Mark Nicholas crosses over

Back in the ’70s, a well-loved cricket personality branched out and built a cult following on ITV on weekday teatimes. Indoor League involved Fred Trueman wandering around an old man’s pub, somewhere in The North smoking a pipe and wearing a jumper, while introducing games of darts, shove ha’penny and even arm wrestling. At the end he said: “I’ll see thee next week.”

Thirty years on, we have Mark Nicholas presenting Britain’s Best Dish. 

It’s change, but it’s not progress.

The pitch must have gone something like this: “You know that BBC show where celebrity chefs competed to find the best British dish to celebrate the Queen’s 80th birthday? Let’s just copy it but with ordinary punters doing the cooking. And Mark Nicholas instead of Jennie Bond. No-one will even notice the difference!”

Fortunately, I’ve managed to skip the first six weeks (seriously! six weeks!), which at one hour a show, even on ITV, is a lot of lives going to waste. So I’ve missed the no doubt excruciating X Factor-style heats which, in turn, have led to some kind of endless regional play-offs where – and I may well have misunderstood the rules here – two people have to cook the same dish, expressly so Nicholas can tell us it’s the “Battle of the pies”

Hell’s kitchen indeed.

Basically it’s a bit of cooking, a bit of judging and a lot of padding. But does that stop Nicho applying Ashes ’05-style hyperbole to what is, effectively, a village fete jam-making competition?

It does not.

Ten minutes into the Starters section of the Midlands semi-final, Nicho glides over to a woman who has squashed a giant crab into a wok. “I’m very pleased with it,” she says, all jolly. “I’ve got it crammed in there!” 

Nicholas is momentarily flummoxed but says something about ‘girl power’ and the claws being out and ushers her towards the judges, three faces distantly familiar from ’90s cookery shows. Ridiculous Day Today-alike music and dizzying camerawork then attempt to whip the teatime audience up into a frenzy.

“This crab is going to take some serious breaking into!” observes Nicho, grinning delightedly, as the judges tuck in, gravely. (Nicho himself doesn’t even get to eat, just stands there watching the ‘experts’ chomping away, like a particularly well-groomed eunuch at an orgy).

For the main course cook-off, Jill is making game pie. Caroline’s doing steak and mushroom. “It’s traditionally a winter dish,” she says.

“It’s the real thing!” exclaims Nicho, apparently apropos of nothing, before adding: “It’s a yum yum day.”

“Two pies in the oven and the all-important chocolate brownie recipe still to come!” he beams. And so on, painfully slowly, to the final of three semi-finals (yes – three). It doesn’t start promisingly.

Nicho Alison, you were telling me earlier that your phone’s been on fire almost!

Alison It has, it’s been alive with all the texts and phone calls. It never stops.

Nicho I bet you couldn’t have believed that your pudding could be the subject of so much attention!

Alison It certainly caused up a stir.

The winner, should you care, isn’t the old chap with his mother’s recipe for apple pie, nor the earnest-looking fella with a spotted dick (oh yes!), but Alison and her sticky pudding. But it’s not over yet. Each course winner has pocketed a mighty sum of £2,000 but the winner of the viewers vote (can we have that on ITV now?) will get £10,000 as the starter, pudding and main course take each other on in yet another final! 

Now, Nicho really cranks it up: “Yup, 10 grand is on the table! This is it!! The nation’s biggest-ever cooking competition reaches its conclusion: the live final!!!” Nicho begins like he’s presenting the National Lottery – possibly a future ambition – before recalling the halcyon prose-poetry days of the C4 highlights. “What we’ve proved is that this nation of ours, this culinary melting pot is home to a vibrant food culture of which we should be mighty proud. Today it’s up to you to decide the much vaunted title of Britain’s best dish who will take the coveted trophy.

“It’s the stuff that dreams are made of,” he adds, wildly. It is as if, in his ear, a voice is shouting. “Pad! For six weeks!”

John’s pork belly wins. “John, John. This meant a lot to you, man, didn’t it?” says Nicho. “I can’t describe in words how much it means to me,” says John, unhelpfully.

And then it’s over. Until – apparently – next year. Nicholas has looked cheerful and smooth throughout the ordeal. He always does. The man’s a pro.

What would Fred Trueman say, though?