Archive for the ‘The Apprentice 2014’ Category

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….

Advertisements

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.

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.

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To win: Hitler.