Hands up if you, like me, watch cookery programmes on the box.
We’re not talking about them ones where a very thin person pretends to cook and then counterfeits eating with a mouth that looks like a cat’s bumhole.
Neither are we even mildly interested the ones where a ‘celebrity’ chef ponces about putting baby vegetables on a sea of something obscene.
I never watch either of the above – unless of course it’s Nigella, whose substitution of food for sex is to be applauded. But I digress…
Today’s exposition of emotion (okay, maybe a tiny rant) centres on competitive cooking on the telly.
Firstly, cooking is not a bloody competition. It’s the means whereby something earthy and boring like a potato becomes a delicious calorie filled treat like a chip.
Secondly, watching capable people cook isn’t interesting (Nigella aside).
Which leaves us with why.
An educated guess suggests economic pressures with a side order of sadism.
These cookery competitions must be as cheap as chips to produce and the prizes are crap too. A wooden spoon with a bow in it and a kiss from an oleaginous presenter are scarcely gonna break the production company bank.
And the sadism? You really haven’t noticed the delight the producers take in fallen soufflés, burns, cuts, meltdowns, and tears?
The winner usually appears very little because she/he is busy being boring and efficient, while Edna from Liverpool who is obviously only there because she was pissed one night and entered for a laugh is far more fun to watch.
Given that if the competitors all produced well-cooked examples of whatever and neither failed disastrously nor had loud meltdowns in the public eye the programmes would be about as interesting as watching your nail polish dry, there has to be a catch someplace.
Something has to be done to glue viewers to the screen.
And what have they done?
They have set up the rules to ensure failure…
Don’t look at me like that. They bloody have.
One show never gives the competitors quite enough time to get the required dish done.
Another encourages rank amateurs to attempt recipes a Michelin starred chef only cooks with the aid of three sous chefs and a kitchen porter.
A third has some scary bloke patrolling the place to scare the cooks shitless.
And so on.
And that’s why we watch.
And the hope that in some galaxy far far away a person in a creepy apron will so far lose it as to twat one of the supercilious presenters – for preference with a half-iced strawberry gateau.