Having recently joined the ranks of the "funemployed" (have laptop, will travel: hmu), I've been manically combing the internet for interview tips to help me land that dream position as CEO of the UK's premiere puppy-petting zoo. As such, I think I could give these candidates a few tips on interview techniques, although it's redundant anyway because apparently, anyone can win these days.
Good job it's my turn, because what I don't know about fashion isn't worth knowing. I bought three pairs of trousers the other week. On the same day. I know
The internet called and said I was PROBABLY going to be named "Apprentice-recapper (person) of the year", but I would have to agree to an interview and a major photoshoot. I said probably is good enough for me, when are you free? I can do any time next week. But they never called back. Didn't want it anyway.
, dogs are interesting. There are lots of dogs. Some I can name. Some I can't. But I love all of 'em. This week's show has plenty of doggos, coupled with hilarious dog lookalikes of some of the candidates sourced by my own hand. No bones about it, this was one of my fave episodes, not least because Charles called himself a turd-catcher. His words, not mine.
Because cars aren't in the least bit interesting, and anyone who thinks they are interesting is an imbecile, it is especially hard for me to get around the fact that I was quite engaged by this episode of The Apprentice. A lot of it was about cars, you see.
Off we head to Bruges, city of culture, chocolate and small-scale fraud. You get the feeling this is one member state for which March 2019 can't come fast enough.
The cathedral bells remain silent, because He is unsatisfied. Year after year the people place presents at His feet: nigella seeds, skeletons
and African black soap
and yet the bells pay no heed. In this, His 70th year, the Lord Sugar demands nine sacrifices and only then shall the bells ring out and one lucky parishioner shall have bestowed upon them a £250k business opportunity.
Apparently when Queen played Wembley Stadium in 1986, which we can all agree was among the greatest concerts of all time, it only cost you fifteen quid to get in. Thirty-one years on, a few hours in a corporate box there costs you two and a half grand, and you've got to listen to Harrison sing.
The Three Laws of Robotics, as devised by Isaac Asimov, are guiding principles whose purpose is to avoid robots rising up and destroying us all. The Laws state that no robot shall be able to neither harm nor allow harm to a human being, nor be programmed to conflict the first law, even if it risks its own existence. This week, the Apprentice contestants push Asimov's laws to the limit, thereby triggering the robopocalypse.
There are too many of them. The Apprentice always trudges through its early weeks like an underfunded, overcrowded crèche, full of puffed-up, bellicose rugrats wanting the biggest rusk. The reality of editing it down to an hour means there are always those who can keep their heads down for a few weeks and ride it out till their first reckoning around Bonfire Night. As such, I have no idea what half their names are and I'm fucked if I'm going to bother learning them.