Hilary Devey For Queen And Other Lessons Learned From Dragons' Den

So they're back. Deborah gets all squeamish over a fruit, Paphitis has gone all Brando, Peter Jones continues as Private Pike and as for Bannatyne, don't get me started...
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So they're back. Deborah gets all squeamish over a fruit, Paphitis has gone all Brando, Peter Jones continues as Private Pike and as for Bannatyne, don't get me started...

Signalled by the mesmerising rotation of Evan Davis' eyes, The Dragons roared (geddit?) back on to our screens last night. If you watched it, you’ll notice nothing has changed. Except, of course, for the new Dragon, an ornery, experienced fire-breather who has dined on truckers for the last 15 years. If you didn’t see it, you missed nothing of note, except a highly manufactured scrap over some Solar powered nonsense designed by a man beset by such an eye twitch that you had to wonder if he’d spent too long staring into the coal black mincers of Davis. That, of course, and the fact that Duncan Bannatyne is still without equal when it comes to being a cunt of the highest order. Here’s a few things I learned last night.

The BBC are bereft of both ideas and money.

Ok, not a Damascus moment by any stretch of the imagination. But I can’t help thinking they’ve missed a trick here. Working on the maxim that even if it is smashed into tiny pieces and ground to dust then don’t fix it, the least they could’ve done, what with Hilary being new and all, is mocked up an actual Dragon’s Lair and showed her cracking through an egg with one of her talons, before screeching something about her foot itching, being turned to dust by Evan Davies 22,000,000 km stare only to rise again to tear Duncan Bannatyne’s woggle eye out and feed it to the snapping turtle mouth of Deborah Meaden.

Hilary Devey is ace

And not just ace like a new BMX when you’re six, or even finding a pork pie two minutes before Match Of The Day kicks off, I mean proper, shoulder-pad wearing, finger pointing, red-lipped, diamond encrusted ace. For a start she isn’t a bully. Where the rest of them are so keen to be the Simon Cowell of the piece, crushing people for being a bit timid and calling their pitches hideous, horrid, terrible or whatever, Hilary tries to coax them along. The first entrepreneur was so nervous she could barely speak, yet Hills was nice to her, told her she was doing alright and essentially helped her get a deal with Theo and PJ. My only problem is that she seems to like Duncan, and they appear to be forming a Woadish coupling to take on the sub Hadrian’s Wall triple headed monster of TP, PJ and snapping turtle. I’ll let her off, for now, because when Duncan gazumps her three episodes down the line she might, if we’re lucky, destroy him with some eye lasers.

It’s a banana Debs, a fruit, I could understand you being a bit miffed if he dropped his kecks and started to strain but jesus wept, grow up.

Theo Paphitis thinks he’s Don Corleone

The Broadsheets yesterday were filled with timely placed interviews with the Dragons. Hilary’s interview in the Sunday Times, where she revealed her son’s drug addiction and the hardships she had been through to make millions out of haulage, made me warm to her even more. Yet in the Telegraph, we were treated to Theo Paphitis ‘perfect Sunday’. Apparently he would spend it on his yacht, harboured at Monaco, while the Grand Prix was on. His yacht is known as the ‘party boat’ and he even stocks up on Coronas. What. The. Fuck. Can you imagine a party with Paphitis. Just as you’d snuck off outside for a bifter with the waiters, he’d come bounding out with a bottle of over-priced, hideous, brandy screaming ‘brandy time’ and playing grab ass. I’d reply by giving him a rising blowback and chucking him overboard. None of which has anything to do with him being Marlon Brando, mind. What has he done to his fucking cheeks? He’s always been a bit hamster-like but he seems to have gone for the full Corleone, wadded cotton wool and all. Tit.

Deborah Meaden is a prude

Everyone shits. Everyone. And Deborah looks like she could shit with the best of them. So her feigned disgust when that weirdo chucked bananas into the khazi to simulate his anti-splash back device was a bit much. “DID YOU SAY SPLASHBACK?” she howled, as PJ put his hands over her eyes. It’s a banana Debs, a fruit, I could understand you being a bit miffed if he dropped his kecks and started to strain but jesus wept, grow up. Hilary didn’t bat an eyelid.

It’s all gone a bit Inglorious Basterds

Ok, maybe not Inglorious Basterds but the panel did have the air of one of the most curious black ops platoons ever assembled. You’ve got Peter Jones as Private Pike. Paphitis takes the role of some Gung Ho sargeant, ready to carve the Milwall crest onto enemies foreheads. Bannatyne is the harsh major who, behind closed doors, entertains the young troops with naked charades and gin slings. Meaden would probably sit around, chewing cigars and doing shots of napalm with her one piece desert suit unbuttoned to the waist and Hilary, my lovely Hilary, would clearly direct operations from a huge bunker wearing a white admirals suit and having her foot itched by that Chilean man-child who tried to get investment for shooting himself out of a cannon.

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