Monthly Archives: October 2014

I Didn’t Watch it – The Apprentice Series 10

butcher_robot 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….? bin-man-431202 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!”

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