TV chefs are the bastard hangover of hedonistic, rolling-in-it, two cars and a mistress Britain. In the boom of Blair the middle class practice of drooling over souffle became a national television tradition, leaving podgy cretins proclaiming ‘We should do that’  in between scoop of deep fried guilt.

It meant that the creators of menus became celebrities, and that people previously only subjected to the swipes of snide food critics suddenly became accountable for their haircuts and their girlfriends. It created a shift in society in which the kid who could knock up a rissotto in your D.T class was no longer a ‘sticky riced pansy’ but a glorified genius. It meant that I, a beans on toast maestro, was fucked.

But for every me, there was a flouncy four eyes or a cropped haired female waiting for their elevation to celebrity, to secure their status as a proper Chef, catchphrase and all. All they needed was a platform. Masterchef is that platform. Hosted by John Torode and Gregg Wallace who respectively look like a bloated, 5 O’clock shadow version of Michael McIntyre and a football on a broomstick, it is a breath of garlic air into the world of food on T.V.

Throughout the years it has gone from lo-fi basement cook off to a theatre of drama and parsnips whilst still remaining an honest competition built on skill and invention - a large part of this is down to the BBC. If Channel 4 got it’s hands on the format, there would be no John from Dagenham who’s favourite meal is Burger and Chips.

Instead, the channels penchant for edge and quirk would see us watching Marinoella, the transvestite Prince of Malta cooking a fried egg in his mother's sweat.

As a reality show, it naturally indulges in the haunting strings of Elbow and the same old silly sob stories, but inbetween the blubbering mouths is an educational trip into the intelligent world of cookery. Torode and Wallace wax lyrical in a lexicon of food that leaves you genuinely interested in the art.

For once, instead of fixing both our eyes on the crumbling decay of the contestant, we’re glued to the texture and the shape and the sprinkles and the spirals, immersed in the sniffs and licks that the appreciative faces of McIntyre and Mitre make.

A singing show should make you want to dance, they just make me want to puke. A dancing show should make you wish you were more flexible, they just make me want to snap my own arms off. And a cookery show should make you peckish, peckish beyond belief and that’s EXACTLY what Masterchef does.