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.

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.