The Apprentice is back! The opening shots of the 2010 series – kept on hold, just in case seeing Alan Sugar on the telly convinces you to vote Labour – show the candidates power-walking the streets, avoiding eye contact with poor people, and talking heads. Ah yes, the talking heads.

“My first word wasn’t mummy, it was money”, giggles one prick, finely coached in the ways of making an entire nation hate you. Less tolerable than a bar mitzvah at casa del Hitler. They’re a finely auditioned troupe of dollar chasers.
The series kicks off at midnight, like a cunty version of 24. Alan says they all look very good on paper – but so do fish and chips!!!! Shut up, Alan, you’re no Lembit Opik.

Now, it’s down to BISNISS. BLADDY BISNISS.

They’re off to a meat market – boys vs. girls – to buy meat, make sausages and flog them. This is why they’re starting at midnight, to work through the night on production, then sell tomorrow. Leaving them all knackered, narky and therefore vastly more entertaining. Nicely done.

The ladies will be followed by Nick Hewer, a role he’s been practising all summer, while the boys are trailed by Karren Brady. Imagine a libellous joke about the West Ham first team goes here.

Raleigh (honestly, Mr. and Mrs. Addington sat down and decided that Raleigh was going to be their fucking legacy) describes himself as an “unemployed graduate”, which is fair enough, but Alex reckons he’s an “unemployed head of communications”. He’s not a head of communications at all then, is he? He just was one at some point in the past. Can I describe myself as a teenager? No. It doesn’t work like that. Alex. He looks like a cuddly, camp version of BBC Breakfast’s Chris Hollins.

The boys get together for the team naming session that they’ve all been stewing over since they found out they’d be on the show. They go for “Synergy”, which is perfect: A nebulous, wanky business-word.

Albino Gok Wan look-a-like Melissa offers “Winning Women” as a team name, forgetting that it sounds like a rubbish car insurance company. The laughter is then spoiled as “Apollo” is suggested, as it’s actually quite good. They’re inspired by the first mission to the moon. Lisa I’Anson’s twin Joanna steps up to lead the team.

Alex suddenly develops Sausage Tourettes, and can’t help but bellow out sub-Daily Mail racisms about how the British Beef will be in the British Sausages and British BRITISH BRIITITTITTTTISSH and NOT FOREIGN. He even goes as far as naming one of their sausages the “Boozy Banger”. Also known as the “Alcoholic Wifebeater”. Awkward-faced Dan Harris offers to lead the boys, causing everyone else to breathe a sigh of relief. They can be as belligerent as they want, and he’ll have to deal with them.

In the meat factory, the girls – particularly Fabricio Coloccini lookalike Joy – are as excitable as a hen night at a Chippendales gig, merrily screaming that they want meat.

Because the boys are Alpha Bloody Males, they negotiate on absolutely bloody everything. “£55?” “£53.”. It’s two quid, you shit. They’re out of their depth against pros that sell meat every single day, getting stung into taking a higher price after initially walking away from a deal.

The girls’ strategy: Premium sausages. 70% meat. Sell the best.
The boys: 42% meat, barely legal sausages. Fill ‘em with water, rusk and whatever’s knocking about in the factory.

They hilariously flap about with the machines like Generation Game contestants, ill-advisedly over-filling the sausages and watching meat fly everywhere.

We should point out here that the sausage factory is an innuendo goldmine. The sausage tubing looks like a condom. They shout about meat. About sausages. About how hard it is. We’ll ignore all of that, because we’re above it.

Apart from when Project Manager Dan shouts: “Who is doing the mincing?” – and manages to keep a straight face.

Both teams go out to sell with their sausages wrapped and ready. They each split into two sub-teams, one in the market, and one wandering the streets trying to find punters.

Stuart Baggs The Brand (as he calls himself on his fucking CV) shouts into the faces of passers-by until they at least acknowledge him and say no. And they continue to say no. “Do you think your wife would like to try a different sausage?” Brilliant. Just what you want to hear when you’re trying to go out for a sandwich at lunchtime. The little shite.

The other half of the boys’ team go for a wander. They try selling to pubs, which doesn’t work. They try selling door-to-door, which doesn’t work. Plan C: An office building or a youth hostel. Whichever they find first. I don’t think they’ve planned this through.
Luckily, they find a youth hostel inside an office building, and sell all their sausages, and then turn into flying cash machines that deliver 100% results every time, right into Alan Sugar’s cock.

The girls fare slightly better, despite not knowing the first rule of Advertising School: “Don’t sell the sausage – sell the sizzle” (actually, it’s the second rule, after “fuck everyone over”). They don’t bother with samples of the sausages or anything, until they realise hours later that there’s probably a reason the production team gave them a griddle.

Gok Wan has a whinge at Lisa I’Anson, RIGHT IN FRONT of a restaurant customer that’s about to buy loads of packs. She wants to close the deal, but it’s not about closing the deal, she just wants to close the deal. They haven’t got long to go, so it’s best to spend what little time they do have arguing over the time. She even spells out “Pro – fesh – on – al –ism” like she’s talking to a child. We don’t like Gok.

The boys’ strategy of selling absolutely shit sausages – legally, the shittest, least meaty ones they can – must work against them in the long run. Their production prices are going to be higher than the usual sausage makers, so they’re onto a loser going into a pub and trying to charge 90p a sausage (god, I wish there were more synonyms for ‘sausage’ that aren’t also synonyms for cock.) It’s unclear whether they do sell everything or not, but by the end, they’re doing the traditional “just give us any coins whatsoever for these sausages” thing.

Apollo sell out effortlessly.

Apollo make a profit of £321, beating Synergy – to save a keyboard press each time, we’re going to call them Pricks – by just £15.
Nick Hewer compliments fittie Liz on being “hot with the figures”, which was sagely agreed with here. The girls get to go for a Champagne BBQ (presumably two things, not one), and to check out their new house. After 17 hours work with barely a break, that’s probably the last thing they want.

The boys come back to the boardroom, and get to do the usual shit-flinging at the Project Manager. Badly managed, chaotic etc etc. Raleigh amazingly comes out with “It wasn’t fair. It was… shameful.”

Stuart Baggs The Brand lets us know that even though he’s had to take a suitcase, he’s not packed his clothes away. At this point, we were praying that he got sent home and had to shamefully bowl back into the house to pick up his pants and suits. Dan brings him back into the Bottom 3. He looks like a vaguely menacing Beano villain, and is actively rude, without realising why the others are sometimes short or bolshy. He’s an equal opportunities knob.

Alex, despite being a bit wet and excitable, didn’t really do anything to warrant being sent back into the Bottom 3, but he still is. Apparently he wasn’t very good at making sausages. Like anyone bloody is, with zero notice or training.

Stuart Baggs The Brand makes Alan a money-back guarantee on his employment: If he doesn’t make Alan a million in his first year, he’ll give his salary back. He’s obviously been thinking about this since his acceptance letter showed up, and really wasn’t expecting Alan to laugh at him.

Dan doesn’t actually deny being a rubbish Project Manager, but constantly repeats the fact that he was the only person to step up. And then cries. Because he’s fired. He didn’t lead, didn’t sell, just stood around looking weird.
Hewer and Brady lean closer, as Alan imparts his wisdom upon them.

Next week… More arseholes! More arguing! More bladdy business!

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