Empowered by Betty Barclay suits and Matalan ties, this week’s Apprentice saw the five remaining cuntychopped twats ritually disembowelled, humiliated and exposed for the bullshitting wankers they really are. Faced with Lord Sugars personal army of global trouble shooters, litigation lawyers, communications experts and the indomitable Margaret, Chris and Jamie barely had time to laugh at their own political dress code jokes before the cars of death arrived to transport them to national embarrassment.
‘You look like John Major’, said Jamie.
‘Then you must be New Labour’, deadpanned Chris, in a hilarious reference to Jamie’s red tie.
And how they laughed. Like two men looking into the cold, black eyes of a gay rapist.
One of the great anticipations of this particular episode was the prospect of Stuart ‘cocknose’ Baggs being savaged by people far more savvy than himself. ‘Lord Sugar can see a bit of himself in me’, the increasingly desperate Baggs postulated. ‘There’s something in me. Something raw’. For reference Stuart, that’s called pure, unadulterated stupidity, and not even the holy salve of Dr. Zaius’ cock up your arse is going to sooth the problem. Or get you the job.
It was good to see Margaret back in the swing of things, particularly her line in making Baggs look a little like a chubby Jimmy Krankie caught kerb crawling. ‘Margaret!’, the useless oaf beamed as he greeted a woman he’d never met before. ‘Miss Mountford’, he quickly amended after a curt bollocking on the politics of addressing an interviewee appropriately. ‘Sorry. I just....feel I know you, that’s all’. Yeah, if ‘feel’ translates as ‘I’ve seen you on TV’. If that’s the case, then me and Phil Mitchell are best mates and maybe, just maybe, my line drawing of Pete Sampras isn’t as weird as I thought it was. In a particularly seat-squirming scene with the Head of Communications for Viglen Ltd, Baggs desperately tried to gain some level footing with a classic, ‘what was your name again?’, followed a flustered explanation of ISP’s and licensing loopholes that was like watching Bungle being shot through the head by Raul Moat. My favourite moment however is reserved for Stuart enduring an interview with a painfully aggressive lawyer who refused to even shake his hand. ‘What on earth are you talking about? You’re not a brand’, he spat, in full courtroom bullying dramatics. In a brilliant spark of wit, Baggs looked as though his lemon sherbets had been stood on, shit in and fed directly into his blood supply through his anus. ‘I think I might be’, he muttered, staring at his shoes.
‘Was that meant to make me laugh?’, asked Margaret, her fanny audibly cracking with ice
Jamie went for the old ‘sense of humour’ trick on his application, cannily declaring himself to have a third nipple. And then – wait for it – when asked, ‘what’s the worst lie you’ve ever told?’ – well, you’ve probably guessed the rest. It was the old third nipple again. ‘Was that meant to make me laugh?’, asked Margaret, her fanny audibly cracking with ice and an expression like the embodiment of north wind in a children’s story book. Something in Jamie died a little. It was too much. First the fuck-up in Bulgaria, and then the ongoing issues with his business in Cyprus. And then the joke about his red tie that morning. ‘I’m a key cog’, he smarmed. ‘A cog. A key cog’. ‘A key cog?’, asked a bemused Margaret. ‘What does that mean? It doesn’t mean anything’. And we were all willing her to say, ‘but ‘massive cunt’ does’.
Stella dragged herself through the process with the emotional range of Davros, telling everyone how ‘great’ her interviews had been just to thoroughly fuck everyone off. ‘I’m ambitious, I can generate income’, she insisted. How? By giving unfriendly hand jobs on The Old Kent Road? Nonetheless, she and Joanna engaged in a brilliant scrap over who came from the poorest background and who then deserved the £100,000 a year job more. ‘I come from the biggest council estate in Europe’, snaked Stella. ‘I don’t want to be known as Joanna the cleaner any more’, pouted Joanna. Small point: in that case, don’t open a cleaning company. She kind of blew her chance when, after stumbling embarrassingly through a total ignorance of Lord Sugars business empire, she was asked what she could bring to his workforce. ‘Myself’, she answered, in total seriousness. In Leicester, her mum laid out her marigolds on her Ikea desk in preparation.
In a wonderful moment of absolute billy bullshitting, Chris declared himself to be, ‘revered as one of the most outstanding theology students in the UK’. It transpired that he actually did a theology A-level, and by ‘in the UK’, he actually meant ‘in my school’. He also managed to tell an angry lawyer that ‘law has no relevance in business’, the equivalent of telling a drunk sociopath that they’ve maybe had ‘a little too much’. Like a Staffordshire Bull Terrier let loose in a battery farm, there were feathers and entrails everywhere and Chris was denounced as a ‘quitter’ – based on his dropping-out of law degree to study American Studies - before his face turned the colour of child’s vomit. Incidentally, his red lips are a sign of high blood pressure if you’re interested. I did a degree in Medicine, but got bored after nine months. I changed to Media Studies.
Then it was the Boardroom, and the army of Sugars advisers (one of whom looked a little like a corporate Rik Mayall) gave their opinion on the five cunts of the Apocalypse. They finally realised Baggs was full of absolute cat shit, Chris was ‘droney’, Joanna was clueless, Jamie was a smarmy chancer and Stella was nothing more than an ‘admin queen’. In a moment of female solidarity, Margaret and Karen hitched up their M&S bras by the straps and fought her corner; ‘she’s so much more than that’, they bollocked the men. Who were still thinking of Stella giving hand jobs with smouldering hatred in her eyes. In a fur coat and thigh-high boots from Shoezone.
But like all good things, it was destined to come to an end. Baggs was booted out on the end of Lord Sugars goblin foot back to his field of ponies, Joanna cried and Jamie greased back to his failing dodgy property business in Cypus. And Bulgaria. And as Chris and Stella celebrated being the final two contestants with a hug of mutual dislike, we almost heard the ‘dink!’ of fuses popping inside her expertly wired body.
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