Episode eight kicks off with the usual five minutes of filler and then it’s down to the meat and bones as the Nation’s Favourite Testicle-Faced Twat informs the lurking creatures in the shadows that shall not be named that they have to go to a goat fucking event day in Westbollock-On-The Wye and sell S&M animal restraints to deluded, inbred one-eyed badger fuckers.
Team Whatever – the one without James in it – elect Felipe as their leader due to his ability to look a bit like a startled bunny, and thus make all the farmers want to molest him, whereas Team James Is A Cunt elect – fuck me, it’s James again, as he ducks and dives and spills a big trouserload of bullshit about his selling prowess and his managerial competence and his ability to do wheelies on his Grifter and basically lies his way into the position.
Someone has posited the notion that I actually secretly like James, which is why I’m hard on the cunt, but the reality is he reminds me of this massive and utter total cockend I used to know in Portsmouth who was stupendously full of shit and would crawl over the rotting corpse of his own grandmother to get what he wanted. He was a genuine, gold standard women’s front lady parts, and acted and even looked to a certain extent just like James. So the animosity comes from knowing what a mercenary shitbag James actually is, having had to put with a massive cunt like him before.
Anyway, both teams of bright eyed diseases split into two, with one lot fucking off to check out some useless low item cak they usually sell at these shows – handbags and braces and iron maidens and such like – whilst the other lot fucks off to check out the big ticket items, like underground volcano lairs and gas chambers for city folk.
Team Bunny Rabbit, led by Felipe, decide on a flat cap handbag mutation and a child catcher for the back of your bike when you go riding (Trail Gator, I think they’re called). Team James Is a Twat decide that the child catcher/bike hybrid and an item which helps you find your dog in the dark (presumably so farmers can fuck it) would be ideal to sell to the residents of Summerisle, but James steps in and using decades of business acumen and insight tells them to fuck the cunt off because he once saw a sheep in a field and realises that what these yokels really want is a big swinging seat for the back garden and some shit wellies with very thin soles which city types like but proper farmers refuse to have sex with.
It’s when things get to the big ticket items that James really comes into his own, first of all by calling the bloke who owns the hot tubs by his wrong name (‘Derek’ rather than ‘Anthony’) and second by just being a witless gibbering over-enthusiastic bag of medical waste.
Team Cute Kitten, on the other hand, have the dynamo that is Katie – the Sarah Millican-a-like – and she sweet talks her way into the hot tub man’s pants after putting up with Daniel going crazy apeshit bonkers in his enthusiasm for everything under the sun. He ends up coming across like a clueless stripy shirted shitbag from the city, which is what he is.
When it comes to decision time hot tub man goes for Team Cute Quacking Duckling rather than Team Fuck Off James, partly because James got his name wrong and partly because James is a massive Wensleydale-helmeted bag of diseased offal. James, in his wisdom, decides to hide this fact from the rest of the team (apart from Roisin, who’s with him) and make up some crap about deciding to go for the lawnmowers. He is a witless twat.
Now it’s Cow Fucker Day and legions of the ugliest people that have ever graced the small screen wander aimlessly around the stalls, touching farmstock in an indecent manner and eyeing up the combine harvesters as their next sexual conquest.
Felipe and Daniel immediately jump into action and start bickering like an old couple about who should sell the hot tubs, as Daniel thinks, since he is a whingeing cunt, he should have a crack at it. Felipe, looking like a puppy with a paw in a bandage, sticks to his guns and Katie and the Australian Oakhead, Mark, skip merrily off whilst Felipe and Daniel carry on having a slap-fight.
The whole selling part is pretty tedious, with wall eyed pig worriers gazing in rapture at shiny things and objecting to the purchase of lawn mowers because one look at James reminds them that city life spawns its own share of witless pop eyed lunatics. The only memorable parts are when they cut back to Felipe and Daniel, who is still whinging on like an old woman.
The other point of note is the victimisation of James Twat. Every time Roisin tries to talk sense to him he bangs on about how she’s patronising him and how she’s going on at him and how he just wants to get on with selling, which explains a lot about his aggressive psyche. Mind you, throughout the last seven episodes he never seemed to get on with the women, which is probably explained by his microscopically small penis.
Anyway, end of the day and the selling is done and our pond life swim back to their grief holes to salve their wounds and moan like a big pile of bagpipes.
The next day is James Fucker day, as Team James Smells of Wee find out they could have had the hot tubs but James is such a witless cunt he fucked it all up, and they soundly beat him before tying him to a horse and sending him into the desert where he dies. James tries to bluster his way through by making up a load of cunt about making a managerial decision and he would have told them but he was too busy rubbing shit into his hair and wanking, and everyone makes mistakes and etc. etc.
Unsurprisingly Team Fluffy Panda win as Mark the Australian Twat sold seven of them to the owner of a chain of brothels or something and they all run off to learn how to box, where – no joke – Daniel ends up rolling around on the floor in a man hug with Mark. Get a room, guys!
Back in the Café of Death everyone sits at one end of the table and James Cunt sits at the other, trying to make excuses as to why he’s a lying twat. In the board room Roisin tears him a new arsehole, which is pretty easy for man who is half human-half clagnut, and James starts spouting out some load of old cock about how he wants to be just like Alan and how he grew up from nothing and how he’s just a poor fawn in a field staring dimple eyed at the stars just out of reach. It’s a load of manipulative wank and Alan and his testicle faced visage almost falls for it, but then the Sugar Plum Fairy realises it’s his nap time and fires James for being a massive grasping two faced back stabbing wank biscuit.
On a side note, Nick Hewitt is going barmy. He made some comment about Sanjay being ‘Nameless’ and then looked gimlet eyed as though he’d espoused a pearl of wisdom rather than some wibbly old mad bollocks.
I am now in a dilemma. James was the biggest cunt of this year’s Apprentiballs, and now he’s gone. Who will replace him to fill the bellend shaped gap in the teams? Who will be the next most annoying, smug, devious, back stabbing drain on other people’s oxygen?
Easy – it’s Mark.
To win: Sammy Spamhead, the world’s leading exponent of vegetable based thermo-dynamics.