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Bake up the nation

You can’t help but feel those that voted for Brexit for anachronistic reasons – a return to the values of old and a distinctly English heritage – should have instead been forced to watch an episode of The Great British Bake Off. Think about it. For an hour, the tempestuous world of smart phones, anal bleaching and Jeremy Corbyn is wiped away like excess sugar on a marzipan cottage. All that remains is a gang of people that look like they’ve just got back from a Belle & Sebastian concert, creating old-fashioned British cakes and old-fashioned British smut.

            I had never really watched the show before but even I had a solid grasp on the concept, as well as the clientele. It is, I assumed before watching Tuesday’s premiere, the equivalent of spending a Sunday afternoon with your ruddy-faced grandmother. You get sugary goodness, the stiff upper lip only baby boomers protest to possess and servings of superannuated comedy.

            However, I must confess that my own Nan hadn’t indulged in the show, and her description of it left a lot to be desired. “Oh, that’s the thing with the tent, isn’t it?” she began. “The one where the rough Scouse guy and the three lesbians judge cakes.” I guess, to her credit, she’s almost there when describing Paul Hollywood and Sandi Toksvig.

            When I made the decision to watch the show, it didn’t come easy. I had grown pig sick of staring into the piercing, ageing eyes of Hollywood every time I passed the tabloids. I knew that he had a penchant for pursuing much younger women, who seemed to desire much more than just him fingering their fig roll. So much so that I remember reading an article where they stated Hollywood liked to “lure children into his gingerbread house”. I, like most people, tired quickly of the antics of a fifty-something philanderer and the various younger gold (or perhaps that should be flour?) diggers that allowed him to rise quicker than Russian yeast.

            Nevertheless, I indulged in watching the first episode of the tenth season. As I stated earlier, the participants often fall into a few neat categories. There’s usually an aloof, detached younger man with an underlying sense of creepiness and an almost Asperger’s-like appreciation of all things baked (Henry). Then there’s the working-class ne’er-do-well who was saved from a life of lorry driving when his wife first made him bake a Victoria sponge (Phil). Throw into the bowl a clutch of twee, twentysomething teacher-types with twinkling eyes and Laura Ashley vouchers (Alice, Steph), a hipster that looks like he’d bake your severed penis into a soufflé (Dan), and a common-or-garden mom from somewhere rural (Michelle), and you’ve got yourself a recipe for success.

            What did surprise me, however, were the Leslie Phillips levels of bawdiness. “This is small and delicate so I’ve really got to get my hands around it,” mused Phil, as suggestive shots showed him massaging his phallic cake like an outtake from Fake Taxi. Then there was one contestant saying what sounded like “furry garden”, which awoke Hollywood’s dormant delight quicker than a 20-year-old with a rolling pin. When Steph said that her late great grandmother could locate anything, Paul Hollywood quipped: “Well, I’ve lost my mind”. I was then praying that Steph would fire back with “and your missus!” However, I remembered that she probably wants to win the competition.

            Suffice to say, after my first full episode of …Bake Off, I have been suckered in. I have yet to reach dangerous levels, placing bets on cake width and amount of times Noel Fielding says “get set” in his Boosh theatrical voice, but I am getting there. Although I see this week that Noel will be sporting a Dinosaur Jr. jumper and I am now seriously hoping there’ll be a baking montage set to the thumping grunge of ‘Feel the Pain’.

As Biscuit Week approaches, all I can think of are the various filthy one-liners that will be gleaned from a contestant using a pack of Fingers.

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Bake up the nation

You can’t help but feel those that voted for Brexit for anachronistic reasons – a return to the values of old and a distinctly English heritage – should have instead been forced to watch an episode of The Great British Bake Off. Think about it. For an hour, the tempestuous world of smart phones, anal bleaching and Jeremy Corbyn is wiped away like excess sugar on a marzipan cottage. All that remains is a gang of people that look like they’ve just got back from a Belle & Sebastian concert, creating old-fashioned British cakes and old-fashioned British smut.

            I had never really watched the show before but even I had a solid grasp on the concept, as well as the clientele. It is, I assumed before watching Tuesday’s premiere, the equivalent of spending a Sunday afternoon with your ruddy-faced grandmother. You get sugary goodness, the stiff upper lip only baby boomers protest to possess and servings of superannuated comedy.

            However, I must confess that my own Nan hadn’t indulged in the show, and her description of it left a lot to be desired. “Oh, that’s the thing with the tent, isn’t it?” she began. “The one where the rough Scouse guy and the three lesbians judge cakes.” I guess, to her credit, she’s almost there when describing Paul Hollywood and Sandi Toksvig.

            When I made the decision to watch the show, it didn’t come easy. I had grown pig sick of staring into the piercing, ageing eyes of Hollywood every time I passed the tabloids. I knew that he had a penchant for pursuing much younger women, who seemed to desire much more than just him fingering their fig roll. So much so that I remember reading an article where they stated Hollywood liked to “lure children into his gingerbread house”. I, like most people, tired quickly of the antics of a fifty-something philanderer and the various younger gold (or perhaps that should be flour?) diggers that allowed him to rise quicker than Russian yeast.

            Nevertheless, I indulged in watching the first episode of the tenth season. As I stated earlier, the participants often fall into a few neat categories. There’s usually an aloof, detached younger man with an underlying sense of creepiness and an almost Asperger’s-like appreciation of all things baked (Henry). Then there’s the working-class ne’er-do-well who was saved from a life of lorry driving when his wife first made him bake a Victoria sponge (Phil). Throw into the bowl a clutch of twee, twentysomething teacher-types with twinkling eyes and Laura Ashley vouchers (Alice, Steph), a hipster that looks like he’d bake your severed penis into a soufflé (Dan), and a common-or-garden mom from somewhere rural (Michelle), and you’ve got yourself a recipe for success.

            What did surprise me, however, were the Leslie Phillips levels of bawdiness. “This is small and delicate so I’ve really got to get my hands around it,” mused Phil, as suggestive shots showed him massaging his phallic cake like an outtake from Fake Taxi. Then there was one contestant saying what sounded like “furry garden”, which awoke Hollywood’s dormant delight quicker than a 20-year-old with a rolling pin. When Steph said that her late great grandmother could locate anything, Paul Hollywood quipped: “Well, I’ve lost my mind”. I was then praying that Steph would fire back with “and your missus!” However, I remembered that she probably wants to win the competition.

            Suffice to say, after my first full episode of …Bake Off, I have been suckered in. I have yet to reach dangerous levels, placing bets on cake width and amount of times Noel Fielding says “get set” in his Boosh theatrical voice, but I am getting there. Although I see this week that Noel will be sporting a Dinosaur Jr. jumper and I am now seriously hoping there’ll be a baking montage set to the thumping grunge of ‘Feel the Pain’.

As Biscuit Week approaches, all I can think of are the various filthy one-liners that will be gleaned from a contestant using a pack of Fingers.

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Shagging dog story

Most dog owners will tell you that raising a canine is a lot like raising a slightly hairier, faster child. For the most part they are like babies – blindly loyal, with their daily diary consisting of nothing but requesting food, fuss and faecal extraction (or in other words, my idea of a perfect Sunday). However, our dog has now bypassed that stage and has entered the teenage phase – I swear that if he had the apposable thumbs, he would be slamming a bedroom door and blasting out ‘Hounds of Love’ at full volume.

            At first, we thought that this transition into teen living was restricted to the odd rebellious run on his evening walk, his selective hearing and stealing slices of pizza from our very plates. Sadly, this was just the beginning. Last week, our beloved, two-year-old Henry descended into the kind of debauched devilry that would make the Dog Whisperer scream with anguish. I know what you’re thinking and you’re wrong. This wasn’t your run-of-the-mill leg hump. No, Henry indulged in a spot of solo satisfaction while in deep slumber – the only thing about this dream that wasn’t wet was his nose.

            It wasn’t how I imagined it to be when the idea of catching our dog masturbating popped into my head (not that it did often). I half expected it to be like the secret slip ‘n’ grips we all enjoyed as testosterone-addled teens, where Henry would bark his goodnights, carry the laptop in his mouth and frantically google Fake Taxi.

            Speaking of Google, we brazenly searched ‘do dogs have wet dreams?’ without any fear of repercussion from cookies or adverts. The answer still leaves me stunned into silence for so many reasons, thus I can only repeat it ad infinitum – “in the same way that dogs are just as likely to have nightmares as humans do, so too is it conceivable that a dog’s resting mind may invent sexually satisfying scenarios.”

            Upon reading this, my mind was racing. At first, jealousy – in my life, there are no such things as sexually satisfying scenarios, either deep in my head or deep in my bed. The idea that a two-year-old mutt with bad breath and moulting hair is more sexually awakened than myself made me want to head straight for Pornhub. Secondly, I tried to imagine what kind of stimuli Henry would be using for his filthy forays – does he lie back and imagine a Cavalier Michelle Keegan? Does his bone tremble with anticipation at the girthy legs of a Great Dane?

            What disturbed us further was that a few days earlier we had Googled – because we are, let’s face it, sad individuals – what dogs dream of. The answer was that as dogs are incredibly loyal to their owners, it’s most likely that they are imagining and seeing them in their dreams. While at first we thought this was overwhelmingly cute, after Henry’s wet dream we all suddenly felt like we needed a cold shower. When he came to lie by my side on the sofa a few nights after the incident occurred, I couldn’t work out if it was an act of loyal love or him attempting to add another deposit to the wank bank. All I know is, since my mother caught him enjoying his wet dream, she has refrained from shouting ‘come!’ on their morning walks.

            One week on and we have yet to catch him enjoying round two of his fur-dampening dreams. One can only assume it was a quick blast of boisterous bawdiness or he’s being more covert and enjoying a furry tug when the house is free. I am now living in fear that I’ll return from work and find Henry has raided my secret stash of FHM Magazines. Whatever the outcome, I can safely assume that Henry must have been imagining doing it doggy style. And if he wasn’t, I’m going to be even more disappointed.

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