Too Many Cooks...

Skewer this

Dear God, have you any idea how sickened and shaken I am by today's realisation that there are four - yes, four - versions of Masterchef on TV? Now, there aren't enough f-words in the world to describe how much I hate telly chefs. I really fucking hate them. Oh, and programmes about cooking. For a kraken of my girth it is astounding, I know, that I'm not glued to shows about gravy and cake.
But four Masterchefs? Masterchef, Junior Masterchef, Masterchef: The Professionals and Celebrity Masterchef? What. The. Fuck? Exactly how much pompous jus-ing, skewering and pan-frying (by the way, where the fuck else would you fry something? On an Etch-a-Sketch?) does the BBC need? If even one scrag end of my licence fee gets spent on that show - say on a jumped up fennel or ponced up ham - I hope to fuck that it chokes some producer or other.
Why, for shit's sake, does this show need four versions? So that the wheelbarrow-faced presenters can do even more moronic fucking yelling at plates of mash? Cooking doesn't get much tougher than this? No, watching you over-catered bell-ends doesn't get much tougher although the BBC is clearly willing to shove our levels of endurance to the point at which our cranial neurons shatter and we start stabbing each other with dry spaghetti.
Worse, one quick view makes you wonder whether you stumbled onto a show about the plight of limbless newborns, such is the level of intensity with which the programme is presented. It's all ferocious hyperbole and cruet-based hysteria. It's cooking, you fucking fools! Cooking! You're not resurfacing Mars or dissecting the Royals live on air. You're slapping a pollock on a plate! That's it! That's all! Get a fucking grip!
Christ, I tell you what. Blogging doesn't get much harder than this.
Twats.