Archive for December, 2014

In a bid to keep sanity in check we here at Sortitaht Towers have deigned to leave out a critique of episodes 12 and 13 of this year’s The Apprentarse as they were basically catch-up shows. Instead we’ll launch hell bent into the nightmarish horror that is the final episode, where titans of business go up against each other in a mad monkey kung-fu knock down drag out ninja fest, which – if the entertainment gods are with us – should involve car chases, robot dinosaurs with rocket firing testicles, and a last minute nuclear countdown which can only be averted by slapping Alan Sugar in the face with a frying pan made of dicks.

Unfortunately none of this happens. Instead we have a rather dry and serious episode where two quite serious people in suits act in a very serious manner with a few minor panics and end up being a bit serious at the end of it, whilst around their feet a strange bollock-faced money munchkin dances for the delight of fops and dandies as he showers them all with e-mail phones.

First of all Bianca and Mark are dragged off to the usual tourist spot to be told that this is the big one, and they dutifully smile and nod before a bunch of the old candidates from this series are dragged out and paraded before them like so much meat. Interesting to note that Roisin is missing from the line-up, as are a few others I don’t give a monkey’s itchy helmet about.

Anyway, basically Bianca and Mark have to pick which ones they want for their Bulldog team, with most of the serious candidates going over to Bianca’s side and most of the dribbling fuckwits – and Solomon – ending up with Mark. This should bode ill for Mark, but the increasingly diseased rantings of Sugar over the past few years as he holes himself up in his underground bunker and wears cardboard boxes for shoes means this could be anyone’s game.

The lack of friction in the episode means that social commentators such as myself have nothing much to rant about. I could go on about Daniel being a raging clueless gibbering shouting cretin, but he actually conducts himself with relative decorum, as does Cunt James, which doesn’t really leave me with much to rant about.

Bianca makes the first mistake of the evening by ignoring the market research. She’s trying to flog laydeez stockings for thirty five smackers, but the punters on the street reckon she might be trying to involve them in some sort of amusement based scenario, as the most people are willing to shell out for is just over a fiver. Despite being told this Bianca sticks to the programming instilled in her by her alien masters and only brings the pricing down to twenty quid. Bianca is, after all, a semi-robot cyborg from the future on a mission to overthrow the fleshy hu-mans, and no market research bollocks is going to sway her judgement!

Mark, on the other hand, listens to his bods and actually manages people effectively, which is a real pisser as he’s come across like a right manipulative cunt throughout the series. Bianca ends up looking like the stubborn one, refusing to delegate responsibility effectively, and it’s looking more and more as though Mark will bag the readies before piling into his Ford Granada with the rest of the crew after the blag and peeling off with a squeal of smoking tyres.

Mark’s idea is some internet bollocks about prioritization in search engine or some such. It doesn’t matter. He fluffs a few lines when making the vid to flog his idea and shows a few nerves when it comes to running through his speech, but it’s all part of the wonderful world of Apprentice editing where they’ll try and mislead the audience into believing Mark’s trying to manufacture a cannon which fires puppies at walls when in actual fact he’s opening up an orphaned kitten cuddling factory.

It’s showtime and first up is Bianca, which means she’s bound to lose. Some women prance around in front of the furiously masturbating businessmen and then Bianca’s up on the stand, pelting out buzzwords to the assembled. Someone asks her about price and she confidently extolls the twenty quid marker, only to be told the average punter wouldn’t pay over a fiver for this tosh. Bianca sticks with the luxury brand bollocks, despite the research, and leaves the stage after flicking the V’s and firing a starter pistol at Sugar’s balls.

Mark’s pitch starts in rib-tickling comedy fashion, as an art-mime piece co-ordinated by Solomon and James and involving people in orange and blue body stockings pretending to climb a wall or bimble about like a twat – the spirit of Jimmy Pursey lives! – and makes Mark look like a fucking mental case. However, he comes on, fluffs the first few lines, and then confidently talks the usual shite these stripey shirted cunts in business suits who fuck the world over for a few shekels to line their greasy pockets understand. It’s all nicely managed and everyone agrees he was lovely and the bit where he ate the baby otter did not distract from the overall pitch.

Boardroom time and everyone agrees what a great leader their assigned dictator was. Not even the fact that Bianca ignored the market research was brought up, as everyone on Bianca’s team obviously thought James was a twat and did not want to jeopardise Bianca’s chances. They’re all lined up against the wall and shot, leaving Mark and Bianca to wiffle a few pointless words about how their idea has a massive knob and will make squillions and squillions for the testicle-faced tyrant, as long as he’ll deem to piss them a few extra coins to get their dreary ideas onto an over-crowded market. Alan grumps a bit and then opens his shirt to let his new acolytes suck on the Teats of Business.

In the end Mark wins as ladies underthingies make Alan go all strange around his trouser area, and thus a thrusting new entrepreneur is born to sink into pointless obscurity. But Bianca’s not having any of it. She gets the tools out and kicks over the table, levelling the sawn off at the trio in front of her who suddenly transform into the grotesque hell-spawn they always were. Using Mark as a human shield she puts a hole in the window with the shooter where a helicopter gunship is waiting. With a defiant cry of “Stick THIS fucker on next year’s figures, you CUNT!” she hops on the chopper, lobs a frag grenade into the boardroom and makes her escape as Sugar Towers erupts into a fireball behind her.

To win: Bianca. No, hang on….

It’s the episode everyone loves; where we get to see the prospective candidates shouted at, abused, and basically treated like pieces of shit by a cabal of stripey suited cunts professionally employed to act shouty in front of the camera, even though they’d get hauled in front of a tribunal in the real world for their level of bellendishness they collectively display.

However, since the whole series is a gladiatorial dog and pony show this fits in quite well with the sort of scrote who would go on a ten week bullshit exercise in order to get ‘the smallest large amount of money’ (copyright ‘That Mitchell and Webb Look’) in order to start up a business putting the boot into grannies or selling orphans to vultures or whatever go-getting toss they’re throwing into the ring (fnarr, obviously).

It’s also a good time to get a good look at how much these emotionally maladjusted corpse climbers have put into their business plans, which are soon to be torn asunder and used as toilet paper by the Shouty Twats lined up to interview them. Cute bunny rabbit of the series, Solomon, has done basically fuck all in his plan, coming in at a hefty eight pages, four of which are pictures of sailing boats. If it were me I’d give the money to him straight away for not being a massive, pushy, back stabbing egocentric brand of clagnut cream, but The Apprentice was never about how much of a human being a person is. The fact that Solomon has also neglected to put any figures into the plan and drawn pictures of lions and puppies all over it with a big sign saying ‘me playing with kitties’ is neither here nor there. The rest of the assembled – Roisin, Bianca, Mark and Daniel – have obviously shat a load putting their lies – excuse me – future projections into their plans, and all look a bit smug when Solomon confesses his error before pawing at the sofa a bit and then settling down for a nap.

Mark basically has an idea to up the internet profiles of small businesses, Daniel wants to expand on his pub quiz empire, Roisin wants to dominate the world of shitty food by starting up a new line of healthy snacks, Bianca wants to open a hosiery line and Solomon has something to do with enabling student businesses, but in reality wants to play with a big ball on a string until he gets tired.

And before you can say ‘contrived load of old bollocks’ the poor, witless fools are dragged up in front of the Cunt Commission where huge hobnailed boots are employed to kick ten barrels of cunting shit out of the poor fuckers. Solomon gets it in the bollocks big time when big baldy twat (can’t remember his name but he’s the massive shite hawk employed to be extra shouty during the interview stage) praises Solomon’s CV to the high hills, and you know he’s going to get a major kicking, which promptly and predictably happens when Shouty Bald Twat turns to his business plan. This is not a surprise, as he does this to everyone. Although, just to add a bit of spice to the proceedings, Shouty Slaphead also tells Mark what a great guy he is, and that he can probably do wheelies on his Grifter and has probably done it with a girl and everything, as Shouty Spampatch obviously recognises a fellow bellend.

Roisin gets raked over the coals for wanting to start a culinary empire and take the world by storm, simply by shoving some bulky pasta shite onto an already over-crowded market. Daniel, predictably, is pulled up for being a lying cunt, but that was always on the cards. Rather than being ‘nominated for having the biggest dick in business’ (paraphrasing) it turns out the little ball of impotent fury has actually never been nominated for anything other than ‘Wankiest Twat in the Office’, and has to fess up to talking out of his arse. The only other major bit of cak comes when Mark is brought to task for a bit of fibbing about his position in his current job, but it’s all a bit wet and weedy.

The major arse kicking comes with Bianca, who seems to get a roasting from the Assembled Interview Dicks for being too business-like, which actually reduces her to tears. Mind you, the rest of the poor, money grabbing fucks could have had the same emotional breakdown, but the episode is carefully edited to give us ‘a narrative’ so those sections could have been left on the cutting room floor.

Anyway, all the Shouty Finger Pointing Ubermensch are dutifully wanked into Alan’s office to offer their opinions that all the candidates are lovely and they should get free cars for being so ace and skill. Only joking! Bianca and Mark are ear-marked as the only ones with a sensible plan and when the candidates are pulled into the office the firings comes quick and fast. BAM! “Fuck off Solomon – there’s no room in this gaff for cute puppies”. BOSH! “Get aht, Roisin – diet foods are for cunts!” WOLLOP! “Suck my cheesy bellend, Daniel – you’re shit and you know you are!” Until there’s only Bianca and Mark left to suck on the monetarist teat which Alan offers them.

Mark plays the mind game card in the taxi back, telling Bianca ‘I’d hate to be in your shoes’, but Bianca grabs his nuts, ties them to a lamppost and tells the driver to floor it.

For the record, Mark is a massive tool.

A quick clip of next week shows Mark fucking up on the podium when he delivers his shower of shit, and Bianca parading a bunch of lingerie clad models in front of some businessmen frantically wanking themselves to death, so the outcome is an open book depending on which school of manipulative editing you apply to this bollocks. “Ooh, Mark’s fucking up – guess he must win then” or “Ooh, lonely businessmen and lingerie models – Bianca’s got their number!” Quick frankly, I don’t give a fuck.

To win: Rudolph the Red Nosed Alcoholic.

Here at the University of Looking at Total Mentals in Cardiff we pride ourselves on keeping abreast (fnarr, ooer, etc) of the current political and social concerns which dominate the country. One of the over-riding topics of recent weeks has been how much of a massive donkey’s cock UKIP have currently been, and why they always come across like a bunch of dribbling rectal warts with no concept of common decency, and always seem willing to blame everyone but themselves for being a complete and utter shower or shit shovelling twat bollocks, content to flick the V’s everyone without turning the mirror on themselves to see what a gibbering pack of frothing witch burning loons they all are, without question.

Lately it has been a bumper year for massive bellends in the media, with the ne plus ultra of gibbering fartiness being the amusing comedy roadshow that is Nigel Farage and Russell Brand having a big slap fight on Question Time.

Any long term viewers of Question Time will know that it is not so much a political programme as an excuse to watch a bunch of monkeys wanking and throwing their own shit at each other, whilst a baying mob of opinionated harridans of both sexes clap any statement which doesn’t have the word ‘cock monkey’ in it. To be fair the average IQ of the majority of the audience out-strips the barely sub-humanoid arse picking dribble ducts posing as carbon based lifeforms seated in the dog pit in front of them, but liberally sprinkled amongst the reasonable human beings are plants from each political party. They can be spotted by the shape of their heads, which resemble German storm trooper helmets with all jizz spunking out of the end (true fact).

Occasionally a zoo keeper is parachuted into the Question Time panel, like Ken Loach, Shami Chakrabarti, or in one case even Eddie Izzard. They are merely there to throw the structured automaton responses of the Parliament Units seated around them into some sort of practical everyday light. Each of the political party ‘guests’ on Question Time has been programmed to throw out the same response to the trigger words such as ‘immigration’, ‘NHS’, ‘scandal’, or ‘dhis cock was stuck in a toaster’. Take a look at the following answer and see if you can guess which political party this has come from.

“Yes, I don’t think it’s racist to tackle the subject of immigration, and although people coming into this country bring a considerable amount of skill and commerce to the economy – for which I applaud – I don’t see any reason why they shouldn’t be rounded up and gassed.’

That was, of course, all of them.

Last week’s titanic fight to the death between Brand and Farage brought with it a certain intellectual and emotional conundrum. After all, both fictional characters brought a sense of loathing to the fore of any decent human being. Both were a melange of contradictory views and opinions, with neither of them to be trusted wholeheartedly on their responses. And yet, which one was the average viewer more inclined to empathise with? The answer, of course, as Professor Wankle Shytebucket Von Testiclehead of The University of Thinking About Stuff Whilst Having a Shit on the Khazi, in Bonn put it, “is Russell Brand. He might be a fucking twat, but Farage is a fucking great mental grasping twat of unbelievably hypocritical proportions, whereas Brand is just some confused street urchin who fell into his mum’s make-up kit and was mentally thrown back to the early nineteenth century to act like a dandy.” Although Brand may be conceived as being objectionable due to his faux-foppish inability to speak like a human being, he is the political equivalent of a confused wunny babbit wiv an ickle twitchy nose. Farage, on the other hand, is a steaming great bag of elephant shit.

Over the years Question Time has seen it’s fair share of objectionable figures, which is most of the fucking cunts on there, as my research assistant Doctor Von Small Penis is want to object. The main thrust of the programme is to highlight the hypocrisy which politics enshrines within it’s structure. I asked the programmes originator, Donald Bouncytits, about the philosophy behind the idea.

“The idea originally came about because the Houses of Parliament are stuffed with massive cunts,” he told me over a dry sherry at Filthy Ralph’s Dirty Mag and Dog Fighting Shop. “I had been dealing with the hypocrites on a regular basis as head fluffer for BBC News, and thought it was about time that their rampant bigotry and witlessness should be exposed to the general public, much like I exposed my genitals to several accommodating Chief Constables over the years. Of course, the guests have changed over the life of the programme – we now allow media tarts and fringe group twats in as well – but the essential structure of the programme has remans the same. To wit: the chance to shout at a bunch of lying cunts.”

In response to the charge that the political spokesunits on the programme all appear to spout the same gibberish, we spoke to Hugh Donnington-Cocktugger, a constituency MP from Wharton-On-The-Bell, about his appearance on the programme.

“Whirr, click, bzzzt – it is always a great honour and privilege to appear on the programme you hu-mans called ‘Question Time’ – bzzzt, whirr. Although the responses of all the politicians on the programme appear to be the same we share fundamental differences in our attitudes to some of the major topics of the day. Death to the fleshy ones!!”

When asked which party he represented, Hugh replied, “One of the big ones” and then plugged himself into the wall to recharge.

In summation, Question Time can be seen as a chance for the public to take to task the people duly elected to represent them, but in actuality is more a chance for egocentric political evolutionary throwbacks to get their fat ugly faces onto the gogglebox in the belief it will ‘up their profile’.

Editor’s Note: Nigel Farage is a cunt.

Cunt Corner:


Due to a fractured ankle ‘cunt corner’ has been off the radar for a good few months, but I now bring it back in all its glory. Headlines have been missing from 29/12/14 until 08/12/14, but now they’re back!

And it’s a good week for the Mail, Express and Star as they add a headline each to their cunt counter. Stats have been slightly disrupted by the fact that the website where I get the headlines from no longer has The Sun on it’s site, so – despite them being a paper by cunts and for cunts they will appear less.

The Express chipped in on the -08/12/14 with Migrant Benefits Built My House, whilst the Mail, feeling forgotten, responded on the 09/12/14 with Now We’re Importing Brickies – for £1,000 Pounds a Week! The Star, not to be left out, chipped in on 10/12/14 with Shameless: Britain’s Worst Ever Benefit Scrounger. A top week for racism and class hatred.

Doesn’t it make you feel proud.

Headline cunt count since 29/07/14 (minus 3 month gap)

Daily Express

8

Daily Mail

7

Mirror

1

The Star

3

UCUNT Corner

A new section outlining all the cunty things UKIP have done lately.

It would have been Farage for his witless twatty showing on Question Time, but he was just pipped at the post by Kerry Smith for his racist homophobic e-mails. What a UCUNT!

Everyone who lived through the mighty cinematic poo that was Independence Day cannot help but remember the fantastic, brilliant, skill and scientific way Jeff Goldblum realised they could fuck the aliens over by linking it up to a ZX Spectrum and sending a virus right up their otherworldly bottoms. It goes like this – someone sneezes, Jeff Goldblum realises that colds are caused by viruses and thus a virus can be used to disrupt all the alien shit going on, and then flies up to the alien mothership with Will Smith and fucks the tentacled bastards over with a copy of Manic Miner.

Apprentice, episode ten of series ten, starts very much the same way. The Sugar Puffs Monster gathers all the hopefuls left at the Tate Gallery because the fat dead bloke who funded it made all his money in sugar. Sugar is a key ingredient in luxury foodstuffs like cake and trifles and puddings, and therefore what the assembled teams need to do is come up with a pudding which makes people fill their pants with love splooge.

Daniel is shoved in with Roisin, Solomon and Bianca, whereas little Sarah Millican (Katie) takes charge of Mark and Sanjay. Fuck knows what the teams are as Mr Voiceover Pants doesn’t bother to tell us. Basically Alan Bollocks assigns the leaders – Sarah Millican for one team and Roisin for the other.

In their respective boardrooms Roisin declares that she wants Solomon to get his fingers dirty and start slapping some cak mix together, but he pleads ignorance of this food thing you hu-mans speak of and says he’s better at design, so Roisin tells Bianca – her first choice for designer – to fucking well do one and shut it, before doing the Lambeth walk down to Ronnie Kray’s grave to the sound of the Bow Bells whilst eating jellied eels and playing the spoons on her facking knees.

On Team Little Sarah Millican stuff happens. It is not very interesting, apart from the bit where Mark and his new plaything Sanjay put together the most god-awful packaging for their luxury pudding, which is some sort of chequered abortion of colour that instantly makes anyone who sees it go blind.

Katie has decided to make her luxury designer foodstuff out of saffron and dead animals, whilst Team Roisin concocts a mouth-watering melange of tea and angst. At least on the design side Solomon cooks up the sort of packaging you would find in Waitrose, as opposed to the abomination that Mark and Sanjay are currently wanking over.

The mutated spawn of the toxic waste and gutter scrapings arrives the next day and everyone crowds around to stuff their fat faces and say what a fantastic taste it is before the teams split off, with one section hot-footing it down to the local Aldi to shove it in people’s faces whilst the other has sex with farmyard animals. Probably.

It’s pitching time and both teams visit the Megastore, Waitrose and Uncle Filthy’s Dirty Wank Mag Shop – otherwise known as Tescos – to try and flog their bollocks, and on Team Roisin Daniel just cannot keep his fucking gob shut. Seconds after being told to zip it or he’ll be seeing the rest of the day out from the bottom of the nearest lake with his feet in a pair of concrete slippers the mockney cockstain is opening his ginormous gob to shite on about whatever bollocks comes into his head. It’s an endless stream of bullshit, but the carbon based lifeforms they’re flogging this shit too seem to respond. Maybe it’s the combination of shiny suits and loud noises which attracts their attention.

Team Sarah Millican fare less well as Mark does his back stabbing best to get Sanjay fucked out of a presentation, and then goes on to massively balls it up as – mid-pitch – he starts to choke on his own sense of ghastliness and spends his time coughing back the revulsion about what sort of corpse fucking over-achiever he’s become over the years, eventually requesting a glass of cyanide to end it all with. Instead he gets water. It is a nice moment of schadenfreude to see this egocentric cock ring stumble and massively fuck up a sales pitch after all the back stabbing the fuckwit has been doing over the series.

Back in the boardroom and everyone is fairly pleasant, although Daniel comes in for a bit of stick for being a mockney bucket of diseased badger shit. At this point everyone’s hedging their bets in case the outcome goes against them. As it turns out Team Sarah Millican dropped the ball, mainly due to their piss poor package design, and for Mark being a clueless rectal bleaching. Team Roisin get to go and fuck lepers for an evening whilst Team Sarah Millican sit in the Café of Cock and Mark starts to plan his exit strategy by blaming everyone but himself. Cunt.

In the boardroom it’s the expected bickering until it slowly emerges that the entire episode was a massive waste of humanity and that all Alan is concerned about is the business plans of the losing contestants. Sanjay wibbles on about his internet start-up business and Katie talks about starting up a restaurant – neither of which Alan Bollockchops wants to touch with a bargepole made out of other bargepoles – so he fire both of them and tells Mark it’s his last chance. Of course it’s his last chance, you testicle visaged twat – it’s the last fucking Dog and Pony show before the fucking interview stage!

Which does beg the question, how the fuck are they going to string this cunt out for another four episodes. We have the interview stage, then the finals, which can only mean the last two episodes will be catching up with the contestants, or a look back at other Apprentices and how they’ve done, or and ep about twenty reasons for buying one of Alan’s shit e-mail phones. The whole fucking concept is an elongated advert for this foreskin’s business, anyway, so fuck off The Beeb, and take that manky scrotal wart with you.

To win: Megatron.

There comes a time in every satirists life where the subject he is extracting the urine from becomes so absurd as to make the satire redundant. Mind you, not that this endless collection of rude words and knob gags could actually be classed as ‘satire’, since it mainly consists of calling politicians a load of degenerate, criminal, bribe-taking, corrupt, twisted, deviant, morally bankrupt bastards, but you get the point. There we were in Sortitaht Towers, contemplating what scope of politics we could charmingly take the mickey out of, when news reached us that the thinking man’s genocidal hatred, Nigel Farage, had blamed a traffic jam on the M4 on immigration. This, quite frankly, is way beyond any parody one would care to think of. The mere fact that this gimlet eyed frog faced throwback to Hogarth’s Gin Alley had actually taken the time out to publicly proclaim the tailback on a fucking motorway was down to whatever unstable racist blubberings which seep through the sewage which is his mind – never stopping to contemplate that he may come across like a complete fucking headcase – makes the very concept of political satire as redundant as making punching yourself in the balls an Olympic event.

Let us look back on some of the more batshit crazy ideas UKIP and it’s exponents have been infecting the world with over the past few years…

In fact, let’s not. Just having done the research on these idiots makes a person weep in fear for the future, mainly since a large proportion of the voting public seem to consider their alarmist racism and bigotry to be fine, upstanding opinions rather than the rantings of a bunch of rich fuckwits hell bent on claiming their greasy part of the power pie. Never let it be said that these twisted shitehawks would not do a massive great shit on the general public if it meant they could suck on the massive bellend of power for just a few short years and join the more Conservative minded amongst the political establishment in fucking over society as much as they possibly could just to line their own pockets. If you dangled a big bag of shit in front of your average UKIP politician and told them there was a tenner hidden somewhere within he would be cuffs deep before you could find the time to inform they it was only a great big comedy gag and only a massive grasping twat would fall for it.

It’s even depressing writing parodies of this minimalist way of thinking. Every time you think ‘Hah, I’ll write something complete bat shit crazy to pinpoint just how clinically mental the average UKIP idea is’ the fuckers go and pronounce that handguns should be made legal or that English should be spoken on trains (both ideas courtesy of that walking rectal wart Farage) and you end up thinking ‘fuck me, there’s nothing I could actually put down which these wibbling bunch of frothing, spinny eyed lunatics won’t usurp at some point by proclaiming that all bananas should be made out of English jam or that Scotland should be set adrift from the mainland or that walk-in gas chambers should be erected in major city centres’. These people, and by proxy their voters, are fucking insane!

I have been told that to tar all UKIP voters and their supporters with the ‘racist’ or ‘insane’ banner would be to devalue the argument of a disaffected voting populace, but that also brings up the question that do the people who say this have any inkling about just how fucking mind bogglingly bonkers the average UKIP policy is, and that what they expound bears no relation to anything approaching reality, and it’s all a great big fucking con to get brownshirts and bigots to vote for them for that, as previously mentioned, whiff of power? If you want to fire off a protest vote try voting for a party which doesn’t have the unsettling quality of an early National Socialist rally. How’s that for a fucking idea, you bigot defending cuntflaps!?

I also recognise that this argument is a reductive as the close-minded rhetoric of the KIPPERS, but not being a fucking bigoted twat like them, and since this is my bastard cunting blog, I feel I can espouse views which the average racist twat would find troubling. So cocks to them.

It sometimes seems the only comedy left in relation to UKIP is waiting to see what incredibly ill thought out and batshit ideas they’ll come up with next. If only mad people out there weren’t voting for the corpse fuckers it might not seem so worrying. In conclusion I can only surmise that it won’t be long before Farage is blaming immigrants for a big shit he did in his trousers, not having the breadth of imagination to actually remove said strides once he’d reached the toilet. And the poo he smeared in his hair was caused by the EU.

As regular readers of this Joycean adventure will know, The Apprentice thrives on a heady cocktail of massive wankers and pointless tasks. Take away one of those important factors and you’re left with a sort of vacuum of meaninglessness. This week that perfect storm of blandness reached a head.

The first problem is, most of the massive wankers have gone. At least with that woman whose face looked like a badly reconstructed horse or James Is A Cunt you had the guarantee that some bellend event would be exacerbated by one of the pointless vacuums of humanity rebounding off objects and each other as they scrabbled ineffectually away at the emptiness of their own existence. With the massive tools removed all you have is a series of mildly incompetent toy throwers bimbling about and not quite making as much of a song and dance about it as the cheesy helmets who have been booted from the last few episodes.

Which leaves a great big honking vacuum in the centre of the episode. Except one trooper steps forwards to fill in that vacuum, and that’s the testicle chinned mockney twat that is Alan Sugerplum Fairy. From the opening montage where he spanners about at his desk talking about how, not only is he the judge and jury, by crikey, but he’s also the ruddy blimey executioner as well, what with his executioning skills amounting to looking like a breathing dick and burbling puns which Tim Vine would take around the back and shoot.

This episode Alan turns stalker as he pops up on the candidates doorstep and has them all lined up in their jimmy-jams in the living room, where he forces them to do an exotic dance before spraying them all with a fire hose, and then seconds later douses himself in gasoline and strikes a match.

Only joking! This week he turns up and tells them they’re going on a yawnsome scavenger hunt, or as I cleverly call it – scavenger cunt. They have to collect a load of shit from previous scavenger hunts for under a Bag of Sand (cor blimey, strike a light, etc.). They all dutifully square off into – well, we don’t know as the voiceover neglects to tell us what the teams are, so Team Daniel go into one room where Daniel tells everyone he sold his own grandmother to come onto the programme and thus they should elect him, and Team The Other One elect Sanjay because… well, I’m not sure, really.

Anyway, they fuck off into taxis and piss around Lahndan and quite frankly it’s a massive pile of tedious old bollocks. We get the usual bits where people hard bargain and no one has a go at each other and it’s all a bit dull. At one point Rorschach from Watchman (or whatever the blonde woman is called) manages to bargain a diamond down from 170 smackers to 50 quid to a fat, sweaty, masturbating nerdling, but that’s about as interesting as that team get. Team Daniel nab a paper skeleton for about eighteen quid, which was Felipe’s idea, and everyone says how great that was and they all fuck off back to the boardroom to bump chests and hug each other and get sexy.

In the boardroom everyone says Daniel wasn’t a massive fucking witless arguing shitfaced badger fucker for a change, and on Sanjay’s team everyone says he was a bit of a twat. Until the scores come out. And fuck me right up the marmite, looks as though Daniel has won! Except this is where The Sugar Puff Marshmallow Man really comes into his own and, for no good reason docks Team Daniel 310 quid for bringing him a paper skeleton rather than the 50 quid for not getting the item. It’s an arbitrary decision and, like The Apprentice itself, makes no real sense or reason.

While Team Sanjay are sent off on a pig fucking safari everyone goes to the Café of Doom and blames each other, as is the ritual. Back in the boardroom Daniel brings back Katie for no reason other than she’s a Geordie and should probably get sacked for being a northerner, and Felipe, because he came up with the idea of buying the paper skeleton, even though there was nothing in the fine print which said the anatomically correct skeleton had to be plastic. Daniel’s ‘hey, everyone, let’s smoke a dooby and look at the flowers’ masks drops, as it was always going too, and he is once again revealed as the whining little gimlet eyed shit he is.

At the end Alan Cockface fires Felipe for some spurious bollocks. It’s a cynical attempt to try and inject some tension into the proceedings, much like when Testicle Face fired three candidates in a row.

It also comes as something of a shock to realise this bag of monkey’s love wallpaste is actually fourteen fucking episodes long rather than the usual twelve, in an effort to drag the sorry proceedings out until crimbo. The thought of having to sit through another turgid 5 weeks of this massive wanky old jizzy helmet makes me want to make up an exceedingly long sentence full of big sweary words put together in an amusing ensemble of naughtiness which will keep people chuckling good naturedly until I’ve filled up my thousand word remit. But I won’t.

To win: Johnny Cockring, 4th in line to the throne, Duke of Wankminster

Another year comes to an end and another year of trouser-swellingly fantastic films spew forth from the very bellend of cinema. We asked a bunch of chin stroking double barrelled knob jockeys what their favourite film was, and the results, I think you’ll find, will prove to be quite surprising! If you’re a cunt.

Donald Itchynuts – Professor of Transformers Films, Cambridge

Well, obviously the best film of 2014 has to be Michael Bay’s seminal –as in it’s a load of spunk – film concerning the totemic icons The Transformerbots, in their new film Fucking Hell, Look At That Fucking Big Robot, to give the piece it’s working title. In this film the robots in question stand for the dominance of American culture in modern cinema, and Michael Bay and Jerry Bruckheimer’s subtext concerning Chinese hegemony and it’s slowly encroaching ascendency in politics is cleverly disguised by a load of toadying up to the ruling dictatorial elite. But best of all big robots take apart the fabric of modernity by punching buildings, and that, at the end of the day, is what gives me a stiffy.

Wankington Spanner – Director for the International Strokey Chin Film Festival

There have been many important and interesting films to come out this year. One only needs to study the mise-en-scene of Godzilla or the verisimilitude in Edge of Tomorrow to realise that the very fabric of cinema is being stretched to the nth degree. In fact, it was while watching Tom Cruise get despatched for the umpteenth time that I realised it was about time that short arsed cunt got offed every now and then. As Michael Powell once noted, “If that grinning floppy haired midget shows his facking Scientology-bumming face on my cunting set I’ll off the shit biscuit with my fucking ten hole Doc Martin boots, the fucking cunty old clagnut!”

Big Knob – Tenured Professor of Adam Sandler Pics at the University of Cunt

We can all agree that Seth McFarlane has become a one man industry in today’s modern animation field, even managing to coerce The Simpsons into a combined special. With it’s hard hitting and cutting edge jokes about anyone who doesn’t quite fit into the template of humanity set out by Triumph of the Will, McFarlane and his team of barely human CHUD monkeys show us that nothing is sacred and all barriers are open to satire in the modern world. Critics have argued that McFarlane’s output shows nothing but a lunk-headed frat boy disgust and fear for the ‘other’ in society, whilst others have argued that he’s just a smug, moneyed twat. Which he is. As for my favourite film it’ll be something foreign and about four hours long. And feature beards.

Emperor Shitbucket, from the Planet Cock

I personally think Noah was the best film of the year, because for a start it was directed by someone who has done films which require the stroking of beards to understand, but it also had a load of CGI bollocks in it and Ray Whinystone acting the cockney cunt as per fucking usual. Here on Planet Cock we worship Whinystone, as we do his acolyte Danny Cuntydyer, because neither of them show any propensity for acting, and both of them are incredibly annoying.

Jeremiah Nerdlington – Operator of NerdVirgin Network

I really like the load of superhero and action films that have come out this year, because superhero’s remind me that I can also be great and fantastic and hang out with ladies with boobies in spandex, and also because I get comics and they are great and are just like Finnegan’s Wake, except they have people punching each other in the bollocks. I saw a lady’s fanny yesterday, until someone pointed out that it wasn’t a lady but a lamp-post, and since lamp-posts do not have ladies front vaginas then I did not see it, so then I cried and wanked. In short, my favourite film was Guardians of the Galaxy because I wish I was popular.

Arsehole Bollocks, editor of Total Empire magazine

As we all know The League of Extraordinary Gentleman is the best film ever made, so that is my film of the year. “But Bollocks,” I hear people cry, “you have to elect a new film as your favourite, for fear of being called a twat” but they can all fuck off. Gentleman had everything modern cine is lacking – steampunk, fast cars, Polaris missiles, birds, blokes, and Sean Connery firing a gun. And some people shouting. And let’s not forget the explosions. There were lots of them . So in conclusion my favourite film was that one, and despite what the critics say it’s not a fucking massive load of old dribbling helmets. I also like Pearl Harbour, which makes me a living rectal wart. And Siege with Bruce Willis, which means I should be killed.

Knackers McKnockers, International Head of Bellend Pictures

Here at Bellend Pictures we pride ourselves on our sales staff knowing just what the zeitgeist is, and then flogging that cunt to death. For us the spandex superhero genre has been spunking the money out of the nation’s pockets for the last fifteen fucking years as droves of wall eyed knobends march in file into EnormoTwat Multiplex to be fed a steady diet of unchallenging toss like the zombies they are. But let us not forget the people who want something different, which is why witless shit like The Grand Budapest Hotel gets made and we continue to indulge MTV hacks like Wes Anderson and Michael Cunting Gondry with their empty, soulless, middle class arse bollocks which leave talking clagnuts who have never seen properly interesting films like The Hourglass Sanitorium, Uncle Bonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives and Surviving Life to wallow in their own pretentious blandness, never having to be disturbed by properly interesting cinema. ‘Ooh, what did Bill Murray whisper to Scarlett Johansan at the end of Lost in Bollocks?’ I’ll tell you what it was. “I’ve just farted.” Fuck off back to whimsy land, you endless tedious cunts! And that’s why my favourite film of the year is Mr. Bollocks Goes For a Shit In Toilet Land. Now fuck off!