‘Things fall apart, the centre cannot hold’ was the feeling of last night’s quarter final, when no one shone brightly enough to kickstart a scooter, let alone a career.
Although subtitles are needed to help we civilians understand Rosie’s staccato wahs, she is the only real personality left.
Like your mad old Auntie who dances to Ed Sheeran after one Christmas sherry too many, she should be treasured – if not nationally then at least as an endangered regional species.
Her attempt to convince Paul that the burnt bits on her tarte were from her black garlic and balsamic reduction was quintessential camp.
“That’s where the colour comes from” she said optimistically, hoping that Paul’s retina had become detached during filming. Immediately he replied – “I think it’s PARTLY where the colour comes from”.
Moroccan Warka pastry was next, unleashing something primal in Henry: “If anyone has heard of this I will get naked, I’m that confident.”
I scarpered, not quite ready for Hooray to bare more than his cutting wit. This was the challenge when gorgeous Steph crumbled, her 1960s French film noir visage becoming tragically wistful as she grappled with failure.
Meanwhile Rosie the vet attempted to cut up a chicken; “I’ve never cooked chicken before. It’s not how I usually cut my meat. My meat is usually alive.”
I’m not sure this would inspire confidence when taking your cat to get wormed by this Hannibal Lecter of the Home Counties and nearby lambs go silent when Rosie’s belly rumbles.
The third challenge was a stacked vertical pie, disappointingly not a Scotch Tower of beef/macaroni/onion bridie. Steph won star baker again whilst Henry went home, which was a shock as he’s been consistent.
