Is it just me, or is Ruby on Great British Bake Off really annoying? Every time her face appears on screen, my brain bubbles out of my ears like syrup in a hot apple pie.
Who else thinks Mary and Paul have given her an easy ride to the final? Bake Off? More like Ruby Tuesdays! Except they can’t bear to say “goodbye” to her! (Paul Hollywood is both Keith Richards and Jimi Hendrix in this metaphor.)
I can’t be the only one to think her “I’m so terrible” schtick is an act? She’s flakier than puff pastry. Now granted, I’ve never tasted any of Ruby’s food, but I know she doesn’t deserve success in life. 21 years old, former model, sitting university exams while on GBBO, eyes as grey and deep as an Arthurian lake. It’s an insult to the hardworking, genuinely mediocre viewers at home. If she’s not happy with herself, how can the rest of us look in the mirror?
Who does she think she’s kidding? A perfectionist who’s always criticising herself? How does that make sense? Paul is clearly besotted, but the rest of us know crocodile tears when we see them. You crocodile! Someone (or thousands of strangers on Twitter) needs to tell Little Miss Perfect that she’s fake and worthless and a hussy. That will teach her to have low self-esteem. Whatever happened to modesty? Whatever happened to the British stiff upper lip?
And yes, we get it, you’re very pretty, but do you have to wear those cheekbones every day? I hope none of those fluttering eyelashes end up in the food. Mary Berry is a national treasure, and I will not have her retching blood because of some half-cooked tart.
Am I the only one who’s sick of sex penetrating everything? First Miley Cyrus, now Ruby biting her lip, flouring rolling pins and sinking her hands into soft, compliant dough. We’re not idiots BBC! We can see what you’re doing! How are we supposed to explain this to our children? Why do I feel so ashamed when I look at a macaron?
Who else used to lick the bowl? How dare Ruby cheapen our childhood memories with smut? Butter melting into crumpets, profiteroles oozing cream from piping bags, Mummy baking a cake, a single lock of golden hair stuck to her golden skin, before she left us for that flash grey-haired prat who could never love her like I could. Don’t leave me Ruby. Don’t leave us again.
Or is that just me?
Read more from our colourful columnist Alastair Savage here