Spectacles

by Sue Perkins

  8.01 Mary and Paul are winched down from the tent ceiling. Collabro sing ‘When Will There Be a Harvest for the World’. Mary is rocking a Hillary Clinton-style pantsuit in purple paisley. So is Paul.

  8.02 The signature challenge. The bakers are asked to make something that reminds them of childhood. Immediately one of the more senior challengers starts fashioning a representation of the three-day week out of marzipan.

  8.07 Sue steals a handful of pistachio nuts from one of the bakers’ benches.

  8.09 The cry goes up, ‘Who has taken my nuts? Who has taken my nuts?’ Mel and Sue rush to be first to the double entendre and in doing so Sue is mildly injured by an upturned piping nozzle.

  8.12 A twenty-minute VT on the history of the palette knife, voiced by Cherie Lunghi.

  8.32 The technical challenge is about to be revealed. Close-up shot of a baker eating his entire hand in fear. A medic is called to attend to the bleeding stump. Mel and Sue fight to make a joke about lending a hand. A deep silence.

  8.33 The challenge is announced. The contestants must work together to make a life-sized date and walnut loaf in the shape of Eric Pickles. Time starts now.

  8.34 A nine-minute montage of famous spoons.

  8.43 The Pickles cake is complete. Mary slowly runs her hand down the soggy sponge seam of Eric’s leg. ‘What a close texture!’ she exclaims. It feels wrong. Very wrong. Time to finally cut away to

  8.44 Close-up of lamb’s genitals.

  8.45 The showstopper challenge. The bakers are tasked with making a batch of biscuits suitable for an up-market wake.

  8.46 Staring at ovens.

  8.50 Guess the weight of the cake competition.

  8.53 Guess the weight of the presenters competition.

  8.55 VT insert. Theresa May takes us through her favourite batters.

  8.57 Final judging. Who will win star baker? Paul gets into an Aston Martin and handbrake-turns the name of the winner in gravel.

  8.59 Collabro sing from their new album, On all Fours.

  ENJOY.

  Five

  * * *

  THE REST OF THE WORLD

  The Dalton Highway

  In the summer of 2010 I’d just finished recording the first series of Bake Off. I was 100 per cent certain it wouldn’t be returning* so signed up to do a show called The World’s Most Interesting Roads instead. Its basic premise was that a couple of telly folk would sit next to one another in a four-by-four, driving across some of the greatest landscapes on the planet, from Nepal to Bolivia to the jungles of Laos. Already I should have been thinking Why view the brilliance of nature through an insect-splattered windscreen? Why not get out of the car in order to see it in all its glory? But ours is not to reason why, ours is to do and then get slagged off by A.A. Gill.

  I was paired with lovable man-hunk Charlie Boorman, and on first meeting it became clear we were the chalk and cheese of ‘Let’s do a travelogue.’ He liked biking, wearing leather, drinking with the lads and … biking. I liked books, puns, 1960s Polish film posters and the odd night at a health spa. I expect the producers thought our differences might lead to some entertaining ‘banter’ or fighting. But there was no banter or fighting; just a lot of long silences where communication should have been.

  We landed at Anchorage, Alaska, late on a gloomy afternoon and headed straight for our beds. Now, when I arrive at a hotel, there are many things I expect to see.

  a. Bored uniformed staff pretending they are on the phone when you check in so they don’t have to talk to you.

  b. Piles of leaflets for the local waxwork museum and log flume.

  c. The mild eye bulge of the concierge when two women request a double room.

  What I don’t expect to find in reception is a lavishly stuffed and mounted polar bear rearing in my general direction. And that was just the beginning. In every hotel I stayed in in Alaska I’d go to the lobby to make a call and find a mummified musk ox behind me. I’d go get a soda from the machine on the landing, only to find myself in the shadow of a grizzly bear dancing with a couple of Arctic foxes.

  If there’s one thing I hate more than trophy killing, it’s taxidermy. You’ve killed it. Don’t take the piss. Don’t fill it with sand and make it play poker with a load of animals that it would have made mincemeat of in the wild, for God’s sake.

  I was aware that in this state of the Union I was in a minority of one. Saying you don’t like slaughtering things in Alaska is like standing up at a UKIP rally and saying you don’t think there are enough Polish builders currently working in the South East.

  I don’t like guns either – they scare the living daylights out of me. I went clay-pigeon shooting once and burst into tears when I hit a target.

  Instructor:

  It’s clay, Sue – it’s not a real pigeon.

  Sue:

  I know. It’s just that I’ve got the idea of a pigeon in my head now …

  Guns are, however, a part of life in the Last Frontier, so it was inevitable we would film in a gun shop – Jim’s Guns, to be precise, one of over thirty licensed firearms warehouses in Anchorage. We walked in. Charlie instantly headed for a high-powered 50 millimetre assault rifle and started talking serial numbers with a man sporting an impressive walrus moustache. I stood there, looking uncomfortable, in the shadow of a rocket launcher.

  ‘Hey there, little lady.’

  I immediately froze. I come from a place and time where only serial killers in films say that.

  A man in a stained motorcycle singlet and Chris Waddle-inspired mullet stood in front of me. I was distinctly aware that if we had been having this same conversation six feet away, just over the door threshold, I would be speed-dialling the cops around about now.

  Ted:

  My name’s Ted. What can I get you? Looking for anything in particular?

  Me:

  No, I’m just … browsing. Is that the correct verb? Do you browse through weaponry?

  Ted:

  Sure. Care for a few suggestions?

  Me:

  I dunno. Maybe – what do you have in mind?

  Ted:

  Let me show you something you’re going to love.

  Unless it’s a petition outlawing handguns, Ted, I doubt it.

  Ted:

  OK, so you’re out at a swanky party. You’re in a little black dress. What do you need?

  Me:

  Spanx? A surgical truss?

  Ted:

  You need … this!

  Ted brings out a snub-nosed black pistol less than six inches long.

  Ted:

  Smith and Wesson. .38 calibre. Great grip and the recoil won’t rip your shoulder out. Pop it in your garter belt and you are ready to go.

  Garter belt, Ted? Are we in a fin de siècle burlesque show?! But Ted is just getting started …

  Ted:

  OK, so … aim it at my nuts. Go on!

  I really don’t want to hold the gun, let alone train it on Ted’s little twins.

  Ted:

  Come on, go for the nuts! Come on!

  ‘Come on!’ came another voice from the direction of the cash till. I was being heckled by a guy to blow another guy’s nuts off.

  I’m a sucker for peer pressure so ai
med for Ted’s groin and pulled the trigger. After it clicked, I realized that I hadn’t even bothered to check whether the gun was loaded or not.

  Ted:

  Feels good, huh? Tell you what’s better. The great thing about this little baby is that it comes with a laser sight. Depress the trigger a little. See?

  I squeeze my forefinger and a red dot appears between Ted’s balls.

  Me:

  That’s great, Ted. A laser sight. After all, I wouldn’t want my ability to kill a stranger to be compromised by being blind drunk.

  Charlie saunters over, carrying a bolt-action Remington rifle.

  Charlie:

  Do you know they sell grenades here? It’s awesome!

  Me:

  I’ll leave you boys to it. Ted, look after those nuts. Charlie, I’ll be waiting by that stuffed lynx in reception.

  Our next stop was Whittier, a tiny port city on Western Prince William Sound. You go there to watch the orcas, the minke and humpback whales, or to die of hypothermia. Whittier is about an hour’s drive from Anchorage, a little more if you get stuck behind a herd of Dall sheep or some rogue moose. It remains one of the weirdest places I’ve ever visited. It has a total population of around 220, all of whom live in two abandoned army facilities not altogether convincingly converted into condominiums.

  Begich Towers, one of these blocks, is a brutalist beige blot on the landscape, looming large over the smattering of thin trees and ramshackle collection of tugboats and pick-up trucks which litters the railway line. Everywhere there is the grey filth of melting snow. The magical freeze was ending when we arrived, and all that remained was the endless drip, drip, drip of the ugly thaw.

  ‘Well, it’s certainly living up to its tag line,’ said lovely John, our fixer.

  ‘What’s that?’ I asked.

  ‘Well,’ he continued, ‘the saying goes, “There’s nothing shittier than a day in Whittier.”’

  That’s how legendarily glum it was. It had its own rhyme. I wondered if that sort of thing could catch on back home.

  ‘There’s no point in schlepping to crappy old Epping!’

  ‘A smack in the skull is preferable to Hull!’

  The first thing the production team decided to do was split us up. Charlie went off to do something – I forget what. Something manly and charismatic, I’ll warrant. I was sent off to meet a weather specialist, the legend that is

  Brenda T.

  Brenda not only ran the local gift shop (specializing in antlers and leather goods – mainly antlers) but supervised the Whittier weather station. Brenda turned out to be as cranky as she was brilliant.

  Me:

  What’s the weather doing, Brenda?

  Brenda:

  Shit if I know. Look at the book, dumb-ass. Anyhow, I gotta go feed the reindeer.

  I was in clover. Not only was Brenda thrillingly indifferent, bordering on abusive, but she had ANIMALS TO PET.

  We headed down the stairs, out of the army condo and into the snow. Over the road there was a pen, inside which were two reindeer which I

  INSTANTLY ANTHROPOMORPHIZED.

  They’re sad in that pen, I thought. Look at their sad, sad eyes. They want to walk. They want to graze freely. They’re telling me that – they’re trying to communicate their sadness through the medium of ignoring me.

  Right, I decided. I’m going to take them for a walk.

  Me:

  Brenda?

  Brenda:

  [snarling] What?

  Me:

  Can I play with the reindeers?

  Brenda:

  Whaddayamean, play with them?

  Me:

  I don’t know. Maybe … walk with them?

  Brenda:

  Jesus Christ, you Europeans …

  She opens the gate and purposefully grabs one of the reindeer by the rope that hangs from its neck.

  Brenda:

  Take this one. It’s less mean.

  Me:

  What?

  Brenda:

  Come on, come on. This one won’t kill ya. Now listen, English. Whatever ya do, don’t let go.

  With that, Brenda shoved the rope into my hand and trudged off into the snow. Suddenly I was left holding my first reindeer. At this point it’s fair to say I had certain expectations.

  For starters, I expected the reindeer to look at me with gratitude, acknowledging I had liberated her, pupils swelling in adoration, the way they do in Disney films. I expected her to meander towards me, nuzzle at my neck and gently place her antlers either side of my head, cradling me with her horns. I expected to stand there, gently stroking her, breathing in her scent – the smell of Christmas. ‘I love you,’ I’d whisper. ‘Moo,’ she would reply – or something close to that. (My reindeer is a little rusty.)

  Well, I didn’t get any of that. What I did get was a psycho quarter-ton hot-water bottle with attitude. The first thing the reindeer did once my hand hit the rope was roll her eyes in my direction. Then she started moving. I had expected her to be strong, just not that strong. Also, what I hadn’t reckoned on was her sheer speed. Reindeer can hit speeds of up to fifty miles an hour when they want to. And this one wanted to. Suddenly I was running through the slush full tilt trying to keep hold of the rope, until the pace became too much and my arm nearly left its socket. I let go of the rope, and off into the distance hurtled Brenda’s reindeer.

  ‘There’s a moose loose!’ I shouted in the heat of the moment. I regret it. It was neither funny nor the correct species of deer. And therefore even less funny.

  I trudged up the three flights of stairs to Brenda’s flat.

  Me:

  Brenda?

  Brenda:

  What? Tell me you didn’t bring a reindeer up a stairwell?

  Me:

  No. I … I’ve lost her.

  Brenda rolls her eyes so hard I can actually hear them rotating in her skull. There is much harrumphing. Finally, she puts on her sheepskin coat, moleskin shoes and beaver mittens – then calls someone on her mobile phone, which is the size of a brick. (I guess it has to be if you’re dialling wearing beaver mittens.)

  Brenda:

  Mikey, the English has lost the reindeer. Can you get the boys on it? [To me] Jesus, you … I should put a bull’s eye on you.

  Me:

  Bull’s eye? What, like a target?

  Suddenly I am in an episode of Fargo.

  It is exactly at this moment that Charlie pitches up, looking manly.

  Charlie:

  Hey, I’ve just been talking with the lads about the headlamp modifications on the Kawasaki Concours.

  Me:

  That’s nice. I’ve been losing livestock.

  We got into the Jeeps and drove in circles round the pale streets. I started to get nervous. Brenda’s opening gambit had been mild hostility; I didn’t want to know what the next level up was like. After two hours of ducking and diving there was still no sign of the reindeer. Nothing. I ended up back at Begich Towers ready for Brenda to run me through with a souvenir antler. As she came
out onto the street to meet me, a patrol car pulled up and a policeman yelled, ‘Brenda, you lost a reindeer? Only there’s one on the railway tracks …’

  I’d been saved.

  I tried really, really hard not to give the reindeer a backstory: ‘All these years in that pen, no hope of freedom, year after year – I had to come down here and end it once and for all, while I had the chance.’ In my head this scene by the railway tracks was an ungulate end game – a suicide bid, years in the making, with me the unwitting accomplice.

  I thought about the train coming and wondered how long it would take me, Railway Children-style, to strip down salopettes, tracksuit bottoms, woollen thermals and double-sock combo to my pants, in order to wave them – and realized I would freeze to death way before I’d got through the first layer.

  I imagined Brenda on the tracks. A locomotive coming. She turns round. The driver catches the look on her face and shits himself. The train comes to a standstill an inch in front of Brenda’s nose. Terrified. She has terrified a train. She’s like a character from X-Men. She can make anything feel mildly, but thrillingly, disciplined.

  We arrived at the railroad, where a small crowd of burly men had gathered. The reindeer was busy chewing a tuft of frozen weed poking from the rails. One of the locals stood opposite the reindeer, braced himself and bellowed.

  Local:

  Screw you!

  The reindeer pauses for a moment and looks at us.