I’ve never understood the appeal of My Kitchen Rules.

For six years it has consistently scored sky-high ratings for its blend of classic cooking show antics and dinner table politics.

But where some see juicy, addictive television I’ve always seen a bunch of nobodies sitting around in outdoor furniture swapping low blows while Seven tries to trade off their emotional defects and two “celebrity chefs” dish out dramatic statements that ultimately mean nothing.

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It seems to me like a guilty pleasure that’s more guilty than it is pleasurable.

However, never one to criticise what I don’t understand, I decide it’s high time to tune into an entire episode after months of skim-reading ranting recaps and headlines like “MKR ‘battlers’ Nev and Kell attacked by ex as love spat threatens to boil over”.

I chose to watch Tuesday night’s finale because surely the finale of any reality show should be the most explosive episode of all?

Here goes.

My first thought when I see remaining teams Carmine and Lauren (a nice married couple from South Australia) and Tasia and Gracia (chirpy sisters from Victoria) is that these people are far too nice. Where are all the crazies?

My prayers for a bit more attitude are soon answered when the judges open the gates of hell and release the disqualified competitors.

These guys look way more fun. One has hectic sideburns and there’s a man wearing a gold vest. I bet he likes to party. The resentment and bitterness in the eyes of high achiever Zana gives me a taste of some of the drama this episode is missing.

I’ve never seen a more perfect representation of a peanut gallery than all the ex-contestants clustered in the wings, shouting inane advice.

As I watch the contestants cook five courses while orchestral music plays, it can’t help but feel this is an inferior episode of MasterChef. 

One of the judges looks like a monochromatic version of Matt Preston and the other is a less angry Marco Pierre White. The food looks solid, but it’s no 27-ingredient Heston Blumenthal dessert.

Meanwhile, I’m distracted because I forgot Paleo Pete is on the show and he’s seemingly eating everything put in front of him. I don’t think cavemen had Pandan pudding with tapioca, Pete.

After an hour of cooking, I’ve tuned out completely except for occasional cuts to the peanut gallery, who offer pearls of wisdom like “never give Manu a bad jus”, whatever that means.

After a whole lot of shouting at innocent crockery, we finally get to the part where the winner is announced.

During the two hours it’s taken to get here, I’ve made hummus, watched Beyonce’s Lemonade twice, taken several phone calls and baked cookies.

I don’t care who wins anymore I just want it to end.

The girls with the rhyming names take out the top honour and I’m happy for them, really I am. What I’m not thrilled about is wasting two hours of my life.

It’s clear My Kitchen Rules is only as good as its craziest contestant. Without cattiness and bad behaviour it’s a half-baked cooking show.

Perhaps this year’s finalists were a little too vanilla in their antics, but surely someone in the editing suite could have whipped up some drama that didn’t revolve around pork belly?