Allison Pearson:
Oh, dear. It was all going so well! Despite the doubting Thomases, your columnist among them, the transfer of Bake Off to Channel 4 did not fall as flat as a pancake. The change of presenters (only the creosoted Paul Hollywood remained) didn’t matter because, as it proved (if left for long enough), it’s the bakers who take the biscuit. And this year they had a vintage batch, from perfectionist Steven via military precision Sophie to wunderkind Liam, 19-yearold king of flavour.
Then the fools ejected Liam, which saw the show’s warmth ratings plummet faster than Stacey’s oven when the door fell off. Even before the finale, it felt like a fix. How on earth had Kate made the final? She should have been out in week five when she committed some atrocity with pudding and custard.
The suspicion has to be that Kate survived because Paul Hollywood, forensic when it comes to picking out tiny flaws, has a bakingblind spot when it comes to pretty women. Like Paul, Kate is Liverpudlian so there was possibly a bit of a Scouse mafia thing going on.
Instead of laying into another primaryschool Play-doh effort from Kate, Paul chose to try to find fault with Steven’s immaculate ginger biscuits. The ill-disguised relish with which Paul tore apart his bread rolls confirmed my hunch that Alpha Male Hollywood was determined to stop him winning.
If they’d had an icing-bagsblazing, noholds-barred showstopper, Steven might still have won. The guy could sculpt the
Taj Mahal in meringue in a blindfold. Instead, the finalists were asked to make a mimsy entremet. Meh.
Sophie’s honeybee was gorgeous, while Steven produced something that looked like alien twins. He has gone from being the most arrogant but undoubtedly brilliant GBBO contestant ever to a selfdoubting wreck. Well done, Paul. Congratulations to Sophie, who, any other year, would have been the star baker. I didn’t bother to watch the prize-giving. Unforgivably, for this sweetest of shows, the treatment of Steven left a nasty taste in the mouth.