IT’S THAT time of year again, when you can’t switch on your television, radio, or social radar without hearing someone banging on about soggy bottoms.

That’s right, The Great British Bake Off is back, along with its spin off shows, national news coverage and endless conversations in workplaces and homes around the country about the shocking twists and turns in the cut throat business of making buns in a tent.

Some people think I don’t like #GBBO, as I believe it’s called among fans, and I can sort of understand why; during last year’s run, for example, I tweeted a punning alternative title and description for every one of the ten weeks the series ran.

You might call that childish, but it became increasingly difficult as the weeks went on to a) come up with something new and b) squeeze it into 140 characters or less. My showstopper, which ran on the night of the final, was a pastiche of Planet Of The Apes set in a nightmarish alternate universe and, if I’m honest, I was equally proud of my efforts and glad it was all over.

It’s not that I don’t like the show. No, honestly, it’s not. The buns and cakes all look lovely, and the showstoppers are genuinely impressive – there’s literally a good ten minutes of amazing baking and presentation stretched over an hour. For ten weeks.

And it’s not that I’ve got anything against baking in general. A couple of weekends ago, bored on a Sunday evening, I had a rummage through the kitchen cupboards and realised I had the ingredients to make an eggless cake. It was something I’d never tried, and I had nothing better to do, so I gave it a crack.

Turned out alright, since you ask, but I don’t think it would have made for good television.

York Press:

My very own eggless effort.

I think that’s what I don’t really understand - how a show about people you’ve never met making cakes you’ll never taste got so enormously popular. On paper, it shouldn’t work and it’s a wonder it was commissioned.

JUNIOR EXEC #1: “Right, people love talent shows, how about this: X-Factor meets Masterchef!”

COMMISSIONING EDITOR: “Hmm, I’m not sure. I think it needs something else…”

JUNIOR EXEC #2: “We could film it in a field?”

COMMISSIONING EDITOR: “SOLD!”

Now, I’m not overly familiar with the back catalogue and previous televisual experience of Mary Berry or Paul Hollywood, but they must have been a bargain for that first series. Not now, obviously, not since the show got sold to who knows how many countries around the world.

I imagine Berry’s a first class negotiator though. An iron fist in a velvet oven glove, she’ll offer you a slice of fresh lemon drizzle, but slowly move the plate away if you lowball the offer while Hollywood stands over her shoulder with his thumbs hooked into his jeans and fixes you with that icy blue stare. He’s not threatening you, you understand, he’s just there to back up the boss.

Kidding aside, I suppose I do understand why we – as a nation – take comfort in watching a show about a bunch of strangers making cakes, and I suspect it’s the same reason we take comfort in eating cakes.

It’s that little moment of calm in a world of chaos, that moment you can spend by yourself with just a cuppa and a slice of Battenberg, or with a friend or family member for a chat over a bit of Rocky Road.

To those who like it, I suppose it’s an hour each week where they can forget about whatever’s annoyed you that day, and settle back to goggle at a little bit of twee innuendo and gingham-wrapped dough-based drama with a knowing wink that says ‘come on, we all know it’s just a bit of fun, just give in to it’.

So once again, I’ll give it a go. I imagine that, as always, I’ll be amazed by parts and annoyed by others.

But now, more than ever, I’ll welcome it as a few hours’ break from Syrian kids being bombed to kingdom come, dangerous and petulant politicians playing games with peoples’ lives, looming recession and simmering xenophobia around the world.

Looking at it like that, I guess it feels like the world could use it.