The stars were aligned against him
Tom was never a happy bunny. When awarded star baker status last week, he looked like he’d been handed a wet umbrella. The misery was dialled up (down?) to 11 this week. “Good enough isn’t good enough anymore,” he predicted, as if he’d recently hired Eeyore as a personal trainer. Strangely, he got happier the worse his situation became. “This isn’t my forte,” he said, making a dog’s toilet of layered dacquoise; when told he’d struggle to pipe mousse, he eagerly agreed. Evicted, his fall from grace complete, Tom announced with satisfied fatalism, “Being star baker has not been good for me.” Oh petal.
(Don’t) Move a little closer
Remember the wolf dressed as a Red Riding Hood’s grandmother? Jane’s mumsy pantomimes – congratulating Candice, bantering with Benjamina – mask her own lethal hunger. She was there, floating through the background while soul-searching Selasi admitted he didn’t know what he was doing. She was there, assuring Tom all would be well, 15 minutes before he left the show forever. She’s the criminal mastermind of whom the police suddenly realise, “She was there every time! She was taunting us!” Any contestants in trouble would be better off leaning on a polonium-tipped brolly. Her smile? All the better to eat you with.
Call a spade an excavating implement
TV dresses things up, but last night took the biscuit. It started with the contestants being challenged to create an exotic roulade; Swiss roll to you and me. “Think of roulade as a sandwich,” Paul advised. No – think of it as a Swiss roll. In an hour rich with hokum, it’s astonishing he never referred to the mini mousse cakes as Mousselinis. The bakers were stumped by marjolaine, until it was explained to be a rectangular layer cake. Andrew went further – “It’s just Vienetta.” And lo, the emperor Hollywood was found naked, unmasked by the innocence of a child.
It’s not a problem if you like it
Some scenes arrive gift-wrapped. Such as when stately Mary Berry discovered the secret ingredient in Benjamina’s Pina Colada Roulade (Roulada Colada?) was rum. She performed an exaggerated yet involuntary wink; as if the word had yanked some ventriloquist’s string inside her head. It was an extraordinary moment, merging the spirit of two Windsors: the castle suddenly inhabited by Barbara. Paul thought alcohol had overwhelmed the sponge; Bezza was having none of it. “I like the combination. Maybe it’s the tipple in there I like,” she said, the verbal equivalent of another wink.
That’s what makes it great
GBBO is bafflingly catholic for a programme about custard. It has an effortlessly diverse cast, under a name that sounds like a Ukip street party. It revels in nan-goosing seaside sauciness, with a huge social media following. This contradiction was personified by Tom describing his “hipster picnic mousse”. Yes really. “It’s taking something simple and making it complex. That’s the hipster way.” Eh? Was he criticising hipsters, or identifying as one? Is he edgy millennial, or old fogey? The show, like Tom, is somehow both. It’s Schrödinger’s scone. Now there’s a title for the reboot.
