Right everyone – the Olympics are over now and it’s high time us Brits took all that ‘feel good factor’ crap and made a big bonfire out of it. We need to return to our default setting of sneery and sarcastic and thankfully, Dragons’ Den has returned to aid us with our recovery.
Yes, the dragons are back and they’ve had the builders in – the wannabe zillionaires now have to pitch to them after coming DOWN the iconic staircase rather than up it, even though the den itself looks exactly the same. You can do that sort of thing if you’re richer than Spain though. Sick bastards.
As with the last series, the undoubted hero is Sexual Tina, now equipped with a brand new outfit incorporating a 6% increase in shoulder paddage – that’s inflation for you right there.
They’d be wise to think about my one word of advice before they break open the champagne. That word is…. Hamfatter.
Tina is now billed as a ‘logistics queen’ – I’ve got no idea what that is but I’m imaging it involves her standing in a chariot while cracking a whip off the lacerated back of one of her poor minions as he toils over a massive abacus. Oh yes, I’m imagining that HARD.
There was plenty of fresh meat for the dragons to feast on in last night’s series opener (I don’t know if dragons eat meat, but they sure as hell don’t live in dens so I’m not going to worry about it).
Bea London was first up – she’s reinvented wigs or something, making it easier to provide bald women and would-be Michael Bolton lookalikes with hair extensions cheaper and quicker than ever. Her pitch was impressive but the warning klaxons started blaring when she broke down in tears while attempting to tell her ‘story’ – apparently she started off with… (sob, quiver)… a humble market stall. Easy there princess, it’s hardly the same as working on the fag counter in Asda’s Tripoli branch is it?
The best came from a chip shop owner who pumped some petals into the air out of a machine he’d built that looked like a cross between a hand basin and an erect penis.
Just when it was going well, Bea demonstrated a complete lack of understanding about the financials of her business. Asking the dragons ‘what’s a balance sheet?’ is about as wise as staring at Bannatyne and telling him that he’s looking more and more like Ian Brady these days. Inexplicably, Bea got her investment, with Sexual Tina pumping cash into the wig scheme while presumably dreaming about a life of free hairpieces in return.
Irishman Adam Yewitt was next, and played hardball with the dragons, offering up a measly five per cent portion of his luggage courier service, which he’d valued at two million quid. It’s designed to get travellers’ luggage to their destination at a lower cost than the budget airlines would charge you. Presumably you wear three layers of clothing on your flight and peel one off each day while you wait for your suitcases to come by boat.
Once it had been pointed out to him that, as he was just using the likes of Parcelforce and DHL to ship luggage around the world, anyone could do what he was doing, Adam’s stance softened a little, and he revealed that he could afford to let them have as much as seven per cent of his awful idea. He was duly sent off up the new staircase with a flea in his ear. I don’t know where his suitcase is.
Asking the dragons ‘what’s a balance sheet?’ is about as wise as staring at Bannatyne and telling him that he’s looking more and more like Ian Brady these days.
ABSPAK. What? ABSPAK. Huh? ABSPAK. What a name. What a product. What a ‘single-minded’ man its inventor Clay O’Shea is. Designed to let you do sit ups without snapping your spine in half, Clay is so convinced that ABSPAK is his destiny that he hasn’t bothered getting a patent for it. I was up half the night making some replicas and have already shifted 30 of them on eBay. Cheers Clay. Bye.
Of course, we also got some tantalising glimpses of the ideas that weren’t even taken vaguely seriously by the dragons – the best coming from a chip shop owner who pumped some petals into the air out of a machine he’d built that looked like a cross between a hand basin and an erect penis. I’d buy one. Fuck it, I’d buy two.
Shoe canoes. Stick-on arses for cars. The wi-fi hose pipe.
Finally, and walking off with a massive sack of Peter Jones’ cash, were Skinnydip, three gormless-looking toffs who have come up with a range of off-the-wall headphones and similar accessories which they’re already flogging in Top Shop, River Island and similar places where the feckless youth thoughtlessly spunk their dough.
Their range is the kind of thing that is commonly described as ‘funky’, although the odds of George Clinton being seen sporting any of it are pleasingly low. I need to get my thinking cap on and come up with some similar tat that I can pedal in similar shops where morons go. Shoe canoes. Stick-on arses for cars. The wi-fi hose pipe.
Sure, Skinnydip got their investment, but it was a Peter Jones investment. They’d be wise to think about my one word of advice before they break open the champagne. That word is…. Hamfatter.
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