Archive for November, 2014

Episode eight kicks off with the usual five minutes of filler and then it’s down to the meat and bones as the Nation’s Favourite Testicle-Faced Twat informs the lurking creatures in the shadows that shall not be named that they have to go to a goat fucking event day in Westbollock-On-The Wye and sell S&M animal restraints to deluded, inbred one-eyed badger fuckers.

Team Whatever – the one without James in it – elect Felipe as their leader due to his ability to look a bit like a startled bunny, and thus make all the farmers want to molest him, whereas Team James Is A Cunt elect – fuck me, it’s James again, as he ducks and dives and spills a big trouserload of bullshit about his selling prowess and his managerial competence and his ability to do wheelies on his Grifter and basically lies his way into the position.

Someone has posited the notion that I actually secretly like James, which is why I’m hard on the cunt, but the reality is he reminds me of this massive and utter total cockend I used to know in Portsmouth who was stupendously full of shit and would crawl over the rotting corpse of his own grandmother to get what he wanted. He was a genuine, gold standard women’s front lady parts, and acted and even looked to a certain extent just like James. So the animosity comes from knowing what a mercenary shitbag James actually is, having had to put with a massive cunt like him before.

Anyway, both teams of bright eyed diseases split into two, with one lot fucking off to check out some useless low item cak they usually sell at these shows – handbags and braces and iron maidens and such like – whilst the other lot fucks off to check out the big ticket items, like underground volcano lairs and gas chambers for city folk.

Team Bunny Rabbit, led by Felipe, decide on a flat cap handbag mutation and a child catcher for the back of your bike when you go riding (Trail Gator, I think they’re called). Team James Is a Twat decide that the child catcher/bike hybrid and an item which helps you find your dog in the dark (presumably so farmers can fuck it) would be ideal to sell to the residents of Summerisle, but James steps in and using decades of business acumen and insight tells them to fuck the cunt off because he once saw a sheep in a field and realises that what these yokels really want is a big swinging seat for the back garden and some shit wellies with very thin soles which city types like but proper farmers refuse to have sex with.

It’s when things get to the big ticket items that James really comes into his own, first of all by calling the bloke who owns the hot tubs by his wrong name (‘Derek’ rather than ‘Anthony’) and second by just being a witless gibbering over-enthusiastic bag of medical waste.

Team Cute Kitten, on the other hand, have the dynamo that is Katie – the Sarah Millican-a-like – and she sweet talks her way into the hot tub man’s pants after putting up with Daniel going crazy apeshit bonkers in his enthusiasm for everything under the sun. He ends up coming across like a clueless stripy shirted shitbag from the city, which is what he is.

When it comes to decision time hot tub man goes for Team Cute Quacking Duckling rather than Team Fuck Off James, partly because James got his name wrong and partly because James is a massive Wensleydale-helmeted bag of diseased offal. James, in his wisdom, decides to hide this fact from the rest of the team (apart from Roisin, who’s with him) and make up some crap about deciding to go for the lawnmowers. He is a witless twat.

Now it’s Cow Fucker Day and legions of the ugliest people that have ever graced the small screen wander aimlessly around the stalls, touching farmstock in an indecent manner and eyeing up the combine harvesters as their next sexual conquest.

Felipe and Daniel immediately jump into action and start bickering like an old couple about who should sell the hot tubs, as Daniel thinks, since he is a whingeing cunt, he should have a crack at it. Felipe, looking like a puppy with a paw in a bandage, sticks to his guns and Katie and the Australian Oakhead, Mark, skip merrily off whilst Felipe and Daniel carry on having a slap-fight.

The whole selling part is pretty tedious, with wall eyed pig worriers gazing in rapture at shiny things and objecting to the purchase of lawn mowers because one look at James reminds them that city life spawns its own share of witless pop eyed lunatics. The only memorable parts are when they cut back to Felipe and Daniel, who is still whinging on like an old woman.

The other point of note is the victimisation of James Twat. Every time Roisin tries to talk sense to him he bangs on about how she’s patronising him and how she’s going on at him and how he just wants to get on with selling, which explains a lot about his aggressive psyche. Mind you, throughout the last seven episodes he never seemed to get on with the women, which is probably explained by his microscopically small penis.

Anyway, end of the day and the selling is done and our pond life swim back to their grief holes to salve their wounds and moan like a big pile of bagpipes.

The next day is James Fucker day, as Team James Smells of Wee find out they could have had the hot tubs but James is such a witless cunt he fucked it all up, and they soundly beat him before tying him to a horse and sending him into the desert where he dies. James tries to bluster his way through by making up a load of cunt about making a managerial decision and he would have told them but he was too busy rubbing shit into his hair and wanking, and everyone makes mistakes and etc. etc.

Unsurprisingly Team Fluffy Panda win as Mark the Australian Twat sold seven of them to the owner of a chain of brothels or something and they all run off to learn how to box, where – no joke – Daniel ends up rolling around on the floor in a man hug with Mark. Get a room, guys!

Back in the Café of Death everyone sits at one end of the table and James Cunt sits at the other, trying to make excuses as to why he’s a lying twat. In the board room Roisin tears him a new arsehole, which is pretty easy for man who is half human-half clagnut, and James starts spouting out some load of old cock about how he wants to be just like Alan and how he grew up from nothing and how he’s just a poor fawn in a field staring dimple eyed at the stars just out of reach. It’s a load of manipulative wank and Alan and his testicle faced visage almost falls for it, but then the Sugar Plum Fairy realises it’s his nap time and fires James for being a massive grasping two faced back stabbing wank biscuit.

On a side note, Nick Hewitt is going barmy. He made some comment about Sanjay being ‘Nameless’ and then looked gimlet eyed as though he’d espoused a pearl of wisdom rather than some wibbly old mad bollocks.

I am now in a dilemma. James was the biggest cunt of this year’s Apprentiballs, and now he’s gone. Who will replace him to fill the bellend shaped gap in the teams? Who will be the next most annoying, smug, devious, back stabbing drain on other people’s oxygen?

Easy – it’s Mark.

To win: Sammy Spamhead, the world’s leading exponent of vegetable based thermo-dynamics.

There has been much kerfuffle in the media over the last few days about the so called ‘White Van Man’ – that seeming plague of uneducated tattooed social permafrost which litters the modern urban landscape like so much confetti. Plenty of criticism has arisen over both the stereotyping of this enigma and of the enigma itself, but has anyone stopped to study the phenomena in question.

I took time out from my lessons teaching posh kids how to laugh at the poor and disabled at the University of Being a Tory to talk to a ‘typical’ – if there is such a word (Editor’s Note: There is; I looked it up in the dictionary) – White Van Man, Mr Barry Brick bollocks.

Me: Thank you for agreeing to this interview, Mr Brickbollocks.

Barry: “Fuck, shit, cunt, piss, wank”, as no doubt your readers will be expecting me to say. Rather than what I would prefer to say, which is, “My utmost pleasure, Mr Boffin Pants McScrotey Knob Knackers”.

Me: Just call me Arthur. As that’s my name. You stupid cunt.

Barry: Quite alright.

Me: Now, earth scum, how do you answer your critics who say the average White Van Man is a bigoted, racist, homophobic, sexist Daily Mail Sun Express reading gutter snipe who takes great pleasure in abusing foreign types and voting UKIP?

Barry: Well, Arthur, that’s a very short sighted view of what is a very diverse field. I, for instance, take great pleasure in the works of Rembrandt and Moliere, whereas my good friend Knuckles McFistbastard takes great pleasure in slicing up nonces. We are legion, and thus have many characteristics.

Me: Let me nod in a knowingly patronising manner for the benefit of the readers, and then ask you, ‘why do you think such a clichéd concept of the White Van Man is so prevalent in society at large?’

Barry: Mainly because of the lack of imagination in the media, Arthur. A cliché is better to understand than a more complex character, just as I was saying to my good friend Badgertwat Monkeybollocks the other day when he set fire to that orphanage because it had, and I quote, ‘them foreign types in it’.

Me: But doesn’t that sort of behaviour indemnify the stereotype rather than challenge it?

Barry: Yes, but I fail to see the significance as I have a massive knob.

After a quick explanation it turned out by ‘knob’ he meant ‘hammer’ and proceeded to encourage me to leave for being ‘a Guardian reading lefty cunt’ by chasing me down the hallway before setting his dog on me. After I had visited a private hospital to have my knackers sewn back on I visited the run down lower class estate of Bumchester to talk to Fighty McDrinky, the city spokesman for People Who Hang St. George Crosses Outside Their Windows.

Me: Tell me, Mr McDrinky, can you explain the reason for the St. George outside your window?

Fighty: Coz I’m fackin’ prahd to be fackin’ English, you fackin’ four eyed cunt. This fackin’ cuntry is too fackin’ small for anyone else but us cants! It’s open fackin’ borders, innit?! You let one in and the ‘ole fackin’ lot cam in and start marrying our jobs and fackin’ doin’ our wives and fackin’ takin’ our fackin’ benefits and fackin’ usin’ our fackin’ NHS, for fack’s sake, you fackin’ cant!!!

Me: And these would be immigrants?

Fighty: No! I mean fuckin’ Leprechauns, you cant!

Me: Aha ha ha ha aha, in a patronising manner, Mr Fighty. How droll.

Fighty: No, I fackin’ means it! Little green cunts are everywhere! Fuckin’ where’s my fackin’ pot of gold, you tiny bastards!!??

Me: You’re obviously mental.

Fighty: Why, fank you very much.

After interviewing that stereotypical non-existent caricature I decided to head down to the local branch of UKIP, where I talked to Lord Cuntingdon Moneybags Filthyrich Prolefucker, where I found him rolling around in a big pile of money, eating a roast swan made of gold and laughing about how stupid all the bigots were for voting for him.

Me: Why do you think the typical UKIP voter is seen as a ‘White Van Man’?

Lord Cunt: Because the media frankly lack the imagination to see that a wide range of mad people are in favour of our policies. For some reason they remain content with the idea that the EU are drafting laws which insist that everyone has a banana inserted up their bottom, because some people will believe any old shit to back up their prejudices. The silly, docile bellends.

Me: Really?

Lord Cunt: Not really. I haven’t got a clue, but then I do spend my days rubbing shit into my hair and being spanked by Nanny, so what do I know.

Me: How do you counter accusations that you, as a party, have reinforced this stereotype of an England which has never really existed?

Lord Cunt: Back in my day every lower class person would doff his cap at my father whilst wilfully throwing themselves under the wheels of his prole-drawn carriage rather than suffer the idea that a toff’s wheels may get dirty touching the ground, and I want those days back! Come on, paups, vote for us and we’ll pass any law you want! Could do you me a favour, Arthur, and nail my testicles to this plank of wood?

I left Lord Cunt to slam his knackers in the fridge door to return and contemplate the modern myth of the White Van Man. Are they a race of low-intelligence and easily swayed reactionary bigots, or are they a colony of hyper-intelligent space Martians who have flown light years across the galaxy to conquer the earth? Is the media stereotype just lazy type-casting or a consequence of years of research? Do I really give a monkey’s scratchy old ringpiece since I live in a nice big house away from those trolls, or do I really care? The answer, is, ‘of course I don’t’, because I am rich and comfortably well off, so knobs to the lot of you!
Next week: Arthur contemplates the poverty of inner city life, and then goes to a fancy restaurant and eats a roast Giraffe whilst flicking the V’s at the homeless paups clustered outside.

The episode opens as Sir Mixalot shows just how much of a monkey’s wrinkled old bellend he gives about the proceedings by addressing the assembled lick spittle from his underground volcano via the laser display screen at the Grosvenor Hotel in Mayfair, bleating on about having more pressing engagements, which presumably means taking a big shit on one of his e-mail phones to make it more appealing to the general public. This week’s onerous task is to take on the mantel of a bunch of grasping, thoughtless, coke snorting wall eyed dicks and enter the all singing, all wanking world of advertising. They have to come up with a sparkling new health drink and sell it to a bunch of clueless Americans. This should be an easy task as all they need to do is get some has-been pro-wrestler to grunt in front of a camera whilst sporting a can of sugary piss. Even my fucking balls could sort this one out.

Team Fucking Hell Not That Cunt James Again doesn’t even get to the squabbling stage as Bianca steps forwards and takes the unenviable task of putting up with that massive bucket of bleating shit for the next four days. She should get a fucking medal just for being in the same room as that clag winnet. In fact, in my book, all of her team are winners just for not shoving him into the nearest wicker man and setting fire to the cunt.

Team Transcendental Meditation have a battle of the mighty gods on their hand as Lauren steps forwards to take on the role, promoting herself as a jet setting international playboy of the twenty first century before Mark the Australian Twat takes out his microscopic knob and wees all over her dreams by saying he works in advertising, he takes massive amount of cocaine, he has no fucking talent or mind of his own, and quite frankly he’s such an annoying arse biscuit he should be team leader, which everyone agrees on.

Team Destroy James leave Sarah Millican and Sanjay to come up with a drink whilst the rest of them fuck off like the gawping tourists they are to the City That Never Fucking Shuts Up, New York, to swan around and get delusions of grandeur, which Cunt James immediately does. Because he is pond life.

Anyway, the other team, Team Sigma or Smegma or whatever they’re called, come up with a ground breaking new drink which looks and tastes like piss, so they’ve already cornered the American market there. Team Fuck James comes up with some red stuff. Nothing interesting to report here so off we go back to America where James is doing his Thoroughly Modern Millie bit in the streets of New York and looks like the star struck gimp’s butt plug that he is.

Most of this episode is about people sitting in rooms and coming up with designs, so it’s pretty fucking boring and not as good as having the usual bunch of performing chimps running around various shops trying to sell their pubes to the sceptical public. Long and the short of it, Team James call their sewage water ‘Big Dawg’, a name which James conjured up because he is a twat. The design on the can makes it look as though it has a massive erection on it, which is appropriate since it’s made by a bunch of cocks. Team Shitbag comes up with Aqua Fusion after resident pariah and annoying, pushy arsehole Daniel (the one EVERYONE hated from the last two episodes) came up with the borderline arrestable title of ‘Love Water’. This man is rapidly becoming the new James.

The sparks start to fly when the teams get down to making their promotional videos. Team Fuck James Over With a Spade to the Head come up with some minimalist twaddle where various sporty and artistic types talk shit to the camera before seriously contaminating themselves by drinking from the can, the loons. Team The Other One go all narrative on our arses as Felipe goes crazy ape shit mental and starts coming over all Ron Howard and creating a story around an evil mother and her two emotionally abused children. They spend their time in solitary confinement and are only allowed out onto the doorstop once in a blue moon to stutter mawkish epithets and be humiliated by having bottles of piss lobbed at them by their dead eyed patriarch. In the end they both manage to make a break for freedom and slip the matriarchal symbolism of their chains. It’s a masterpiece.

Next we have the pitching session, where a bunch of Sir Loin of Steak’s best ever chums all gather round to watch the gibbering fantasists try and flog them a drink made of bollocks. First up it’s Team Fuck Off James which spends a good ten minutes handing out samples of red stuff to the crowd before spouting some tiresome shit about the American spirit and apple pie and they once fucked Lincoln right up his marmite and what could be more American than that? Team Urine bound onto the stage next and succeeds in fucking up spectacularly by screwing up their pitch. It’s all a bit dull and we have the usual cutaways taken out of context of people blanching and flicking the V’s and punching each other and rioting in the streets just to show how displeased the crowd were with the pitch.

Back in the boardroom and Alan Bollockchops is on fine comedy form as he makes a bid to host next year’s Montreal Just For Laughs festival by pissing out some fuck awful attempts at comedy. Who writes this shit for him? Is this hairy testicle cheeked midget fuckhole under the impression that just stating the fucking obvious and adding something along the lines of “this task was about hole digging – well, it looks to me as if you’ve dug your way to China – yeah, geddit, yeah? Am I funny or what? That was fucking hilarious. I said something really obvious and you all laughed obsequiously because you’re terrified I’ll kick you out. I am great and skill.” Cunt.

Anyway, there’s a little bit of bickering with Team James Is Sexually Excited By Farmyard Animals doing the big ego-trip and attributing everything to himself, but it’s mainly Team Micturate that do the squabbling. Since Aqua Fusion is massive toss he chooses their team to come back and the hulking great squinty eyed passive-aggressive shitbag Mark pulls in annoying cunt Daniel and poor old Lauren back into the room. Daniel and Mark have a slap fight hissy fit before falling into a clinch and Lauren gets the boot for not kicking everyone in the bollocks enough.

Next week they have to set fire to an orphanage, so plenty of scope for wacky laughs there.

To win: Zoltan, Mighty Ruler of the Universe, and his pet badger, Mr Steven.

Are there too many left wing comedians in the world? Are they rubbish? And should we destroy them to make way for Oberleutnant Gruppenführer Nigel von Kristallnacht. For some background, take a look at this news item from ‘The Daily Lefty’:

A few weeks ago stand-up comedian and someone no one had heard of Andrew ‘Please can I have some of that right wing comedy circuit money as I’m desperately unknown and need a bit of controversial publicity’ Lawrence posted on Twatter that UKIP were great and skill and had some great policies and we should be worried about the borders and please could he have a good old nosh on Nigel Farage’s disease ridden bellend as people who laughed at pints made his trousers go squiffy. Nigel ‘No-policies’ Farage responded by saying what a great bloke Andrew was and yes, of course he can touch his private gentleman’s area, which elicited a response from Frankie Boyle accusing him of being a ladies front bottom. Events spiralled into something no one gave a monkey’s tadger about (http://www.chortle.co.uk/news/2014/10/28/21199/now_its_boyle_vs_farage).”

But it does beg the question, ‘Is the stand-up comedy and TV panel show circuit filled with bloody lefties all banging on about muesli and wearing knitted cardigans and reading The Guardian and not standing up for bigotry and genocide?’ Just take this recent snippet from Stewartoffski Leestalin’s

Tractor and Potato Comedy Hour’.

You know, it occurred to me that all right wing people, like Nigel Farage, should be drowned… in a bucket of shit. Yes, that’s right, I said it. A bucket of shit. Bucket. Shit. A big bucket of shit. Shitty big bucket. Big bucket. Shit. All right wingers – yes, all of them – all right wingers should be drowned (ten minute pause) in a bucket (another ten minute pause) of shit. Bucket. Shit. A bucket of shit.”

We talked to the head of BBC Comedy, Hippy O’Bong, about why there were so many bloody kaftan wearing tree huggers on his channel , and this is the lies he told, I’m sorry, this is what he had to say:

What fucking lefties are you talking about, you fucking right wing UKIP supporting massive cockend twat helmet? Are you seriously trying to suggest that fucking Miranda and Michael Cunting McIntyre are some sort of beach head to turning our nation’s prime time cunting viewing into some sort of lefty emporium, you massive utter bigoted shitface dick?! Cunt off! All of these fucking toff bastards were playing the soggy biscuit game with each other in fucking Cambridge and fucking Oxford!? The last thing these rich toss buckets want is some sort of lefty agenda to take away all their fucking money and distribute it to the poor? Half of them were friends with the Tory cunting front bench at Eton, you fucking small minded streak of weird green shit. Knuckles, set the dogs on this cunt!”

As you can see, a hotbed of radical pipe-bomb throwing anti-authoritarian propaganda.

But what of comedians who take a more Farage coloured look at life? Are they still out there? Was the death of Bernard Manning the last gasp for what the lefties believe to be the socially unacceptable face of ‘risqué’ routines about funny foreign types and their un-British ways? We asked down and out tramp-like wee smelling doyen of the right wing Jimothy ‘Arrest me, Arrest me’ McDavidson about this?

The problem with comedy these days is there’s not enough programmes like ‘The Comedians’ on TV. Back in the old days it was totally acceptable to go on prime time national television with your face blacked up and a bone through your nose and kick an immigrant to death for the frenzied screeching delight of a roomful of armband wearing brown shirts. Now, in this era of so-called ‘political correctness’ where the liberal media elite shut down all dissent against their muesli eating agenda and decry the old style comedians for suggesting that gas chambers should be introduced at the nation’s borders just in case them foreign types try anything funny, it is nigh on impossible to get anyone to come and see a more cross burning Farage based comedic slant on life. And it’s not just because right wing comedy about abusing the foreign types is lazy and shit, despite what everyone says.”

But there is a light on the horizon. With the BBC’s continual publicity for UKIP and cossetting of Nigel Farage’s fantastic ideas that definitely aren’t written on the back of a fag packet or made up on the spot or blurted drunkenly out whenever he gets near a shandy and definitely aren’t a wibbling pile of spinny eyed crazy mad pants shit that burbles forth from the ill-informed mouths of our wall eyed zombie followers who have the words ‘I’m not racist, but…’ tattooed onto their foreheads, a new show is being commissioned to tap into the comedic chops of Field Marshall Farage. It’s called ‘Farage Funnies’ and each week Nigel travels around various drinking establishments and laughs at pints. For an hour. And if you don’t watch it you’ll be gassed.

In the interests of fair play we leave the last word to left wing agitator stand-up comedian Trotsky McFiveyearplan on the subject of Nigel. At no point have we doctored his opinion.

Nigel Farage is a massive (great person who’s well skill and can do wheelies on his Grifter and knows how to impress the girls by crushing a beer can against his knob) who should be (given the keys to England and told to run the country with his great ideas about foreign types and that euro lot and he’s got loads of opinions about the economy and social justice and trade and all that kind of thing, but they’re so great that everyone’s head would explode if he mentioned them so he keeps quiet and just laughs at pints and stuff) and then (just stand around being great) until he realises what a fucking (really great) pile of old (fantastic brilliance and grooviness) he really is.

Editor’s Note: Nigel Farage is a cunt.

It goes without saying that James is a massive bellend made of a mutated hybrid of cheesy old tramp’s bellends covered in dog’s piss and a great big massive pair of wrinkly old bollocks, all coalescing into a tedious, shouty, egocentric, pushy giant cunt of astronomical proportions. Normally I would put a caveat about how he’s probably a lovely person in real life and he only became a boorish knobend through the injustices of life, but I’ve actually known people like James before and they’re just cunts through and through. Usually making up for the fact that they’ve got a tiny trouser sausage.

This slanderous attack has some bearing on the following blog, as the poor bastards on Team Sigma or Smegma or whatever the fuck it’s called has the poor bastard as team leader, which mainly involves him shouting a lot and asking for a kicking. Team Transcendence or Intransigence or whatever the knob they’re called has some woman who has barely registered on the radar for me in the last 5 weeks, so we’ll call her Thingy.

In a spurious effort to have a look at some massive weapons (fnarr) Sit Cunty Chops Sugar Pie Honey Puff drags the lazy shitbags out of their fart cabins and onto a big ship on the Thames, the HMS Belfast, where he prattles on like some cockney dime store market trading shitehawk about how a battleship, much like the one they were devaluing just by being on, influenced the board game ‘Battleships’. Well, that wasn’t a tortuous connection was it, Sugar, you feckless gutter shagging waste disposal unit for ideas.

Anyway, the two team fuck off back to their grief holes to start shouting at each other. Smarmy Ozzie Twat bows out of the running from the start, realising in his confidently smarmy manner that it’s a poisoned chalice, and opts for electing Thingy, who looks a tad surprised to say the least. Over at Team James Is A Cunt the goggle eyed shouty fart bucket is already pointing in an over-exaggerated manner and telling everyone how huge his knob is.

Team Thingy opt for a dating game, which seems like a plausible idea at the start. You could probably flog it to Anne Summers. Team James Sucks Monkey Balls go for a learning experience where people say ‘The capital of this country is called London’ and with such esoteric clues such as that the poor fucker you’re playing with is supposed to guess that, fuck me, could they possibly be bastard well talking about arsehole London? Well, bugger me senseless with a copy of The Spectator, they are! The age range is obviously foetal.

Team Thingy send out a couple of people for market research, and they happen upon The Big Bang Theory before the makeover, as some people who look like stereotypical Dungeons and Dragons players (middle aged, balding, speccy) say they’re not sure who the dating game concept is meant to appeal too, but that’s only because they have no idea what a woman is. They know they have front pointy bits. Anyway, this news is related back to Thingy who tells the research team to suck her massive fucking great hairy cock, because they’re going with the idea, and anyone who doesn’t agree gets a fucking kicking! Sort of.

Team James Should Be Executed For Crimes Against Being a Cunt all rally behind the shouty rectal wart and it’s straight onto the design phase. At this point James starts interrupting Bianca, the woman who’s helping out. I get the feeling he doesn’t like women, as he spends a lot of his time shouting over them. He is an insufferable cunt.

Now they have to flog those fuckbags to the retailers, and Team Please Kill James run around like a variety of farts in many instances of trances and his old barrow boy skills kick in and he shouts over

everyone and acts like a twat and sells a load of shit. Team Thingy hit a number of barriers in the fact that their game is shit. Not just because the questions were written around the 1970s by Bernard Manning, either. They run along the line of ‘Women in the office prefer a) a slap on the arse, b) a grumble on their norks, or c) to be told they’re not bad looking for a fat lass’. It’s ‘Bint: The Game’. Predictably everyone tells them it’s a load of sexist crap and Thingy starts blaming the sales team for not pushing this achingly terrible idea to the punters enough.

Meanwhile, at Team Please Fuck Off Forever, James the selling is going well. Jamescunt offers one retailer exclusive rights to their postal code area, and Bianca drops a dirty great clanger by offering another retailer exclusive rights to the western hemisphere for a measly six boxes. I was starting to like her, and then this faux pas reminded me that everyone in the Apprentice is a witless drooling zombie, endlessly wandering around and bumping into furniture with even the most basic motor skills missing from their abilities.

After a last minute flurry of selling it’s game over (geddit!) and the fuck bollocks are back in the ballroom and placing their love blobs gently on the Coffee Table of Deciding, just waiting for Alan Sugary Snack Treat to stamp on them with his Boot of Justice. Everyone agrees that James is a massive cunt, and Jamescunt rolls his eyes a bit in that ‘what, me?’ sort of way which makes me want to set fire to him, but things are worse on Team Thingy as everyone lays into the manager and she lays into everyone else. She seems to have a particular grudge against the solicitor, Lauren, as she’s been having a go at her throughout the entire episode. Team Thingy lose and Lauren and the bloke everyone hated who won from last week come back and spend a bit of time shouting over each other, before Lord Twat does his usual ‘ooh, which one will he fire’ bait-and-switch which he does every fucking tedious fucking bastardy cunt ballbag shit bucket felch bollocks cock nugget wanking great toss bollocks episode, the witless beardy shortarse hairy-cheeked mouse-cocked twat, and in the end Thingy goes as she’s just been a bit cak and whiny.

To win: Hitler.

After the usual five minute perambulation of clips from the last few shows that seems to go on for fucking ever, like anyone who tunes into this load of old arse toss has no idea what the show is about and needs to be repeatedly reminded in case the daft bastards had tuned into The Antiques Cunting Roadshow by mistake, we get to the bog standard shots of sleepy-eyed vermin being woken up at the ungodly hour of five thirty to answer the phone, telling them to be assembled at some dodgy service station to receive this week’s news. For a second it looks as though Razors ‘Short Testicle Faced Twat’ McSugar is there to set up a blag, and the assembled scrotal itches are his team of hard faced criminals tooled up to the bollocks with some serious toys, but instead it’s just some crap about getting a coach tour sorted.

Team Cunty Balls (Summit) have the Brucey bonus of having gobshite in residence James working for them, so you know they’re going to be absolutely fucking awful. Team Jimmy Saville (Transcendent) have some wall fodder. It’s been five weeks down the line and most of these fuckers still look the same to me. And act the same. And do the same amount of flustered squealing and toy throwing when they can’t have their lollipops.

And on Team Transsexual Floor Show we already have our first disagreement, ladies and germs, as some bloke from Australia with a solid brick for a head and some bloke who manages pub quizzes both insist they spend all their waking hours sucking off tour guides and so should lead this whizzo task that’s not at all shit. The bloke who’s head doesn’t look like a load stone gets the job as everyone else know that if he fucks up he’s got more chance of getting the boot, and they’re off.

Team James Is A Twat elect another nonentity (some suit called Sanjay) and they decide to do a tour of Henry the Eighth’s toilets or where he kept his Ford Cortina or some such cock.

Team Twatty Nuggets decide to do a history tour of some other shit – not exactly sure but it was fucking boring. Vole shafting or something. Look, it involved a stately home and a barge and that’s more information than anyone needs to know.

Because down with Team James Is A Penis everything is already kicking off bigstyle and James, being a gobshite twat he is, can’t shut up for five fucking seconds and reckons they can get a group rate on a visit to a stately pile down by eighty per cent merely by being a fucking annoying grifting little shitbag. Sensibly enough the woman he tries to blag looks at him as though he’s the rectal wart we all know he is and fucks him off by not bringing the price down lower than they do for normal coach parties. She also called him a cunt. Probably.

The camera doesn’t spend much time with Team Transcend My Balls as they don’t do any fighting, which is diametrically opposite to what everyone on the ArseprentArse does, so it’s back to Team James Is A Shit as he turns up in some museum and tries to wangle another bargain and generally acts like a knob.

The actual coach trips themselves are a sight to behold. Team Not James only have one real problem, and that’s when the snacks turn up and a couple of limp sandwiches don’t really cut the mustard to the poor bastards that have paid up to ninety nicker for this travesty. Still they get a tour out of it and the chance to see Felipe, Arseprentcunt’s resident person who refers to themselves in the third person, babbling on in a distracted fashion about Oxford. It’s a bit dull, really, so let’s see what Team James Sucks Mighty Balls is doing.

And he’s engaging the poor bastards trapped on the coach with a rendition of The Wheels On The Bus, as though it’s a collection of school kids. Everyone looks pissed off. The witless shitting great turd resembling a boggle eyed bag of monkey spunk keeps this up for the entire fucking trip until everyone kills themselves.

The tour of the stately home they visit is great, with Bianca making a right’s dogs anus out of the affair as she reads off a tour guide and refers the assembled mugs to a ‘photograph of Anne Boleyn’. Probably next to Henry the Eighth’s Xbox, I imagine.

The second half of Team Kicks James In The Balls for Eternity tour ends up in the museum with five minutes to closing time, or it would do except the docile fuckers can’t even find the bastard place, and end wandering around like lost twats. When they eventually find it they get five minutes for James and his stooge to arse around like a couple of prize testicles before they’re kicked out for bringing the IQ level of the universe down with their patronising bullshit.

Back in the board room Team Not James basically tell Lord Shitter that the elected leader of their team was a massive cunt, and they did loads of work and he sat on his arse, and did they mention he was a cunt, because he was. Team James Is On Our Team So We’re Bound To Lose immediately launch into each other like the bunch of drunken tramps fighting over a meths bottle. Everyone gets their digs in and before you it the results are read out.

Team Tenacacunt (hah! See what I did there!?) end up winning by about a grand, and Team James Is A Massive Dick Spanner lose because James is a gobshite withered foreskin. And they sold all their coach tickets for peanuts.

On Team Tenacablah everyone but their chosen leader gets a pat and a hug and he slinks off to cry like a big girl. Team James Smells of Wee, on the other hand, go through the usual bitch fight, with James swearing he sold everything the world and made all the money and everyone else is rubbish and poo and in the end Sanjay picks Jemma and Bianca for Alan’s Traditional Weekly Kicking, but not before the teeny testicles faced tyrant has told James he’s a massive tool to his face. James nods like a naughty child and fucks off sharpish.

Back in the boardroom Jemma and Bianca have a bit of a moan and a whinge and Jemma gets the boot for being the equivalent of wallpaper. Back at the house everyone’s STILL having a go at Tenacity’s team leader for being a lying shit, so loads of squabbling to come in future eps.

And James is a cunt.

To win: A small orphaned big eyed baby kitten with an injured paw.