Having spent most of my life denying in plummy tones that I am in any way upper-middle class (“Middle-middle, it makes all the difference”), I think I can deny it no longer. For you see, ladies and gentlemen, I have started watching – and hugely enjoying – The Great British Bake-Off. I know nothing about baking. Every cake I have ever made (bar one rather nice chocolate effort in Food Tech at school) has failed to rise more than a few inches. On the rare occasion that I do attempt a Victorian Sponge, I automatically make three so that at least I can sandwich them together in layers that will vaguely resemble something tall enough as not be risible. I don't actually even like cakes that much – my love for carbohydrates tend to manifest in noodles, chips and bread.
So it is with some surprise that I find myself an avid watcher of a programme that takes middle class judges, middle class presenters and middle class contestants and asks them to perform a (these days) middle class pursuit that I have little interest in. As far as I can tell, the appeal lies in the human ability to find drama in anything, even how light a touch someone has for pastry. There is also something brilliant in watching twelve-odd people going “BAKING IS SERIOUS BUSINESS, YO” every week. Most of us have baked at home or at school and knocking out a batch of fairy cakes every now and then is still pretty par for the course in most kitchens, so to see people who have made home-baking into a real art form, who understand what it is they're doing as opposed to just going “oh so now we add more sugar” is something of a delight. Then again, it's always intriguing to watch someone do something mysterious and skilful and baking, with its weird mixture of science and artistry, is one of the most mysterious of all.
Of course, much of its success depends on the people involved, starting with the judges who don't quite manage to pull off the Masterchef trick of Little but Terrifying teamed with Friendly but Tough. Instead we have Mary Berry, author of much baking literature, who comes across as a kind of uber WI leader and quite as proficient in conveying crushing disappointment as any mother (or, in my case, Food Tech teacher) and professional baker Paul Hollywood, filling the Simon Cowell role and occasionally being tutted at by Mary. Then there are the presenters, the always delightful Sue Perkins, dragging along comedy partner Mel Giedroyc in her gurning wake. Sue is quite as funny, intelligent and informed as she is on Supersizers and every other BBC programme (at one point asking a contestant if she can perform an interpretive dance for her to help calm her nerves), while Mel is essentially a much less good version and everything she says makes me hope the poor baker being twittered at turns around at punches her in the head. But, of course, it would be nothing without a good selection of contestants and the ones we are faced with are anvil-thumpingly diverse in the range of ages, races, genders and sexualities on offer. But they're also great.
There's camp Ian (favourite line so far: “Pastry is a cruel mistress”) who spends most of his time smiling shyly and flustering self-consciously at the camera, but has been cruelly outed because of his overly-doughy bread. There's Jason, a black 19-year-old Croydon rude boy who is a delightfully arrogant foil to all the middle-class modesty going on (catch phrase: “I'm sure they'll like it”) and produced a truly excellent-looking salmon and pak choi quiche in the second week with little more than a shrug and a self-satisfied grin. There's lovely Holly, awarded the title of Star Baker in the first week, who is clearly just extremely talented and an early favourite to win, and seems genuinely wry and unassuming about the whole process. And then, of course, there's Rob, an extremely good-looking photographer and my latest pretend telly boyfriend. Rob is clearly not the best baker in this competition. Or rather, he probably could be but doesn't seem to be that bothered about anything other than looking appealingly at judges, presenters and the camera with his big green eyes. In the first week, he dropped his gooey chocolate cake on the floor with a resounding splatter and the nation leapt to their feet with a collective cry of heartbreak as he looked on, slightly bewildered that such a thing could have happened to someone with such thick, glossy hair. Rob schleps around the kitchen sort of haplessly, smiling naively while Mel pretends she's hugging him to comfort him after his latest disaster. He probably shouldn't last more than another few rounds but I'm clearly not the only one who wants him in the final just so they can keep looking at him. Rob and Jason in the final, Holly to win.
The only thing lacking in the competitor stakes so far is someone who desperately wants to win, so much so that they'll be lying in wait with an electric whisk as their fellow bakers make their way back to their Ford Fiestas at the end of each week. My money's on Ben who, has produced some very good efforts but also has a tendency to go white-lipped and sniffy at any hint of a criticism. This isn't to say I don't like him though – after a tense moment with some pastry that wouldn't emerge from its case, Mel remarks blithely, “That was tense!” “Especially with you standing there,” he replies darkly.
Anyway. Tonight is biscuits, and who doesn't love a biccy? I'll be watching, trying to ignore both my screaming class-conscious paranoia and my tummy rumbling. Om nom nom.
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