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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.
I could go into the whys and wherefores as to why I'm almost three weeks late with this recap, but let's just say it was a combination of festive cheer, booze and a could-be-serious internet gambling addiction.
This week, I shall be shamelessly working in references to Star Wars in order to boost SEO, so you can do one, weather-girl. This is my wheelhouse.
It is easy to forget, now it is embedded in the BBC's Christmas run-up scheduling, that The Apprentice is a US import, based on an original built around Donald Trump. Fast-forward two years and imagine he is now President of the United States, and has banned all immigration by Muslims. Could we really continue dispassionately to watch Lord Sugar sit in a chair warmed by a proponent of ethnic cleansing, unaccountably making people build sandcastles as a 12-week aptitude test and purging those who failed? You'd have to argue the connotations made it inappropriate.
This is it, folks; the long-awaited bust-up between Charleine and Selina happens in this very episode. But before we get to the mother of all showdowns, we have to endure Lord Sugar turning his bunch of wankers into even worse wankers.
According to Lord Sugar, the average children's party costs £2,000. TWO GRAND? The centerpiece of my 6th birthday party was a cucumber on cocktail sticks that was meant to be a crocodile, but looked like a cucumber on cocktail sticks and goddammit, that was enough. Kids these days don't know they're born.
Stack 'em high, flog 'em cheap, leave a better-looking corpse. We're over halfway point, so we'll start to see the ads for the 2016 arena tour of rejected candidates soon.
On this week's Apprentice, we learn how many Apprenti (that's the correct plural) it takes to clean a window, and we get four cracking double entendres. Every week we are further and further from God's light.