I am the mighty one who sees all before me. I am the colossus who sits bestridden across the very fabric of time, observing you puny human scum in your petty, meaningless lives, interfering as I see fit where and when. A bit like Galactus, then, but without the stupid hat and all that planet eating shit he does.
I observed many of your earth years ago that there was a strand of entertainment missing from your petty lives, and that strand involved knobends in suits bickering like small children as they cosied up to some bloke with a face like a hairy arse, and thus I deemed it worthy to plant the seed of thought in the mind of some ferret-like media whore and convinced your most trusted of earth-broadcasters to stump up the readies to show this pile of old donkey’s twadge.
I would have contributed to last week’s enormously profound episode but I was far too busy planting contradictory thoughts in the mind of the sub-human gimp like bellend creature you call ‘Cameron’. No serious person would say they were the party of the poor and then tax the rich bastards for coughing up a few shekels to their local donkey sanctuary, but since the bumfluff faced homunculi ‘Camertwat’ isn’t human he readily took the idea I planted into his tiny mind – a mind, I may add, which can only respond to outside stimuli and truly bears no inner monologue.
Suffice it to say, as regards episode three of The Apprentice, some mockney old twonk with a pair of cheeks like a slightly pruned pair of hairy bollocks was booted off for reminding Alan of himself too much and since there’s only room enough for one bullshit barrow boy in the room he was given the hoof.
And lo the credits dost roll on episode four and once more we are thrown against our will into the screaming maw of some arseholes in suits. Laugh mightily along with me as I manipulate the very fabric of their existence and make them do and say really stupid things you couldn’t imagine yourself saying.
This week – BOSH – straight to some old cinema in Chiswick stacked to the rafters with tat. Mr. Hairy Arse Face strides between his mighty titan helpers where he blathers on about Steptoe or Son or something. The idea is to package up a load of old cak as shiny new shit and then flog it off to gimps. It would be far too easy to make a joke about the Beeb’s output here being just the same as ITV or something clever like that so I’ll move quickly on instead.
The group of haughty children are split up (well, Jade goes toPhoenix). Adam, a market trader, reckons you should buy as much crap as possible and flog it on at bargain prices to Mr and Mrs Punter, which might work in the market trader market(?) but not in the swanky world of wanky shite.
Over on Sterling’s side Tommy Rock Opera leads as Gabby comes up with some simply super an spiffing modern hip design ideas, which means slapping a union jack on anything that moves and then they’re off – straight back to the flat for the drink and drugs orgy that probably goes on when the cameras are turned off, rather than what we imagine happens which is lots of soulless people staring blank eyed into their own reflections and feeling the tug of existential despair.
Now the teams have been manipulated by my all seeing hands into their respective teams the whinging can begin. Tom’s team are whisked off to Cockneys R US where they bid against pearly kings and queens for cak. Then after that they head straight for the bins where they root through the rubbish looking for old pizzas because they’re hungry, and somehow manage to acquire a bit of tat along the way.
The other team rummage around a car boot sale. This is actually massively boring. Nick’s whining again. When I created this programme I imagined a more dynamic and thrusting environment but it’s basically knob ends blithering about without rhyme or reason, only to start smashing up the joint when they get tired of the reality of their own existence. Well, somebody drops a painting with a glass front. And then a car smashes through a plate glass window. Except that bit didn’t happen.
Gabby wants to brand the tat. I recommend drawing a massive turd on each one with a picture of comedy not-cockney Del Boy David Jason giving it the thumbs up in a cheeky chappie way, which can only say to the purchasing punter ‘fuck off and never enter this den of pants ever again.’
Tom’s team head for the junk shop where they cockney it up with a dodgy barrow boy who tells the camera they’re complete knobends for missing the diamond encrusted crown hidden up a solid gold pope’s arse which was in plain view.
Duane fucks up his metaphor with ‘don’t look a gift horse in the eye’ which just goes to show what level of intellectuality we’re dealing with here. To be true he actually said it right the first time, but when it came to the edit Duane didn’t look enough of a cunt, so they got the whole filming team back and went out on the street and forced him at gunpoint to sound like a total cockend for the sake of your entertainment.
And, yes, union jacks are being slapped onto every product from Team Laura. It looks terrible but will probably win the whole thing, as the editing makes it look as if they’re a bunch of gimbling, slobbering fuck knobbits.
Making Team Laura’s shop look really groovy and fab and professional is the big pile of shit in the middle of the floor, whereas Team Tom’s shop looks like a bargain boot sale I once went to with Mrs Mysterio, The Bloody Mysterious.
Tom’s tat is proving a hit with the minimalist concept of not-having-much-in-the-shop. Laura’s Vintage Gold, on the other hand, appears to be attracting purchasers purely made up of total cunts -the sort of cunts who wear ironic flat caps, expensive clothes, and basically look like a bunch of wanking spanners who could do with a fucking good extermination just so they don’t breed and spread their bollocks to the rest of humanity.
Fuck me – now Tom’s team is sodding off to rob car boot sales and – I’m not kidding – stiff some poor kid out of a crap camera before sneaking off with an evil grin. This is turning into a Charles Dickens novel!
A brief scan of the patrons of Vintage Gold reminds everyone outside of London why they should never go to Brick Lane. I thought I was out of fashion with my kicker boots, Nehru jacket, massive flares and Timmy Mallet glasses, but even I look sensible when compared to these fuck nuggets.
The union jack stuff fails to sell for a song, and is rightly classed as cheap and tacky.
Suddenly the air if filled with shrieky women shouting at people in the street, and for once it’s not a typical night out in Portsmouth. Everything is going for a song and a shriek and before you know it we have that music again and lots of shots of people looking pensive and sitting in cars and aerial shots of the square mile and lots of sitting around. I reckon the programme could be ten minutes long without all this crap.
The women (and Nick, who’s a woman) all say they did well and Laura says hey, they were all great at selling and there’s no winners in the game because they’re all winners until pushed by the chipmunk bollock cheeked avenger to admit to her own brilliance and everyone loves Laura for not beating them with sticks.
Team Tom admits to his cautiousness and not just betting the lot on Sad Ken at Chepstow and Mr Squeaky Hairy face digs out a bit of mild abuse about tat bought and even if you haven’t seen it you can guess the usual semi-dull shimmy shammying and in the end everyone liked Tom as well and Tom loved them and they’re all the best friends forever.
Anyway – Phoenix make 1,063 (after costs)
Sterling make 783 quid (after drugs)
TOTALLY FUCKING EXPECTED. From the moment the union jack idea was touted as a pile of elephant poo it was obvious who was winning, and Team Tom and booted off to fanny about in an old mansion or something. I might have said earlier it looked like Team Laura would win but that was just to throw you of the scent. And you fell for it like the fascists you are!
My mysterious all seeing hand has guided Team Laura – or Team Schrieky based on their selling technique – to be the losing team and they toddle off to the Café of Shit to blame each other for not being big enough cunts.
Nick blames the cost to sale ratio, which is the kind of logic which makes him the guinea pig haired genius he is. Laura blames it all on what was bought, but the reality of it was they were just shit. Not too much bickering, though, which is a bit disappointing, so I shall wave my hand of interference in the boardroom and make them attack each other’s private parts with cattle prods of blame.
Laura blames Gabby, Gabby blames someone else (no name’s mentioned), Karen sticks her oar in, Gabby Teflon-shoulders the failure of their team onto the concept that she was told to spend money on materials to make the shop look lovely, followed by Laura and that wonky nosed Scots bird going into shrieky mode while the blokes, quite rightly, keep schtum as they know they’re onto a good thing once the women start going for each other’s throats.
Alan drags the blokes in to try and get them shouting at each other and the coconut headed one from Fareham blames the lack of research for them being cak as a team. But it’s no good, because the women are edging back into shrieky land again and Bollock Face Chipmunk drags it back to reality by pointing out that the ladeez managed to sell a lot except Jane, who was too busy being old to sell more than a tenner or crap to knobend punters.
Gabby’s coming in for a lot of stuck when it comes to who’s responsible. Laura brings in Jane and Gabby for a bitch-off and the blokes get away scot free by mainly keeping their gobs shut.
Why we have to listen in to Bollock Faced Alan’s conversations with his cronies is beyond me (even though the whole of universe is under my control, obviously) as they always go ‘well, so and so was cak, but then so and so was also good, so I’m stuck in a box of indecision’. No one’s EVER surprised by anything these creatures say, but like the aerial shots of big shiny buildings it fills in a bit of time and stretches this bollocks out to the full hour.
Gabby blames the budget and now she and Laura go in for the kill. Laura poo poos Gabby’s contribution as ‘putting a bit of masking tape on the window’ and then Jane leaps in and says Laura sucks the big one (metaphorically.) Laura blames Jane for lack of sales and Jane tries to divert the blame onto Laura, despite selling fuck all, and Sugar pulls her up on this. Jane talks about working hard and etc etc and you’ve heard it all before and then it’s onto Laura.
Laura ‘I’ve been successful at everything’ and Bollock Face reminds her that she failed the task so Laura’s head explodes in shame. Or maybe it doesn’t.
Gabby’s saved by her enthusiasm and Sugar pretends it’s a tough task to chose between the shrieking twins but Jane gets the boot for being old. Sugar says it’s something to do with her not being a great business person (note the non-sexist attitude – it’s the Beeb after all, it’s not ‘business chick’ or business babe’ but ‘business person’. Although he does check out her arse and make a ‘phwoar’ face to the camera when she leaves.)
Jane blubs in the van (hormones) and the majority decision from the back stabbers back at Bollock Mansion is Jane should go apart from Nick-Woman who says Laura should be given the boot. They all slag off the poor woman behind her back and then we cut to next week’s waste of time as The Gathering of Swine is tasked with coming up with a fitness regime, which should be right up their alley.
Luckily myself and Mrs Mystor are going on holiday in the outer nebula so some other sucker can cover this.