For those of you out who now miss your fix of this year's Apprentice - why? You're no better than a smack-addict. From being a decent show about the competitiveness of absolute pots of toss, to a programme dedcated to chasing ratings of the lowest common demoninator. I blame laziess. And socialism.
The Apprentice is Big Brother. For snobs. It's where class-warfare goes to die. It has the same set up as that other dreaded reality show. Same ridiculous types of contestants doing the same ridiculous tasks. Sir Alan Sugar is Big Brother. He is the decision maker. And he has a pointless beard. The evil similarities are vast. Here's the only two discernible difference between these hateful programmes. 1- These guys actually want a real job, and 2- They wear suits.
Did you not think it was all hopelessly predictable and hopelessly pointless. Like building up to a wedding, only to discover you’re marrying a dog. Without the intelligence. I suppose it gladdens the heart. If Lee has the job, just about anyone in the world is technically employable. And clearly even education isn’t quite as important as we all thought it was. So it goes to show the ZaNuLabour were right on when they dumbed down exams so the kids got better grades and the Government got the credit. I wasted too many years of my sweet life learning ‘stuff’.
Shit, should’ve just applied to Sir Alan. Or Suralan, as the apprentice bastards say. Even speaking properly, it seems, is just too much effort. Might as well just let all the words flow and mix together – it’s like listening to Robbie Williams singing. All the lyrics become one ultra long word (Or one long ultra-word!). Of course he probably made the right decision, after a series full of wrong ones. Leave himself with the dregs of society, choose the best of the worst. Kind of like choosing the smartest guy from Alabama – doesn’t really count, doesn’t stand for anything. Like boasting about being a slave who was treated well. Still a slave, no matter what angle, no matter what spin.
Alex was a slippery shit, and how he managed to pull the wool over the eyes of apparent professionals in the interviews is both admirable and arrogant. Someone got a rope, there ought to be a lynchin’. Helene...who? I didn’t even realise she was in the competition until last week. When she appeared in the interview and I thought ‘Now who is she?’ as if she were a stranger, plucked from the streets as a stand-in for someone equally as rubbish. And Claire made love to her own voice every time she spoke. I’ve had it up to here (See me for demonstration) with bolshy women on TV confusing authority and talent with generally being a bit loud.
But at the end of the day, I just wish you had a class of person on there who doesn’t, even when fired, sit on national television telling me that they’re fucking winners. Just for that, you sick and twisted degenerates, you are the losers. 12 sad individuals and one good boss. Lee, you’re only under contract for a year....
Thursday, 12 June 2008
Saturday, 31 May 2008
Silent Streets and Savage Singletons
The streets of suburbia were quiet tonight, I muse just as silently as smoke blew into my eye. I took the cigarette out and watched the quiet roads of what could've been a town just about anywhere. Any quiet town. Give it time, the noise will come. Closing time at the pubs soon. It would be a dangerous hour on the streets this night. That's when the savages are let loose like caged animals preparing to jump the school-children if they...just...get...to...close.
And then they'll attack. In their hazy, alcohol-addled mind they're wrestling kings. Hulk Hogan in his prime, before age authlessly cut him down. They are The Rock before he sold his ass to the bastard parasites who inhabit air-conditioned offices on the back lots of Hollywood. And maybe the weaker pack animals will consider them Stone Cold Steve Austin before he faded into obscurity. Hell, even I barely remember him except on lunchboxes. And I don't even like wrestling, but these poor saps, who are of course all men, they enjoy seeing other men in close contact. Maybe, I wonder, there was something to be read in that.
I hear the sound. The pubs must be turfing out the shameless reprobates onto an unsuspecting streets.I check my watch. Can't see it in this darkness. And the damn cigarette isn't bright enough. Hell, might as well smoke it instead. No good as a torch, I feel. Does anything else seem to have two purposes but only one? Fire extinguishers, maybe. Sure, great snow, you'd think. But you'd be wrong. Although they'd make a damn good weapon in a zombie movie. Those decaying fuckers... But what if the streets now were filled with the walking dead? Was that the sound I can still hear. Closer now. Voices. The clatter of shoes. When there's no room in Hell, the dead will walk on Earth. Shit, someone ought to tell them this is Hell. Sick, depraved, utterly twisted. I could see them now, in the distance.
Girls who drank too much, stumbling to find their way home. So close now I could see the make-up smeared on once smooth skin. In twenty years maybe they'd regret it. After they've got four kids, three different dad's and a face scarred from the brillo pad one frustrated boyfriend will take to it. Shit, only a matter of time. She'd tell some poor bastard who only went out for a drink that she was up the junction and... Hell, would she do an 'Up the Junction', Ken Loach-style? No, more money if she keeps it. Another dirty child in a harsh and crowded world, earning his mother £30 a week, on top of the cash made from pimping her sweet ass out in the local bars. Only a matter of time...
Everything's quiet again. And the cigarette has come to a depressing end. Might as well smoke a J instead. They last longer. Is suburbia ready for that? The sweet smell of marijuana floating on the breeze. Some old hippies may recognise the scent. Would they follow its trail to me? 'Hey, man, I got a light, man...'
Enough of this. Finish the whiskey and fall asleep, a wasted night. Hell, it's damn well better than being out on the streets of that creepy, disgusting suburbia.
And then they'll attack. In their hazy, alcohol-addled mind they're wrestling kings. Hulk Hogan in his prime, before age authlessly cut him down. They are The Rock before he sold his ass to the bastard parasites who inhabit air-conditioned offices on the back lots of Hollywood. And maybe the weaker pack animals will consider them Stone Cold Steve Austin before he faded into obscurity. Hell, even I barely remember him except on lunchboxes. And I don't even like wrestling, but these poor saps, who are of course all men, they enjoy seeing other men in close contact. Maybe, I wonder, there was something to be read in that.
I hear the sound. The pubs must be turfing out the shameless reprobates onto an unsuspecting streets.I check my watch. Can't see it in this darkness. And the damn cigarette isn't bright enough. Hell, might as well smoke it instead. No good as a torch, I feel. Does anything else seem to have two purposes but only one? Fire extinguishers, maybe. Sure, great snow, you'd think. But you'd be wrong. Although they'd make a damn good weapon in a zombie movie. Those decaying fuckers... But what if the streets now were filled with the walking dead? Was that the sound I can still hear. Closer now. Voices. The clatter of shoes. When there's no room in Hell, the dead will walk on Earth. Shit, someone ought to tell them this is Hell. Sick, depraved, utterly twisted. I could see them now, in the distance.
Girls who drank too much, stumbling to find their way home. So close now I could see the make-up smeared on once smooth skin. In twenty years maybe they'd regret it. After they've got four kids, three different dad's and a face scarred from the brillo pad one frustrated boyfriend will take to it. Shit, only a matter of time. She'd tell some poor bastard who only went out for a drink that she was up the junction and... Hell, would she do an 'Up the Junction', Ken Loach-style? No, more money if she keeps it. Another dirty child in a harsh and crowded world, earning his mother £30 a week, on top of the cash made from pimping her sweet ass out in the local bars. Only a matter of time...
Everything's quiet again. And the cigarette has come to a depressing end. Might as well smoke a J instead. They last longer. Is suburbia ready for that? The sweet smell of marijuana floating on the breeze. Some old hippies may recognise the scent. Would they follow its trail to me? 'Hey, man, I got a light, man...'
Enough of this. Finish the whiskey and fall asleep, a wasted night. Hell, it's damn well better than being out on the streets of that creepy, disgusting suburbia.
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