Bake In’

A short story about the Great British Bake Off that feels like a very long bad dream, written pretty much entirely during a 2 week quarantine in the middle(?) of a global pandemic.

As the grand finale of a certain baking show approaches, it felt right to reveal my ‘tell all’ story about my time on the show as a contestant earlier this summer. The baking show’s lawyer’s don’t want me to tell this story, they don’t even want me to use the show’s full name (closest I can get is Flake Skittish Shake Off); they even want me to refer to the tent as a gazebo.

Their letters want me to confirm that what I’m about to tell you is fiction. It’s not. This is very much faction.

I was there in the gazebo. I saw it all. Conflict. Drama. Many, many trifles. This is my story.

Illustrations by Ben Farr

Pasty Week.

It was the middle of the day in the middle of the summer and in the middle of a global pandemic, and I was alone waiting for a train that wouldn’t arrive for another hour and a half. I’d travelled the country for a job interview. Admittedly, I was underqualified for it. The employer admitted this too when rejecting me to my face. My swift dismissal shouldn’t have fazed me, but it was latest in a long line of rejections, and honestly I was fazed.

I’d woken up at 4am to catch the train. The bags under my eyes met the facemask that I’d worn since leaving my flat. I hadn’t eaten since about 4:30. To say I was hungry wouldn’t do my stomach’s yearning justice. I was very hungry. Luckily, I wasn’t a victim of opportunity, there was a pasty shop behind me. I could have silenced my stomach. Unluckily, I can sometimes be victim to a self-hating brain, that decided that since I failed to get the job I didn’t deserve to enjoy warm food.

My brain, sympathetically, did decree that I was worthy of cold food, so I interneted for the nearest supermarket. There was a Tesco 26 minutes away, and only 12 minutes if I cut across a field. This is where my journey truly begins. I’m a man of many faults, one of which is my sense of direction. Once in my youth, instead of walking 2 miles from my friend’s home in the morning after a night of drinking, I immediately took the wrong turn leaving his drive and walked 6 miles in the wrong direction. I only returned home, when a stranger in Banbury took pity on me and let me use her home phone. I ended up falling asleep on the stranger’s sofa, and was woken up by my mum picking me up in her car. Another fault is my inability to dance. One time on the dancefloor of a nightclub, I found myself unsure what to do with my arms, so I mimed making a chickpea curry. Another, as you’ve realised, is brevity.

This is a ‘tell all’, not a ‘tell some’.

Anyway, I got lost. I don’t how it happened. I never really do. There was no signal in the field, and the map on the train station brochure was actually a children’s cartoon maze. Unless I needed to get the happy parrot to the treasure chest, I was fucked. I wandered for a bit, eventually spotting a group of humans in the distance. I thought back to the kind stranger in Banbury and approached.

The group seemed cheerful, united in their shared goal of unpacking boxes, and erecting what looked like a tent, but was actually a gazebo. Unless they were also lost and simply decided to really embrace living in the field, I assumed they could point me in the right direction.

As I reached 2 meters away from one man, I sheepishly asked for directions. He stopped unpacking and looked up at me with the most dazzling eyes and said something. I gawked back, transfixed for a moment by his eyes, oozing charisma, and a feeling that I recognised this man. If only I could see him without a facemask on, I thought. He simply laughed at my silence. He knew his effect on people.

He repeated himself, “Would you mind just taking this box over to the tent?”

“You mean, gazebo?” I replied, as I picked up the box.

I don’t know why I picked it up, other than the aforementioned dazzling eyes and oozed charisma, but I did. While I began walking the box over, I felt a sense of purpose and responsibility growing within me. Maybe this was what employment felt like? An idea started to form, what if I continued carrying boxes for the man, what if I became the best box carrier his wonderful eyes had ever seen? Surely he’d have to give me a job. Chief carrier? Box boy? Ultimately the job title didn’t matter, just the feeling of responsibility and belonging I craved.

Once I’d dropped off that box, I went back for another. The nice eyes man laughed when he saw me going back and forth with boxes into the gazebo. I don’t know if my tired and hungry state had weakened me, but I didn’t question my actions. I must have shifted over 100 cardboard boxes into the gazebo, before I looked around and saw no one else. I went to open the gazebo door, but it was locked. I quickly snatched my phone from my pocket, but it was dead. I dashed to the nearest window and waved frantically to anyone out on the field. Outside was pitch black. I took a step backwards. It felt like only about 10 minutes had passed since that first box, yet the afternoon sun I’d expected was replaced by a black nothingness even Anish Kapoor couldn’t purchase.

Then I remembered my train, and how I’d probably definitely missed it. How could I manage to mess up even the smallest thing? If I’d stood still for 90 minutes I’d currently be on my train home. If I’d done basically anything other than get lost in a field, I’d be on my train home. Instead, I was locked in a gazebo like a chump.

I looked around the gazebo, seeing rows of recently installed workspaces and stacks of unpacked boxes. I wandered over to a random box, curious as to what I was moving this whole time anyway, what important items could these boxes contain that possibly justified my foolishness? I folded back the box flaps casually, revealing a box filled to the brim with knives. Trying to stay calm, I opened the box adjacent to it, only find another stack of knives.

Oh great, I thought. This is definitely a cult. This is definitely some kind of knife cult that likes to lock tired boys in gazebos and stab them, I continued to think. This is the classic, move these boxes filled with knives for me while I lock you in a gazebo ploy.

My nervous thinking was interrupted by the sound of a key turning in the gazebo lock. Now, I’m not proud of what happened next, and in hindsight a lot of what followed in the coming days and weeks could have been avoided, but I hid. Maybe the person on the other side of this gazebo entrance had simply realised I’d been locked inside, maybe my capturing was accidental, maybe my captor was friend not foe. But this isn’t Banbury anymore. My sleep deprived brain decided that them being foe was within probable doubt, so I ducked behind a wooden workspace. I took a peek at the stranger.

It was the dazzling eyes man. He stood in the centre of the gazebo, hands on hips, his eyes searching. He was the prison warden to my fleeing convict. He began to stride, his hips protruding ahead, leading his body. It was as if his crotch was sniffing for my scent.

I thought about darting for the now open gazebo entrance. His back was turned away, this was my chance, I could finally put this whole mess behind me. But my feet remained planted. I couldn’t make myself take the risk of being caught. I wasn’t a risk taker. I was afraid. Instead, I double downed on my strategy of hiding. My fingers prised open the cupboard door to the workspace. I crawled inside.

I sat curled up in the dark cupboard. In many ways this was smart, there was no guarantee I could escape and even if I did there would be no trains running at this time, and I’d just be waiting at the train station for ages. However, I concede in equally as many ways this was very stupid.

Nether the less, I took off my suit jacket and folded it into a makeshift pillow. I can’t remember if I mentioned if I was in a suit or not previously, but if you weren’t picturing me in one, I want you to go back and read it all from the start picturing me in a suit. I laid my head down onto my jacket and let out a slow and long yawn. The kind of slow and long yawn that in its middle point of maximum yawn, feels as if you could just about swallow yourself whole. And for the first time in a while, I shut my eyes and let sleep take over.

Gammon Week.

Thud, Thud, Thud. I woke up to the sound of repetitive thudding above. If this were a bunk bed, I’d be disturbed. Luckily, I was in a cupboard. Still, what was going on up there?

I felt as if I’d slept for a week.

The morning brought clarity to my prior actions. I was in a precarious situation, and if I wasn’t careful it could soon be carious. Who were my accidental captors? Why so many knives? What would happen if I were to be discovered? All great questions, that I didn’t plan on finding out the answers to. I planned instead to wait for a quiet moment, i.e. no thudding noise, burst out the cupboard and make a break for it. Some would say genius, others foolish. I audibly whispered both to myself several times.

In undebatable genius however, I had moved a nearby box into the cupboard with me to hide me from any prying eyes that should open the cupboard door. In doing so, a piece of fabric flopped out the side of the box. Curious, I pulled it and like a magician’s sleeve, more and more fabric came out the box. It was union jack bunting. I dropped the bunting.

Was this a UKIP gazebo? Was my luck so shitty that the random people in the middle of that field whose gazebo I’d managed to lock myself inside of, were potential far right nutjobs?

My mind went to images of London earlier this summer. Images of shirtless, sunburnt, drunk men violently protesting their right to do Nazi salutes in front of WW2 statues, in the name of nationalistic pride for a country that fought the Nazi’s. Images of the union jack flag clutched between fingers, and those fingers forming fists.

How had this flag been co-opted by these people? So much so that they were my immediate reaction upon seeing it? It wasn’t like this in 2012, was it? The Olympics was good, wasn’t it? I liked the flag then. But these men weren’t young, unless they’d been rapidly lab grown by Nigel Farage in Wetherspoons pint glasses- they were here in 2012. They were here, in this country, this whole time. Back in 2012, I was probably cheering with them. Maybe I was just young, and naïve to what the conservatives had started in 2010, to the horrors of the British empire and what the flag represented to many, but in the 90’s one of the Spice Girls wore a union jack dress and it wasn’t some statement on immigration, it was just daft.

I pushed the bunting away from me. I didn’t want it. Despite me and the union jack bunting being stuck in the same place, it had nothing to do with me, nor I it.

The noise above stopped. I braced myself for escape. Slow and steady flees the gazebo I repeated to myself. I gently creaked out the cupboard door. Light shone in through the crack. It was daytime. Trains would be running. I darted my eyes side to side searching for any human life. I saw no one. This was my chance! I crept out of the workspace, like a lanky creature in a horror movie. This’ll scare the Nazi’s I thought. I emerged elbows and knees first, with tired eyes and a foul cupboardy smell following. Behold the failed Marketing Assistant!

After adjusting to the dark of the cupboard, my eyes slowly focussed in on the blur of the gazebo. The workbenches were now busy with cooking utensils, with fridges dotted around the outside, and an alarming amount of picnic blanket cloths. I knew exactly where I was.

I was in the Flake Skittish Shake Off gazebo. This changed everything.

I remained crouched under the workspace, for fear of the camera crew spotting me. The contestants must be on break before the technical, I thought. Still, I didn’t have long to work out what to do. If I did have long, I might have acted differently. Instead, I had short. I wish I could say I looked for the exit. I didn’t. I took a deep sniff of the sugar scented air and hopped right back in the cupboard.

Crumb Week

Things are going well in the cupboard. I stayed inside until filming finished, listening in to everything above. Susan did badly on the technical, Brian over proved his dough but had good flavours, and Anita blew everyone away with the texture, flavour, and presentation of her bake. She would have been locked in for the coveted Star Baker, if Mo’s showstopper hadn’t made Male Judge audibly groan with pleasure.

The show’s lawyers were adamant I couldn’t use the presenters or judges names when writing this, so instead I’ll refer to them as Male Judge, Lady Judge, Not Mel and Not Sue. If that’s too opaque a code, Male Judge looks like a glazed wooden fence came to life and grew a goatee. Lady Judge looks like she’s playing buckaroo with herself and accessories. Not Sue looks more like a raven than Not Mel, who looks more egg-like than Not Sue.

It was tough staying in the cupboard with such nice aromas tempting me out. I felt like Jesus being tempted by the devil in the desert, except my desert was a cupboard and my devil was a dessert. But much like Jesus, I planned to wait until the crew was gone, sneak out and scoff down all the sweet treats by myself.

My stomach’s grumblings were becoming mini earthquakes. Luckily, my audible belly bellows were drowned out by the constant Shake Off jingle being played in the gazebo. I always presumed the score was added in the editing room, but no, the backing music on the Shake Off is actually played on loop throughout the day by a live orchestra. They are paid in leftover baked goods.

And look, if you’re wondering why I decided to hop back in the cupboard, with an exit in sight, you clearly do not love the Shake Off like I do. This was a front row seat to the greatest TV show on the planet. This was a golden ticket to the chocolate factory. This was 3 wishes from a genie all at once.

I wish I could say all the sweetness in the air helped raise my low mood, instead I felt myself grow bitter and cold. I had a ploy, you see, a deep desire that I was in the prime location to enact. I would be a contestant in the Shake Off. This would be the year I finally received a Hollywood handshake - wait, sorry –

The baking show’s lawyers also wrote to me in depth on how I was supposed to refer to the ‘trademarked’ handshake. The use of ‘hollywood’, ‘hand’ and ‘shake’ were each contested. I wrote back, asking if a ‘Paul Paw’ was acceptable. They declined. Instead I am only permitted to use the phrase ‘Pollywood foot rub’.

-This would be the year I finally received a Pollywood foot rub. And I will savour every second of it.

But my plan had to wait, because from the sounds of it, everyone above had cleared off. My hunger prevented any caution, and I darted out of the cupboard on all fours. I bounded across the gazebo sweeping each workspace for leftovers. A bowl of icing here, some burnt gingerbread there. It was a modest feast. After not having eaten since early yesterday morning, I would have eaten anything, well, practically anything. I did not touch Marie’s sorry excuse for a cheesecake. I don’t care if it’s been sculpted into your Nan’s face Marie, I’m not going anywhere near it.

All that was left was crumbs. I deemed hoovering them up with my mouth off the counter beneath me. Still, the crumbs looked at me with a sweet stare and I met their gaze, salivating. I was just about to betray myself and suck up those seductive morsels when the gazebo door opened.

The man with the dazzling eyes entered crotch first. He began striding through the gazebo aisles, patrolling; his crotch had my scent and was determined this time. His bright eyes were like reverse lighthouses; two illuminating strips beamed out of his sockets, not to stray me from danger but lure me into it. I gripped to the side of the counter I was hiding behind, resisting the siren call of his stare.

I crêpe’t along beneath his gaze, scuttling round the gazebo until I found my cupboard. Home sweet cupboard.

Souffle Week

I slept through the next day. If contestants were practising their bakes during the day, I needed to practise at night. Upon hearing the last of them leave, I snuck out of my abode and began my night of baking. Luckily, most ingredients were kept in the gazebo for the contestants to practise with. Unluckily, the dastardly dazzling eyes man searched for me every night. I’d sporadically have to duck behind my midnight workspace until he left. I recognised his face from somewhere, I was sure of it.

I spent the rest of my week like this. Sleeping in the day and baking at night.

One night I found a long extension lead and dragged the end into my cupboard. The following night, a crew member left her phone charger out. I sat and waited for my phone to recharge.

I’d previously only judged the passage of time by the thin moustache growing on my upper lip. In the blue light of the night, whilst waiting for bakes to bake, I’d document my physical changes from living in a cupboard, using my reflection in the back of a cake tin. From routine observation, I estimated that I gained a new whiskery hair every day. I couldn’t believe it when I realised I had grown a full footballers moustache, with 11 hairs on each side. Had 22 days really passed since my initial imprisonment?

Time worked differently in the gazebo. Days blurred with weeks, and weeks stopped being identified by months. I knew when it was a filming day and when it was a prep day, I knew when it was Biscuit week, but if you’d ask me grater-to-throat what day of the week it was, I’d probably stutter something about glazed buns and about how Bread week was soon and that was a big one to impress.

I’d noticed that my diet of cakes and sugary snacks was not providing sufficient nutrients. My cheeks had sunken inwards, and I’d lost most of my teeth. I realised I hadn’t spoken to anyone the past 22 days. I tried to speak out loud, just to myself, then and there. What came out was a rough, dry, grumble, distorted by my lack of teeth. I tried again. And again. In the silence of night-time, all that could be heard in the nation’s most famous gazebo was the gummy sounds of a hermit repeating the word ‘souffle’ to themselves.

My phone turned on. I had texts from names that sounded familiar, yet so tied to my old life. Names like ‘Mum’ and ‘Flatmate’. I knew these people; I was sure of it. I didn’t reply. I was busy searching for any baking recipes I could think of.

Despite my wild dreams of appearing as a contestant on the Shake Off, I confess I am not too good of a baker. I once screamed expletives directly at a Portuguese tart for exploding. I needed to quickly catch up on all the baking do’s and don’ts before I became a contestant and faced the dreaded technical challenge. I also needed to reign in my potty mouth.

I went to sleep that day, thinking of who I would call, tears in my eyes, when I win Star Baker. A heart-warming coda to my triumphant victory. Maybe the mystery figures of my past, ‘Mum’ or ‘Flatmate’, No — I decided it should be whoever had texted me the most as they were clearly my closest friend. When I finally won Star Baker I would call my most loyal, most persistent, best friend ‘T-Mobile’.

Rotten Egg Week

It’s cinema week. The showstopper’s brief is ‘The magic of cinema’. Why are the showstopper’s always so conceptual? It’s always like make your biggest regret as a tart. Or The moment you first felt alone in the world as a meringue.

Anyway, one contestant, Sarah, is doing a Harry Potter cake. The design is a big broomstick sticking up from a marzipan Quidditch pitch, that from profile errs on the phallic side. She’s decorated the outside with those bean sweeties from the movies that have surprising flavours like earwax. I’ve never understood them, seemingly the only pleasure from maybe getting a disgusting bean or a lovely fruity one is the element of risk. Is this danger so exciting that it’s worth possibly eating earwax?

Sarah left the beans out overnight in an airtight jar, which I cleverly pinched. I don’t enjoy or condone stealing, but I’ve found myself in a sticky situation. It’s easy to acquire food after filming, from the various cakes and debris left behind, but the days in between filming grow long and my stomach rumbles through them.

This stolen jar of flavoured beans could have been a godsend. I was elated. I was hungry. The only victim I could see was Sarah but let’s be honest would a couple of colourful beans detract from her giant penis cake - not one bit. It was victim-less crime. Or so I thought.

Sarah had wisely separated the disgusting flavoured beans from the lovely fruity ones, and the jar I was holding, my only food for the night, was not filled with the good stuff. The only determinable pleasure, one that is centred around the concept of risk, was gone. A smarter person would have realised the beans had been separated after the third of forth disgusting bean, a smarter person wouldn’t still have the taste of earwax followed by bogeys followed by rotten eggs in their mouth.

My only comfort was knowing that my tormentor, Sarah, had probably eaten enough of these beans to recognise them by colour. I swear to God, if that’s not the case, and there’s some sort of flavour guide be it on the back of the packet or online, I will not be happy. I cannot stress how bad my night was. How many beans it took me to realise that the fruit was not coming, to realise that my hunger was so great I didn’t care.

Who came up with these disgusting tastes? How did they work out what was the right level of Earwax flavour versus what was too much? I want to see the ideas they didn’t do. I want to see the team meeting with nervous interns going round a circle suggesting ideas, and gradually the good bad flavours like ‘Earwax’, like ‘Rotten Egg’, get used up. I bet some try to go overly conceptual like ‘Despair?’ or ‘Divorce’. It’s only a matter of time before someone says, ‘Shit Flavour’ or ‘Dead Bird’ and suddenly everyone is disgusted like the previous suggestion of ‘Vomit’ was fine. I want to see the intern who panicked and suggested ‘Seamen’ packing their bags while shaking their head, muttering “I should have said Sprouts, I should have said Sprouts".

Bread Week

This is the big one. Haul Pollywood loves bread so much; I wouldn’t be shocked if he turned out to be made of it. I stayed up late into the day, watching them film through a cupboard crack. I needed to figure out who were my main rivals. Who was buttering up to Haul? Who knew their bread? Did I know mine?

I went to grab my phone from behind me, but just patted air. I turned around, which when cramped into a cupboard, is harder and takes longer than you’d expect, and saw the charger cable stretched out into the dark of the cupboard. I’d hadn’t dared venture there yet, out of fear of the unknown. I pulled on the cable, hoping to drag my phone towards me, but it went taut. I gulped.

I knew what this meant. I’d have to crawl into the darkness to retrieve it. I held one hand out for defence, and other to push myself deeper and deeper into the void. I was moving a lot like a mermaid on land if that helps you picture it.

As I inched closer and closer, following the charger cable, I began to hear mumblings about crazed and random things about baking. I considered whether these were my own thoughts, and then considered whether this was a bad sign that I’d consider crazed thoughts to be possibly my own. I stared out into the dark, slightly afraid. The mumblings got louder. I froze, making out the phrases ‘glazed buns’ ‘part baked roll’ and ‘brioche’ over and over. I was nearly at the end of the cupboard now. There was probably only about a baguette between me and my phone.

I edged just a bit closer, my eyes following the snake-like cable’s turns and twists. I gave the cable a good yank and my phone hurled towards me. I scrambled to pick it up, but another hand met mine. We both froze.

This other hand was rough and dry, this other hand was more paw than hand, belonging to something other than human. I stared into the void, attempting to see the face of this beast. Two eyes peered back at me. It was stand-off. Quick off the draw, I snapped up my phone, the screen open on several tabs of brioche buns and seductively laid out pastries. I swiped up and turned on the torch button. The end of the cupboard lit up and the creature in front’s true form was revealed.

It was Cecil the Lion.

I dropped my phone in shock. How could this be? I knew Cecil as a showstopper back in season 6. She was a magnificent lion sculpted out of bread. The torch shined upwards on my mine and the creatures face, as if we were telling scary stories around a campfire. Through my gums, I managed to address the lion loaf.

“Cecil? Is it really you? …How…How is this possible?”

The lion’s head nodded slowly, purring.

“It…feels…good…to…hear…. another…after….so…. long”

Her voice was slow, every word a struggle between tired breathes.

“How, if you don’t mind me asking, How are you alive? I mean, aren’t you technically bread?”

Her mouth slowly bounced open and shut, like an old puppet, replying –

“After…my creation…I was…every…where…magazines…talk shows…they…even wanted me…for…big…brother…I was a…real showstopper…but I was….”

Cecil began to wheeze. I hurried back and fetched her some water from my end of the cupboard. I ladled the water into her mouth, and she carried on.

“I was…left aside…nobody wants to eat…two weeks…old…bread…I was…stale…left here…in the dark…I don’t like…the dark…”

My gaze lowered from her sorrow filled eyes. I didn’t like stale bread, I felt complicit in her abandonment. I noticed a trail from where I’d poured water for her. It had dribbled down her chin, creating a puddle where she sat.

I lifted her in my arms, out of the wet. “Oh…so strong” she heaved. She was being kind; my muscles had mostly wasted away at this point. One arm could snap as if it were a digestive. I held her in my arms, pressed close. Her soggy bottom dripped on my lap. She purred.

“they all…took their…photos…so many photos… to immortalise…me…immortalise my beauty” She began to chuckle. “…but I’m still here…I’m still beautiful…. tell me…I’m beautiful”

I gulped. I had to be careful now, I don’t want to give her any ideas, but also my silence was deafening to an already emotionally crushed lion.

“You’re still a showstopper to me”

That was a mistake, way too strong.

“Careful…lad…I’m…made…of bread. Don’t want…you getting…ideas, after…all”

Phew. Now that the sexual tension was out of the way, this could be the start of a great friendship, I thought.

That evening, I brought Cecil out of the cupboard and let her watch me practice my baking. Her eyes grew twice their size upon seeing the gazebo again. ‘I’d heard rumblings about Channel 4…it’s good to see…nothing’s changed’ she purred. While I whisked she told me about her life. She believes that her soul was released from her lioness body after being killed by a dentist in Zimbabwe and embodied a new bready body. I’d love to repeat the musings of a truly old soul on the afterlife and sentience, but honestly I’m really sick of typing so many ellipsis, and I’m sure you’re sick reading it.

Cecil, as it turned out, knew all there was to know about baking. I guess being a bake herself, she had insider knowledge. She’d roar out teachings to me, and occasionally talk of a deeper, secret form of baking she called- ‘winging it’. It felt like a Ratatouille situation, except my rat was a talking lion that I definitely didn’t have sexual tension with.

On some level I felt exploitative of Cecil, using her for her baking knowledge ahead of my appearance on the show. She’d been alone for so long, as much as I didn’t want to take advantage of her, it must have felt so good for her to speak to someone else. I know, it felt good for me. And I’d only been by myself for barely a month, I couldn’t imagine what the years of isolation must have been like for her heart.

That night we both slept on my end of the cupboard. I woke in the middle of the night to Cecil using my phone again. I checked the history later to see she’d only been looking at baked goods again. She’s a good friend being so keen on helping me win. It was good to have a friend.

European Week

Cecil became a Yoda-like figure to me. Her strangeness seemed to inform a sort of chaotic intelligence. When baking, I’d prop her up against a sugar jar and she’d impart her wisdoms on the art of ‘winging it’. Afterwards, we’d eat together, and she’d purr platitudes and I’d wipe the crumbs from the corners of her mouth. She told me, that winging was about forming a fluid relationship with the bakes, one where they told me what they needed as much as the recipe did. I was baking things that could be described as crème brulee, pond puddings, donuts, babka, quiches all from the top of my head. I was talking to and listening to cake batter. The recipes just came to me from the ether. Unfortunately, most of my winged cakes ended up with way too much salt and tasted awful. One even had a fistful of soil from the ground beneath the gazebo floor.

I returned to the cupboard with a mouthful of soil. I thought about what led to me being here, in the gazebo, it was my inability to buy myself something nice. I wouldn’t allow myself to buy, and more importantly enjoy, a warm pasty. I thought about how I deserved this mouthful of soil; this was my punishment for failing.

Cecil joined me in the cupboard. She wrapped herself in the union jack bunting.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you” I said bluntly.

“Why? It’s just some colourful triangles” She purred back, her bready paws caressing the flag.

I mumbled something about it being a symbol for angry nationalists.

She pulled in closer and we spoke at length about the rise of anti-democratic leaders across the West. I told her how far-right leaders had managed to be labelled the patriotic ones, despite tearing down everything I loved about my country. I thought about how it wasn’t just those doing Nazi salutes that voted for Brexit, it was everyday middle and working class people, and maybe I was wrong to ever feel proud about Britain.

She wondered whether globalisation had pushed people too far and made people scared. Scared people run to what they know, to those that looked and talked like them. Maybe they were simply scared and wanted to belong to something bigger than themselves.

I countered, that maybe we shouldn’t be sympathetic when this fear leads to them to hatefully question others stake in the country.

Cecil suggests that maybe they are also victims. That self-serving politicians exploited their fear, into becoming a wave of far-right rhetoric about immigration.

I thought about what made Britain so great, anyway. I thought about the values I thought it displayed, about kindness and compassion, and how maybe they weren’t displayed that much in today’s Britain, or ever really. Maybe Cecil had a point. I had to accept that some people felt like they didn’t belong to the country anymore, and UKIP and Brexit offered a vision for the country, that people felt they could belong to. It was a glorified vision of the past that tippexed over the injustice and horrors of the empire, and scribbled something about patriotism over the top. It was a history that just said ‘we are great’ full stop. But still, they were the only politicians talking about belonging. They were the ones promising a team to be on, with an array of enemies to fight against, ranging from the liberal elite to immigrants, to those that aren’t white, to those fleeing a civil war on dinghies.

“Progressive parties need to learn… how to tell a story… about the collective” Cecil purred.

She was right. We needed to learn and share a story of the UK that appealed to our better values, of togetherness, of empathy, of equality.

“a story… about the benefits… of a diverse and… globalised…society” she continued.

I turned my eyes to the ground again. Hadn’t she just said that globalisation had pushed people too far?

When the banks toppled over and knocked down people on the way, the banks got picked up and people left on the ground. People who’d lost jobs, homes and their savings held out a hand that went unmet. Somehow the responsibility didn’t lie with the banks, who took reckless risks. Somehow the recovery didn’t fall on those that could afford higher taxes, but those that couldn’t. Somehow the finger got pointed at globalisation and at immigrants rather than the finger following where the money was going and staying. How do you tell that story?

People felt that not only had their neighbours changed but their back pockets did too. They were given half the numbers to a math problem and got angry at the result. Far-right nationalists seized this anger, and like a racist version of the film Inception, took the idea that what if it wasn’t the banks what if it was the institutions, and placed it in people’s heads. What if it was the EU? What if they needed to be replaced by something older, something like the good old days? Remember the good old days? Which days? Does it matter?

They gave people a team to play for, a nostalgic past to fight for, and immigrants and refugees to fight against. And they won.

I stayed up all day with soil in my mouth. Cecil tried to tell me of a future when this wave of nationalism had passed, I brushed off her optimism. I hadn’t just failed to get the job, or failed to make a quiche, I’d also failed my country. I was just a hermit in a cupboard he shouldn’t have been in, that didn’t belong anywhere.

Tart Week

This wasn’t my best week personally. I managed to hurt Cecil the Lion’s feelings by suggesting that good bakes get eaten. She maintained that sometimes a bake can be too good to eat, that she became decoration. I then blurted out that nobody decorates the inside of a cupboard, and she’d likely been forgotten about. Understandably, this hurt her. The poor lion had been living in this cupboard by herself for years, just her luck that the only person who knows she’s alive and sentient is an asshole.

I’ve started eating the beans again. I think subconsciously in a ploy to make myself feel worse for hurting Cecil. On the plus side, they’re good food for someone with less than the desired number of teeth. I was now choosing food based on how nice it would be to suckle on. Can’t suckle on a Battenberg, but that mousse looks like one easy slurp. Yummy.

I now know, from experience, that I prefer the ‘Rotten Egg’ bean to suckle on over any other. My week could be going worse though, Jeff burnt his tart and then had a soggy bottom in the technical, the idiot. A bottom, so soggy, that I could have slurped it up. He’s going home for sure. From the looks of things, he was definitely entering the tent to avoid his partner and does not look happy to be going back. Poor guy.

Eagle eyed readers will have noticed that at the start of this section I said ‘wasn’t’. Past tense, baby. It is currently my best week of all time, all thanks to one Mr. Haul Pollywood. I’d been forced to leave a Tart au Citron out on the countertop last night, when the dazzling eyes man decided to search for me again. This misfortune though, meant that it was still out when Mr. Pollywood entered the gazebo that morning. Mr. Pollywood then, whilst criticising Keith’s tart made for the signature round, compared it to one that Keith made in practice earlier in the week. Keith then admitted he hadn’t practiced the bake. Shoddy work for this late in the game Keith, but the important thing was that Mr. Pollywood had tasted my tart and loved it!

That night, instead of practising my baking, I would sneak out into the living accommodations to get my deserved foot rub after a tart well baked. To escape the gazebo, I dug a hole underneath the side of the tent and into the field. Spatula in each hand, I burrowed furiously, emerging on the other side after a couple of hours of hard work.

I thought after living inside a gazebo for weeks, I would appreciate finally being outdoors. Spending a significant amount of time in the cupboard was doing serious damage to my back, surely being able to stretch out wide in the fresh air would do me some good. But all I wanted was to go back to the gazebo.

Given the ongoing pandemic, the Shake Off shoved all the contestants and presenters into a large baking bubble. The gazebo was situated in the centre of the bubble, with portacabins for the crew, judges, presenters, and contestants dotted around, and surrounding it all was a giant glass dome. Picture a mixing bowl, flipped, and inside was this whole pandemic-free baking eco-system.

Under the moonlight, I stealthily made my way to the largest of the portacabins, the one that would surely be for Mr Pollywood himself. My silhouette against the moon, was that of a hunchback who’d almost certainly given himself scurvy.

I slithered into Male Judge’s bedroom through a crack in the window. After my time in the cupboard, I was apt at condensing my body into small shapes. The crunch my bones made in doing so had stopped bothering me. His foot dangled out from his bed covers over the side of the bed. I slowly moved my hand to greet it. I held it firmly for several seconds and released just before things got creepy. Just before. Up until then everything was normal and sane. After that, I should have just slithered away. I was foolish not to. I was foolish to look around.

What I saw was beyond understanding. It was painful to look at. It was treason to the visual experience. I saw a fake stick-on goatee. The silver fox was a silver hoax.

I peeled back the bedsheet shielding his face, and simultaneously peeled back what was shielding me from the truth. Haul Pollywood was a hairless man, not made of flesh and bones but a man built from yeast and flour. He was a bread man with a stick-on goatee, fooling us all. I was shocked.

And that wasn’t all. Seeing Male Judge as the hairless bread man he really was, I realised that I recognised his true form as another. Haul Pollywood was moonlighting as a security guard. He was the man with the dazzling eyes who searched for me at night. He was no friend, he was foe.

It all made sense now. Haul’s searching for me even makes the edit on the televised show. Throughout filming he’s constantly patrolling the gazebo, hunting me.

I left through the door; I didn’t have the energy within me to slither. I was disheartened by the truth, but still knew I was ready to enact my plan. I was ready to become a contestant on the show.

Returning through my hole back into the gazebo, I covered it back over with the carpet and shoved the dug-up dirt into Coleen’s cabinet. Back in my cupboard, I shuffled over to Cecil the lion. “Was it worth it?” she sneered. I didn’t rise to her pettiness. I swallowed my discoveries; Cecil didn’t need to hear them. Instead, I lied. “Male Judge says he remembers you”. Cecil’s eyes became instantly doughier, and immediately any frostiness between us vanished. “Really? He said that?” she purred. It was easy to forget that she was only 5 seasons old, she was barely more than a lion cob. “Really. He said you were the best bake he’d ever seen”.

I’ll never forget the look on Cecil’s face when I said that. The smile that grew on her face stayed even when she closed her bread eyes for the night. And I’ll never forget how it made me feel, how a simple gesture made me feel good inside for a change.

Blue Poop Week

My plan to get on the show was simple. I would kidnap a contestant, alter my appearance with a beard and assume their identity. Firstly, there were a couple of issues to iron out. I knew I’d replace Ethan as he looked the most like me. I knew I’d replicate his beard by piping icing sugar onto my face. I knew how I’d kidnap him. I just didn’t know what my showstopper would be. It needed to be something unheard of, something different, something spectacular.

I thought of the cakes of my past. As a child, I’d eaten a Tarzan themed cake and afterwards my poo was blue due to the coloured marzipan of one of the characters. That would surely be a surprise, but was it fitting for the nation’s most loved baking show? Of course not. What was I going to do, ask Lady Judge to judge my bake only after the surprise colour of her shit later that day? As an adult, my Flatmate poured brownie mix onto top of a banana bread. Truly unheard of, definitely different, somewhat spectacular- but was it fit for the Shake Off? Not one bit.

I kept coming up short. Maybe this was all a mistake. Maybe I was just a failure. I was circling the drain of self-hatred when I realised I was tunnelling my way outside through my hole. Typical behaviour, trying to dig away from my problems, but who am I kidding, I’m not Shake Off material, why did I ever think I could compete on the show?

I was halfway through the tunnel when I stopped. Was there even anything on the outside for me? I was just an oversized worm, crawling through the dirt and mud to no end.

Then it hit me, I should make a Mississippi Mud Pie. I tried to say it out loud to myself, but my gummy toothless mouth just blew a raspberry instead of daring to attempt the word ‘Mississippi’. Maybe I should make a pie I could actually eat. Then it hit me again, I should make a Banoffee Pie. But what’s two pies without a third. Then it hit me again again, I should make a Key Lime Pie. The three pies, all in unison. Piethagoras Theorem.

The mere concept of this trifecta gets me so excited I dig a completely new tunnel back into the gazebo. I knew I had a showstopping idea. Cecil waits for me inside the cupboard. She says she knew I’d be back. I think she knows me better than I know myself.

I should have mentioned it’s the night before I plan to compete on the show. I didn’t but it is. That’s important for dramatic tension. I think I might be losing my mind in this gazebo. I can’t even imagine what my mental state would be without my greatest friend Cecil the bread lion.

I crept back outside the gazebo for the second thyme that night. I lurched my way towards where the contestants slept. I peared in through the window, left slightly ajar, searching for Ethan. To my surprise, all the contestants slept on bunk beds. I bet it’s more chaotic than Love Island in Week 1 when this place is heaving, I thought. I bet Star Bakers get their pick of the best bunks, I thought. My eyes lit up seeing Ethan on the bottom bunk right by the door. Lemon Squeezy, I thought. It’s like he was asking to be kidnaped.

Not to advertise kidnapping here by making it seem easy, but it really is. I opened the door, shoved a brioche in his mouth, tied strawberry laces round his wrists and ankles, and dragged him into my hole. None of the other bakers woke up or saw what happened, or they did and decided it meant less competition. I also want to stress that I heavily condemn kidnapping, or stealing of people, despite my actions. Listen to words not my actions. I guess this is a visual medium, so read my words aloud and listen and don’t listen to my actions. Got it? I want to draw a line here and make this extremely clear. Employers: these actions are not indicative of what type of employee I am or could be. The Offended: I’m sorry, I will not kidnap again. Kidnappers: Stop it.

I shoved Ethan in the cupboard.

It’s barely still the night before the show. The sun’s coming up now.

I swap my tattered suit shirt and jacket for Ethan’s jumper. If you’d forgotten I was wearing a suit, I want you to re-read all of this again now picturing me in a suit. From the start. I mean it.

I sit cross legged in the cupboard I call home, piping icing onto my chin to replicate facial hair, next to my hostage, Ethan, and my greatest friend, Cecil the Lion. I look at my reflection in the back of ladle. It’s show time. I’m ready.

Cheesy Custard Week

I arrived at the gazebo early that morning, or technically left my cupboard early, to enact a series of plots before the other contestants arrived. And by a series of plots, I mean sabotage, sneaky devious sabotage. I knew my baking capabilities; I couldn’t win this fair and square. So, I swapped Coleen’s salt and sugar, turned Rahul’s oven to Spanish, and put dirt in everyone else’s drawers. Everyone is so nice and wholesome on this show that they’d sooner implode than suspect malicious actions of another.

Did exploiting the kind nature of strangers make me feel good? No way, but would wallowing in ‘guilt’ somehow make me Star Baker? No way, Jose.

The remaining contestants filter into the tent. There’s only 3 others. It must be the semi-final. I breathe a deep sigh of relief that it’s not the final. I’d actually managed to sleep through most of filming, so had no clue what week we were in. If it were the final, I’d have to make chit chat with real Ethan’s wife, and I presume kids. It’s one thing to fool a bunch of bakers but I can’t trick the man’s wife. I can fake a beard, but I can’t fake chemistry. Imagine if she kissed me and had icing sugar smudged on her face afterwards. I’d be rumbled.

I nodded over to my fellow bakers, pretending I was busy prepping my baking for that day. They smiled back. One of my main concerns was them discovering my diminished toothage. Ethan had teeth. To compensate, I’d stuffed a load of marshmallows in my mouth that vaguely looked like teeth when I parted my lips only a little. I’d got really good at pretending to be eating.

I’d also shoved six baguettes up and down my clothes to fix my hunched back.

The producers gave a quick rundown of the day’s filming. It would start with the signature, then technical, then finally the showstopper. That’s when it hit me. I hadn’t prepared anything for the signature, I’d been so focussed on my Piethagoras Theorem showstopper, the first round of the show had passed me by. I started to panic slightly.

The rest of the introductions flew by. I missed Not Mel and Not Sue enter, I missed Lady Judge describe the signatures premise. I even missed the bread man dare to introduce himself as a human. I tried to remain cool, not just to collect my thoughts, but I was also aware that heat could compromise my iced beard. No one wants a melty chin.

The signature was a cheesecake of our choice. All nice and chilled. My iced beard was safe this round. I thought of Cecil, and how she’d taught me to wing bakes, I thought of how I’d sabotaged the other bakers, I closed my eyes. I could do this.

I couldn’t. It was a mess. I grated cheddar on top of a bowl of custard. Rahul, as it turns out could speak Spanish. He was confused by the language setting, but god damn if it didn’t faze him one bit. I wanted to be mad that one of ploys had fallen through, but there was a lot of good content for Extra Slice. I didn’t have it in me to hate. Maybe I would have if Coleen’s cheesecake hadn’t made Lady Judge gag. The judges came round at one point, at which I expertly pretended to be eating. They bought it hoop, lime and sticker.

I then went outside to film some post-bake commentary. Just general “How did that go?” “Do you think you’ll make it to the final?” I smiled strangely, my cheeks pushed out by marshmallows, and nodded to both questions.

Next was the technical.

Not Mel ordered we make 6 Sicilian Cassatelle’s for the bread man, each filled with chocolate and ricotta. Not Sue did something raven-like, and everyone laughed. I joined late, unsure of how to laugh with several marshmallows crammed in my gob. I continued my muffled laughter well after anyone else had finished. I didn’t know what a Cassatelle was. I paced, trying to think. A baguette came dislodged from my trouser leg. I abandoned it. Too many cameras to shove it back.

The first instruction was simply ‘Make the filling’. This vague instruction only helped to remind me how screwed I was. I could feel my blood boiling, my cheeks turning red with anger. Next in my sparse bullet pointed list was ‘Drain the ricotta’. I understood this command. I grabbed at the ricotta with my fists squeezing the juices out. It was a mess. I was a mess.

I still didn’t know what they were supposed to look like. It would be a risky move to wait until everyone else had finished to start. ‘Make a stiff, pliable dough’. It was a doughy bake! I knew dough. I understood dough. I made a dough. Kneaded it and divided it into 6 balls. Maybe I had a chance I thought, all these idiots are using pasta makers, like fools.

On the up, I then took a risk. I knelt down and poked my head into my cupboard. Cecil was crouched by Ethan, doing her best intimidation face.

“Everything…going…OK?” she purred.

“It’s been up and down. Quick question, what’s a Cassatelle?”

“Think… sweet pasties”

“Brilliant, thanks Cecil”

Cecil deserved that thanks and thousands more. She was just simply incredible; I don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to her. I need to make sure she’s set up in a bready zoo after this. Bread stick Giraffes, Tiger Bread Tigers, and the mighty Lion Queen herself, Cecil.

I stood back up and removed my head from the cupboard, one camera had zoomed in on me, but I think I’m safe. I should be more careful in the future, I thought. I relaxed. I knew sweet pasties. I folded the ricotta and chocolate into the dough and crimped the edges. This’ll be sweet poetic justice considering a pasty got me into this gazebo.

My confidence vanished when I saw the next instruction. ‘Authentically deep fat fried’. I’d have to be careful as to keep my iced chin away from the heat. I fashioned a pair of extra-long tongs from taping multiple tongs together. The Raven asked what I was doing, I mumbled something about oil spit. They laughed. They all laughed. But it worked. My beard, and disguise, was intact.

They came apart a bit in the oil and looked messy- but ultimately they were fine. I was fine. Much like the work of great indie director John Cassavetes, my Cassatelle’s were best close up. Like face to plate, nose touching the food, close up. I came respectably 3rd.

So far I wasn’t winning Star Baker but there’s always the showstopper. I’ve still got time to impress. Haul Pollywood approached me after the technical.

“I’ve been disappointed in your bakes today” Haul dared to utter.

I could have kept quiet, I could have pretended to be eating again, but something about the tone of this man, this man who’d patrolled me countlessly throughout the night, the tone of this man made of bread, made me swallow the marshmallows in one gulp.

“You’re going to need something big in the showstopper” he continued, but the charm of his dazzling eyes had faded, and I retorted.

“Well, we’ve all been disappointed lately”

He was taken back. “What do you mean”

“Oh nothing, bread boy”

I walked away.

My adrenaline was pumping, and I didn’t get a reprieve. Coleen had fallen in my hole. In her defence, I’d pulled the carpet over it- making it a surprisingly good trap. A crowd gathered, all shocked. Questions flew around — what could have done this? A Badger? A hedgehog? Fox? A crew member turned to me and asked, “What do you think did it?”

I told myself to keep cool, I’d be fine if I played it dumb.

“What hole?”

Not that dumb.

“Maybe a squirrel hiding a really good nut”

Phew. Good save. I went back to my workspace, someone else could help Coleen. This is when things started to get bad. None of the ingredients for my Piethagoras showstopper were there. No pastry, no limes, no chocolate. Maybe it was karma, Maybe I was an idiot.

Production must only bring ingredients based on a shopping list provided by the contestant. I’d forgotten this, after my weeks of baking from leftovers. I looked at real Ethan’s ingredients. It was like doing algebra, but x was a baked good.

I could feel myself getting angrier and angrier. I just wanted to be Star Baker. I just wanted a special apron. I had an hour before filming for the Showstopper began. All the contestants were busy helping Coleen out of the hole, so I went to my cupboard to interrogate Ethan.

I slid my uneaten signature bake of cheesy custard in front of Ethan. Cecil held him down. I repeatedly dipped his head in the custard. In the cold light of day, it was custard themed torture. “Tell me the recipe!” I shouted repeatedly. Cecil growled in his ear, to the point she scared me a little. He didn’t relent. He’d been trained well.

The hour was nearly up. I was running out of time.

“You…you can…wing it…I believe in…you” Cecil’s purred into my ear.

“I’m not like you, Cecil, you’re a Showstopper, I’m an awful baker. I don’t have it in me to wing it. I need a recipe”

My face dropped. Cecil tried to comfort me, but I wasn’t self-pitying, I’d had an idea. A horrible and crooked idea. But like the word seeds of far-right politicians, an idea was planted in a desperate mind and grew. Cecil was a showstopper. She was the missing ingredient. She was exactly what I needed.

“Cecil, can I ask something terrible of you?”

She looked at me, with those sorrowful eyes and purred –

“Anything…dear…anything”

I picked up my bread friend and darted out of the cupboard. Cecil screamed out- “What are you doing? They’ll see me! I’m not ready!” I ignored her. I wasn’t thinking clearly, I was in a desperate haze. I needed a showstopper to win Star Baker. I grabbed a mixing bowl and crumbled my greatest friend into it. She roared out in agony as my fingers took her apart. I took a step back.

I looked downwards at a bowl of breadcrumbs. I had her crumbs on my hands, no amount of washing them could fix it.

Not Mel and Not Sue introduced the Showstopper. I didn’t hear a word they said. I didn’t look up from my former friend.

Tears begin to stream down my face. What had I done? Not Mel came round, patted me on the back and told me it would be OK. The cameras swarmed in, making sure they’d caught this on tape for this episodes emotional moment. “You’ve still got over 2 hours left” “You’ve done better in less time, Ethan” “Just get started” — I didn’t deserve this attention, this consoling. I was a killer.

Through sobs I start baking. I decided to just wing it, in honour of my teacher, my greatest friend, my victim, Cecil. I tell Not Mel that this bake meant a lot to me, it was a personal one. I poured a random amount of sugar into a bowl already half filled with her breadcrumbs and my salty tears. I chuck a load of flour in. Floury dust clouds puffed up in the air in front of me. Like a mushroom cloud after a bomb. It might have been my watery eyes deceiving me, but the flour clouds began to take a familiar shape. It was Cecil’s face.

“Cecil?” I called out.

The clouds nodded.

“You have forgotten me” She bellowed.

“No, how could I? It was barely 5 minutes ago?” I reply bewildered.

She then roars the most triumphant roar.

“You have forgotten who you are… and so… forgotten me”

“Cecil, You’re not making sense”

“Look inside yourself… You are more… than what you have become”

This brought me to my knees. I didn’t care if the camera crew saw. I cried out to the ghost of Cecil — “How can I go back? I’m not who I used to be”

She looked at me deeply, with those sorrowful eyes and purred-

“Remember who you are”

The flour dust settled, and the face vanished.

Everyone is staring at me. I don’t care. I have a bake to do.

The rest of the show is a blur of guilt and adrenaline. There’s moments when I feel like I’ve hit my groove, when measuring is the furthest thing from my mind, when I’m not baking a cake but art. There are other moments when I try to squeeze a watermelon for its juices on top of a shop bought egg custard that I had a runner fetch for me. I was winging it, and I felt alive. Cecil was right, she lived in me now. I felt her spirit, her passion, her baking knowledge running through my veins.

I presented a series of baked inventions. Some were edible. It got a lukewarm response from the judges.

I didn’t pay attention to the other bakers feedback. I was just relieved my time on the show was over. I started to think, I’d even had fun. I sat and waited for the results, thinking about this long and wild adventure. I thought about my teeth, and how I’d miss them going forward in life. I thought about how I was thinking of my life as having a future now. How I was hoping again.

It’s time for the results. We all sit in a line in front of the judges and presenters. Coleen shuffles away from my seat.

I close my eyes. Not Mel says it’s been a long 9 weeks, and we’ve all come so far. Not Sue says he has the lucky job this week and reveals Star Baker. We all wait in anticipation. The gazebo is silent.

I tell myself to practice my disappointment face. I grated cheese onto a custard. I won’t win this. Unless the others did something awful, which to be fair I didn’t see. Coleen was using salt as sugar. I was definitely creative. Did I have a chance?

Not Sue says the name: “Ethan!”

It takes me a minute to realise that’s who I am. I’ve won. I’ve made Cecil proud. I’ve made myself proud. I’m not a failure. I’m a Star Baker.

I open my eyes, expecting to see my fellow contestants cheering me, instead they are all turned around. I look over my shoulder, what could be more important than my victory?

I see Ethan, still bound at the feet, hoping towards me. I look back to my fellow contestants, to the presenters, to Lady Judge and Haul. They are all looking at me.

I gulp. I’ve been rumbled.

I’m arrested.

Pasty Week, Again.

Ultimately, the Shake Off’s security went easy on me and simply escorted me out of the gazebo, and to the train station. Maybe they saw what squatting in a cupboard for weeks had done to me. Maybe when they grabbed me, and the impact snapped my weak arms like spun sugar, they heard the crunch and felt bad. Either way, I was back where I started, waiting for a train to take me home.

I still felt immense guilt over my murder of Cecil. I thought about how because I’d eaten her, her soul was in me. It was a nice thought. It was then immediately shattered by the realisation that by this logic I’d eventually shit her out and have to flush her soul. I decided that her soul was dead. It was less painful that way. Her memory would live on in my heart. Can’t shit out a heart.

I know I said this would be a tell all not a tell some, but I confess there are things I’ve omitted. For the first two weeks I exclusively drank hand sanitizer. I also did not reveal where I was depositing my body waste, as frankly it has not been discovered yet, so I deemed it to be irrelevant.

And lastly, as I was being dragged out of the gazebo, I had a revelation. A revelation that calmed me and gave me hope. As I struggled with security, twisting and turning to free myself, my eyes darted around the tent trying to absorb every last detail of the gazebo. I saw the twee decorations, I saw 3 wonderful showstoppers, the shocked faces of a bunch of wholesome bakers who’d never seen such controversy, and I saw union jack bunting draped all over the gazebo.

I realised what Cecil meant when she spoke of needing to find a story about the collective. The Flake Skittish Shake Off was that story. It was the perfect blend of people from all over, of genuine love for strangers, of everything that could make Great Britain great.

The union jack was not being waved by a mob of sunburnt angry white men, but instead a kind collection of bakers. I felt something deep inside myself, I was choking on a marshmallow. I coughed to clean out my throat. People at the station looked at me, concerned, and stepped further away.

They relaxed when a mellow flew out of my mouth and across into the tracks. I felt something deep inside me again. It was pride. I could be proud of the Shake Off. Nationalism could be rebranded to describe the love for a baking show that celebrated diversity over adversity. There were no good old days, just shared memories of parents and grandparents passing down recipes from their parents and grandparents. It was about evolving and adapting. Changing a recipe wasn’t scary it’s just amending or fixing something. Progress shouldn’t scare us, it’s just the latest addition in an ever growing recipe.

People barely watch the same television anymore. How can you define yourself in relation to a country, if you’ve lost sight of what that country is or looks like? 2012 felt better, because everyone watched the Olympics & the Paralympics, and we felt connected to something bigger than ourselves. We belonged. And to a country that had great people like Greg Rutherford, Mo Farah, and Nicola Adams in it. The Shake Off feels so good because everyone watches, united in front of the same pavlova that we all hope cools in time. The Shake Off lets people see the Britain of today, and who and what makes it great.

We shouldn’t be arguing about new immigration control, we should be taking a different narrative. A more truthful narrative, about how immigrants contribute an enormous amount to this country that they do not get the credit for.

You shouldn’t be getting your facts from me, and really where I am supposed to be getting them from? I’m ‘technically’ at a train station. But look up who statistically pays more taxes and is overrepresented in the NHS. Look up what happens when we let this slide into far-right politics impact people’s lives, look at the increase in food bank usage, the consistent conservative cuts to funding and support, look at the betrayal of the Windrush generation.

As Cecil’s last words of ‘remember who you are’ echoed in my head, I thought of myself as a young kid. I used to watch football matches, with a St Georges Cross painted on my face. I waved the union jack during the Olympics. I thought of that kid seeing those same flags in angry far right rallies. I wondered how he’d feel.

I figured not a lot. That kid was busy eating multi-coloured cakes to make his poo change colour, he didn’t have complex feelings about flags. I thought about how I felt, now. And that maybe there’s not three lions on my chest, there’s just one and she’s made of bread. And that maybe Britain has never been great, but the Shake Off has. I know it has because I’ve got the boxset. It’s all great, even season 1, even when they did those history bits that were actually kind of boring. Even the season I hid in a cupboard for.

I bought myself a pasty and went home.

thank you for reading.

if you enjoyed it, consider sending £2 my way here: https://ko-fi.com/mattfarr

all the best, matt

Words by Matt Farr: www.mattfarrart.com

Illustration by Ben Farr: www.benfarrillustration.com