Well, Butter My Bum, it's The Great Comic Relief Bake Off!

Put four comedians in the Great British Bake Off tent, overseen by the usual dough-some twosome, Mary Berry and Paul Hollywood, and what do we get?

We get the Great British Bake Off Comic Relief Special!  Or The Great Comic Relief Bake Off.  We've only got Mel Giedroyc though, Sue Perkins was too scared she might be out-comedied.

"Branded" butter on the Beeb...

Obviously, Jo Brand is featured.  And her preferred method of making sure the butter for her shortbread is room temperature is to sit on it.  Yes, really.  She's making rhubarb and custard shortbread.

Stephen K Amos has missed out his nuts.  Shame.

Ingrid Oliver (one half of comedy duo Watson & Oliver) is using Lady Grey tea in her shortbread, but Hollywood would seemingly have preferred she used poppy seeds.  Shame on HER.


Lorna Watson is doing everything slowly, including making very sticky shortbread dough.  Dough?  Batter?  There's a reason I'm not on this programme.  I'd end up making pancakes by mistake.  FLIP!

Jo Brand's shortbread has suffered from "shrink-back".  It sounds like an Asda initiative, but apparently it means it's just shrunk a bit.  Or something.  Brand wishes it would happen to her.

Stephen K Amos (what does the K stand for?) has baked something with non-existent lavender in it.  And something citrussy that is described as "terrible" by Hollywood.  Plaudits abound!

Oliver is using a Mary Berry recipe, the crawly-crawly bumlick.  But she's worked the dough a bit too much.  Horrors!  The lavender overpowers the tea.  Mel Giedroyc has eaten them all by the time anyone has a chance to go back for seconds.

Watson has baked squillions of biscuits.  To be precise, she's over-baked squillions and put enormous walnuts on them.  But they were quite nice biscuits.  So that's good.

Brand was just delighted Hollywood swallowed, instead of spitting.  This is PRE watershed, right?  Hmm, maybe it's just my brain that isn't.  Yes, that'll be it.

The Technical Challenge recipe is a surprise, so they can't fake it.  They just have to bake it.  Ha!

Aaaaaand...it's a custard slice.  Paul Hollywood's recipe.  Mary Berry calls Hollywood on how tricky the recipe is - he knows it's tough.  But he doesn't care, because that's how the Hollywood rolls.

The pastry proves interesting, as does the custard vanilla-ing from Brand - she pulls it all out of the pod with her thumbnail and then scrapes it into the custard.  Let's hope she didn't scrape the butter out of her bum with the same nail earlier.  She puts what looks like quite nice pastry in the oven.

Watson puts another sticky mess in the oven.  And then it catches fire.  Amazingly, her pastry has risen beautifully, but unfortunately, it tastes of meaty barbecue.  Just what you want in a custard slice.  Hey ho, maybe Berry/Hollywood won't notice.

Oliver splats chocolate on the top of hers, only marginally better than Watson.  Brand is actually surprisingly competent at this and makes a well decent job of her feathered chocolate.  Unfortunately, she then ballses up cutting them and makes them look shit.  

The squashed, sticky offerings are laid on the sacrificial gingham altar.  Hollywood pisses himself laughing when he sees them - always a good start.  Still, it's Comic Relief.  And fucking hell, these custard slices are jokes.  They're just missing the red noses.

But noooo, we have a soggy bottom!  Stephen K Amos maybe sat on Brand's butter too...

Oliver's is "not bad".

Brand can't count (not the right number of slices) - and she has another soggy bottom (still sitting on the butter?  I am so not over that image - can you tell? #brainbleach).

And Watson's isn't just soggy, it's raw.  It makes Paul Hollywood have to think nice thoughts to avoid coughing up a furball.

Watson's in fourth place.

Brand's in third place.

K Amos is second.

And Oliver wins and is "genuinely gobsmacked".  Nobody's ever said that when they've won something on reality television.  She'll be on about her journey next.

Watson, bless her, still thinks she can be Star Baker.  Oh, dear.  She seems a nice girl, but baking ain't her forte.

Being a Comic Relief programme, there's now a short film about the brilliant stuff that Comic Relief does in Africa.  And there's a bakery they support - how awesome is that?!  Women baking, their children being looked after and educated at the same time - it's called the Virtuous Women's Bakery!  To send a lovely chunk of cash to this fine cause, simply text BAKE to 70005.  Do it.  Do it now.

Have you done it?  GO ON!

Right, on with the show.  WHO is going to be Star Baker?  The third and final test is the Showstopper Challenge.  They have to bake a novelty chocolate portrait cake, featuring a picture of someone they all know and recognise.

Personally, I'd do Mr Uppity.  He's just the right colour for a chocolate cake.  What about you?

Brand's gone for the Archbishop Desmond Tutu, which is probably a better, more inspiring choice.  One of the reasons is she doesn't think she has ever seen him on a cake before.  She should get out more - he's a common enough feature on tea tables round my way.

Oliver's doing Paul Hollywood.  Not ACTUALLY.  Well, she may be, but not on camera.  There's comedy and there's Just Too Far.  But she's putting Paul Hollywood's face on the cake.  It's a SECRET though; she doesn't tell him.

Stephen K Amos is putting a glitter picture of himself on the top.  The giant narcissist.

Watson - well, it's going to be sticky, isn't it?  She's using white chocolate and fresh raspberries.  And Sue Perkins will feature - ahhh.  Hollywood points out her cake has split, so she uses a beater instead of her hand to mix the next version.

Into the oven now, with Brand imploring her cake to "be good".  She's gone for a cup of tea in the sunshine, relaxed as fuck.

Stephen K Amos is cooking his chocolate to death.  It's gone as grainy as a filthy pap long-distance telephoto picture of Kate Middleton topless.

Oliver's having a mare.  She forgot to put raising agent in the orange sponge.  She has to start again, with one hour to go.  Whoops.  It takes 45 minutes to bake...  It'll be tight!

Sue looking ironic, eyebrow-wise

Watson is doing an ironic eyebrow in icing.  I love that sentence.  I think I will always ice ironic eyebrows on EVERY cake I ever make from now on.  It may end up being my epitaph.  "Here lies the tetchiest pedant we ever knew. She iced a mean ironic eyebrow."  What better way to be remembered?

Ten minutes left.  Watson seems to be pulling it out of the bag, with her raspberry buttercream looking only slightly like the product of liposuction.

Stephen K Amos has de-grained his chocolate somehow.  Brand holds the stencil of his face over the cake and Stephen K Amos shakes glittery brown dust through it.  The resulting picture looks...well, it looks shit.

Amazingly, they've all finished in time.

Brand's isn't overdone.  And her freestyle Tutu has gone down well.  Berry says she's made a very good cake.

Amos's is bitter.  And dense.  I wouldn't want a picture of myself on a bitter, dense cake, would you?

Paul Hollywood then cuts into his own face as they try Oliver's cake.  He declares it "lovely".  And the orange sponge that went so horribly wrong first time round was light and nice.  Hurrah!

Watson's Sue cake with the ironic eyebrow is soon sliced up.  The buttercream (lipo residue) has curdled.  And Sue tastes scrummy, but the cake is a bit wonky.  Paul Hollywood declares it " tastes perfect".

Brand's biscuits were the best.  And her cake was the best.  Will she win?

Amos's cake was burnt and bitter.  He thinks it went well, having made Berry pull a face with so much "expression" which is a devastatingly self-confident delusion.

Oliver - lovely cake, a good all-rounder.

Watson's cake was "perfect" - but was it enough to win her the competition, given her sticky messes earlier?

This person's journey (always with the sodding journey!) started with humble shortbread dreams, via custard slices, ending up in the foothills of - oh, I lost the will to live, sorry, Giedroyc!

Anyway, Ingrid Oliver won and receives the Apron of Glory.  And some flowers.  She was the all-round best.  I think it was just because she put La Hollywood on the top of her cake, don't you?  And didn't set fire to her pastry, make a dense, bitter cake or sit on her butter.  There you go - top tips for winning Bake Off.

So, let's have a bake sale for Comic Relief.  GO ON!  And ice ironic eyebrows on every last damn cake.  GO ON!

"The Queen? She'll have to take me as she finds me"

None of this sort of going-on for Marjorie

Royal watchers were outraged today as Marjorie Lighthouse, chosen by village ballot to receive Her Majesty the Queen during her 2013 Jubilee reprise tour of Little Wallop, said, "I shan't be making any special preparations.  The Queen will have to take me as she finds me. I can't be doing with fuss and faddle."

This dramatic protocol swerve came hot on the heels of two other breaks with royal tradition:

• the news that Prince Andrew was going to take a job in McDonald's, having always hankered for a role where he can earn Actual Stars (he hasn't yet, but we've everything crossed that he gets his "top patty-flipper" award later this month)
• Kate Middleton saying to a Daily Mail reporter, "It's fine, you can criticise my nude-shoe-wearing preference, I know you're only doing it to make up for having a really small penis".

Royal staff were said to be concerned that Her Maj will find the smell of the commoner's house offensive, since she is used to the scent of freshly-slapped-on Farrow & Ball (Dulux at a push), but they've developed an emergency "paint-scent sprayer" which a specially-trained Corgi will activate at set intervals with his tongue.
When interviewed, Miss Lighthouse, 82, said, "I didn't realise I'd entered the ballot.  I thought I was sending back a coupon to get 5p off mutton.  I was surprised to win and there's been some jealousy in the village, especially as I haven't gone all out to crochet doilies in the shape of Prince Charles's ears to welcome the Queen into my home, like Elsie Mucklethwaite has.  But, really, the Queen's an old lady, I'm an old lady.  I'm sure we'll have a lot in common.  I've asked Elsie if she'll lend me the ears in return for a prime spot on my fence to watch the Queen's visit, but she hasn't replied to my text yet."

We'll bring you more as we get it.  Whether you like it or not.

Rolling News. Or The Obviouses. Or Just Shut Up Already.

Be a discerning news consumer, fgs

Back in the olden days...

..when we had three channels, no recording devices and no remote controls, television watching was a serious business.  You had to plan what you were going to watch, then make sure you paid attention to it, because there was no going back and seeing it again.  There was a specific slot for children's television, another for family viewing and yet another for being informed about the important happenings of the day (known as "The News").  And television had a closedown - it wasn't on all night (astonishing though that may seem now!).

Whilst the children's television has been shifted onto whole dedicated channels since the explosion of multichannel telly and the rest of it is now an all-night festival of televisual feasting, the one thing that hasn't changed is "The News" - well, it's still called that, anyway.

But has it changed?

Well, yes, I think so.  And is that change better?  Well, no, I don't think so.  Why?  I'll explain.

When you had your news diet in the limited sort of six o'clock, nine o'clock and ten o'clock varieties, as well as newspapers (for which you parted with actual hard-earned cash) and the radio (which was the newsiest thing out), you took consuming it seriously and expected the providers to treat it in a similarly solemn fashion.  News understood that the word "new" needed to be the basis of all they conveyed.

And then - and I honestly believe you can pinpoint the downfall of news as a serious thing to this one event - Angela Rippon proved that newsreaders had legs on Morecambe & Wise.




After that, they were all at it.  Children in Need became an excuse for newsreaders to prove that they were fun too.  Honest.

But then news started to creep into every moment of every day (and this is by no means a history lesson, so don't come crying to me if I get stuff in the wrong order!) and soon it was inescapable.  From free papers on the Tube to talk radio stations endlessly churning out comment on the day's stories (often fronted by ex-tabloid journos, who are well known for thoughtful and evidence based journalism with nary a shock tactic in sight) - and one of the most pointless and soul-destroying things, rolling news on dedicated news channels.

Never has this been so patently obvious as with the recent helicopter crash in London.  Before I go on, I think we can all agree that this was a terrible thing to happen - so please don't think I am being in any way flippant or disrespectful to the two who died (I'm not) - but it highlighted very neatly the way rolling news is so useless (and, in fact, trivialises the very thing upon which it reports), thus:

- "Can you describe what you saw?"
- "Yes, a helicopter crashed."
- "What did it look like?"
- "A...helicopter crashing?"

Why, thank you, "The News" for this insight.

Continuing, we had pearls such as (and I may paraphrase here, but only slightly):

- "What did it sound like?"
- "A loud bang."

Really?  A helicopter crashing makes a loud bang?  You think?!  Not like an angel playing a harp or fairies sprinkling glitter?  FFS, stop trivialising, just stop talking!  Stop the endless churning banging on, the incessant need to fill 24 hours' worth of airwaves every fucking day with total bullshit news coverage, repeated ad nauseum, so that people can feel "fully informed" when, actually, they're just being told things they already know over and over and over again by people with serious voices.  It's not news.  It's "obviouses".

And then there is the wheeling out of experts who say, when asked what they think happened, "Well, we just don't know.  Anything could have happened.  There'll be an investigation and the results of that will be made public and then we'll be able to comment more fully."  But still they probe.  "But in your experience, what do you think happened?" - and just once, wouldn't it be nice if one of them said, "I haven't got a fucking clue and this is such a waste of time. Now piss off!"? But they don't, because they want to be on telly.  The wankers.

And, of course, we take a trip, as we always do, to Spurious Analogy Land, which is populated by journalists from rolling news.  They say things like, "It was like a war zone".  No, it was like a helicopter had crashed.  That's it.  We can imagine that well enough, thanks to the footage of the aftermath, the fire, the crane it hit, the fire engines and other emergency services on the ground - but it doesn't look like a war zone.  Just ask people who live in one.  There aren't any tanks, for instance.  Or napalm.  And there are considerably more branches of Tesco Metro.

But, mostly, just shut up.  Stop skewing the events of the day by being there, with your microphone and your lunatic wide-eyed questioning of members of the public.  Just let things happen, then report on them in strictly-timed limited slots - perhaps six, nine and ten o'clock and I'll let you do a breakfast round-up of things that happened overnight.  OK?

New Series Of MasterChef, The Professionals (or We're All Eating Ready Meals And Watching Food Porn)

M. For MasterChef. No P for Professionals. Who took the P?

"On the hunt for the next culinary superstar - a professional with the talent to cut it in the world's top kitchens."  So says the opening voiceover for this new series of MasterChef The Professionals.  I still hanker for India "I am about to orgasm" Fisher doing the voiceover, but it's not her, it's Sean Pertwee (son of Jon "Worzel Gummidge" Pertwee - I wonder if Sean can swap his heads over?) trying to be her.  Which is peculiar and disconcerting.  We've got our old favourite angry boiled potato Gregg "Greggggg" Wallace though.  But, as usual on Professionals, no John Torode - so no foghorn competitions in the "COOKING DOESN'T GET TOUGHER THAN THIS" stakes.  Which I'll miss, if I'm honest.

First, the soundbite smuggery round-up where they all do the "I will win" shouting much-beloved by programmes such as The Apprentice and X Factor.  It's basically the part where the programme can edit in any bit of a particularly boastful candidate which will embarrass them later on in the show when they cook an upside-down cake the right way up or something (horrors!).  For this first episode, where we don't know the contestants, they just go for out-and-out epic statement braying, such as, "Cooking is my life." No, son, eating is your life. If you just cook and don't eat, you won't get very far. Think on.

As ever, Professional MasterChef is about finding some "serious, serious talent". They want to discover the next "cookery genius".  It's cooking, folks, not brain surgery.  But, anyway, let's suspend our disbelief that anyone gets this earnest about putting ingredients together and applying heat to some of them in different ways and watch them sweat and pant and stress and chop things and drop things and swear under their breaths and generally splice beetroot with fudge sauce and bodge blackcurrants into mackerel.

Unlike A-levels, every year, this competition apparently gets harder, says Monica Galetti (who I like to think of as "not-Michel").

So, what are the would-be chefs doing?  Their invention challenge sees them use ingredients such as gurnard, apples and vanilla to make - well, apple and vanilla gurnard, I guess (there's a reason I'm blogging this, not competing).  Other ingredients include squid, basil, chillies and raisins.  They definitely all go together - I do hope they each use everything #rubshands

The first contestant, James, is a personal chef.  He hunts it, shoots it, fishes it and cooks it. Let's hope he doesn't fuck it (up) too.  He can pluck a pigeon, he can butcher an animal, he wants to take it all the way.  I hope he's not talking about the pigeon still #shudder

The next contestant is Danish-born Fife-dweller Morten. Calm down, ladies, he's not Mr Harket.  And, yes, he probably has had that comparison in the past.  He says, "If you just play safe, you won't go anywhere."  Can you tell what it is yet?  #wobbleboard  Hmm, it's creamed vanilla apples with fish.  Er, yum?

He's making a bowl of green stuff (I suspect basil plays a part in this - I am good at this ingredient Sherlocking - oh, and they said "basil" too and I listened. It's chilli and basil salsa).  And potato gnocchi.  But no raisins.  Why no raisins, Morten?  What did raisins do to you?  Why you eschew the raisins?!

Waitress turned chef and insurance accounts girl Anna is desperate to spend more time in the kitchen. I don't think this is sexist though.  She's making custard (because she's heard it's Greggggg's favourite - the giant jam roly-poly that he is), stacking up raising and apples in a big ol' pudding and will spin some sugar, if there's time, a la James Martin.

The next chap, Matt, looks like a Pillsbury Doughboy.  He's from a really small village in Wales too.  He's the only Doughboy in the village, I believe.  He's making a chilli basil rosti, which we see sizzling oilily (that should be a word) in a big greasy pan several times.  And searing the fish.  Gregg asks him "how on the edge is your food?" to which the obvious reply is, "It's in the middle, Gregg, it falls off the plates otherwise, you fool!".  But Matt says he's done lettuce milkshake before, which sounds revolting, frankly - so maybe that was more the answer Gregggg was looking for (another reason I'm not in this competition - too flippant.  And flippant's only good for pancakes.  Ba-doom-tss).

Rob's dad's a chef, so cooking's in his blood (let's hope it isn't the greasy rosti sort of Doughboy Matt, or he's headed for a coronary before the end of the episode).  He wants to be the best at cooking. Good job he's in a cooking competition, really.  He's a sous chef and runs the kitchen (is that how it works, hierarchy-wise? I'm not convinced...).

Long-necked 20yo Andy is creative with flavours as evinced by his basil beurre blanc with vanilla and fish with apple puree and Gregggg and not-Michel aren't sure it'll work.

Karl is a traditional chef.  He knows what works.  He wants to win (strange, don't think any of the others does).  He's head chef in a pub - he does burgers, fish and chips and sausage and mash - proper haute cuisine then.  He's making chilli squid with apples and sultanas (they're raisins, Karl, you plum!).  Squid crumble?  Again, er, yum?

Craig has done a couple of local competitions and come runner-up twice.  He doesn't say whether they were cookery competitions or not #mindboggles  He's had classic cookery chef training.  He, rather ambitiously, wants to get past the first round.  But you can tell he thinks he's better than that.  He's making green mash, a guaranteed winner with the judges.

Stefani makes imaginative food.  She works in a posh cafe in a cookery school as head chef (head, not sous - there's a definite difference there - anyone?).  She's thinking about making a shaved apple salad (er, hang on, I don't want to eat hairy apples - who would?!).

Mark is completely self-taught, so he's the underdog, according to him, where cookery skills are concerned - but he's head chef in his own restaurant, having been a joiner till three years ago.  He's making a caramelised onion and basil tart.  If he makes great pastry today, he may win (if only chilli vanilli had realised this was the way forward!).

How did they do?

Matt the Doughboy has made a too-salty basil leaf (like the Indian Ocean, Greggggg says) with an enormous stodgy rosti.  I don't fancy him much (or his chances in this competition, fnar).

Morten has made gnocchi and vanilla and apple and gurnard and chilli basil salsa.  Everything good except the chilli is too hot for the apple and vanilla.  His questionable palate is a quandary for Gregggg and not-Michel.

Anna's made a pudding and did find time to spin sugar.  Hurrah!  And it's a very well-done plate.  Greggggg is delighted to have a nice pud (you wouldn't know it to look at him, would you?).  She had him hooked on the custard (frankly, if you can hook someone on your custard, it's probably got too thick a skin, don't you think?).  Anna, giggling, is happy to have had smiles from the judges.

Rob's pan-fried gurnard is served with crispy squid and apple salad with basil oil.  Greggggg doesn't like the salad.  He calls it "unpleasant".  Apple juice spilling into oil and lemon juice.  Monica says it's all too sharp.  The squid and the gurnard are well cooked, but - unpleasant isn't the best way to begin a competition, is it?

Andy has also pan-fried his gurnard.  Well, of course he has.  What else do we fry things in?  Shoes?  Top hats?  For heaven's sake!  His sauce is like a pudding that doesn't go with fish.  And pudding doesn't go with fish, ever. Andy says he feels he's let himself down a bit today.  Well, yes, yes, you have.  AND US, ANDY!  Think on, again, Mr Cooking Is My Life.

James's fish and squid are cooked perfectly.  Not-Michel loves it - it's the kind of plate she has been waiting to see (round, white, flattish, you know).  Greggggg also has no criticism.  He uses the word "punter" to describe himself, just so that we know he still has the common touch and is still a greengrocer at heart (we hadn't forgotten, Gregg - the last "g" in your name reminds us every time - GregGreengrocer. See?).

Karl has made wonderful potatoes, his fish is cooked and seasoned wonderfully.  The squid salad is a letdown for Monica, she says it tastes of nothing.  Tsk.  But Gregggg really likes the salad, but not with hot fish and potatoes in the middle.  Like finding a surprise steaming turd in the middle of sorbet, from his face.

Craig has made a LOT of mash - even Gregggg doesn't like that much mash.  And it's basil-green too - er, nice?  The fish is cooked well (he fried it in a cat litter tray. Just kidding, he used a pan - the traditionalist), but the vanilla beurre blanc ruins the dish.  It's positively seething with black dots of vanilla, like bedbugs in a cheap motel.

Stefani has lyonnaise-style potatoes and a load of old other stuff including fish, with a lemon dressing.  But her fish is overcooked and she's got a clash of styles on her plate.  Fgs, will these people never learn (mind you, if they keep it simple, they get criticised for not being adventurous enough - it's a balance, guys, remember that!).

Mark has made a caramelised onion, chilli and basil tart with a chilli and basil vinaigrette.  Monica loves it.  Greggg likes tarts (so I've heard).  Yep, soft, slippery onions too - mmm, slippery onions, Greggg.  Your favourite!

And that's the end of round one.  Gregggg says there were some exciting dishes there.  No winners or losers today though - there's another instalment tomorrow.  So that's the end of the programme.  Over far too quickly - should've been an hour!

Off they jolly well go, till tomorrow...

Boys, Bunting and Baking (or The Great British Bake Off FINAL!)

Baking. It's not just for girls.

It's the final of The Great British Bake Off.  We kick things off with a short precis of the finalists' credentials.

• James - he's an innovator, keen on the scientific aspect of baking.
• Brendan - he's precise, nostalgic, with a '70s feel to his perfect bakes.
• John - he's passionate about baking.

So, it's all boys in the final. Sue says the musk of testosterone and icing sugar in the tent is heady.  All together now - bleurgh.

First, the Signature Challenge.  They have to perfect a rough puff pastry for a Pithivier.  John has been practising his puff for some time.  James learnt to bake as a boy with his grandmother, at home in Shetland.  He's studying medicine now.  And he lives with a girl called Fenella.

John's family are supportive and encouraging - "he's never won anything before" and "he's got a 33.33% chance of winning.  And if he does, we can be really proud of him.  For the first time ever."  Charming.

They fold and roll and chill and rest and then they do the same thing with their pastry.

John's drying his roasted veg filling with kitchen roll to avoid a soggy bottom.  Not sure what he's doing about ensuring his Pithivier isn't damp-based though.

Brendan's partner, Jason, shown on a VT, says he's there to keep Brendan grounded.  And he cleans out the piping bags (so to speak).

So, the boys construct their Pithiviers, heaping veg in the centre of the bottom pastry disc and covering with a larger one, to create the domed effect.  Brendan's is a work of sunburst art.  James uses a biscuit cutter to trim the edge of his.  John folds foil over his to stop it catching, like tucking in Baby Jesus in the manger (I imagine).

Brendan's has a "great base" (phew, no soggy bottom).  It's lovely, Paul says.  Praise indeed!

John's Italian Sausage and Roasted Vegetable Pithivier...has it got a soggy bottom?  NO!  Hurrah!  And a very good flavour.  Mary particularly likes John's "lovely sausage" and was seemingly keen on the Pithivier too.

Horrors!  James's has a soggy bottom and is a little bit underdone.  It's seasoned well and the chicken is perfectly done.  But the pastry is soggy, which "has prevented the flake".  Head & Shoulders should take note.

Brendan is his usual meek, mild and unassuming self - he gives himself ten out of ten.

On to the Technical Challenge.  The judges have to leave as it is judged blind.  Sue Perkins asks Mary Berry to trot on.  And, a surprise to everyone, she actually does trot out of the marquee.  I'm not sure I'll ever get over seeing it, in fact.

So, what is the Technical Challenge?  Fondant Fancies!  25 perfect squares of sponge, marzipanned, buttercreamed, apricot jammed, fondanted, chocolate drizzled - all in two and a half hours.

Familiar territory for Brendan, he says - I probably don't want to think about Brendan fancying fondant regularly, so I shan't, if that's OK.  You can if you want though.  No, thought not.  Moving on...

Buttercream needs to be smoooooth and soft, so it doesn't break the squares when they are iced.

Marzipan is added to the top of the fondant fancies (does Mr Kipling do this? I can't remember, even if I think exceedingly hard), before they all try different ways to coat them with fondant.

Sue likens Brendan's efforts at coating his fancies to the Generation Game, which is harsh but very fair.  They're a mess.  As are they all, to be strictly accurate.  Splodges of messy fondant and smears of drizzled chocolate coat their glass cake stands as they present them to the judges.

Paul and Mary laugh as they see the finished products - always a pleasing result, to make the judges "Pithivier" themselves laughing.

Brendan's - the application of the buttercream isn't sharp.  Quite a nice bake though.

John's - tiny.  Too small.  Just titchy.  Chocolate OK.  BUT WHY SO SMALL, JOHN?!  And after the success of his sausage, too.  Mary looks very disappointed.

James - fondant thicker than the others, but still too thin.  Nice sponge.  Pungent with rosewater.

The results for the Technical Challenge are in.

Joint last are Brendan and John.  So the winner is James.  Just.  But Mr Kipling would be very disappointed.

Paul Hollywood tells the boys to consider themselves chastised (brief moment to imagine being chastised by Paul Hollywood - do I hear a rargh, ladies?  I think I do).

And it makes tomorrow all the more important.  Who can win?  Well, any of them.  We're back to the 33.33% chance again.

The Showstopper Challenge is for the perfect chiffon cake - to be served at the village fete with "limp bunting and torrential rain".  Nice.  And it has to be THEMED.

Oil and eggwhite-based batter for this cake.  It's vulnerable to sinking and often too light to support a tiered cake design.  Sounds straightforward - what could possibly go wrong?

Brendan's theme is family reunion, because he's brought together two different strands of his family.  An almond-coated raspberry chiffon, with another one on top (he didn't get the memo).

John's theme is heaven and hell, a mirror-smooth chocolate base cake and white lemony cloud cakes on top.

James is making five chiffon cakes, four using Turkish delight, pistachios, blueberries and raspberries and one bringing all those flavours together, to unite them.  His theme is "nation".  Or it could be "horrendous" - depends if he can sort that flavour balance!

James has dropped an unbaked cake.  Oh, dear.  Brendan, sympathetically and helpfully, says, "It's the one thing you dread happening."

Look!  It's all the people who left Bake Off, coming back for the village fete!  They all say positive things about the finalists and try not to look really fucking envious.

The cakes are baked.  And they look OK, hurrah!

So they ice them and balance things on them and it all gets a bit exciting and James has to substitute raspberries for Turkish delight.

James thinks his shows less skill than the others, but great baking.  We'll let Paul and Mary be the judge(s) of that.  Obviously.

Brendan gets emotional as he talks about what he's achieved with his baking over the decades - against the odds (not sure what the odds were, but anyway, he gets quite teary about it all).

So, this is it - the final judging of The Great British Bake Off.

John's heaven and hell themed cake has turned out as planned - a mirror-smooth chocolate and orange sponge base, with the white cakes perched on top injected with lemon curd.  It looks superb - glossy brown chocolate contrasting "hell" cake with the fluffy white of the "heaven" cakes.

Brendan's family reunion cake is raspberry and almond, with a gingerbread man dancing round the base.  The cake is a tall, multi-layered delight, a nice bake all the way through it.  The sponge is like a cloud, says Paul - all poetic like.  Mary's just impressed Brendan made his own jelly.

James brings his five cakes over on a colossal board.  Mary applauds James for being the main contributor to village fete, but Paul is concerned - the brief was "a cake" and James has made five.  The overachiever.  Anyway, they decide to judge the middle one, with the Union Jack on it.  Or is it the Union Flag, given that it's not at sea, it's on a cake?  I can never remember (partly because I've never tried to remember, I suspect).  Anyway...  Horrors - it's too cakey.  It's dry.  So they try another one.  It's still a bit cakey.  Overall, they're not impressed.  Although I'm not sure "too cakey" is necessarily a good criticism of what is, when it boils down to it, a cake.

Has James blown it?

Has Brendan done enough?

Is John the last-minute dark horse?

It's decision time for Paul and Mary.

James smiled even when went things went wrong.  Good, good.

John lost his mojo halfway through the series.  Not good, not good.

Brendan was good at things he could rehearse at home.  And he has amazing knowledge.

Who is it?  Paul and Mary agreed in their discussions, by saying the same name at the same time.  Spooooooky.

The finalists and the previous contestants huddle together in the summer drizzle for the results.  And...

And what a surprise!  John's won!  His heaven and hell cake nailed it for him.  And the best thing for him?  He's made his mum proud.  All together now - ahhh!  And he got a First in his law degree too.  Well done him!

Want to be on the next series, to try your hand at cooking eggs, flour, sugar and other guest ingredients in interesting and creative ways?  What are you waiting for?

Minimalist, brutalist... Grand Designs goes chintz-less

Is this the building site or the finished house? Read on...

Grand Designs this evening focuses on another crazy couple with more money than taste, The Beard and Ringlet Sunglasses, who are aiming to build their minimalist vision in a Victorian street in south London.

They've knocked down a garage to build this uncluttered fantasy home in the garden of the Victorian house they own (along with a minimalist barn in Norfolk, more of that later).

Ringlet Sunglasses wants a beacon of light, which will appear like a light box.  Always popular with the neighbours, this.  And moths.

The Beard wants it to be a sustainable, shimmering glass, carbon-neutral house.  It'll fit right into the neighbourhood, then, because one thing the Victorians were good at was minimalism.

The plan of the house itself looks like a staircase, three levels of box.  Made of concrete with some glass on top.  Given that their current Norfolk barn is mostly made of concrete and furnished with immaculate chipboard, I think it likely that they will manage to make some more concrete into a box in which to live.

Brilliantly, and unusually for Grand Designs(!), the couple aren't sure that they have the budget to build this house.  Kevin rubs his hands with barely-disguised glee at the corner-cutting The Beard is employing - the groundworks are being done by general builders, not extra-special super-duper chaps.  Maybe the house will...fall over...or something.  As it is, they've possibly put the bolts for the meccano in the wrong place so maybe the house won't fit.  Still, they'll find out whether they've made a complete balls-up of it when the concrete sets, which is the wrong side of solid to do much about it.

Ringlet Sunglasses thinks their budget being "small" is fine, because they love baked beans and they hate holidays.  So that's OK then.

They go back to the bolts again - the ones the house is meant to fit onto.  And the bolts are all pointing in different directions.  I wonder if a Big Hammer will be used.  They spray them with WD40 a bit.  But they're 55mm out, which is a door frame (although, being minimalists, perhaps they won't have door frames, just holes).  Still, WD40 is bound to fix it.  Kevin uses such non-emotive language as "wobbly" and "botch job" and "screw up" and the builders who are putting the steel on the base plate come and make extra holes for it.

Kevin calls The Beard "heroic" for trying to build an uncompromising minimalist house on such a small budget (in Grand Designs world, where £320,000 is "small").  This is only slightly colossally patronising.

Ringlet Sunglasses takes her sunglasses off and talks about freeing her mind when not surrounded by clutter.  Kevin calls her a Japanese monk, which is kind.

The steelwork goes up a treat, with a crane that takes up the whole road for some hours, causing parking restrictions and traffic diversions and tree breakages and flood, famine and depravity (maybe), further endearing The Beard and Ringlet Sunglasses to the neighbours.

Ringlet Sunglasses says they are very realistic.  She knows projects take longer, are more expensive and more hassle than you'll ever imagine.  I think this may be the Grand Designs' strapline.

Anyway, it costs too much, so they sell their chipboard and concrete palace in Norfolk.  Fortunately, having chucked out all their chintz (IKEA would be proud), packing takes precisely three seconds and they get all their possessions in the back of an Austin Maestro.

Big fat industrial glass that lights up is going to wrap their new building up like a big flashing Christmas present, and, sensibly, The Beard has decided that he will employ Some Experts to install them, rather than shinning up a telegraph pole and using some Copydex to stick them on.

Kevin stands at the bottom of the building, watching them going up, and saying things like, "Artful! Woof!" which presumably means something in design terms.  Or he may just be losing his marbles.

The Beard's brother is a professional builder and site manager, which is very handy.  But unfortunately, some dreadful hooligan tossers have nicked £6,000 or more of tools from the site, so there is much upset and the build stops for a bit.  Well, for adverts.

And...we're back in the room.

Eight months into the build, and the afternoon after the tools went missing, there was a call from the police. They've got two-thirds of the tools back, hurrah!

In other excellent news, the solar panels will give them free electricity, an eco win!

But the triple-glazed windows are being made in Latvia and transported, an eco fail!

"If you go the exacting route of the bespoke, you need to go the extra 1,500 miles" says Kevin, catchily.  I think I may live my life by this rule.  As it is, it means that The Beard and Ringlet Sunglasses are in Latvia, talking about screw heads and exact specifications of windows.  He's going to paint them white, so that they look like, well, uPVC, so well worth the 1,500-mile journey.

Hand-winching the windows up takes half a day of "punishing" work and they manage to get one window in.  Hurrah again!

It's taken a year and it's up, and The Beard is talking about hiding junctions behind skirting boards in traditionally-built houses.  But they don't want to hide the junctions in this minimalist sugar cube, they want them to disappear.  Perhaps a magic wand may be a good plan?  Or if they get some Blu-Tack and roll it into a long, thin sausage and then squash it along the join between wall and floor?  I don't think they use Blu-Tack enough in Grand Designs, do you?

Effortless simplicity isn't effortless, nor cheap.  The minimalist finishing detail for the kitchen, the roof garden and the rest is costing The Beard £35,000 (think how much Blu-Tack you could buy for that!).

Kevin does an earnest bit to camera, whispering, "It's all smoke and mirrors!" which I think is code for, "This is bullshit" but I could be wrong.

He gets all superlative-spewing again as he says the finished building looks like it's been hewn out of a glacier.  Well, it's glass.  Which glaciers aren't made from.  But OK.

Ringlet Sunglasses says over-materialising freaks her out, quite overlooking the fact that her earnest minimalist striving probably freaks people out too.

Inside, there is revolving (not revolting, though it ain't pretty) furniture.  Kevin calls them "beautiful plywood pods" as one spins to reveal a bedroom you wouldn't sleep in if you were paid to.

The Beard wants a bath store, you know, the kind of thing that sits across the bath, thus:




But Ringlet Sunglasses is horrified at the idea.

And now there are books out on shelves, The Beard has actual books with spines on show. Eek!  I begin to wonder just who is the driving force behind the endless quest for minimalism - perhaps The Beard dreams of wearing a slouchy cardigan with leather patches on the elbows, marmalade and toast crumbs on the lapels and sitting in a cosy armchair, idly leafing through a copy of Cluttered Home Weekly.

"In my house, it would look like a piece of crud," says Kevin.  He's talking about the finish on the plywood.  I think "crud" is a design term.

The eco news is in - it's one from the top of the super special sustainable house ranking lists, so not quite carbon neutral, but not bad.

And what of their budget?  £320,000, if you remember.  Well, they spent £550,000.  Ringlet Sunglasses seems to have hocked her sunglasses to cover the deficit, which is nice.

And we're left with another statement by which to live our lives, "You don't win gold medals for strolling along the road."

No.  No.  You don't.  Well spotted, that Ringlet.

The finished building looks like three portacabins, stacked haphazardly on top of one another.  With some mesh across the windows, like it's in a war zone.  Which, if the neighbours are still pissed off about the tree snappage, it may very well be.  Give me chintz over minimalism any day.  At least you get cushions then.  #reclines

The Most Fun You Can Have Watching Television (or Why I Like Baking And Houses)

Kevin McCloud would be proud

I watch television, as I'm sure many of you do too.  If you don't, you should.  Just a bit.  Go on.  Try it, you might like it.

Anyway.

One of my very favourite programmes at the moment is The Great British Bake Off.

If you haven't seen it, a bunch of amateur bakers bake a variety of different, er, baked goods every week.  They have a Signature Challenge, a Showstopper Challenge and a Technical Challenge. Presented by Mel & Sue (famous for being amusing in the 1990s and called Mel & Sue all the time), there are also famous judges (Paul Hollywood and Mary Berry) from the world of baking who judge the baking (I honestly don't know how they dream these things up! Baker judges judging bakers - it's CRAZINESS in a tin).

Anyway again.

And I must apologise, for I fear I have led you up the garden path somewhat, by making it sound like I'm going to be All Serious about baking.  I'm not.  C'mon, chaps, do you know me At All?!

Whilst the programme is, of course, fabulous, with its quintessentially English settings (complete with bunting), earnest and inventive ingredient combinations and will-it-won't-it rise/set/cut properly cliffhangers, there is a game you can play alongside watching the programme, which can turn it from dainty lady-type watching to belly laugh hur-hur-ing in an instant.

Interested?  Read on.

It's very simple.  All you do is replace the word "bake" (in all its forms, bake, baker, baking, baked, etc) with the word "fuck".

Come with me a moment.  You'll have the Great British Fuck Off.  And Paul Hollywood saying, "Good fuck on this." And Mel & Sue questioning people as to how long they have been fucking.  And where did they learn to fuck?  Do they like watching other people fucking?  What's the most challenging thing about fucking?

And my very favourite, "When I'd go to my grandmother's house, you could smell the fucking as soon as she opened the front door."

I know, I know.  Yes, it's puerile.  But I defy you not to do it and laugh.

I'm not done though.

Grand Designs returns this month for a new season.  Hurrah!  Kevin McCloud playing schadenfreude with plebs with more money than taste!  Watch as he rubs his hands gleefully as Norris and Antoine don't get the roof on their house before the rains come down in November.  Delight in his gentle scoffing at sky-high sums of cash being spent on mixer taps on springs, enormous windows and painstaking mosaics crafted by blind nuns out of flattened hedgehog spines.

But, most of all, listen out for the tone of voice he uses when he faux-gingerly asks at the end how much the whole build has cost.  "So...how much...did it cost...in the end?"

And then, when you watch the reveal of each lavish room, with Kevin being shown around by the owner-builders, imagine that he's using the same tone of voice to ask, "So...er...have you...fucked in here?"

Because they will have done.  Hur-hur.