This article appears as part of the Unspun: Scottish Politics newsletter.

I’ve always been drawn to the forbidden. When tabloids scream ‘ban this filth’, the pearl-clutching works on me like candlelight on moths. The more I’m told something is wicked and depraved, the more I’ll have to find out for myself.

I’ve got Mary Whitehouse to thank for turning me on to the most messed-up material of my teens. Where there’s shock value, I’ll venture.

In university, my English professor described the Earl of Rochester’s Restoration poetry as the most corrupt in literature. By graduation, I was an expert in his work.

Nor do I have any problem separating art from artist. Harvey Weinstein is a disgusting pig who deserves his fate, but I’m not cancelling Pulp Fiction, Shakespeare in Love or The English Patient.

That mix of curiosity, voyeurism and critical detachment informed my thinking on whether to watch the new Masterchef series.

I’ve followed it since Lloyd Grossman’s days. I love cooking and the show gives good tips. However, neither reason is an excuse for watching a series stained by the behaviour of its hosts Gregg Wallace and John Torode.

Though, evidently, that begs the question: is to watch, to endorse; to view, to agree; to tune in, to validate? Some may say yes, others no. Morally and philosophically, I was unsure.

I’ve been a

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