Tuesday 13th September may not be a date that stands out in the
calendar, unless it's your birthday. But mark my words, in years to come, it
will be a national holiday. A memorial of a time long since gone. Tuesday 13th
September was the day the Great British Bake Off died.
The BBC lost the rights, Mel and Sue quit, and it doesn't look like Paul Hollywood or Mary Berry will be in the new-look show either. We all remember where we were when Diana died. This tragedy will hold similar power, deep rooting itself in the hearts and minds of the Great British public.
Paul Hollywood, with his platinum hair and bronze skin. Eyes of steel and an iron frame. A walking, talking metallic God in the midst of mere mortals. Your grandmother's antique dildo material every Wednesday at 8pm.
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Image Credit: PA Images
Mary Berry, with her pursed lips and creased face. The people's Queen of innuendo and the woman voted 74th in the last ever printed FHM Sexiest List.
We thought they were indestructible. We thought they were heaven sent. We idolised them, despite their flaws. But our beloved champions of mid-week entertainment are about to be crushed like bugs, scrambled into an Eton Mess, and discarded like excess sausage rolls at a Christening buffet.
But who can replace the irreplaceable? Who has a similar on screen chemistry, mainstream allure, and a quintessentially British love for pastry? It can only be the Mitchell brothers.
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To hell with the cakes. We want steak pies and scotch eggs. Besides, Ross Kemp could do with break from being shot at by ISIS. The only shots being fired in the Bake Off tent are underhand sleights between contestants about the flaccidity of their sponges. He'll finally be safe.
Video Credit: Sky 1
Imagine the Christmas special. It's the last challenge. The two contestants are putting the finishing touches on their Christmas puddings. But where's the brandy to set alight? Enter Phil, bursting through the material walls of the marquee, off his bastard tits, clasping an empty bottle of Remy Martin, slurring something about longer passport queues at Gatwick post-Brexit, then weeping straight into the camera before declaring his undying love for Barbara Windsor. Grant runs in and clotheslines him, prising the empty bottle from his hands. The contestants look on in awe while these two pillars of British culture trade catastrophic blows. Who wins? We win. That's who. It's TV gold, and you know it.
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Every episode would end in an emotionally charged fight. It's exactly what our Wednesdays desperately need. A blancmange and a brawl. Cake and combat. A battle over Battenberg. Tell me I'm wrong and I'll call you a liar.
Let's all agree on something, though. If they give us Chris Evans, we fucking riot.
Featured Image Credit:Topics: Paul Hollywood