Monday night. 9pm. Five giants of the business industry standing on the roof of a multi-storey car park. Hilary Devey smiling to herself because she knows that she didn’t bother with knickers this morning. Nor any morning for that matter. What’s the point? Those things are going to come off sooner or later. This was going to be intense.
First up, a brace of sixth formers with the thickest tie knots you’ve ever seen both had panic attacks then played some music by a guy who looked like Carlos Tevez in a barber shop photograph. They wanted fifty large for 15 per cent of their record label. Peter Jones’ shirt immediately drenched from pink into deep maroon as he endured an acid flashback set to a Hamfatter backing track. “No fucking way, man!” he shrieked. But, you know, they’re not an orange airbrushed Carlos Tevez, they tried to explain, before Deborah Meaden barged in to shout at them because she doesn’t have time for this plinky-plonky bullshit. She’s all about the benjamins. Theo laughed at how far away from the ground his feet were dangling. Hilary scratched her cock. And then Duncan Bannatyne smeared a handful of Brylcreem into his hair to make him look a bit like Elvis Presley, demanded 79 per cent of the business, and with that he became a record label boss. Result.
An awkward conversation with Evan Davis is an abandoned windowless warehouse decorated only with chains and hanging gimp outfits ensued. The only thing cutting the tension being footage of a hilarious Indian woman attempting to sell a football on a rope, which she would have done, no sweat… were it not completely fucking pointless.
The next pairing, Richard and Gil, fared no better, mainly thanks to Gil. As absolutely everyone knows, the first rule of Dragon’s Den is DO NOT TALK ABOUT DRAGON’S DEN, the second rule is to avoid punctuating your ridiculous pitch about selling houses by asking Theo Paphitis if he has shut up yet. Gil’s absolutely appalling grasp of social etiquette was only slightly tempered by Hilary’s unnecessary drunken metaphor about a hungry beast that wants feeding. Delivered with one finger pointing suggestively at her crotch. Gil’s exit was sharp.
An awkward conversation with Evan Davis is an abandoned windowless warehouse decorated only with chains and hanging gimp outfits ensued
Dramatic drums, people going up stairs, a man selling Haggisdogs, which are exactly like hotdogs, only really horrible.
Then time for Alison Moyet to sell tiny garments that hide women’s revolting upper arms. She called them “wings”, and she invented them because she has always had a very close relationship with fashion. She loves clothes. Loves wearing them. Buying them. But she’d noticed that vest tops just don’t cover the hideous upper area of your arms. What’s that about! Evan coughed “what about long-sleeved tops?” from downstairs, and after a five minute interlude so that Hilary could wander from her seat to prod Alison Moyet’s bicep fat whilst repeatedly muttering “how much?” like a really terrifying old prostitute, they were laughed out of the den with nothing.
Montage! Man tries to sell grown up Lego, hippy wants 200 grand for a plastic chair. Evan wanders nervously around a corner, and looks at everything in the room at the same time.
Last to face the music: Aidan Quinn from Desperately Seeking Susan and his BFF, a young girl called Gemma. They wanted £75,000 for a 15 per cent share in their business, which involved taking igloo plans from Eskimos and recreating them, but using bricks instead of massive glacier mints. “It’s shit!” began Peter Jones, helpfully. “The design’s a pile of bollocks!” “I hate it!” “Why are you doing this to me?” He was out. Hilary then told a story about her long evenings spent taming her inner monster in a fishing lodge. And then once Quinn had finished dry puking, he pulled off some crazy hot negotiation that put him into business with Little Theo Paphitis. Bosh!
Great night at the Den.
Next time: some people sell stuff, some get told off by Deborah Meaden, who is all about the greenery if you catch my drift.
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