Masterchef fucking rules.
And glorified fruit&veg man Gregg (two G's) Wallace can sit at my culinary top-table any day of the week.
But watching the final three do battle last night on BBC1, I almost choked on my asparagus when The Greggsta popped up on screen. I don't care if you do choose to host the Masterchef final in the uncomfortable environs of an Australian rainforest, nothing can possibly condone wearing that atop your squeaky-dome of a melon.
Gregg, you now look like a camouflaged condom.
But that's exactly why we love you.
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