestants in the original series, up to 12 in the following two, the BBC behemoth now boasts a whopping 13 batter-botherers for series four.
Not that it was hard to source an extra hopeful. A staggering TEN THOUSAND applied.
With such a large pool of wannabes, you’d think they would find 13 really talented amateur bakers to take part, right? Er....wrong.
In her quest for inclusivity, Auntie was clearly more concerned about box-ticking than such trifling matters as the ability to cook.
From gay guy Glen to mousy housewife Deborah, from glamorous granny Christine to army wife Beca, from gorgeous student Ruby to kooky gardener Lucy, every contestant is clearly intended to “represent” some group or other.
For extra Guardian points, they even found a Muslim. Ali is a likeable young Brummie of Pakistani origin, who cheerfully admits to being a messy cook.
“When I’ve finished in the kitchen,” he laughed, “it is like a bomb has gone off!”
I wouldn’t put that in any emails to America, pal, or they’ll extradite you before you can say “orange jump suit”. With so many berths to fill, BBC1 even found room for a handful of straight white men: kitchen fitter Mark flies the flag for White Van Man, rocket scientist Rob represents middle-class eggheads and zany Toby is in the overgrown student corner.
All of which would be fine if this cross-section of modern Britain could actually bake.
Mark – a kitchen fitter, remember – cannot work an oven.
Ruby weeps at the slightest mishap. At least five of them cannot be trusted with sharp implements. And, as for zany Toby, he should not be allowed within 50 feet of a kitchen. In just one episode he cut himself THREE times, failed to work an oven timer, used salt instead of sugar, and generally f***ed up everything he touched. It was his late mother who had taught him to cook. Clearly, she was taken too soon.
And so, in the end, was Toby. He was the first to go, no doubt leaving a trail of blood.
The winner was the intelligent and unflappable Rob, who really is a rocket scientist.
“That guy’s not a scientist,” smouldered host Paul Hollywood, “he’s a baker.”
No, Paul. He’s a scientist. It’s a much harder and more important job than fannying around with pastry and poking soggy bottoms.
Now, go knead something for all those frustrated housewives, dough boy. Because apparently you’ve got the cream....and they’ve got the horn.