Masterchef. The best telly I've seen in years.

Oh please I beg you, watch last night's Masterchef.
If you don't literally spurt liquid and organs from at least four orifices from laughing, you must have had them sewn up. I had to be hosed down by the Lothian Borders Fire service for 10 full minutes till I was free from body detritus and sticky substances. I may never be able to use my rectum for it's proper purpose ever again. Both my eyes are bloodshot, and I'm pretty sure some urine shot out of my ears.
Carl, oh lord fucking love his crazy misguided fucked up taste buds. Fried white garlic soaked bread (crusts cut off for that Michelin touch) cannelini beans from a tin, sausages out of a packet marinaded in melted shoe polish with a ton of fried half raw onions draped greasily on top. Now, I myself have made some pretty gruesome fry ups in my time in an attempt to kill myself in the depths of a bad hangover. BUT NOT IN A FUCKING COOKING COMPETITION. I was convinced it was a wind up. Was it Comic Relief? April fool? National Shite food day? Then it was time for pudding. Or Huge Shaved Boiled Burst Bollock Sitting in a Pool of Crushed Haemorrhoid. Actually, that sounds delicious compared to the real dish. A rock hard plum into which Carl forced a sugar cube, wrapped (with all the skill of a walrus trying to juggle) in a mashed potato pastry ( Yes! Think pudding think fucking potato) then fucking boiled! Boiled! I have to say that again. Boiled! Fuck. It was bad. Really bad. No one could bring themselves to eat it. Even Greg, the raggy greengrocer could only shake his head and say: Don't put it in your mouth.

Strangely, I think Carl was surprised at being put out. At this point I was pushing my liver back into my catflap. More TV like this please. I'll never need colonic irrigation ever again.