I love MasterChef. I love it in an all-consuming, unconditional kind of way. The way in which you might love your child.
It doesn’t matter that at least three times per episode Monica’s face will commence a contortionist act, and no one bats an eyelid. It doesn’t matter that half way through Michel will start to bludgeon small animals to death using only his own sense of self satisfaction, and the contestants will respond solely with intense admiration which borders on psychotic but never quite gets to the point where they pick out his eyes using a fish knife. It doesn’t even matter that the voiceover lady’s voice appears to have broken.
There is one problem with MasterChef, though. And it’s this.