If a man pulled a stunt like this

Watching The Apprentice last night, this weeks task was about negotiating skills. One of the items the apprentices had to get a good deal on was a diamond of certain size and quality.

Dan who is Jewish went to a Jewish diamond dealer, played the Jewish card for all he was worth and bargained the price of a £250 diamond down to £175.

Roisin also had to get a diamond. Roisin also went to a Jewish diamond merchant. Roisin is not Jewish, she’s Irish so no racial aces to play. Roisin got her diamond for £50.

Roisin is pretty,
Roisin is tall and slim
Roisin is a blue eyed blonde
Roisin has big boobs.

Never overestimate the power of tribalism when it’s up against the power of lust. BTW Roisin (below) let her hair down and wore a tight sweater for the task.

Constipated? The Turdle Will Be A Moving Experience

You have to love the creativity of get rich quick merchants inventors looking for ways to benefit humankind … especially if you are the type of person who has to strain for ten minutes before things start moving.

An American team of innovators have come up with a clever, easy to use device that will have you dunging copiously in a matter of seconds. Shaped like a half-cylinder and made with a texture that resembles a yoga mat, the “Turdle” requires you to gently lean forward with the device in your lap, creating subtle pressure in just the right place to help you get do what a person’s gotta do (but a surprisinly large number of us can’t.

Not sure about the name “Turdle” it sounds like something a dodgy contestant in The Apprentice would come up with in a task that requires Lord Sugar’s buggers to crack the health market , but the issue of chronic constipation is quite serious.

Millions of people suffer from it, and they often either end up addicted to chemical laxatives and wearing a colostomy bag a or spending inordinate amounts of time on the toilet, straining and possibly ending up trying to seaparate their tonsils from their Farmer Giles.

The Turdle solves the problem in a totally different way: A gentle pressure massage stimulates your large intestine and supports your natural peristaltic action for achieving elimination!

See a doctor demonstrating the turdle

Myself Will Not Be Blogging About The Apprentice This Year.

It isn’t because the current series of The Apprentice has failed to produce any prize dickheads of the calibre of ‘Exactly what it says on the box’ Jim, the imbecilic One-Trick-Pony Baggs the Brand or the nice Jewish boy who didn’t know the diffrence between halal and kosher that I have not been inspired to blog about it.

This year’s crop of wannabes may be lacking distinct personalities that could help find humour in their incompetence but that is not the reason they have been getting on myself’s tits. See if yourself can guess what it is that irritates myself about themselves.

It is the same reason that reduced myself to such spluttering incoherent rage that having scribbled a rough draft of this post on Thursday morning myself could not find the will to post it until today.

Why have these morons who sit opposite Alan Sugar each week decided that it is perfectly acceptable grammatically to replace fisrt, second and third person pronouns, me, you, they or them, with the ugly and incorrect reflexive form myself / ourselves, yourself, himself/theirselves. What exactly is it supposed to be? A pronominal adjectice, a quasi-noun meaning my actual, real, true self actually? Do theirselves not realise it makes themselves sound like morons?

This abuse of the English language isn’t a new thing of course. In the past the form was used by smarmy salesmen, graduates of the Uriah Heap school of marketing, to make pottenial customers feel important, as a more intensive form of a pronoun maybe. “He may be a vlued costomer but yourself is much more important to us.” Geddit? No? Well neither do I but it’s feasible.

“If yourselves would favour us with an order we will endeavour to ensure your needs are met promptly and efficientl.” or “Securing your business would mean a great deal to ourselves,”

Even then it was only used sparingly as a totally redundant extra layer of schmooze.

When used sparingly it is irritating, when semi educated little oiks sit waving their degrees in “business management with Klingon studies” from the University of Usedtobeapoly and fondly imagining that torturing English grammar makes them sound intelligent, I want to reach into the television and strangle themselves.

yApprentice: The Roman Circus rides again

Nice to see the Roman Circus Apprentice back on our screens last night with the usual cast of cliche merchants, one trick ponies and headless chickens.

Pity the Bulgarian lass had to go, she was quite attractive but motormouthed her way out when another contestant was already halfway through the door. Still, she will always make a nice living from her people trafficking business.

It is more plainly visible than in previous years that the contestants are more iterested in fifteem miutes of fame and a future as a presenter of the shopping channel than in any job or business opportunity that might be on offer. For what other reason would these allegedly well educated and successful young people people refer to themselves as ‘the blonde assassin’, ‘a shark’, ‘a reflection of perfection’ sexually suggestive descriptors. One knob (the potential cliche merchant of the year) even said he believes success is ‘caught not taught’. What, like the clap?

Lord Sugar himself has fallen victim to grandiose delusions. I want to be Lennon to your McCartney he said. Well it’s better than Dec to your Ant, Scooby Doo to your Shaggy or Dappy to your Tulisa.

With the contestants divided by gender the teams had to sell crap to tourists. It was an ideal task for a shark or a bunch of hyenas and the blokes duly won despite thge usually infallible Nick Hewer having described the girls as a pack of braying hyenas.

Ayem there’s the rub you see. Feminists may moan about the business world being male dominated but the apprentice shows why it is so. Put in a competitive situalion, cast as the equivalent of stone age hunters, the men cooperate as stone age hunters had to against their bigger, stronger, faster, more deadly prey. Cooperation is the key to survival.

In such a situation however, instead of focusing on beating the opposing team, the women turn on each other, attacking like a flock of harpies when they spy weakness or vulnerability.

And like the audience at a Roman Circus we look on, fascinated.

Apprentice Idiots
Apprentice – What’s All The Fuss About
The Apprentice – Kissing The Blarney Stone Goodbye
The Apprentice: Return Of The One Trick Pony
The Apprentice Chicken
Apprentice speak
Apprentices – comic verse

Apprentice Idiots

On a day when I did not feel like doing much The Daily Telegraph very preciently provided me with a compilation of the ten most idiotic candidates on Alan Sugar’s television show The Apprentice.

For people who think Roman circuses are great entertainment as most of us who watch the show do, this walk down memory lane is a must.

Meet again the man who is not a one trick pony but a field full of ponies, the posh girl who fancied being a business tycoonj though she had never actually had a job, the good jewish boy who did not know what kosher meant and more.

The Ten Most Idiotic Apprentices

The Apprentice: The Roman Circus Is BackKissing The blarney Stone Goodbye
The Apprentice: Return Of The One Trick Pony
The Apprentice (aka Christians and lions)
The Apprentice Chicken
Apprentice Speak

Kiss Kissing The Blarney Stone Goodbye

I watched the final of The Apprentice last night.
So glad Tom won, he seemed like the only one who didn’t have their head so far up their own arse they were actually licking their tonsils.

Helen was just too intense, I liked little Susie, but she was so naive, yet still full of herself and as for Jim….

Jim set my teeth on edge straight from day one. He seemed like something out of Star Trek, assimiliting human characteristics through contact with the species.
I thought Margaret was incredibly restrained not leaping up and beating him about the head with his business plan when she asked him to say something about himself without using a cliche and he replied
“I am exactly what it says on the tin.”
Presumably a tin of dickhead meat then.

One of the other interviewers noted that Jim had the gift of the gab, the true Irish blarney.

You get the true Irish blarney from kissing the Blarney stone.

I’ve done it, so have two of my brothers.
Ian stayed at home, being 18, and came to a mutual agreement with the cat, whereby it buggered off for a fortnight, taking its meals outside and he had the run of the house.
The day of our return, Ian tidied the house, the cat returned and took up her usual waiting place on the windowledge, and none of us were any the wiser.
However I digress.

What is bothering me today is whether you can still kiss the Blarney stone.

As I recall the Blarney stone is situated in the battlement walls of Blarney Castle.
You have to climb a narrow, twisting stairway up a turret to get onto the battlements.

Oh oh, no disabled access there then.
And those steps are pretty dangerous, what with being narrow at one side and less than narrow at the other.
And uneven through wear and tear. And maybe they have put in some sort of a banister now, but I seem to recall it was somewhere between 350 and 400 steps to the top, not the sort of thing even a bannister could help with for those who get out of puff a bit easily.
Heaven help the lardarses, they’d get stuck between the walls.

The Blarney Stone was positioned below the level of footway on the battlements and to kiss it you had to lie on your back, feet facing inward, and lean backwards, putting your head down and back and then lean forwards, opposite direction to your feet, whilst a diminutive chap in a tweed jacket, collarless shirt, flat cap and capstan full strength directed you to give it a big sloppy one, I think he said something like, “you’ve not done it unless you taste the salt”, or maybe that was the last person’s saliva or possibly even snot, before hauling you back up to 200 hundred feet above terra firma and taking a slug of the ubiquitous pint of Guinness.

So where would health and safety start there then?

“Have to lower the ramparts or raise the stone. Everyone going up there must have a Hi Vi jacket and a hard helmet.
Stone to be cleaned with anti bacterial cleanser and/or alcohol rub before each kissing.
No smoking in your place of work and as for Guinness, pah, probably best to shut the place down.”

Can you still kiss the Blarney stone? Does it give you the gift of the gab or does one merely kiss a facsimile of the Blarney Stone which merely gives you a facsimile of the gift of the gab, leaving you only the option of speaking in cliches.
And, furthermore, Does It Say It On The Tin?

The Apprentice: The Roman Circus Is Back
Apprentice Idiots

The Apprentice: Return of the one trick pony

It was good to see Jedi Jim, the vacuum cleaner salesman with delusions of grandeur, the slick manipulator with the bifurcated tongue skewered last night. Jim, who used the Jedi mind trick on weaker minded opponents by persuading them they should tell ‘Lord’ Sugar they were crap and deserved to be sacked far more than their Jedi colleague, who had presented a completely unfeasible business plan then tried to use the Jedi mind trick on four experienced business people by baffling them with cliches and mangement speak.

Like the famous Stuart ‘Baggs the brand’ last year Jim declared he was not a one trick pony (WTF is a one trick pony?) and then unlike Stuart who waited to be told he was not even a pony, Jim proceeded to demonstrate that he is in fact a no trick pony by answering every question with a cliche as if he was trying to compete at selling tat with Del Boy down the market.

Eventually he was cornered by the excellent Margaret Mountford.

“Without using a cliche Jim can you sum yourself up in a single sentence for me,” Margaret asked.

“I am exactly what it says on the tin so I am,” said Jim as if his brain was running a computer programme. (He didn’t actually say ‘so I am, but he implied it.)

Margaret’s raised eyebrow said it all.

The Apprentice – The Roman Circus Is Back
Apprentice Idiots

The Apprentice (aka Christians and Lions) is back

Yes I know I’m late posting about the new series of The Apprentice, I’ve been busy the past couple of days. Yesterday I was having a great time leaping (well scrambling) over fences, plodging through mud and trying to install myself in an ancient stone coffin. Obviously there was no obesity problem back then, they must have been like stick insects. We were out taking photographs around a Lancashire village and it’s 1000 year old church which was a nice change from blogging.

Anyway back to The Apprentice or The Roman Arena game as it is known in our house.

The usual array of thoroughly obnoxious, selfish, ambitious, back stabbing, talentless and fascinatingly repugnant young people were paraded before us including one who claimed that in spite of his tender years he had once been worth two and a half million pounds but had lost it all when he switched from a successful business to an unsuccessful one.

With a CV like that you have to wonder how he got on the show, it’s called The Apprentice not the seasoned loser. But Dan as he was named was ready to plunge back into the fray and did not even notice the curled lip of Surralan as he listened to the wannabe apprentice presenting his CV.

The Apprentices posed and preened before us like Wardour Street whores in days of yore each hoping the great British public would fall for their schtick. There are the female not-quite-eye-candy-but-think-they-are types, the I-can-sell-snow-to-eskimos loudmouth salesman, they guy who makes it plain he would stab his granny in the back to get on and various knobhead-of-the-year types.

Their first task was to make and sell some sausages.

We half expected Esther Rantzen and talking dog would be wheeled out as the replacement for the now departed Margaret who owned the most wonderfully expressive eyebrow in the world but no, it was Karen Brady. Karen looks a very promising replacement and in her day job as CEO of a Premiership football team is well used to dealing with knobheads.

As the first stage in their task the teams (blokes and girls) had to brand their product. The blokes, most of whom had a GCSE grade D in management bullshit decided eventually on a trendy technobabble name. Synergy Sausages. Ideal is you like your sausages high tech and served with silicon chips. To me it sounded more like something an American motivational speaker would harangue me about that a tasty meat product I’d slather with brown sauce and put on a bap. Still each to their own.

The girls came up with a less memorable but less risible name and a tastier recipe, sold their sausages and made a modest profit. The guys, captained by the ex – two – and – a – half – millionaire did not fare so well. Perhaps it was the captain’s unique method of motivating his team by telling them they were all useless or perhaps it was the sales technique of the one who could sell snow to Eskimos which when applied to sausages consisted of confronting people in the street, putting his face up very close to theirs and yelling, “Buy these effing sausages or I’ll punch your stupid face in.”

Surralan or Lord Shitfa Sugar as we must now call him decided that two lose the game was unfortunate but to lose the game and two and a half million pounds looked like carelessness and sacked Dan

I still think that stupid brand name had a lot to answer for. Who in their right mind would buy Synergy Sausages.

And all the time the perfect brand name was staring the boys in the face. SUGAR’S SILLY SAUSAGES.

Apprentice To Talking Bollocks
Apprentice Idiots

More humour every day at Boggart Blog

In Prase Of White, Heterosexual Males

When an Oxford College elected as its representative on the student body a candidate who described himself as a “white heterosexual male” it was bound to make the feminists and the equal rights whiners kick off.

In fact, it was probably done to deliberately wind up the feminists and equal rights whiners. Yet what is wrong with being a white heterosexual male. That description alone does not imply somebody is a racist or a woman hater.

Sure enough though, a feminist writer has posted an article titled stupid white heterosexual male which describes the joke as immature and sexist.

Immature certainly. This is an ex public schoolboy now attending Oxford University we are talking about. Immature is de rigeur. Sexist? Only if we accept that anything the humourless, whining feminists of the Politically Correct Thought Police don’t like or can’t see the funny side of is sexist.

Boggart Blog has had another visit from the Politically Correct Thought Police. A regular reader commented on a post about The Apprentice, telling us Surralan had asked the BEEB if he could employ both finalists.

In reply, and in the spirit of this blog I commented:
“I knew it. Surralan fancies a BJ off Kate because he is a risk taker.”

Sure enough a PCTP agent trolls along and tells me I’m crude. sexist and of low intelligence (that is some judgement on the basis of one short comment – I thought Politically Correct Thinking was all about not making pejorative statements based on one’s personal prejudices. Oh well, one rule for them, one rule for the rest of us. Effing elitists.)

So yes, the comment is crude, yes it is politically incorrect because that is Boggart Blog’s editorial policy but sexist? If it insults anyone it insults Alan Sugar. Kate from The Apprentice knows she has big teeth and has a laugh about it. Obviously Kate is not a feminist. The idea of a feminist ever having a laugh about anything is too ridiculous for words.