This a Red or Black world. And I'm stuck in it.

If you're going to have a random show, make it a random show.

Chance is such a funny thing. Only the other day, I was politely written to by a potential employer and told that, while I had qualified to be shortlisted for a job, they'd picked the interviewees at random, and sadly I hadn't made the cut. My bingo ball hadn't come up. Such is life. This is the world of Red or Black?, the gameshow that everyone's talking about this week.

We're not really talking about it in a spectacularly good way, though. We're talking about it, saying "My god, I never knew television could be so bad." I had thought that, with Epic Win, the BBC had succeeded in doing the impossible - making an updated version of You Bet! that was even worse than the days of Brucie's sofa-chewingly execrable "don't fret, get set" rap, but no, this was worse.

This is everything about gameshows that vaguely involves skill, or knowledge, and boils it down to a binary choice: red or black, 0 or 1, on or off. "The show where luck, and luck alone, can win £1m," chirps Dec, as if it's something to be proud of. People cheer the lucky (or unlucky) wheel, which has its own, somewhat sinister, rococo leitmotif.

Luck, lucky, luck. That's all it is. It's not just me, surely, who finds something a little unsatisfying about that, something that verges on an insulting whiff of pointlessness.

When you're watching some gimp blunder through a gameshow's multiple choice with guesswork, at least you know there's something slightly better than total and utter blind chance deciding whether they're going to progress or not. They're making educated guesses. With Red or Black, you could just submit your guesses before the show. Red black red black black red. Save time.

It's easy, I suppose, to call a turkey a turkey. If it looks like a turkey, it's probably a turkey. And for the avoidance of doubt, I'd say this turkey is a turkey. Gobble gobble. But I'm more interested in the odd debate that sprung up this week about the morality - or otherwise - of letting a convicted criminal win a million pounds. The first winner was revealed to have been previously convicted of an assault, allegedly against a female victim, which led to a bit of red-top mock outrage about whether he should be allowed to have his cheque. That led to more background checks being done on contestants, and others being sifted out.

I suppose we want to believe, wrongly, in some kind of natural justice. We don't like stories like the one about 'lotto rapist' Iorworth Hoare and we want to think that only the deserving will be winners, or should be allowed to be winners. But an awful lot of undeserving people luck out all the time, every day, in every field. It might be unpalatable, but there it is. Luck doesn't morally censure.

Personally, I think if you're going to have a random show, make it a random show. Don't hone it down to a few contestants who are spotless enough not to have embarrassing things in their pasts; open it up, wider, to people who've really done wrong. Robbers, muggers, paedophiles, all sorts. Imagine one of them with a big beaming grin as their lucky numbers come up.

That's luck. It doesn't care who you are; it just rewards the lucky.

 

Patrolling the murkier waters of the mainstream media
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With the BBC Food’s collection under threat, here's how to make the most of online recipes

Do a bit of digging, trust your instincts – and always read the comments.

I don’t think John Humphrys is much of a chef. Recently, as his Today co-presenter Mishal Husain was discussing the implications of the BBC’s decision to axe its Food website (since commuted to transportation to the Good Food platform, run by its commercial arm), sharp-eared listeners heard the Humph claim that fewer recipes on the web could only be a good thing. “It would make it easier!” he bellowed in the background. “We wouldn’t have to choose between so many!”

Husain also seemed puzzled as to why anyone would need more than one recipe for spaghetti bolognese – but, as any keen cook knows, you can never have too many different takes on a dish. Just as you wouldn’t want to get all your news from a single source, it would be a sad thing to eat the same bolognese for the rest of your life. Sometimes only a molto autentico version, as laid down by a fierce Italian donna, rich with tradition and chopped liver, will do – and sometimes, though you would never admit it in a national magazine, you crave the comfort of your mum’s spag bol with grated cheddar.

The world wouldn’t starve without BBC Food’s collection but, given that an online search for “spaghetti bolognese recipe” turns up about a million results, it would have been sad to have lost one of the internet’s more trustworthy sources of information. As someone who spends a large part of each week researching and testing recipes, I can assure you that genuinely reliable ones are rarer than decent chips after closing time. But although it is certainly the only place you’ll find the Most Haunted host Yvette Fielding’s kedgeree alongside Heston Blumenthal’s snail porridge, the BBC website is not the only one that is worth your time.

The good thing about newspaper, magazine and other commercial platforms is that most still have just enough budget to ensure that their recipes will have been made at least twice – once by the writer and once for the accompanying photographs – though sadly the days when everyone employed an independent recipe tester are long gone. Such sites also often have sufficient traffic to generate a useful volume of comments. I never make a recipe without scrolling down to see what other people have said about it. Get past the “Can’t wait to make this!” brigade; ignore the annoying people who swap baked beans for lentils and then complain, “This is nothing like dhal”; and there’s usually some sensible advice in there, too.

But what about when you leave the safety of the big boys and venture into the no man’s land of the personal blog? How do you separate the wheat from the chaff and find a recipe that actually works? You can often tell how much work a writer has put in by the level of detail they go into: if they have indicated how many people it serves, or where to find unusual ingredients, suggested possible tweaks and credited their original sources, they have probably made the dish more than once. The photography is another handy clue. You don’t have to be Annie Leibovitz to provide a good idea of what the finished dish ought to look like.

Do a bit of digging as part of your prep. If you like the look of the rest of the site, the author’s tastes will probably chime with your own. And always, always, wherever the recipe is from, read it all the way through, even before you order the shopping. There is nothing more annoying than getting halfway through and then realising that you need a hand blender to finish the dish, just as the first guest arrives.

Above all, trust your instincts. If the cooking time seems far too short, or the salt content ridiculously high, it probably is, so keep an eye on that oven, check that casserole, keep tasting that sauce. As someone who once published a magic mince pie recipe without any sugar, I’m living proof that, occasionally, even the very best of us make mistakes. 

Felicity Cloake is the New Statesman’s food columnist. Her latest book is The A-Z of Eating: a Flavour Map for Adventurous Cooks.

This article first appeared in the 26 May 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The Brexit odd squad