There’s a horrible inevitability to the Apprentice. It just happens without you really wanting it to, like Christmas, or a smear test. Every year, every single braying arse wipe you’ve ever overheard on the train yelling ‘Look Geoff, it’s a no brainer’ applies for the show. Every Autumn, Sir Alan finishes shaving his forehead, puts down his copy of Razzle, adjusts his tie and welcomes them all into his boardroom. In a Nuremberg rally of black Burton suits and grey jackets from Mango, they shuffle in, plopping pellets of misplaced self-confidence all over his shiny floor. They are 110% committed. To being cunts.
This year Alan’s acolytes are sweeping the board when it comes to supreme cuntiness. There is one called Raleigh, who is a posh cunt. A ruddy-cheeked Billy Bunter bozo named Stuart Baggs, who is the cunt you’ll love to hate. And Alex Epstein, a sad, deluded cunt who will touch the nation with his complete and utter fucking uselessness. Then there are the women business bots, programmed by Robert Palmer, who look cool and in control until they open their mouths, when they sound Janine Butcher and Bianca Mitchell fighting over a fag end. Apart from the girl who looks like the blonde one from the Human League, they were so boring that my brain couldn’t take them in.
Happily, they were all immediately given the demeaning Generation Game-esque task of making sausages. As sausages are also full of shit, this seemed quite an appropriate choice. The boys had Dan at the helm, who had the flapping, shell shocked face of a Tasered pig. Dan shouted about sausages for half an hour and everyone in the world immediately hated him. ‘Who’s doing the mincing?’ he yelled. ‘Who’s doing the MINCING?’ Meanwhile, former Birmingham City chief Karren Brady stood about grimacing and writing ‘cunt’ in bubble writing in her notebook. On the other side of the gender sausage wall, the girls were making a right ‘pig’s ear’ (copyright Shit Sugar Puns Inc.) of it with their overtly tumescent gourmet bangers, which seemed to be more about wishful thinking than profit. Silly ladies. You wouldn’t even break through the glass ceiling if you stapled one of them to your minge. Worth a try, though, eh?
Anyway, the upshot of it was this. Here we are, in 2010 - in an age of great technological advancement - watching some cunts making sausages. And as progress dictates, every year the Apprentices will get even worse, until one day they will be a master race of mega cunts, making bigger and bigger sausages at Alan’s behest, powered entirely by motivational slogans and motorway service station coffee - all relentlessly Going Forward. Help. God help us all.
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No, actually I am the biggest twat