Bastard Christmas!


Santa will eat your face


Sortitaht will be foraging for presents in a damp cave for Christmas, but will return on a more regular basis (due to Mr. Sortitaht being a lazy scrote for the last few months) in the New Year, with MORE contributions to the Shit Film Club, MORE rants about Donald Trump being a tiny handed twat, MORE V’s flicked at the tabloids, and MORE uses of the words ‘scrotey old ballbags’.



There’s A Big Meaty Sausage In My Trousers

I was reading a book the other day by Bertie Russell about the history of western philosophy which was really bloody fascinating. It’s interesting to note that western philosophy (can’t vouch for eastern philosophy – that’s probably got it’s own agenda) has been heavily influenced by the concept of religion throughout it’s history right up until the middle of the last century. I mean, you had Nietzsche banging on about god being dead and all that, but then Bertie goes out of his way to show that Nietzsche was a bit of an old nutter who had a thing for his sister and, apart from his sibling, hated women. Now, whether this was affected by the book being written slap bang in the middle of the second world war it’s not for me to say, but logic would dictate this was the case.

The other interesting thing is that it was published in 1945 so it misses out all the philosophers who came after it (obviously.) I’ve got the 1953 edition so there’s no updates concerning people like John Paul Sartre or Roland Fucking Barthes (the semiologist twat) so it just sort of stops with Bertie having a go at John Dewey because he spilt his philosophical pint or something. Being a ponce and having read some modern philosophy (well, a bit of Sartre and some bloody book about the subconscious mind where the cunt kept banging on about Cartesian fucking Dualism like it was still a modern concept, the bellend – can’t remember the author but he was probably a twat) it was quite interesting to see how the burgeoning science of quantum physics is handled by old Bertie. And basically he goes “Fucking hell – quantum physics – you can prove all kinds of shit with this, it’s totally mental.”

Anyway, after I read that I started reading Legacy of Ashes, which is a history of the CIA as reported through declassified documents and people who worked for – or were used by – the CIA. It’s written by a bloke called Tim Weiner, which is a bit like calling yourself Tim Cock in America. Anyway, it’s interesting because it lays truth to the idea that the CIA – throughout history – doesn’t have a fucking clue what it’s doing and never has. The two biggest coups they brought in from the 1950s (the overthrow of Guatemala and Iran to US friendly forces) were mainly achieved through massive blundering on the CIA’s front and by throwing a shit load of money at the problem. Scary thing is that the main theme running throughout the book is how messed up and incompetent the CIA is and how riven it is with internal strife and in-fighting, which is weirdly enough what the 9/11 commission report said. The CIA missed most of the warning signs about that – as they have done throughout history – because they were too busy flicking bogies at each other and the FBI.

Mind you, any decent conspiracy theorist worth his salt with tell people that the book is probably just a massive bunch of disinformation put about by spooks, and incidents such as 9/11 was actually an inside job, despite the fact it would rely on the complicit silence of thousands of people, including ground staff willing to sacrifice thousands of people for oil profits they would never see. But let’s not let facts get in the way of a good yarn.

The best thesis on the proliferation of conspiracy theories I’ve ever come across was probably the episode of South Park slagging off the idea of the 9/11 conspiracy. Basically the concept was that it works in the government’s favour to have the populace believe conspiracy theories are real, because otherwise that would leave all governments under the charge that they’re actually a witless bunch of incompetent twats blundering around in the dark without a fucking clue where their elbows are in relation to their arseholes. Funny thing about the more rampant conspiracy theorists is that they’re more than willing to believe that their local council is run by a bunch of blundering cretins but that this incompetency doesn’t go all the way to the people who run their country, even though – as we see from the double ended dildo of Cameron and Clegg – it’s quite obvious their capacity to organise some sort of drinking night in a public house is beyond their capabilities.

Still, all this is a way of saying I didn’t actually see The Apprentice this week as I fell asleep when it was on. You can probably guess how the programme went, though. Lots of aerial shots of London with THAT FUCKING MUSIC constantly playing, followed by cretins gimballing around like the arseholes they are, followed by lots of shots of one team coming across like witless invertebrates wallowing around in their own filth to make it look like they’re losing, and then – fuck me – turns out they actually won when it comes to the crunch. Blimey – who would have thought that?

If you want to read a proper analysis go here:

All I know is this week’s tedious episode involved selling meaty cocks to the Scottish and Kate – some blond bint – got booted for being a girl or something. I dunno. Doesn’t really matter in the end, anyway. It’s all a conspiracy by the government to keep us complacent in front of the boob tube as the government whittle away our public rights. WE’LL BE IN LABOUR CAMPS BY THE END OF THE YEAR, PEOPLE – BELIEVE ME!!!

A Good Role Model For Future Generations by Cavid Dameron, Not the Prime Minister

As someone who’s definitely not the prime minister people often ask me, “Mr, Prime Minister, what programme do you moist enjoy on television and why.” And I have to say Jeremy Kyle as it shows me what the proles are really like and why they should be annihilated with extreme prejudice. But second to that is The Apprentice for it’s examples concerning fiscal responsibility and the sheer hard graft it takes to grow a strong and vibrant economy, with someone I’ve never met before called Mr Alan Teasmaid, or something like that. Whatever his name is he’s a hairy old man who talks like he’s never wrestled a swan to the floor with his bare hands in order to kill it, cook it, and serve it up to members of the Rotter’s Club.

I first came across this program when I was not in the shadow cabinet. An old mucker of mine commented on this wizard topper televisual entertainment where young scrappers from the old school of posh knocks like myself and my chums worked against each other in the spirit of enterprise to prove who was the best person to work with the gentleman with the visage of a pair of wobbly old hairy clackers. The first few episodes reminded me of my days beating the poor before I wasn’t elected into power because that bastard on the other side couldn’t balance the books properly. Myself and my chums would spend many an hour devising spiffo new games to play where we’d all pretend to be costermongers and wheel a cart down to the local market where we’d sell our excreta in hand crafted boxes to willing punters who were too poor and stupid to realise what a bonkers gag we’d played on them. God, I hate the poor. It’s those bastards on disability benefit that really get my goat. If you’re strong enough to propel a wheelchair you’re strong enough to be slinging crates down the docks, the freeloading swines. It’s the cripples who are bringing this country down, as I was saying to someone who wasn’t my chancellor the other day. “And charities support these rob dogs,” I didn’t comment. “Make sure the bastards who donate get taxed until their knackers bleed, Osbourne!”

Then I definitely didn’t kick a beggar to death.

Anyway, one of the things we always used to do to whoever failed whatever spiffing wheeze we’d hatch was to force a forfeit onto the loser. In The Apprentice it’s banishment from the fabbo top game they’re all playing, but for us, when Spoffo Worthington-Fabworthy or Stalin Faffingshire-Paupkiller would lose a bet, we’d tie them to a rock and let buzzards peck out their eyes. I know it sounds cruel, but luckily we were all so stinking rich we could afford new eyes and nobody was really harmed. Except the servants who we used to harvest the eyes from.

Anyway, on with the show.

This week’s comedy caper starts in York Hall, some sort of lower class ruffian factory where a big square sits in the middle of a large room surrounded by seats, obviously a gathering hall for millionaires like myself to watch orphans eat each other to death. Somebody said it was a boxing ring, and it definitely was box shaped.. Anyway, each team has to come up with a fitness class concept and then licence the rights to run them.

Stephen Brady elects himself as project manager for the Team With Confused Looking People (Phoenix). Nobody argues for a start, which is against the concept of democracy. As a leading member of the aristocracy it is essential that we pitch the lower classes against each other, and this shower seem to readily agree with each other from the start, which is quite frankly appalling.

Ricky Martin, taking a break from singing and sporting the visage of a coconut, takes over team Too Many Women (Sterling) after a brief argument with a filly who looks like one of my prize show jumping horses.

From that we quickly move on to women in leotards gyrating for the team’s pleasure. Then they all line up and do a strange dance and I believe Smithers has dropped some sort of narcotic into my Chardonnay as the next thing I see is one of Team Confused in a taxi with giant orange testicles, until Mrs Dameron points out this is what’s known as a ‘space hopper’ – some sort of toy from the seventies popularised by a comedian known as Peter Kay.

Team Too Many Women decide on some sort of mixture of martial arts and streetdance to get people healthy. This is the sort of thing which can only encourage the lower classes to revolt and take to the streets again. Much to my displeasure a massive phalanx of heavily armed police don’t run in and batter the lot into submission, so very much like the real riots then.

Team Confused seem focused on the ‘space hopper’ which Steven dangles tantalisingly between his legs in a bid to attract the females of the group. When that doesn’t work he tries to insert it into his bottom, again a slight confusion on my part as Mrs Dameron explains this is how the ‘space hopper’ is ridden.

Nick, Laura, Dwayne are tasked with shooting the video for Team Too Many Women. Dwayne decides to change the script, which as my pals in Handmade Films tell me is the death knell of any film project.

Team Too Many Women try to force one of their ilk, Azhar, to don The Shorts of Death and emasculate himself in the name of fiscal gain, which is a marvellous idea. Instead he is suddenly transported back in time to the eighties and starts gyrating like a psychopath and everyone else stands around looking confused. Either that or the narcotic has kicked in again.

Meanwhile on the other team Dwayne decides to have the instructor face away from the camera for their promo vid, which I think is a terrible idea as she’s not that bad looking. According to that Nick chappy on Alan’s squad that shows fissures starting to appear in the team dynamic, which is fab because it sorts out the financial tigers from the punched big eyed puppies.

Team Confused has the temerity to let a woman give an opinion, but luckily the well known pop sensation Ricky Martin steps in and starts talking some words.

Team Too Many Women have decided to go the full hog and argue quite a lot while Nick and his Boris Johnson hair looks very sad, like a big orphaned kitten that needs to be put down discreetly with the use of a blender.

Team Confused live up to their name in the editing room. Women are talking again. This is most unnecessary.

It’s pitching time with our young whippersnappers. Ricky Martin for Team Too Many Women pitches to Virgin Active, which involves no virgins and no activity, but rather a few old men and one women sitting around with notebooks. They pitch their fitness regime at 45 pounds a session and are told by the Virgins that’s it’s very similar and could they go away and please die as they smell like poor people.

Team Confused pitches to someone else (didn’t catch the name) and present the comedy showcase of the century and I think the narcotic is kicking away because there’s a lot of lights and colours but someone who looks like Skeletor in the judging panel mentions studio capacity in relation to handing out space hoppers. We cut to a vox pop from Stephen who talks about his balls.

Laura demonstrates a few moves she might have learnt down a few Soho bars myself and my not-cabinet definitely don’t visit after a hard night in the chambers for Team Too Many Women, and we quickly cut to Team Confused and their next pitch where they make up some quick sums to sell their ‘space hoppers’ while Karen Brady – the popular character from the Viz comic – pours oodles of scorn on their lack of fiscal proprietary, although personally if I was running the company I’d give them a place in the cabinet immediately, chiefly on the concept that they may have no idea what they’re doing (like that nice Mr Osbourne off the telly) but at least they know how to… erm… oh, look, we’re in the board room now.

Nick tries to get Sterling fighting on the production of the video but so far nobody’s been selected for the chop so they all keep schtum.

Same news with Phoenix as everyone tries their damnedest not to say anything too inflammatory until the hammer falls down. Not like the turncoat bastards in the current coalition. As soon as the rotters smell the stench of defeat they’re all over the press trying to deny the advocated concentration camps for orphans.

Anyway, the results:

Sterling – £7,970

Phoenix – £12,810

Virgin liked Phoenix’s space hoppers so Team Too Many Women go and get some executive relief at a massage parlour. Honest. Quite frankly this sort of filth should not be on television. It should instead be available for video rental for the husband’s of Parliamentarians.

Now it’s time for the final countdown to doom as it’s back to the boardroom for a damn good drubbing from Team Suger.

Ricky Martin the Pop Star goes straight for the video as the blame for the failure in the task. Not the blandness of the product or the coconut-headedness of Ricky himself, but the video. This isn’t helped by Lord Testicles telling them everyone hated the video and would rather have watched Battlefield Earth for eternity than be exposed to that pile of old badger’s nadgers once again.

Ricky brings back Dwayne and Laura for the final kiss off, and battle commences. And it’s carnage, but of a very bland variety. Ricky blames Dwayne for the video and then Laura for following orders too well. Dwayne sticks up for Laura, which is pretty terrible for a businessman. He should be tearing bloody chunks out of her and throwing her carcass to the wolves of the press to finish off, using his Teflon shoulders to deflect any responsibility from himself by saying it was all the fault of the previous week’s losing team, and if they checked the figures closely they would see they actually won the task.

In the end it’s Dwayne who gets the kick for the video as it didn’t feature spacehoppers. He should have stuck in a few shots of rolling green fields, lots of churches, and people in suits talking very earnestly to the camera about how shit the other team are.

Next week they go to Scotland and terrorise the populace with their big meaty balls (obviously a food task of some sort.)



Tremble, Puny Humans by Mystor The Bloody Mysterious

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.

Agh!!! By Middleton Lyfeworthy Cryses

This week’s episode starts off with the usual recap of last week, as being human beings we have the attention span of a diseased gnat that’s just suffered a lobotomy. As per usual the worst traits of the assembled gimps are flaunted in front of us to point and laugh, because – obviously – we the audience would never act that way with people. Bilyana gets booted and we cut to the epitaph – WEEK TWO.

5.30 and the phone rings. People wander around in various states of undress, although nobody wears a big fluffy pyjama set and bunny slippers. A few shots of some twonk in pants for the laydeez and then it’s straight into the taxi with a lot of mockney speech and some Scottish accent, which being from the South I obviously couldn’t understand as it was highland gibberish.

Straight to the V&A museum where we get the usual pop shots of expensive tat before Alan waddles on like the fatty, bearded short arsed trout he is. Usual guff about the place and then Alan hits them in their respective knackers – ‘design, you fuckers’ – we don’t care what it is as long as it doesn’t smell of wee and look like Tarzan’s balls in a vice. And we’re off again, trundling through the usual myriad pile of old shite.

I mean, really, why the fuck are we watching this crap. Why the fuck am I watching this crap!? Some cak wafts by about the 10 billion homeware market but it means nothing. This is just the same old shit week after week – a gussied up Britain’s Got Talent as we laugh at the freaks who show about as much business sense as a big pile of granny twadges. And we watch it. Week after week spewing the crap into our living rooms. Infecting our brains as people shout and argue and point fingers and snipe behind their backs. People in suits sitting around chest bumping up against each other and barking in barely understandable human grunts.

Someone just linked the words ‘entertainment’ and ‘kitchen.’ The women talk about bathrooms. Why, because they’re always fucking in there!! Doing their make-up and gossiping about their other halfs, other halfs who work and slave their lives away to put food on the table while they swan off to whatever party they get invited too but their fantastic other halfs don’t because people see them as ‘boring’ and SOMEBODY’S got to do the washing up and make sure the place is clean for when the bastards they pay the rent too turn up and start inspecting the place just because part of it caught fire in a completely believable faulty wiring accident and not because of an argument. We’re probably going to have to put fire extinguishers in now. That’ll look nice.

I swear if I hear some fucker on the blokes team go “guys, guys” one more time like they’re trying to be reasonable I swear I’ll castrate the TV, just like my bitch of a wife did to me when I agreed to a joint bank account. God , life is miserable. Do none of these creatures ever think about the future. Do they contemplate anything else but the empty, thoughtless words spewing out of them as they run around at some beardy little fucker’s bidding, all cow-towing to the bastard as they try to curry his favour, knowing full well in advance that the fucker has seen their CVs anyway from the start and more or less has it decided which of these toadying little shitehawks he’s going throw his money behind. Still, at least it makes more sense than trying to foist the clueless little tossdicks onto whatever Alan’s trying to fob off to the clueless public these days. I mean, does anyone know what the cunt actually does? Is he actually in business with anyone? Or does he pull in all his revenue from dullard TV programme for drooling fuckdonkeys to give him enough shekels to suck off Tony Blair in the cloisters. DOES ANYONE KNOW!!

They’ve got a documentary about Wikileaks on the other side. Surely that should be a lot more interesting than flagellating in front of these cockwits for an hour., Mind you, Wikileaks turned out to be a pile of old toss in the end, didn’t it. “Ooh, look, the yanks think the Rooskies might be a bit dodgy.” Well fuck my old biscuits, REALLY?! I’m glad I’ve got an official cable to let me know what I already knew in the first fucking place. That’s like going “Ooh, look, most people think that grass is green.” Pointless. And that’s meant to be news.

You know, this afternoon I saw an article on ITV fucking news about cabinet ministers fighting over who can be more patriotic to the pies. Ed Balls ordered eight, and probably stuffed them all down Eddie Milliband’s throat in revenge for having him leader with the full knowledge that this Speaker’s Corner reject is going to shag any chance of Labour winning the next election right up the minister’s chamber every time he opens his mouth. I mean, Jesus, what was the idiot doing speaking out against the strikers and the unions. These are the fuckers who put him in power.

Just goes to show – politics is a rum old game, full of arseholes bleating bollocks.

A bit like The Fucking Apprentarse. Now the blokes are talking about focusing and arguing a bit. And the women are too. Lots of disagreements. Who cares. The blokes have made a bin. Well, that’ll revolutionise the western world when it goes on display. “A 21st Century product.” Bollocks. Mind you, the wife’ll probably buy one. Bitch! Not sure what the women are doing. Playing with bubbles and paints. Fantastic. At least they look like they’re having fun. Not like the wife. Hard faced bitch! You know the last thing she said to me when she left? “Make sure you empty the bins.” BITCH!

Still, I’m not bitter. Just because I’m contractually obliged to write this column for the bloody website. “2,000 words by the time we close the window, Middleton,” they said. “2,000 words – and make it interesting.” Bastards! They can stuff their fucking job right up their arses. I’M BETTER THAN THIS, YOU KNOW!

The woman have done some sums which don’t add up. Obviously none of them have ever tried to run a household. Apart from some of them. Someone with an accent has said something.

The blokes have turned up and it looks like only a few of them can be bothered to shave. Maybe that’s where I’m going wrong these days. If I want to cast off the shackles of servitude to the wife I need to not shave properly. Some bloke who hasn’t shaved has just said 72 per cent of people cook at home. And with this they’re trying to sell a bin. That bloke with the face like a puckered arsehole who’s always on there with Alan is looking pained, like he always does – Nick, I think his name is. He does this week after bloody week. Some tosser says something stupid, and then he looks pained. I think he’s got itchy undercrackers. I bet he’s thinking, “Blimey, I’d really like to itch my hairy crack but the camera’s on me.”

Oh god, this is depressing!

There’s no point carrying on with this. Lots of tromping around buyers and lots of bullshit. .My doctor’s warned me against this. I need to take some pills

Ooh, look, they’re back in the boardroom. Lots of arguing – the usual stuff. You know how it goes. You’ve watched this before or you wouldn’t be watching this pile of old cunt.

The blokes have won and they’ve got a private room in the Ivy where they can all tongue each other’s ringpieces in congratulation. And the women lost. Hah! Serves you right for not being in the kitchen. Hah! I’ll bet they’ll all turn on each other and try and blame each other for losing the game. Hah! You can’t trust anyone can you, especially not if you’ve signed away 15 years of your life and suddenly they up and leave with some bastard from the accounts office who’s meant to have a bigger knob than you but actually is really crap. WHERE’S MY PILLS!!

These pills are good. Blue ones. ‘Pacifiers’ they’re called.

That’s better.

Suppose at the end of the day it doesn’t really matter, does it. We’re all part of this great big machine. All a cog in the wheels. Life goes on. Although it doesn’t for Maria who just got booted.

Meet Our Charming Contestants by Mr. Nice Pants

Now, I understand that when The Apprentice – or, as some of our more disrespectful people say, ‘The Apprentarse’ – comes onto the television screen courtesy of the BBC Broadcasting Corporation, it is customary to cast aspersions on the candidates under Lord Sugar’s auspices.  I, personally, think this is an unfair practice and should not be encouraged.  I have read the most awful filth in some of the blogs over the years, especially by that ne’er-do-well Hazel Humphreys (, and definitely do not encourage anyone to go directly to her blog at this address and read her vile filth pouring forth from the very bowels of hell.

In these drastic economic climes it is essential to nurture the buds of new economic growth, and I think the so-called Nookie Bear of enterprise, Lord Sugar, should be applauded in his search for a new economic powerhouse in these dire financial times.

And it’s with this in mind that I present to you – my humble readers – a week by week blog into the world of The Apprentice.

First of all it’s paramount that we meet the guests we invite into our living room every night.

Adam Corbally describes himself as confident and enthusiastic and is not ashamed to show his emotion.  To the churlish this would make him a big girl’s blouse who would weep at the site of a daisy getting its head kicked in, but to the more sensitive amongst us it speaks of an artistic soul striving for the common good in all mankind.  He may have started his working life stacking bread in Co-Op like common scum, but he’s managed to build himself up to running his own fruit and veg retail stall – also very common and probably scum like, but at least the poor lad’s trying.

Azhar Siddique is a man who knows the qualities of keeping a cool head.  In the short ‘info-nugget’ given away on the BBC Broadcasting Corporation’s website he states that ‘It’s not who shouts the loudest, it’s who has the ability to control the conversation.’  And I’m sure Ashar will not be raising his voice at any juncture during the contest, as that would be vulgar and not in keeping with how a gentleman should purport himself.

Bilyana Apostolova has a face like a sulking brick wall.  Or at least, that’s what a rude person would say, unlike myself who can only compliment her on her wisdom and charm.  Growing up in the communist block she’s obviously taken advantage of the freedom the western world can give her, although considering the current budget announcements given by George Osbourne, she may be very well wishing she was back in Bulgaria

Duana Bryan is a bit of a hero.  He once chased and caught a hit and run driver, and contrary to rumours it was not a small child on a tricycle running over an ant.  He describes himself as a winner and a fighter, although his biggest strength is his creativity, despite the fact that his snapshot on the BBC Broadcasting Corporation couldn’t come up with anything more interesting than ‘Duane enjoys going out to bars and night-clubs’.

Gabrielle Omar is the artiste amongst the gathering.  She draws, she paints, she photographs and she runs, which is all very nice.  Apparently she’s a bit of an animal, according to her prece.  It’s probably more bunny related than lion, but you never can tell with these programs.  Then raging beast may dwell within her, and probably create a really scathing watercolour about people who annoy her.

Jade Nash’s passions involve money, which would be the passion of most people, I would imagine.  She would like to retire when she’s 45, although as her interests involve hosting dinner parties and going to the gym, she may find herself working until she’s well into her 90’s.  She boasts that she does not have any annoying habits, although – in the (something) of honesty, I’d like to hear what the guests of her dinner parties would say.  Probably only nice things.

Jane McAvoy is the mother of the group.  With a brood of 12 it’s amazing she has time to do anything else in her life, and although we live in modern times she should probably get back in the kitchen and rustle up some dinner.  Jane used to play camogie for her country, but since I have no idea what that is I’ll assume it’s something that involves cooking or hoovering, as she’s a mother.

Jenna Whittingham is a homebody who can’t cook or clean, which we used to call ‘being a lazy bloody student who sits around scratching their arse and do fuck all, the feckless tosspots’ back in my day.  Although she runs a beauty parlour, it would be unkind to suggest she should take advantage of whatever they offer and slap it on with a trowel.  She describes herself as ‘once seen and never forgotten.’  And a cruel person would say ‘I’ve seen the photo love, and I know what you mean.’  Although not myself.  I’m sure she has a lovely personality.

Katie Wright calls herself ‘The Blonde Assassin’, although a quick call to the police can assure myself and you, dear reader, that she has never actually killed anyone.  She states one of her wishes as to be the ‘brains behind Heinz Baked Beans’ which some could say lacks ambition as it mainly involves farting.

Laura Hogg loves to ski, and once skated with Torvill and Dean, and boasts of hoping to be one of Scotland’s biggest exports, but let’s hope it’s not sectarianism.  The BBC Broadcasting Corporation is rather scant on details about Laura, however, so let’s pass quickly on to someone with a personality.

Maria O’Connor is inspired by Gordon Ramsey, although let’s hope it’s not in the verbal sense.  Or personality.  Or anything, actually.  She says that being chucked in the deep end only leads her to swim, although I’d contest that if she was tied to a fridge freezer.  She’s a headstrong and cunning woman, and like Katie Wright, wishes she’s cornered the market in the most blandest, tedious thing she could think of – in this case the cotton bud.  Some people aspire to be kings and queens and great artists, a churlish person might say, whilst this shower of arseholes aspire to mundanity.  But not me.

Nick Holzer was born in Switzerland and was named ‘emerging entrepreneur of the year’, which is a pity really as Nick obviously doesn’t realise the Swiss award that to everyone who gets born.  Micky The Mad Pig Fucker McScrotey was awarded it a few years back before that unfortunate incident in the barnyard.  When he was nine Nick earned money by selling gold balls back to their owners.  That’s called stealing.

Ricky Martin has a head like a coconut.  At least, that’s what a cruel person would say.  I think he’s pietastically challenged and not at all a fat, greedy pig.  He describes himself as ‘the reflection of perfection’ and if you’re idea of perfection is a pie scoffing tubster then he’s right on the money.  He boasts that he has a girlfriend, so it’s nice to know there IS compassion out there.

Stephen Brady is inspired by Muhammad Ali, so expect him to beat ten barrels of living shit out of anyone who steps in his path over the next interminable weeks.  Only joking.  It’s nice to know someone with the job of a National Sales Manager has the belief in himself to actually state his occupation as ‘National Sales Manager’ meaning –as it does – absolutely nothing.

Tom Gearing fucks goats for a living.  I’m sorry, I’ve got my notes mixed up.  Tom Gearing is confident, charismatic, and good looking, according to himself.  It’s nice to see such confidence in what some would call a boy with the visage of a vermin.  He’s inspired by Candy & Candy and wishes he was the brains behind ASOS, which – let’s face it – is just a load of gibberish.

Luckily our charming guests for the duration of the programme appear not to have seen the previous 7 series, or else the candour in their opening statements would lack the usual motifs about roaring and being great.  Either that or they’ve been goaded with a cattle prod off screen into coming across like witless gobshytes, as some would say.

Cuddly old Alan give his usual schpiel about the whole program being about him and how great he is, and how he doesn’t like toadies, regardless of the reality, followed by the usual shots of the candidates in suits shouting a lot, breaking the odd ornament (a requisite in every series) arguing with each other and generally acting like a bunch of ill trained baboons fighting over the last banana, but not – I’ll wager – the wrinkly old one in Alan’s trousers.

It’s appears to the discerning viewer to have come to a point where the programme makers themselves are tired with the format, and have simply slipped into repeating the same shots from previous episodes.  However, this would be unkind.  As the Teletubbies have proven, people enjoy the repetition.  After all, you know someone in the series is going to be rather nice but get kicked out early, and one of the more surly characters will have a past full of woe and hard graft which explains their character, and although some may try to claw their own face off at the mind-rending tediousness of the whole pointless exercise of watching a bunch of adenoidal fuckwits try and stamp their competitors heads into the ground, the more discerning amongst us appreciate the business ethic they put forward and the comfort of settling down with an old friend who gives us exactly the same old thing we ask for every week.  Forever.

Anyway, Sugar-babes sets the collected competing parasites up for an exercise to test the will of any budding entrepreneur.  They have to sell printed T-shirts and teddy bears.  After all, if Alan started out flogging crap to the proles back in the heyday before the horseless carriage then his charges better learn from the ground up.

The boys (let’s face it, it would be unfair to call them men as wearing a suit and not being able to shave properly does not constitute being a man) manage to team up quite well, all showing their go-ahead spirit by democratically not volunteering to be the leader of the team they christen ‘Phoenix’, presumably because they’ll fail quite a lot and then burst into flames .  After a lot of humming and haaing, obviously because as a collective they don’t wish to hog the limelight and not because they’re aware that it’s usually the first team leader who gets given the hoof in the first episode, young Nick pipes up and says he’ll do the job.

The ladies called themselves ‘Sterling’ because, as one wag put it, ‘they’re worth fuck all on the market.  A minor amount of squabbling ensues before Gabrielle is chosen at top dog and before you can say “Oh Christ, not again,” the buoyant young things are out on the shop floor putting their hard earned business intellect into deciding what to waste other people’s time and money on.

Phoenix go for pinafores and teddy bears, showing the sweet side to their nature.  It’s always good to remember that behind every grasping moneyed tycoon wannabe there’s a small child in a locked room who’s afraid of the dark.  Although, it can be unfortunate that sometimes they let these people out to indulge in shows like The Apprentice, but let’s crack on regardless.

The ladies go straight for churning out some personalised something-or-others for mums and dads whilst giving the appearance of running around in circles squawking  like they’re indulging in some sort of ancient lesbian mating ritual.  The mother of the crowd, McEvoy, instantly attacks Gabrielle for being a bit nice and claims she’s losing control, and the unkind would wager that trying to control this bunch of hyper-active alpha-females would be akin to trying to control a bunch of starving fatties in a burger making factory, but not me.  I think Gabrielle tries very well under difficult circumstances, and the hitherto unbearable Jade shows her artistic talent by scribbling a few child-like drawings from which the team will make their initial prints.  It’s probably her best work yet and she should get a gold star.

Anyway, we’ll go straight into the selling side of things, and as expected we get the usual tromping around the streets trying to rob the gullible of their money.  There’s an awful lot of shots of the usual bargaining, harassing, and downright beasting which would find any other person outside of a reality TV show slammed up in jail and prodded in the bottom by Mr Big in the showers before they know it.

The selling process is the usual schmorgasbord of people running about trying to rob the general public of  their hard earned cash.  Nothing of any real interest happens until four of the women descend on the nearest zoo and instead of splitting up and tackling different sections of the crowd they descend like a pack of hyenas on their dying prey and basically try and browbeat terrified holidaymakers into coughing up for their tat.  That’s followed by a blitzkrieg on a shop where they violently harass the poor woman behind the counter before getting a dressing down from the shop owner who gives them a quick course in etiquette.  The ladies look suitably chastised, probably planning to go back and pour petrol through his letterbox.

The problem with the whole editing process is we, the audience, are well aware how the whole thing is put together.  First of all we’ll get a varied amount of shots of the winning team looking like their losing.  This is then followed by shots of what inevitably will be the losing team seeing to get along and actually selling.  Then, during the last few minutes of the selling process, things even up so it appears that both teams are equalling incompetent at getting along or selling their grandmothers.

By this rote it’s obvious that the boys have won, as emphasised by the smug looks on the women’s faces once they all shuffle into the Room Of Death.  Everyone loves everyone for the initial judgement of doom, and Jade blurts out something about ‘we are women and we are strong’ and then burns her bra.

However, when it comes to the crunch these are the not-very-surprising results

Harpies – Profit: 214.80p

Homonculi – Profit – 616.20p

Gabrielle lets out a primal shriek and suddenly goes ape, tearing out a submachine gun and mowing down the rest of her team with a blood thirsty cackle.

Only joking.

The boys back out subserviently, bowing as they would to their lord and master, The Great ImhoAlan.

The ladies go ballistic.  Bilyana suddenly turns into the masked avenger and tears into Gabrielle, ripping chunks out of her credibility with the harshness of someone who’s probably not very nice.  The blame games does the rounds, with everyone suddenly putting on the ‘what, me’ look, shrugging their shoulders, and then squaring up the competition in their sights in an effort to bag themselves a fragile ego.  It’s carnage.

In the end Katie and Bilyana come back to the boardroom, and in this humble commentators view I was not even aware there was someone on the team called Katie – not even when I commented on her bio above.  She played the part of Predator throughout the whole escapade,  subsuming herself into the background and becoming one with the foliage, emerging only to look a bit lost and do a bit of moaning, before sinking back into the ether.

Bilyana, on the other hand, is just a tedious gobshite.

One of the cardinal rules of The Apprentice is you don’t talk over the chimpanzee in the suit between Mrs Brady, Old Lady and The Lemon Sucking Avenger, and Bilyana does.  Relentlessly.  Endlessly.  Even Mrs. Pants was close to putting her foot through the television set and then sending the BBC Broadcasting Corporation the bill.  But in the end she settled for respectfully flicking the V’s at Bilyana’s flapping gums and then stomping off to punch a kitten.

Katie squeaks out a few lines about ‘give me chance and I’ll show you I’ve got a knob’ style bleatings which we’ve come to expect from the candidates, but all this is filler as Bilyana gets the boot, still yapping over Alan like an over-eager puppy.

Anyway, if I was a less charitable man I’d say this first episode was exactly like every other first episode they’ve ever done in the entire history of the series, but as I am a charitable man I’d say it was a program with some people in it who did some things and then stopped.