Seven left, Jackie the vegan knowingly wore a pea green top to demonstrate her deep commitment to vegetables, whilst the foreign one looked tearfully down camera one and half-wept: “It’s so hard”.
Tonight was going to be all about fine dining – one plate, their own food. One of them, insisted Gregg, would be going home. At that, nearly all of them momentarily burst into tears, before pulling themselves together and preparing a bit of lunch for the two judges – who, hysterically, had turned up wearing the same blazer from the Gap (cringe!).
The tiny little posh one stuffed partridge breasts. Tom threw two fingers up at convention by wearing a long sleeved top underneath a t-shirt. Norton lit a fire on a stove, mumbled something mind-blowing and philosophical about “the real risk being taking no risks at all”, put on a set of wrap around goggles, dipped his face in liquid nitrogen, then silently made a sorbet.
“That guy is fucking INSANE,” chuckled Gregg. John’s puppet face nodded disapprovingly.
Elsewhere in the large Masterchef kitchen, Miss Wales put some digestives in a blender, Foreign One threw bits of deer meat into a pan, Gregg smiled, a soulful house music backing track kicked in, interspersed with scenes of Jackie the Vegan chewing her own lips off.
“I want to be the first vegetarian Masterchef,” she said, lesbianly.
Out the back, with his leash tied around a lamppost, the guy who is like a bulldog-come-to-life turned all expectations of their heads by making chocolate cake and biscuits instead of butchering a blackbird with his teeth.
“We have a special guest!” boomed John, pointing to a door, which swung open to reveal a bank manager clutching a spoon.
To summarise the rest of the task. Foreign One aced it. Jackie’s salad was just okay. Tom served his on a bit of slate from a skip. Miss Wale’s three pudding extravaganza was very 1993. Bank Manager would happily eat Posh One’s food if she ever invited him to one of her dinner parties (hint!), Bulldog started growling when everyone mugged him off because sorbet and cake is a shit idea. Norton made a boat!
After nearly no deliberation whatsoever, Miss Wales was ordered out of the competition by John, as Gregg’s face sank marginally quicker than the tent bit protruding in his jeans.
Seven was now six, and yet the show was only at the halfway stage. Next round – to cook dinner for the elderly gentleman who always says “I don’t believe it!” then waits for people to start laughing.
The six boarded a Renault Espace borrowed from The Apprentice, and travelled to the set of BBC One’s flagship wizard programme, Merlin. As they stared silently from the windows of the car, a brain-microphone recorded their thoughts.
Trance music. “You… are… making… dinner!” exclaimed John, his mouth moving just about in synch with the words.
“It HAS to be an exquisite banquet!” reinforced Gregg, tearing his top off, and running an ice cube over his chest and around his nipples. The six were then divided into two groups of three. On one side: Norton, Foreign One, Tom. On the other: Posh One, Jackie the Vegan, Bulldog.
Each would be required to make two well thought out meals, place them on a massive tray, then allow television extras to pile as much of everything onto a paper plate as possible, regardless whether any of it goes together. This was going to be intense.
Tom cooked more meat. Bulldog made some micro-portions of duck, Jackie did another salad. Then “I don’t believe it!” wandered into the kitchen to poke people because he was bored.
“Who the fuck was that dude?” muttered Norton, in between smearing tinned tuna in vanilla ice cream.
After the sound of one man pressing a single key of a Moog keyboard finally morphed into an uplifting dance track, dinner was finally served, and everyone tore into it like hungry bloodhounds on a fox corpse.
“Tell you what, I totally freaked myself out today,” insisted Norton, peering down the camera.
And everyone laughed and started snogging.
Next week: More pudding for Gregg.
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