Something a little unnerving happened to me last week. I inexplicably caught myself smirking - nay, sniggering - along with three oafish men as they slavered with teenage excitement over a sparkly, new, revtastic Lamborrari with a price tag so huge, it could have covered the rent of a small Mid-Levels flat for at least a fortnight.
Normally, I would have found this middle-aged auto-porn buffoonery as enjoyable as a dose of genital warts, so how did I even come to be watching Top Gear (the 21st series of which began last Sunday, on BBC Knowledge)? "Jezza" Clarkson's fake loutish bigotry would usually be as welcome in our living room as a baby giraffe in a Danish zoo. Was this the neanderthal menopause? What's next, a gentlemen's club? A little right-wing racism? An addiction to home-decorating shows? Heaven forbid I develop an unimaginable fondness for daytime reality television, the irritating talent-free programmes I have until now venomously detested. Pray for me, people, for I may be on the road to TV hell.
Testing my wavering taste buds this week is MasterChef (pictured top), the British reality cooking comp, another helping of which is served up this Wednesday on BBC Lifestyle (10.05pm). MasterChef was one of the first - and, I have to say, more interesting - shows to bring food and cooking to the forefront of popular culture. As the hunt for Britain's best amateur cook begins once again, the recipe remains largely unchanged.
Celebrity chef John Torode and greengrocer Gregg Wallace ("the fat, bald bloke … who likes pudding", as he once described himself) return for a ninth time to stuff their gobs and pour judgment on a platter of delectable dishes, although the 50 contestants would be wise to serve up some particularly tasty treats for the burly Wallace after the past couple of years he's had.
His third whirlwind on-and-off-again marriage was all over the gossip sheets and ended after only 14 months, just as his business empire was crumbling around him. His London restaurants, Gregg's Bar & Grill and Wallace & Co, suffered from scathing reviews and closed their doors, as did his fruit and veg company, which folded recently under huge debt. The pummelling of a magazine editor last year after he allegedly groped Wallace's new girlfriend didn't help the pudding muncher's cause either, especially as the drunken brawl took place at an event at which he was guest of honour. This is a man who is certainly not in the mood for a sunken souffle, so this year's MasterChef champion is going to have to bring some lip-smacking goodness to the table. The potential for a kitchen dust-up over a crème brûlée will keep me hooked on this one through to the bitter end.
Maybe my wilting intolerance for the moronic Top Gear simply means my fountain of vitriolic youth has run dry, which would also explain why I am wildly apathetic when it comes to this year's Brit Awards (BBC Entertainment, Thursday at 9pm). Now, I don't want to give any spoilers here (the event happened last Wednesday) but scheduled to perform live at the gala event, so no doubt expecting the odd winners statue to be chucked their way, were Katy Perry, the Arctic Monkeys and Rudimental, among many other "groundbreaking" acts. Also up for an award were Lady Gaga, One Direction and Olly Murs … hmm, hardly musical legends in the making. Where are the Bowies, the Led Zeps, the Abbas of this generation? (Oh yes, Dad, I am indeed aware of the irony in all of this.)