The MasterChef Christmas special they didn't want you to see

LIKE an 80s video nasty or the Star Wars Holiday Special, Masterchef’s Christmas show will never be seen by anyone. These are descriptions of the most chilling scenes. Reader discretion advised: 

Terrifying title sequence

A silhouetted, shirtless Gregg Wallace in a traditional festive kitchen, surrounded by models in sexy Santa outfits who eagerly lick his mixing spoon, leaving custard dribbling suggestively from their chins. Why this was agreed to is unclear, but the BBC likes to treat even the shitest celebrities like risen gods.

Towel incident

A variety of distinctly C- and D-list celebs are ushered onto the set for viewers aching to see Una Healey and Richard Blackwood make shortcrust pastry. Gregg greets the female guests wearing only a towel to put them at ease.

Pigs in blankets smut 

Cooking begins with the simple challenge of pigs in blankets, which fires up an already inflamed Gregg to run the full gamut of sausage and pork innuendo. Including but not limited to: ‘pulled pork’, ‘sausage sandwich’, ‘rubbed pork’, ‘pork sword’ and ‘How about a nibble on my sausage?’ No-one present will ever find sausages remotely amusing again.

Sexual harassment of gingerbread women

An innocuous tray of gingerbread persons fall victim to Gregg’s banter. He bitterly complains the gingerbread women are ‘flat-chested’ and threatens to ‘decorate them with my own special icing’. Rumours that he did exactly this after filming are unverified.

Sexism-related kitchen accident

The special guests are Dianne Buswell and comedian Chris McCausland. Seeing the former’s bright red hair, Gregg asks whether ‘the carpets match the curtains’. Chris is left to make tempura prawns in a deep fat fryer unaided. A producer is heard saying the screams can be ‘edited out in post’.

Poultry-fisting references

Former Byker Grove actress Donna Air is tasked with stuffing a pheasant. Gregg is clearly aroused, quipping ‘Kinky!’ and ‘That’s it! Get it right up there!’ Gregg then asks Donna if it is the sort of thing she and her husband do at home, as if this is in some way a normal conversation.

Elf genitals

For the climax, Gregg changes into an elf costume consisting of a short tunic and striped tights. And stands there, hands on outthrust hips, proudly displaying a disturbing genital bulge.

The winner is announced

Despite Marcus Brigstocke excelling at the culinary challenges by baking a stunning Christmas sponge cake with an edible Victorian diorama, Gregg awards the allegedly prestigious MasterChef Golden Whisk to Gemma Atkinson while giving her an extremely thorough congratulatory hug.

Gregg violates a dessert

Footage intended to accompany the closing credits is a behind-the-scenes look at the presenters in their dressing rooms. John Torode shows off mementos of trips to his native Australia. Then the cameraman walks in on Gregg aggressively f**king a Christmas pudding with an icing face drawn on. Even then he’s laughing at his own joke about squirty cream.

Christmas pudding, and other festive treats nobody has actually wanted for years

BEGINNING with a oversized dry turkey, Christmas is a catalogue of foodstuffs avoided every other day of the year. And yet you gorged on all these:  

Turkey

Popularised by gluttonous, murderous, low-sperm-count monster King Henry VIII, cooking a vast bird nobody enjoys is as sensible an idea as marrying him. It weighs too much to be bothered getting it out to baste it, so you will never have a drier meal. Termites would complain it was too dry.

Bread sauce

Once Britons were so poor they made sauces out of stale crusts. Today we have so many sauces Ed Sheeran can launch his own range and is barely even hated for it. Fannying around with recipes created in between bubonic plague outbreaks is unnecessary.

Nut roast

In 1980, baking a nut roast for your hippy weirdo vegetarian friends was the height of sophistication. Today, a beetroot and squash wellington from M&S or lab-grown meat-free turkey substitutes both taste much nicer than the monstrosity you have created out of mixed nuts, lentils and resentment.

Brussels sprouts

Became a Christmas staple toward the end of the 1800s, when we were also widely enthusiastic about hanging and colonial violence. We’ve given up those but can’t let go of the worst one. They cannot, perhaps uniquely, be made palatable even teamed with bacon. Get asparagus and stop being a twat.

Christmas pudding

Originated from a medieval nightmare called frumenty, which included mutton, currents, prunes, eggs and beer. Even without all that shit it’s chore to both cook and eat, however excited your dad gets about soaking it in brandy and setting it on fire. Burn it, let it burn, have a tiramisu instead.

Quality Street

Every major town and city in the UK has a branch of Hotel Chocolat, unless they’re as horrible as Stoke-on-Trent. You can buy Guylian Belgian sea shells in Lidl. And yet we still buy tubs of these Thatcher-era sweetmeats. They’ve even f**ked up the shiny wrappers by making them out of eco-friendly vegetable wax, which the chocolates might as well be.