Brown Sugar

For the life of me I cannot work out why I find The Apprentice such compelling viewing. It’s not like I’m a fan of Sir Al. I don’t like the guy at all. He looks like a grumpy, grey gooseberry in an unfashionable suit. And it’s not like I’m fond of the job applicants / contestants either. To a man /woman they are the rummest bunch of self-selling underachievers I have ever encountered in my entire life. And I work for the local council, for God’s sake.

But maybe that is actually the appeal?

Despite my altruistic humanitarian demeanour I can still appreciate the pleasure that can be gleaned from watching two despised enemies thrashing it out to the death in a pit lined with spikes and flaming torches. I guess this explains the sadistic décor of Sir Alan’s much-feared boardroom...

Of course this gladiatorial imagery isn’t strictly accurate. There’s not much of a contest at the end of the day. Sir Al is the chief lion and the Sir Al lackey wannabe’s are the quivering, snivelling, unarmed Christians thrown into the bone and gore strewn sanctum of Sir Alan’s den to be chewed upon by his East End barrow-boy teeth. By the time they’ve had their boardroom roasting they’re practically sweating barbecue sauce anyway.

And they’re not exactly unarmed. They have very nice suits and haircuts and an unshakeable tragic-comic belief in their own (dis/in)abilities. And Heaven help them, they actually ASK for a good smiting. They literally set themselves up to be smashed into smithereens by Sir Al’s sharp as nails business acumen. The gimp who found himself “fired” in last night’s instalment was notable because the word “lose” didn’t apparently exist in his vocabulary.

No. Because I suspect very strongly it was forever on the lips of those around him. To say he couldn’t referee a football match between two peas is an understatement.

But none of them are particularly any better or any brighter. If these are the best business brains that this country has to offer it’s no wonder the UK is going to the dogs. And Sir Al is going to recruit one of these blundering business hippos to come and work for him?

If you’ve got shares in Amstrad I’d sell them now if I were you...

Treble Trouble

This time every year Karen and I risk running into a truly rare thing in our house: a row over the television.

Karen wants to immediately plug herself straight into the Big Brother psycho-idiot Wii device while I come over all sneery eyed and superior and point out how shallow, superficial, trashy and chav-like the whole premise of the show is and demand to watch something more intellectual on the other side – in this case The Apprentice (the other side being another TV channel and not celestial telly from beyond the grave).

Ok so I was straining a bit on the “intellectual” front last night but you get the picture.

And this time every year the problem is resolved in exactly the same way as it always has been:

I give in. We watch Big Brother. And I end far more addicted and wound up about the show than Karen ever could be. To the point where my many opinions about the show start infiltrating my blog...

Oh poo.

Oh who am I kidding? I love it really.

And so on with my first impressions...

My God it’s going to be a cat house this year. At the moment my ears are appalled at the sheer amount of shrieking and screaming that all those teetering, screeching, lip-glossed dolly birds are producing. Especially the twins, Amanda and Sam. “Oh you’re gorgeous!” “NO! You’re gorgeous!” Ooh! Ooh! Eek! Eek! There’s too much treble! My ears can’t take it.

Christ. They sound like the mice from Bagpuss. Put a sock in it please. Or preferably a soggy old cloth cat. Just make it a big one.

My faves at the moment are Tracey “avin it large, yeah come an get sum, I’m well phat” Beaker (or whatever her real surname is) – mainly because she reminds me of a female cross between Prodigy front man, Keith Flint and the Tyres character from Spaced – and glum man-hating Nicky. I think The Nickster will be something of a dark horse.

Most frightening woman in the house is undoubtedly Carole who resembles the Viz character Millie Tant so closely I was also waiting for Mrs Brady Old Lady to appear... I can already foresee a host of BO based explosions rocking the foundations of not only the house itself but also all that caked on twenty-something make-up.

God I’m a bitch.

Channel Four need to get me in the house!

Pig’s Ear

Absolutely classic moment on The Apprentice last night – it had me and Karen howling with laughter.

Having been sent over the Channel by Sir Al to try and sell the best of English food produce to the damned Frenchies, the two teams found themselves battling Gallic snobbery and themselves in their bid to bag the biggest profits...

The best moment for me was when Posh Paul – ex army officer toff in the mould of Captain Darling – tried to sell his cheapo English pork sausages to a bemused French Halal butcher. How Mr French Boucher remained so calm is beyond me. He very patiently pointed out that not only was he a Muslim but he was also fasting for Ramadan...

It took several painful seconds for these facts to sink into Posh Paul’s ham-like brain. You could practically smell the spare ribs cooking over an absurdly low flame.

Ah. Anglo-French relations strained once more...

Posh Paul? Tim Nice But Dim, more like. Dolt.

Reservoir Dorks

Karen and I were further amused by the antics of the business bods on The Apprentice last night and even more amused by the antics of Sir Al.

There is a definite grey motif going on at Amstrad Mansions or wherever it is that the Holy Sugared One bases himself. Sir Al seems to be covered in a fine down of grey hair that I’m sure covers his entire face. Does he employ a topiary expert to shave his head into the inimitable Alan Sugar shape that we all know and... well, not exactly love but instantly recognize?

My own personal theory is that aliens are ruling the Amstrad roost. The greys have landed. Sir Alan is some kind of genetically modified gooseberry and rather appropriately sits between the two greyest people on the entire planet: Margaret Mountford and Nick Hewer. Surely these people are automatons controlled by remote signals emitted from the depths of some Amstrad computer shaped spacecraft in secret orbit around our primitive little world?

There is something dead eyed and emotionally void about them both. Every last drop of personality has been leeched out of them. Maybe Sir Alan regularly sups this heady brew to keep himself so vital and young looking...?

Great. First aliens and now vampiric qualities to boot. You can see why The Apprentice keeps me hooked can’t you?

Anyway, Mr Grey and his two plaster-board sidekicks rule the booted and suited combatants with great aplomb and the programme is a great demonstration of business psychology and competitive human interaction at work. There is something incredibly satisfying about watching all these smug, arrogant, super confident scheisters continually falling flat onto their own faces and displaying their immense business ineptitude... thus proving that despite their 6 figure salaries they really are no better than the rest of us grubbing about in the mud to acquire a paltry 5 figures on our payslips.

I pity Sir Al having to choose one of them to be his next apprentice, I really do.

He’d be much better off employing that bloated little dwarf they found at Roswell...

Sugar Off!

Karen and I guffawed ourselves silly watching The Apprentice last night. What a sorry-arsed bunch of booted-and-suited halfwits, scheisters and ego-blown grifters the latest bunch of Amstrad job applicants are. I wouldn’t employ any of them to clean my toilet let alone give them a 6 figure salary to boost Alan Sugar’s bloated bank account.

The task last night was a real stinker. The teams had to design and market some kind of doggy essential that the UK’s millions of dog owners would go absolutely barking for – so much so they’d happily part with the £29.99 asking price for whatever tat the teams eventually came up with.

The utter dross that the teams thought up made me correctly conclude that these overpaid billionaire-wannabes know more about drain-storming than brain-storming. What utter sewage. A crappy looking doggy wardrobe was one team’s uber-work. Literally a tatty Formica box complete with silver bone shaped door handles into which the nutty dog owner could throw all their expensive doggy paraphernalia. It looked like a mini wardrobe for a white trash Barbie. But at least it was better than the “dog nappy” idea that they originally came up with. The other team – the boys, naturally – came up with a Rambo style utility belt for the hapless dog owner. It featured removable pockets into which the canine fan could shove bones, balls and pooper scoopers galore. It’s a real shame it didn’t have an auto-destruct button.

Christ. And these people are the business world’s elite?

Sir Al would be better off employing me. I came up with three sterling doggy-gadget ideas within ten minutes this morning and here they are for your delectation.

1) The Dog Papoose. Simply a Velcro Coat for both owner and dog so that the fashionable dog owner can carry their fatigued mutt easily and safely attached to their own chest or back. Obviously such a mode of carriage is not recommended for un-gelded Alsatians or Mastiffs.

2) Take ‘Im Out In Style. You know the situation. Your hound is on his last legs and needs to be put down fast but you can’t afford the extortionate veterinary fee – not and buy the new PlayStation 3. What you need is the Take ‘Im Out In Style dog taser gun. Delivers a massive electric shock which will painlessly fry your pooch for a fraction of the price of a lethal injection. It’s a darn sight more entertaining too. Who said dogs can’t dance? The tag line for this product could be: Take ‘im out for the last time... take ‘im out in style!

3) I’ve saved the best till last. The Sugar Shagger. You want your canine pal to sow his wild oats so you’ve left his undercarriage intact. Unfortunately he tries to hump everything and everyone in sight as a consequence. If only there was something he could expend his four-legged energy and seed upon. Well, now there is! The Sugar Shagger. Carefully moulded from synthetic easy-clean material the Sugar Shagger’s behind is modelled on the best canine rump available (this year’s Cruft’s Winner or Posh Spice – not decided which yet). With full working parts and “service hatch” The Sugar Shagger will allow Fido to have his way harmlessly and safely until such time as you can get him a real doggy piece of ass. But here’s the clever part. You know how branding is important? Corporate identity is essential to a good sale? Well the front end of The Sugar Shagger is expertly modelled to resemble Sir Alan Sugar himself. Watch his beard wiggle as Fido buries his bone. Watch his piggy eyes light up as Fido howls his ecstasy. And at the moment of climax Sir Al’s voice will bring Fido back down to earth with a gruff, “You’re totally spent, son, you ain’t no good to me... you’re fired.”

Offers anyone?