Email
It can't be fun being a knock-off. No child aspires to it, after all. Kids, as a rule, set their sights fairly high. What do you want to be when you grow up, little boy? I'd like to be the poor man's Daniel Craig, sir. Doesn't happen. They also tend not to call strangers sir. So I feel almost sorry for the trio of – albeit authorised – knock-offs in Bake-Off spin-off The Great British Sewing Bee (BBC2), each of whom spends the hour labouring inescapably in the shadow of their cake-chomping predecessor.
Presenter Claudia Winkleman has the toughest time of it. She does her best to fill Mel and Sue's shoes by performing a double act with herself. Which, to be fair, she's uniquely qualified to do, since cheeky chats with herself are already part of her sizeable – and quite charming – schtick. So mum Sandra shows her a photo of the chiffon blouse she's putting together for the final task and Winkleman is away, doing all the voices: "That, with a cocktail. Mr Brad Pitt, would you like an extra pretzel? Yes, I would." Sandra's baffled, but that's schtick for you.
If the programme makers wanted to avoid such comparisons they should really have done their best to find a pair of judges without the same first initials as the bake-off's. There is no name I can think of more similar to Mary than May, and it's hardly a leap from Paul to Patrick either. Which would be fine if the pair burst from the screen with distinct personalities of their own, dispelling all memories of their crumby predecessors, but thus far all we've learned about sewing instructor May Martin or walking men's magazine advertisement Patrick Grant is that they like a clean hemline. And, let's be honest with ourselves now, who doesn't?
The real problem though is that they have to judge clothes. And, unlike with a cake or pie, which can be described with evocative words such as "moist", "crusty" and "seductive", the language of clothes is uniformly dreary. So Patrick spends most of the second episode announcing, for example: "You've got a decent pair of trousers there," or "That's a lovely pocket." Or "The fly is doing what a fly should do," pause for effect, "which is concealing the zip." It doesn't make you want to rush out and buy new pants. Bake-off does. Specifically, bigger ones.
There also aren't a lot of ways for judges to interact with clothes. They can pinch the fabric between finger and thumb, sure. They can lift up a collar and peer at the stitching underneath. If they feel a bit saucy they can poke the model wearing them in the stomach. But they can't, you know, chew them. Bite them. Devour them. No one's A-line skirt is going to come apart in their mouth. No one's silk blouse has a soggy middle. You can never taste too much cinnamon in a pair of chinos. The judges just have to stand there, pointing at neat stitching and unwanted creases, spouting synonyms for good, bad and OK.
More even than the judges though, I pity the models for the final task. The contestants have six hours – six hours! – to tailor their models a fitted blouse. During which time these poor souls, presumably, stand there with bits of fabric pinned to them, knowing the best they can hope for from the day is a cheeky poke in the belly from Grant. Those purple robes can't help either. Whose idea was it to dress them in purple robes? They look like a team of Roman serving staff.
They might as well get a show of their own, these standers. I'd watch. I can see it now: two short tasks, an outdoor stand and, say, a handstand, a little lesson in the history of standing and a six-hour showdown at the end. The judges (a former Buckingham Palace guard and a human statue) would have just as much to say. "You're really standing there, Brian." "That is textbook standing." "Janine, I'm sorry, that was kneeling."
You'd need a decent cross-section of society, of course. Seventy-year-old Jean says she can't remember life before standing. Young mum Paula stands for an hour every evening when the kids have gone to bed. Carshalton welder James has been standing for just six months. Cut to James, in his garden, with the kids: "My mates all think I'm mad, spending my weekends standing about. They just want to go down the pub."
They could call it The Great British Stand-Off. It really wouldn't be much less interesting.
;