I didn’t watch this. But I already know all about it. So do you. We are sexually intimate with every scratched facet of that wonderful (perfect?) format. Reviewing a TV show in which the format varies so very little year-on-year, is without point. It becomes a 500-word TV listing. See Big Brother. See The X Factor. All wonderful formats. All could be populated with personality-bots and still be (almost) as entertaining. Overheard in a meeting room of the future…..
“Apprentice-bots!!!! Think of the merchandising opportunities. Nasty Nick and Emperor Palpatine would have nothing on series 76’s Psychotic-Phil the butchery titanium tri-ped who was FIRED by Lord Alan Sugardroid and subsequently rampaged through Westfield Shopping Centre, killing 42, after a botched attempt as this week’s Project Manager-a-tron.”
With the format varying so little between series it is essentially like creating an annual fantasy spreekill-list. Filled with line after line of unemployable upper-middle-class moon-faces and bullish identikit Forbes-via-Primark clones in a suit picked from 7 identical suits from a wardrobe filled-only with suits because: suits. NOBODY DRESSES THIS SMART ANYMORE UNLESS IT’S YOUR WEDDING OR YOUR CREMATION. But it’s about the contestants isn’t it? Those pesky producers. Having more and more fun selecting the not-best candidates for the show. But YET AGAIN the joke’s on us – selecting candidates on personality over skill is for too close to the real business practices than we would all care to admit. I’m mean, how do you think I got THIS GIG….? Although the selection process for The Apprentice is not about finding a person with the right temperament and cultural values for the job. It’s not about finding “a person” at all. They’re after 10 Alan Partridge tribute-acts, selected very carefully to desperately wrestle in green-jelly to win the chance to “project manage” a task to sell £50 poisoned cookies to tramps. A terrifyingly-recreated carbon-fibre-and-polyester copy of Lord Alan Sugar looks up from his charging-station, face-motors whirring into a familiar grimace,
“You only killed 30 of London’s homeless? Call yourself a Project Manager-tron? My Roomba could’ve done better. Psychotic-Phil, for no good reason. You’re fffffffffired!”