It’s official. I have a new enemy on the box… and it’s Nigellaaaaaaaaaaargh Lawson. Her show, Nigella Express (BBC Two, Monday, 8.30pm) continues to dumbfound and aggravate. Quite how Nigella has rubbed me up so badly is a bit of a mystery. She’s not a psychological bully like Gillian McKeith or Nicky Hambleton-Jones… but I feel the same rising bile when Lawson plops into my eye-line. I’d started to think that I was being unreasonable. Then I watched last night’s programme.

All the usual trademarks of Nige’ were there. Pwetending to be one of us by walking around in a rush and cooking in spare moments. Then, Lawson went through some kind of telephonic canonising. Yep. Nigella became a Saint.

One segment of the show revolved around her mate who was ordered to come over to the house of gluttony because she’d been dumped. We saw a set up scene involving Nigella ‘on the phone’ barking “No! No! You mustn’t text him! That’s the last thing you should do… aawww… he wasn’t right for you anyway… you must come over at once!” Then, we saw her mate, complete with water splashed on her face, meekly sniffling like a child pretending to be mortally wounded at the lack of pudding or something with Saint Lawson of Food Mountain plying her with home made biscuits. The friend, gunning for a BAFTA mewed “you’re right, he soooo wasn’t right for me (glancing at the cookies) but these are!”

Of course, you’re probably thinking that I’m being over-zealous with my anger, but what happened between the phone call and the wooden tears, essentially, saw Lawson acknowledging the fact that her cookies are little heart attacks waiting to happen. Again, that’s not a problem as such. Finishing off with a sly wink and saying that the price was worth it if helping to “alleviate human suffering”… that’s a problem.

Then, the suffering (for all) continued. Her daughter, going through exams and worry, was of course usurped by needy Nigella. Almost throwing a hand to her overdramatic bonce, Nigella told us how “care worn” she was before showing us all that, no matter how bad people have it, her position as Saint leaves her with a greater penance than everyone else. So great was her suffering that she couldn’t sleep. So, still in four inches of ghoulish white make-up and ear-rings, Nigella tried to convince us that she’d tottered downstairs in the witching hour (quite possibly self-flagellating all the way with some pasta on chain) to eat her sufferance away.

At the close of the show, after the credits have vapourised, we often see Nigella scoffing down some leftovers. Not this week. Something odd happened*. A piercing shaft of light broke from the sky and we could hear what sounded like a thousand trumpets heralding some kind of arrival. A giant hand slowly emerged and caressed the head of Nigella. Then, a booming voice stated “Come… it is time to join your brothers and sisters”. With that, Nigella held out her arms (still covered in old ragu) and ascended up into the invisible choir. Next week, Nigella show’s us how to knock up Jesus discs for hungry Angels.

*Note, this may not be true.