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….