There were gripes. Some thought the challenges were getting too hard, that the bakers were less talented this year, that A-levels meant something back in the day. And it’s true: this series saw fewer controversial moments. No one binned an Alaska, or did the ol’ switcheroo on another man’s custard, or swapped the almond paste for arsenic. There was no bread lion. When we finally got a peacock, we claimed it was the wrong kind.
But Candice – who made that astonishing peacock, an homage to her spirit animal – also gave us a gingerbread pub with edible clientele, pool table and sticky ginger floor. That’s more Charlie Kaufman than Fanny Cradock. Nadiya is a hard act to follow. But this year there was also a Ghanaian banker who redefined the word relaxed, like Baloo the bear but sexier. A volatile ex-headmistress in her mid 60s, who is currently planning a trip to Ayia Napa to hit the strip. A Northern Irish aerospace engineer made a symphony orchestra of fondant fancies in little bow ties, which was camper than Glastonbury. A former primary school teacher won Star Baker by making a bread representation of Thor’s mighty pant hammer. And this was a bad year? Have you seen every other show on television? They can’t touch this.
The regulars were on top of their game, too. Not that Paul and Mary need to do anything other than turn up. It’s absurd to make mainstream entertainment out of a dowager countess judging cakes. The fact she’s doing it alongside a man who looks like a bouncer at the O2, whose day job involves breaking up fights at Kasabian concerts, is bananas. Mel and Sue continue to pipe filth into our homes on a Bazalgettian scale – such as when Sue asked buttoned-up Kate, a dead ringer for Samantha Cameron, to “put your purple ring where I can see it.” It’s not Panorama, but it’s still a public service.
Which makes it unthinkable that Bake Off’s buggered off. Somewhere along the line, this very British amateur hour became big business. The show’s title, format and soul were sold for £75m and five magic beans, stripped of its key assets. Channel 4’s “GBBO”-shaped venture won’t appear until 2018, and will probably feature Davina McCall whooping at sponge fingers. The Beeb reportedly have plans to launch a rival baking show with a supergroup lineup. This might turn out like The Traveling Wilburys, or could just be McBusted.
Let’s be thankful for what we had. All religions give divine significance to the number seven, so it’s fitting the show we know lasted the same number of series. GBBO, you were always so unlikely, and now you’re gone. You have been our half-baked biscuit base, and the best of us. We loved you as much in every dirty-protest fondant and vomitus brûlée as in your showstopping triumphs. Because we’re not really winners. You gave a battered country an identity to be proud of, one that revolved around butter and sugar and being nice. Let’s hope that survives.
Mel, Sue, Mary and Paul, our latterday saints, a nation thanks you, from the (soggy) bottom of its heart.
