These are testing times: as we approach the series finale of 2016 AKA That Was The Worst Year That Was, this time next week we could be watching our hapless Apprenti flapping around while a man whose name is a northern euphemism for passing wind could be leader of the free world. Speaking of hot air …
I think there must be some mistake. This week's task appeared to be one that actually tested the candidates' sales acumen, a skill that might prove useful to Lord Sugar in a potential business partner, without requiring them to manufacture the items themselves, dress up as the Pet Shop Boys or learn Morris dancing. If he's not careful he'll end up with a viable commercial proposition on his hands.
How much fudge could a fudge packer pack, if the person packing fudge was after a £250,000 investment for his sausage factory? Monsieur, with these ridiculous tasks you are really spoiling us.
"If you're building a business," notes project manager Jessica, "you need team players." A fair point, but one which neglects two things: on The Apprentice they aren't building a business; they're dancing like monkeys while a rich man watches, and the "team players" are participating in a process in which their colleagues' failure is their gain. Wait, I think I've cracked it.
Creeping out of the darkness like The Great British Bake Off's evil twisted twin, The Apprentice returns for its twelfth series. Somewhere in an alternate universe, Lord Sugar is now Prime Minister and Claude is Chief Hangman at the newly reinstated London Dungeon. I want to go to there.
On TV this week: one journalist wrestles with his conscience and tries to understand where he went wrong, while another discusses with undisguised glee how he exploited a young woman's murder for personal gain.
A man yesterday informed his 97 Twitter followers that he was uninterested in the day's trending story about the Great British Bake-Off because he had never seen it.
Posted by Ali Gray
at 23:30 on 17 Aug 2016
It's quite rare for me to embark on a televisual adventure without at least several months of prep: five-star reviews, extensive marketing campaigns, assurances that the hours of my life I'll inevitably lose to this programme will totally be worth it. But sometimes I like to be surprised. So, with no other recommendation than the accolade "the best show with the worst title" (copyright some rando on Twitter), I started watching Crazy Ex-Girlfriend on Netflix last week. 18 glorious episodes later, I am here to give you your five-star review, your marketing campaign and your assurance that the hours of your life you'll lose to this programme will totally be worth it. Fittingly for a show about obsessive behaviour in relationships, I am late-night-phone-calls, million-text-Monday, snot-streaming-down-face-outside-bedroom-window OBSESSED with this show.
Jeremy Corbyn's claim not to know who Ant and Dec are has been exposed as bollocks.
There's a dog in this one. The dog is called Maxine. Who is this dog? Where is she going? Has she ever learned to love?