"Kick off or bake off?" was the headline on yesterday's London Evening Standard.
In our house, there was never any question of which show was going to win the battle that gripped the nation (at least for an hour or two), by which I mean the Tuesday night ratings war between ITV and BBC, Raymond Blanc and Twitter, football and food, me and missus, Champions League and Great British Bake-Off.
I know which side my bread is buttered: this was the final of my girlfriend's favourite show. I didn't even bother to suggest a compromise (first half of Arsenal vs Dortmund and then turn over?) And, much as I'm loathe to admit it, even to myself, I didn't really want one. I'm late to the game, I know, but in the past few weeks I've fallen for the Bake-Off with all the grace of a second-rate striker taking a dive in the six yard box.
Go on, say it: I've been unmanned. I'm a traitor, to my gender. And, as the editor of a red blooded men's magazine, I am no longer fit for purpose. I won't argue. I can't deny it. I loved the Great British Bake-Off: Mary Berry's glazed stare, Paul Hollywood's puffed up pomposity, Mel and Sue's jokes falling flat as pancakes. In my defence, there was one particularly compelling reason to tune in for those of us who don't know our pastry from our fillings. Tall, willowy, caramel skinned with extraordinary emerald eyes, 21 year old contestant Ruby Tandoh came within a wedding cake of winning the whole thing.
I'm going to manfully resist the temptation to make any more poor baking puns other than to note that Ruby is not only a dab hand in the kitchen she's also a smart cookie. Witness this piece from the Guardian.
Oh, and they had all the goals on Sky at 10, anyway. So win-win, basically.