TV review: Masterchef: The Final

The lines were drawn from the off. There was a middle class, socially mobile, extravagantly quiffed assassin, named Dale. He looked the birthchild of Michael Portillo and Take That's Mark Owen. He was posh – and so was his menu. Truffle, champagne, asparagus and wild mushrooms were among the gutsy flavours on his dish.

He looked as though he'd been schooled at Sandhurst. And, truthfully, he looked out of his league. Dale was the sort of unfortunate, unlovable contestant who looked to have taken on too much. He was like Martin Rossiter, from Gene, mixed with a Harry Enfield-esque Loads-a-money character. He didn't elicit sympathy or support.

Larkin was from a different end of the social spectrum. A first generation British-Chinese chef, he was the son of immigrant takeaway owners who'd gone 15 years without a holiday so that they could pay the rent. His impoverished background – Christmas dinner was served on a cardboard box – had given him an appetite for work.

Though he'd forged a career in law, his passion was in food. His back story was clear; Larkin loved the flavours that his grandfather and parents had introduced to him during his youth.

He cooked the food of his childhood with a smorgasbord of Chinese delights. It was as though his late grandfather was watching over him. He'd saved the best until last. He cooked what was in his heart and his food was triumphant.

And then there was proppa cocker-ney Natalie whose dad drove a black cab. She was a dream, know-waarr-mean? As a girl, she wanted to be a fireman – even though she was a, erm, girl.

She loved her nan's corned beef hash and tested out her dishes for MasterChef on her grandfather. He was interviewed as part of the build-up – and suggested Auntie Beeb carry on the competition so that he could continue to enjoy the fruits of Natalie's endeavours. "I'd be 'appy as a sandboy if it went on for two years," she said.

She cooked a Sunday lunch: well, she would have, wouldn't she. And delicious it looked too. When the newly-slimline Gregg and the still-rotund John asked what was on the plate, she told them straight: "I've given ya a thousun' per cent. That's orange burr blonck. And it's a Sunday roast but pimped up. I want you to be full, happy and not moan about anythink." Life would be sweeter if it were filled were more people like Natalie . . .

Gregg and John were at their poker-faced best. They were like Dragons' Den bankrolling businessmen, weighing up their options without showing their hand. Seasoned MasterChef watchers may have picked up small tips. Gregg's dancing shoulders when he tasted Natalie's starter indicated a bonus point or two; John's uninhibited verbosity when he tasted Larkin's starter platter.

They were smart, however. As the show entered the final straight, it looked as though Larkin and Natalie were still neck and neck, with Dale not quite out of it either.

The violins and harps played, the three contestants spoke about their 'journey', Gregg and John retired to their judges' room and offered humble platitudes – Gregg almost looked as though he was going to cry.

And then – ta dar: "The winner is..... "

Natalie. Bingo. Champagne corks pop: know-waarr-mean. Mad, innit. The girl from 'Ackney did good.

Boy oh boy, she deserved it. Time to start counting down the months until the 2014 series of Tasty TV. Can't wait.

Andy Richardson