BAN THIS SICK FILTH.
Hello from the other side. From the other side of the Channel, the other side of good taste, the other side of a seething portal directly into Hell. The French version of The Great British Bake Off, the quaintly named Le Meilleur Patissier (‘The Best Pastry Chef’), had a Halloween special last night and it was the sickest thing ever broadcast. Imagine an undead Prue Leith feasting on Paul Hollywood’s entrails while Mary Berry looks on in at horror at what the show has become and you’re halfway to comprehending the madness that unfolded on televisions across unsuspecting France. Grab a sick bag and start penning your letters to The Daily Mail right now.
It started off with a low-key sense of disquiet.
A woman poured a blood-like liquid into a mixing bowl, but there was little indication of the nauseating evil that was yet to unfold.
Although a man squinted up into his bowl of gore, the full extent of his sickening bloodlust was still to be revealed.
A human finger making yet more fingers. Fingers upon fingers of icing that long to slip down your wet gullet.
Rarely has the term “finger food” had such appallaing implications.
On the contestants marched with their plates full of fingers; tens of fingers marching in unison, all dead set on decomposing in the pit of your stomach. They continue to march in my dreams.
It was like an nightmarish, otherworldly, upside-down episode of I’m A Celebrity… Get Me Out Of Here.
Make like a Z-lister and gobble it down, gobble it down real good.
As this knife sliced into a cake heart, evil gripped the show, which took a decided turn towards the dark side.
This poor chap was the first to get the chop.
And then someone inserted sugar insects deep into a fluffy cakehole. Welcome to Hell.
As a side note, I’m pretty sure I got off with this guy at uni once.
Don’t mind me, just dusting a tiny brain because my soul is filled with evil.
Madness in his eyes.
It’s quite clear that the show needs to be taken off air and the tape reels need to be burned down to ashes, then blasted into space or at the very least buried six feet deep on a very, very secluded plot of land.
Animals, these people are animals.
*VOMITS ALL OVER KEYBOARD*
Hello Harold Shipman, welcome back from the dead, we’ve baked you a cake.
Jesus Christ. For Christ’s sake, don’t open it.
Oh for fuck’s… What is wrong with these people? Why do they love torture and pain? Where is Paul Hollywood? That’s him in the coffin, isn’t it? We will avenge you, Paul Hollywood, if it’s the last thing we do.