Previously on Junior Apprentice: Flogging, fighting and fannying.

They open by meeting Sir Alan at an aquarium at about 7.30am, when we suspect it’s not actually open. Hewer looks like he can jimmy a lock though, so they manage to sneak in and glare at the sharks. Their task is to sell bottled water by creating a brand, bottle, TV advert, jingle and pitch it to Industry Experts.

But with this being the final episode, the folks that got fired are back, and lined up ready to be picked for either team. Nawty Adam is back, and the LAD quotient increases a million fold, while first week’s fired twat Jordan De Courcy is last to be picked, and stands looking increasingly uncomfortable as he realises nobody wants him.

Team Zoe and Kirsty pick out some Ozonated water, which is as meaningless to them as it is to you and me, but apparently it’s super healthy, which is amazing for what is just water. They come up with the name Dripity Drop, but realise it’s rubbish and lose the ‘ity’. Drip Drop: Never Stop. The cool water for 14-year-olds.

Aryan Zoe prepares herself for meeting some black kids by learning the lingo: “yo, yo” is one, and “innit” another. She’s probably not actually racist, just an arty farty, airy fairy turd. See, she’s actively seeking the opinions of teenagers on her water, forgetting that, despite acting like a typical 50-year-old head of marketing with her head up her arse, she is actually a teenager. Although if she asked herself her own opinion, she’d end up disagreeing with herself and rolling her eyes so far back that she ends up looking out of the back of her head.

Of course, Zoe is a wannabe singer as well, and freestyles her way through a cringe-worthy attempt at a jingle, alongside an ultra-serious guy – the kind you get in a pretentious bar on a Friday night – who strums and taps an acoustic guitar.

Tim and Arjun go for a theme of simplicity, and the name ‘A bottle of water’. Simple. That’s ‘simple’ singular, not ‘simples’, you horrendous advertising-led arsewipe. Tim has the bright idea of showing how they’re going back to simplicity by running an advert featuring a guy running through a park taking his clothes off. Yeah, you love that, don’t you Tim. Maybe he could pour the water down himself, yeah? Put the end of the bottle in his mouth? Use his tongue a bit? Yeah, you love that sexy water.

Arjun comes up with the packaging, again on the theme of ‘simplicity’. It’s a plain blue bottle with ‘a bottle of water’ written on it. They need a logo, so he decides on a wave, and phones Tim up to tell him. Inexplicably, Tim is eating chips with Adam, and doesn’t understand what Arjun means by a wave. Presumably he’s sat there thinking that it’d be a picture of Arjun with a cheeky smile holding his hand in the air.

The girls go off to film their advert, which they set on a council estate. Two lads sit with their bottle of Drip Drop, and the spacky one drops it. They enter unconvincing bullet-time mode and can’t get to it before a black girl runs off with it. Would be a black girl, wouldn’t it, eh Zoe? The advert looks rubbish, like she’s just mugging them for a bottle of water for no reason. And who wouldn’t want a half-empty bottle of water that a stranger has been sipping on?

Arjun directs his team’s video, first having to deal with a displeased guy: Tim hired three actors, but they only need two. Arjun tries to send him home, but he’s having none of it, so gets recast as a passer by. He’ll be proud of that on his IMDb page. The advert continues uncomfortably, as child director Arjun shouts at a man milling about in his pants in a park.

Both teams have been given a shop-floor to deck out how they want, and to house their presentations. Zoe didn’t bother to bring a copy of the bottle with her, so the graffiti team that she hired are trying to work from a doodle that she’s done in Biro. Fonts? Colours? Sizes? Oh, just guess, it’ll be fine. She really is a marketing director.

I’d like to point out my disappointment at the lack of a CV episode this series. Admittedly, it’d only have lasted for three minutes as Alan’s mates look at some almost-blank bits of paper and mumble, “so, you’ve sold eggs and sweets, eh?”.

The boys give their presentation to assorted Industry Experts that Alan has roped in. It’s solid with smart answers, even if they are clearly reading every single word off cue cards and not even acknowledging the existence of the Industry Experts. One twat does reel off a “which brand are you going to kill?” question, as though they’ve spent hours thinking, “well, Volvic don’t do as well at airports, so we totally want to move in on them.” What sort of answer was he expecting?

The girls’ presentation fares slightly better, despite the rubbish advert, with them at least looking directly at the audience. Kirsty, bless her – whenever she opens her mouth, it’s like a million thoughts are trying to escape at the same time.

The Industry Experts aren’t kind to them, saying that the black drops on the packaging look like petrol, and complaining about their claims of health benefits. One woman who is vox-popped is impressed with them not using cue cards, joking that Ben is twice their age and he still uses them. Fucking Ben. He’s useless, whoever he is. Never makes tea for anyone, eats smelly sandwiches, and is always rolling in five minutes late. She could do worse than sacking Ben.

Off to the boardroom, where three of them WILL BE FIRED.

Alan asks the previously fired bunch (who don’t seem to have done anything) whether the Project Managers were any good – surprisingly, when there’s nothing in it for them, they’re completely positive about how awesome they are. Jordan De Courcy says four words, and sounds like Lloyd Grossman being squeezed. God, go away.

Alan concurs on the girls’ video, saying it looks like a “mugging on a council estate”. Adam nods sagely at this point, for some reason. He also tells the boys that their 150% profit for the retailer was optimistic, since they forgot to budget for TV adverts. But it doesn’t matter, they can clearly say whatever shit they want, and they win.

Zoe starts to cry at her loss, and Alan, as tactfully as he can manage, tells her that she’s a cunt.

He tells Arjun that he’s gone from “calculus to cupcakes” – I still genuinely have no idea what he’s talking about, other than the cupcake challenge the other week, but it doesn’t make any sense.

Both boys give speeches that they’ve clearly been rehearsing since they were picked for the show about why they should be the one. This is the point that Tim blows it for himself, admitting that he worked really hard on the farm for the sheer love of seeing lambs being born. Oh and money. Definitely money. He hastily adds that on the end. You know how notoriously generous farmers are.

Alan looks at them, and strings out revealing the winner like he’s Davina fucking McCall. Lots of quick edits to reaction shots. Arjun smiling. Tim sweating. Hewer peering. Brady munching on a doughnut. Finally, he reveals the winner to be Arjun.

The shiny-haired midget with a calculator has done it! From calculus to cupcakes, it’s been a hell of journey for him, and he walks away £25,000 richer, while Tim goes back to playing with his sheep.

I’m curious about how they’re given the £25,000 – will Alan keep an eye on it and make sure it’s invested sensibly in business deals over the years? Hopefully Arjun is free to bowl out right now and stock up on sweets. And eggs.

This was a guest post by Nik Johnson from Shouting At Cows. And relax.

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Last week on Junior Apprentice: Art, arrogance and arseholes.

The task opens in Amsterdam, which leads the teams to consider all the things that they’d do over there: Tim puts on a rubbish Dutch accent and Emma would sell windmills and clogs. If Adam hadn’t been sent home the other day, he’d probably have gone on a three-week drugs and hookers binge culminating in a vomiting experience over the Anne Frank museum and a hasty cover-up with Nick Hewer to prevent a diplomatic incident.

They arrive in a Dragon’s Den-esque warehouse to be confronted by a serious looking Hewer, Karren Brady and a video recording of Alan, because he can’t be arsed to fly out. Who can blame him, KLM are rubbish. In fact, their first class bit is the same as the rest of the plane but with a curtain drawn across so the snobs don’t have to look at the plebs.

Six designers each demo two products for them, hilariously including:

A hat made of human hair

“Just a dog bed on legs”

A cutlery set for one person, which comes in a box “with a small story about the cutlery”

Organic baby comforters that can be tied into a rabbit or an elephant

Each team pick two, which they’ll then sell on to some English shops, in a sort of “y’know, you don’t have to actually buy them, you can just pretend you’d buy millions and we’ll win the task” way.

Both teams pick a set of bikes made by Batavus, who, if you weren’t such a scummer, you’d have heard of. Kirsty and Tim win it by giving away their first choice – the mad cutlery. They end up with the bikes and a dog walker and bed combo. Arjun, mad lipstick Zoe and Emma Walker, 16, sells eggs and sweets, have the cutlery in combo with with some lamps, and those shit baby cloths.

Time to make some calls to companies. Tim is asked “where are you calling from?” to which the literal tit says “Highbury.” “And which company…”

Zoe is a massive arsewipe again, whining when project manager Arjun asks her opinion, and whining when he doesn’t. The poor guy can’t win. If he asks her to do something, she kicks up a fuss because he’s not being decisive, but if he tells her, then her problem with authority kicks in, and she becomes an eye rolling Stone Cold Steve Austin.

Both teams pitch to House of Fraser, who are inexplicably deliberately not mentioned by name, but their logo is launched onto the screen. Their purchasing team are arseholes, saying that the kids’ toys looks like dishcloths, and dismissing Tim with a quick “Where do bikes fit into our stores?” “They don’t”.

Tim pronounces the name of the bike wrong, calling it a Bratavus, which is probably Freudian. He’s ace though, stumbling through the doors trying to carry both bikes at the same time while Kirsty watches on gormlessly. He tells us of his negotiating strategy, which he’s proud of, because he uses it to win at Monopoly. Nice one Tim. Just buy the orange ones, everyone knows that. Monopoly is even more boring than bloody backgammon.

When Arjun is asked about the cutlery kit for one, he says that it’s for people who like to live alone. Brilliant. A cutlery set for serial killers. Yeah, let’s sell them knives. He manages to sell 60 baby cloths though, at which he runs along and does that jumping-heel-clicking thing that probably has a name. This was the moment we absolutely loved Arjun and totally wanted him to win.

Kirsty takes the dog tat to a pet shop called Jumanji, which they’ve definitely bought the naming rights for, and the rights to the logo, which they rip off completely. Ah, if you don’t care about copyright infringement, may as well go all out and do it on the telly.

Back to the boardroom, where the two stores they pitched to have made pretend purchases, which are totalled up with their personally made sales.

Team Tim pull ahead £2,700 to £1,100 based on personal sales, but from the knobs at House of Fraser, Team Arjun make another £9,000 to Tim’s nothing. Arjun’s wee face lights up like a kid at Christmas or, alternatively, like Arjun at Christmas. Finally the other store, whose name we missed, but the woman was really nice. Arjun got nothing, so Tim needs £7,500 to win. And somehow, he pulled off £37,000 worth of sales – an Apprentice record.

Arjun’s face falls, while Tim and Kirsty go back to the house. There’s no prize for winning this week, but they have the evening alone together to do whatever comes naturally to them. Table football, it seems.

Zoe and Emma Walker, 16, sells sweets and eggs turn on Arjun (in both senses, probably), and whine again about him not asking their opinions. They take the tried and tested Blame the PM approach, which is in-keeping with Alan’s arbitrary approach to saying either “you are the project manager, you should have kept her in check” or “you should have done the negotiation, it’s your fault”.

In Emma’s version of the task, she told Arjun repeatedly what to do, and he ignored her because he’s a crazy mofo and that’s just the way he rolls. Humbly, he says “I’m not the best businessman in the world”, which is refreshingly honest compared to Zoe, who would argue that she’s the best businesswoman in the universe of all time, ever and then roll her eyes when Alan dares to smile.

Emma realises she’s going, and warns that even though she’s “not the best seller” (of anything that’s not sweets and eggs), she “really wants this”. Ah, the X Factor defence. A classic. All she needed to add was “this means so much to me” and have Dermot O’Leary hug her while Cheryl Cole sobs. Instead, Alan gives her the “regrettably, you’re fired” niceness.

He also sticks his boot into Zoe repeatedly, pointing out what a horrendous turd she is, the domineering, eye rolling ball of makeup. This gets lost in translation back at the house, where she claims he said “lots of positive things.” Mm-hm.

So, poor Emma won’t be in tonight’s final, which is a shame, because it’s a task selling eggs and sweets.

This was brought to you by Nik Johnson from Shouting At Cows, whose name we’ve decided to spell correctly this week.

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Previously on Junior Apprentice: Cupcakes, cock-ends and crap cupcake costumes.

The children of the damned arrive at the David Beckham Academy for the most tenuous of reasons: the academy is there to spot the talent of the future, and that’s what they’ll be doing. With art. “I wonder if David will be there”, muses one contestant. She’s disappointed. There’s no David Beckham. Instead, there’s a crotchety old midget in a suit, there to bark orders at them like a pissed off hedgehog.

Tim, the wolf-man that shirks responsibility at every opportunity, is project managing midget Kirsty and eerie blonde Hannah. He’s not happy about being PM, and later complains that he was forced to make all the awkward decisions. The poor sod.

The other team is led by Emma Walker, 16, sells eggs and sweets. She’s alongside mentally-lipsticked Zoe and midget Arjun. Approximately 0.000005 seconds into the task, Zoe has mentioned 15 times that her parents are both artists and oh god she like totally loves art and was brought up on it and totally understand what the artists feel, man.

The teams wander off to check out some artists, each picking two to display their work. Highlights include a mad lady that cat-sits for people, then is photographed in their home, with their cat, WEARING THEIR CLOTHES. That’s not art, that’s mental illness.

Kirsty, sent out on her own so that Hannah can hide behind Tim, doesn’t impress the artists. It’s like she has every single word she needs to say stored in her mouth and when she exhales, she accidentally lets them all out and bellows uncontrollably in their face. Unsurprisingly, when confronted with a choice between Kirsty’s OHMYGODARETHEYYOURPAINTINGSCANWENEGOTIATEONPRICE and Zoe’s pseudo-stoner love of the meaning behind the art, the artist picks Zoe.

Tim Ankers, deprived of the urban prints that were snatched by Zoe, takes on some landscapes and £4k modern art, which looks like someone left MSPaint open and let a cat play with the mouse for a bit. Honestly, they were just random brushstrokes. Four bloody grand. For what? They could use the canvas as a board to play backgammon on or something.

Sales day.

Hannah is unimpressed with the residents of Brick Lane, which if you live in London is like a famous street or something. She watches the street sellers flogging tat on the floor, and wonders aloud “Do you think we can sell art to these people?” As it turns out, the answer is no, she can’t.

Tim’s team is late for the opening and still sticking up pricing. He actually gets bollocked by one of the artists for being too laid back. At one point, he even says “it’s cool, innit”, like the un-cool jumped-up little gobshite that he is.

An elderly, probably mad, art dealer wants 30% off the price of the print. She owns a gallery, you know. I think she’s important, in her own mind. Her gallery has Damien Hirst and David Hockney in it. Tim goes to the artist to tell him about the dealer, and casually mentions that it’ll be hanging next to Damien Hirst and Anthony Hopkins. The tit.

Zoe, whose parents are both artists, you know, singlehandedly dominates every attempted sale by her team. As soon as a question pops out of anyone’s mouth, she dives in to offer the wisdom of her years of experience. You know, the experience she got watching Grange Hill while her mum fannied about drawing some apples. Admittedly, she does have the bullshit lingo down, telling a prospective purchaser to “get intimate with it.” While he looks at a mirror. A bloody mirror.

Her self-awareness levels are way out. She tells the rest of the team that it’s amazing how well they all get on, an opinion she’ll revise approximately eight seconds into the board room. Which is coming up any moment…

The Board Room

Zoe’s team-mates instantly pick on her faults, her domineeringism, her interjecting and her lipstick application methods. They haven’t even been told who won, and she’s rolling her eyes like a professional ceiling-starer.

As it happens, all that was premature, as they won – taking £6k to Tim’s team’s £2k, which included a last minute £1k sale. Off they go to have bespoke suits created. Arjun will unfortunately have grown out of his in six months, but it’s a nice memento or something he can use if he ever buys a ventriloquist’s dummy.

Tim decides he was just unlucky, and the wrong people walked through the door. Which is fair enough, and I’m sure Lord Sugar of Clapton would be fine with that in real life. Art isn’t his “thing”, along with camping, wind and everything else he’s been annoyed with.

Unfortunately, Alan bottles it. Kirsty was clearly shit – her bellowing at the artist meant that he picked the other team. Tim is a laid-back shirker that coasts his way through stuff, and has been in the boardroom three out of four times. Hannah is inoffensive but quiet, so he boots her out for the flimsiest of reasons. Oh, waah waah, she doesn’t apply her knowledge. Nurture her, help her, she’s only a kid.

Tim’s a cocky arsewipe with nothing functioning behind his smug little grin, and Kirsty doesn’t seem to have done anything other than bellow and alienate. But they’re more interesting characters or something, so get rid of the one that doesn’t make you want to launch knives into your TV.

Two more weeks, five more children of Damien.

This piece of outright majesty was a guest blog by Nik Johnson from Shouting At Cows.

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Previously on Junior Apprentice: Camping! Campness! Cardboard! Reinforced Cardboard!

This week, our intrepid teams of the weird, bullied and damned are sent to Oxford Street, to ice and sell cupcakes. VALUE ADDED cupcakes, as Lord Alan keeps mentioning.

Rhys is hounded into being project manager for his team, because he once worked in a kitchen. He also ends up not working in the kitchen.

On the other team, Lipstick and Emma Walker (16, sells eggs and sweets) get into a pissing match over who bakes the most cakes. “I like baking.” “Well, I love baking.” “I REALLY love baking.” Eventually Emma Walker (16, sells eggs and sweets) gives up, because she’s used her quota of words for the series. Lipstick takes centre stage once again. Squee, pretty, etc.

In the test-baking area, the professional baker who ices cakes professionally in a professional capacity as her profession warns two teenagers who are icing for the first time: “People won’t buy them if they’re average.” With motivation like that, they’re sure to kick ass at it. Or, alternatively, they’ll take the money up front and since it’s a one-off, one day task, not really be that fussed if they’re not perfect.

Rhys wanders round aimlessly like Benjamin Button; a shy old man trapped in the body of a pre-pubescent teenager. Someone who isn’t him comes up with the idea of high fashion and the slogan ‘Fashionable cupcakes for fashionable people’. I’ve heard that Sex and the City 2 is centred around Carrie looking for the most fashionable cupcake in New York, finding it baked by a teenage wolf-man on work experience in a department store. What do they mean by high fashion, though? Jock in the box Kirsty enlightens us, it means: Sleek and looks good. Easy, then.

Poor Rhys is undermined at every opportunity by his team, laughing at him for being shorter than them, somehow not carrying a box properly, and watching as he transports cakes two at a time through a maze of corridors from the kitchen.

Thuggy Adam is under the weather, and takes four minutes to ice a single cake, a time that even Edward Scissorhands could piss all over. His heart really isn’t in it, and he’d probably rather be in bed watching Fireman Sam and jerking off.

Oh, last week I got told off by a backgammon player for insinuating that they’d probably all died out by now. Since controversy sells, it’s important that you all know that cupcakes are really really shit.

During the lunchtime rush, in which neither team seems to think writing things down is a good idea, orders get queued up and come back wrong. Arjun takes an unconventional approach to customer service, just arguing with the customer that they didn’t specify what they wanted properly. Good lad.

By the end of the day, things are tense: there’s more cupcakes left than they want, and there needs to be a strategy. Lost-boy Rhys comes out with a profound answer. “Sell ‘em”. He can go all the way to the top, this boy.

To the boardroom, where Adam is sent back to his mum and dad, for being such a snivelling little sod. He had a cold for a couple of days, he’ll clearly get better, what’s the problem?

Lipstick’s team put together a profit of about fifteen quid, which doesn’t matter as Rhys Rosser somehow managed to lose money, walking out of the day nearly £80 poorer. They’d have been better off as a team not bothering to make a single cake, and picked up £75 in pound coins and thrown them at strangers.

For Lipstick and the winners, a visit to see Lion-headed hot-air-balloon botherer, Richard Branson, who embarrassingly doles out high-fives and laughs at Arjun’s terrible anecdote about dressing as a giant cupcake.

The losers roll back into the boardroom. Rhys doesn’t stand a chance as Creepy Ankers and the girl that’s on it occasionally blame him for everything. Lord Alan isn’t impressed with them undermining Rhys, but realising what a little dick he is, fires him with the message: “You are special.”

Aren’t they all.

This was a guest post by the terrific Nik Johnson from the terrific Shouting At Cows

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Nine junior horrors, one job (not actually a job, because even Lord Alan’s not mental enough to hire a foetus to work on whatever Amstrad do these days) and just a couple of weeks to pick one out to be… the Junior Apprentice.

Previously on Junior Apprentice: Cheese. Sales. Puns. Tears. Jordan De Courcy.

Zoe, played by Robyn caked in lipstick, answers the phone while the camera hovers for an uncomfortably long time staring at her arse. It follows her upstairs as she wakes the boys up, who are already dressed in suits. They’ve probably been in them all night, waiting for the Lord Sugar batsymbol to appear in the sky, calling for them. It’d be in the shape of a barrow.

But what’s this? Wellies? Where could they be going that would require wellies? A field! Of course. Alan takes assembly on the grass, and tells them that this week’s task is to design a camping product and pitch it to retailers. Thug-in-braces Adam sells camping equipment on the internet, so he’s all over this. Hannah also decides to do it, but she doesn’t sell camping equipment on the internet, so Adam will definitely win this. They swap teams, so the boys are led by – get this – a girl! How wacky.

The boys, pushed around by hairy man-child Tim, who appears to be on a combination of every caffeine stimulant going, manage to cobble together an idea for a sledge on wheels. The sledge bit comes off, so you can slide or wheel your stuff around the campsite. In fact, they call it ‘Slide Stuff’, a name one step less generic than calling it a ‘thing’. Rhys is thrilled by it, and astutely points out that it “looks like a sledge”.

The girls try pitching a portable whiteboard at a bored-looking family, clearly having a shit camping holiday somewhere just outside the M25 – but when that doesn’t go over, they take all the ideas they’ve had in the brainstorm session: Cardboard box, games table, shoe storage. Let’s just make it all of them. So they do. A cardboard games table, featuring cheap and nasty chess, snakes and ladders and backgammon boards.

Seriously, a backgammon board. Does anyone other than 60-year-old alcoholics that have lived in pubs since the 70s know how to play backgammon? Hasn’t the generation that liked backgammon long since died off? Or is it part of the authentic camping experience – abject misery and tedium.

Back to the product. Muddy shoes, wet grass, cramped environment. Three things that people pretend to not mind about camping, but will cause the £20 cardboard box to self-destruct like a Liverpool FC title challenge.

Photoshoot time, and Adam can’t build his tent. Despite being a camping expert with a camping website and a slightly camp demeanour. He points out that he’s only been camping twice in his life, but in the car he said he goes twice a year. Caught in his pathetic lie, he stutters out, “I went camping twice a year last year”. Obviously. He asks if the models, along for the shoot, can help. The camera gets switched off and probably a tutting cameraman and Karren Brady do it all for him, while he sobs.

Arjun, who looks the least likely of anyone in the world to have ever been to Glastonbury, runs the pitch, while he probably can’t even pitch a tent himself. By which I convolutedly imply that he’s young and can’t get an erection, not that he’s too small to actually put a tent up. But that’s true as well. The product ‘Slide Stuff’ is married with the best slogan ever: ‘Why carry stuff when you can slide stuff?’ They could even condense that down into ‘move things’. Or just a grunt.

Robyn runs the girls’ pitch, dressed like an air-hostess with bandaged legs. Her lipstick appears to have been applied in the manner of pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey, with a haphazard approach to caking her lips, teeth and cheeks in as much crazy redness as possible. She emphasises that it’s not a cardboard box, but reinforced cardboard, and therefore definitely worth £20 a pop. A cardboard camping storage unit sounds like it came from the same school of witty sayings as a chocolate fireguard. It’s a crap idea. Rubbish. They’re idiots for even thinking it would work.

Unsurprisingly, the various companies pitched to agree, and they get a grand total of zero sales. The plebs.

The boys fare better, with catalogue peddlers Argos offering to buy 3,000 of their sledges – approximately one per shop. But it’s enough to win, so yay. They sod off for some horrendous firework show that is ‘just for them’, showing that Alan doesn’t really understand the concept of ‘looking up’.

Adam bursts into tears as he brings back Robyn and Hibah. The massive queen. He still looks a bit hard, like, but we reckon we could take him. He runs a camping equipment website, you know. In fact, his website says “Weaponry, an area where were we will 100%”, which is reassuring.

Clearly Adam was dreadful at the task, not bothering to say no to anything, ever. If Jeanette Krankie lookalike Kirsty had popped up and suggested they smear dog shit over their faces as part of the pitch, he’d have gone along with it.

But stupidly, Hibah is an academic, and therefore the enemy of Sir Sugar, and so she’s sent packing. Cheeky Cock-ney wideboy Adam lives to fight another day. In tears.

And then there were eight.

Next week: Will Arjun stand next to Alan to see who is taller? Will Emma say something? Will Karren Brady resist [actually, that's libellous] and will Tim Ankers mock Rhys Rosser‘s surname? (Incidentally, Rhys is the second stupidest first name they could have given him, after Ross.) All that and less, next week.

This was a guest post by Nik Johnson fron Shouting At Cows. HOORAY!

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Remember when you were 16? It was just like Skins, right? An orgy of drugs, violence and sex. Or, like 95% of people on the Internet, it was furtive, frantic masturbation the moment you were alone and trying to get served in pubs.

You probably didn’t spend those precious years running an international importing and distribution business. If you thought the dicks on The Apprentice were hateful turds, The Junior Apprentice is sure to boil your piss in new ways. It’s one thing when the back-stabbing business-botherers are ten years older than you, but when they look like they’ve rolled on set straight from an episode of Grange Hill, it’s somewhat dispiriting.

Yes, it’s The Junior Apprentice, in which six teenagers prove they have the mettle to argue with Lord Alan, who sits peering and at them and scrutinising like a fussy paedophile, while Karren Brady, with her daft spelling, glares at them like Margaret Mountford, only older and weirder.

Let’s get this out of the way first: Yes, they’re all horrible, cocksure little shits, with more arrogance in their bell-ends than you have in your whole world. Helpfully, Rhys Rosser and Tim Ankers bring the rhyming slang nicknames to town, while Jordan De Courcy is every bit the hateful little ponce that his name implies.

They show their maturity from the off, refusing to chuckle when Alan says he started out ‘humping potatoes’, but ruining it by turning up in the boardroom dressed like it’s a come-to-school-as-your-dad day. All except Zoe, a posturing, bellowing Robyn lookalike who’s more in your face than a pornstar’s spunk.

Jordan De Courcy (I’m going to use his full name every time, just to irritate you the way he irritates me) is the CEO of his own company, which he’s remarkably proud of. What he doesn’t know is that I’m the CEO of my own company, which sells £10 notes to shops, in exchange for cigarettes. He also talks about ‘business to business sales’ and ‘consumers’. When I was 16, it was ‘shops’ and ‘people’.

This week, they’re out selling cheese. Bloody great lumps of cheese. The girls head off to Covent Garden to bother tourists, who are, of course, notorious for buying Union Flags, postcards and cheese.

The boys bung some cheese in a plastic box with crackers and grapes, calling it the ‘Credit Crunch Lunch’, a name straight from 2008. Probably before most of them were born.

Arjun, played by a proud midget in his dad’s suit, bursts into tears at the slightest provocation. Even if it’s just a customer looking at him. Him and Rhys Rosser bumble around attempting to attract the attention of cheese consumers, but don’t even register on their radar as anything more than Scouts collecting for a bring-and-buy sale. They’d have been better off doing the old trick involving one on the other’s shoulders, and a long coat.

The cheese-selling descends into the usual farce of running around London desperately trying to swap their unsold produce for pound coins by harassing commuters on their way home. Finally a ridiculous coffin of cheese is offloaded to a cheese seller, after trying a hairdressers, wine shop and brothel.

Back to the boardroom, and they predictably whinge and blame each other for everything. Perfect for the corporate shitheels that they’ll inevitably become. The boys lost, because they sold £450 of cheese for £250 out of desperation, and only made another forty quid for the whole of the rest of the day.

Jordan De Courcy brings Rhys Rosser and Tim Anker back. Rhys’s voice hasn’t broken, while Tim is like a bloody Werewolf. It’s an eerie combination, like father and son brought up against the evil Lord Alan to explain themselves for crimes against humanity. Jordan and Rhys both cry – one of the joys of having basically kids on here is that they’re being judged and criticised for the first time, they’re no longer the elite, and it’s tough for them to adjust to being just another face in the crowd.

Tim doesn’t cry, which bumps him up a million places. This would probably save his life in some sort of improbable shotgun-based scenario. Jordan gets fired, because he’s a shit. And a shit leader. Brilliantly, he bursts into tears yet again, but sadly doesn’t storm out of the room and scream at Alan that he’s not his real dad anyway. In the taxi on the way out, he predicts that in five years, he’ll be more successful than Alan. I wouldn’t bet on it, De Courcy.

Nine sods remain. Next week’s task is to watch an entire episode of Loose Women without popping an erection. And even with those haggard old bints, the average 16-year-old won’t last much beyond the continuity announcer’s introduction.

This was a guest post by Nik Johnson from the marvellous Shouting At Cows

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Danny Dyer is our favourite actor, mostly because he seems genuinely confused between ‘pretending to be hard in a film’ and ‘real life’.

He probably imagines that when he’s out shopping, he can’t resist a cheeky Cockney smile before battering the butcher with his own cleaver, and coming out with an incomprehensible witticism.

Implausibly, Danny has turned his gangster hand away from guns, but towards his keyboard, to put together a weekly column for Zoo magazine, covering such important issues as ‘how many sausages should you have on a fry up?’ (at least four) and ‘If I was Prime Minister…’ (‘legalise cannabis’ and ‘castrate anyone caught noncing’.)

The bit that’s got everyone all in a twizzle though is his rubbish agony uncle column, ‘Ask Danny’…

We assumed all the letters to ‘Ask Danny’ were fictional until some plank actually admitted it was him writing in. And what did Alex from Manchester write in? He can’t get over his ex, even though they broke up months ago. Obviously the right answer is a drug-fuelled hooker binge, but Danny doesn’t see things like that. His response is a bit more… blunt:

Of course, the other option is to cut your ex’s face, and then no one will want her…

Well, why not? Might as well set fire to her fanny as well, so she can’t do anything if someone does want her. Oh wait, what’s this from Danny’s column earlier in the month?

Maybe set light to the muff hair. That stuff goes up quick, like a thatched roof.

Hmm. Danny seems to forget that Zoo’s readership is almost entirely made up of easily impressed 13-year-olds that are amazed by tits, cars and football. Or footy or kickyball or whatever they call it now, and not a cynical bunch of internet-hardened types that can understand that jokes go wrong.

Twitter went into a self-righteous hum of bothering Zoo’s editor and being outraged over the sheer stupidity of the column. Zoo quickly issued an apology:

Due to an extremely regrettable production error, an inappropriate and indefensible response to a letter has appeared in this week’s issue. ZOO editor, Tom Etherington, apologises unreservedly for any offence the response may have caused and has launched an internal enquiry to ensure lessons are learnt.

It’s a good job the production error didn’t lead to any of the magazine’s other features: ‘The Week in Boobs’ or ‘Camera Flash’ or ‘Red Hot Redheads’ or ‘Babe Election 2010′ or ‘Real Girl of the Year’ or ‘In Bed With…’ or ‘Your Sex Questions’ or ‘Crack the Rack’ (guess the size and if they’re real) or ‘Breast Friends’.

As for Danny himself:

I have been completely misquoted.

Propah nawty, geezah.

This was a guest blog by Nik Johnson from Shouting At Cows. Whoopee!

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There are loads of reasons to be proud of being British. An army of lads taking over an Eastern European capital on a stag do; lazy racism perpetuated through newspapers; the BNP.

The one thing that really does make us bloody brilliant is music.

Popstars eh, aren’t they just wonderful? With all their singing and dancing and sitting on tour-coaches and tolerating interviews with Jonathan Ross. Plus the other stuff they, um, probably do. The ultra rich need a night of free alcohol and to celebrate each other’s wonderfulness, before the inevitable decline towards cruise ships and the Line Up round on Buzzcocks. And so, the Brits. The painful pseudo-live event that reminds everyone involved just how fleeting fame is. JLS will be watching the 2012 Brits on their sofa at home, bitterly Tweeting about Geri Halliwell.

This year’s Brits, purportedly live, but any pretence ruined after swearing was blocked out in the first ten minutes, was as much of as shambles as any other year. Host Peter Kay (looking as though he’d been inflated and stuck in a suit three sizes too small) clearly didn’t want to be there, and neatly recycled two carefully crafted jokes over the evening:

He’s [where the artist is from]‘s answer to [someone vaguely similar, or not similar at all, or just a random name]

BBC News summarised some of them:

He described Lady Gaga as “New York’s answer to Su Polllard”, former Spice Girl Mel B as “Yorkshire’s answer to Beyonce”, described Kasabian as “Leicester’s answer to Aswad” and called Robbie Williams “Stoke on Trent’s answer to Shakin’ Stevens”.

Even they can’t resist taking the piss, saying that Kay “put … his talents to good use while introducing acts.”

His other joke was to point out what was on the other channel (which was lucky; we nearly missed Muslim Driving School) and asked why you weren’t watching that. Hilarious, Pete. Especially the seventh time. Holby City, this time? Great.

He was upstaged by every proper comedian that came to present an award, even Alan Carr lighting things up by pretending he’d been hit by perennial uber-prick Liam Gallagher‘s award.

Because Liam, being the cool cat that he thinks he is, threw his award for ‘best album of the last 30 years’ into the crowd. It was fun, like a throwback to the past, as with Liam looking out-of-place as if they’d got Roy Orbison or Mozart up there.

Fearne Cotton bewilderingly presented the backstage bits, getting awkwardly excited over ABSOLUTELY EVERYTHING. Shut up, Fearne, it’s shit.

For some reason Geri Halliwell (in a toga) and Mel B (with the sides of her head shaved) were the only Spice Girls who could make it to pick up an award for most iconic brilliant performance or something, which had presumably been awarded for Geri’s Union Flag dress and pants. Clearly Emma Bunton had something better to do, probably working the late shift in her local Texaco. The organisers got their money’s worth though, with each of them making approximately 17 appearances over the course of the night, each time remembering more people they hadn’t thanked.

Lady Gaga, dressed as a giant tampon gave a weird performance and weird speeches, after winning everything from Best Album to Best Male. Jay Z, Lily Allen and other people who are far too cool for me to have heard of all performed, with Robbie Williams rounding things off in his inimitable smug, crowd-pleasing fashion.

Performance of the night went to Cheryl Cole, who sent out a clear message to husband Ashley Cole, who allegedly (do we still have to say allegedly?) cheated on her, by dressing as Michael Jackson and missing her cue to start miming, leaving the performance as out of sync as Jedward.

I’d like to thank everyone for making this column possible, Aimée, Sarah, Eleanor, Stuart, Alex, Robyn – you all know who you are. I’ve been Nik, England’s answer to dried dog shit.

This was a guest blog by Nik Johnson off of Shouting At Cows

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Do you have one of those face things? You do? Bit of a mess, is it? Like an angry bollock with all weird bits of hair and spots and stuff?

Bet you’ve got a lovely personality though. Bit of a charmer, a wit, could have all the ladies in the world if it wasn’t for the unfortunate looking hatstand on your shoulders.

What you need is Dating in the Dark, a Living TV extravaganza, where the rules would only need explaining if you were a total idiot. So listen up. Three boys, three girls all say hello to each other in the dark. They then each choose someone to go on a ‘date’ with. In the dark.

After three rounds of dating, during which the natural charm of the uglies rears its head and they giggle their way to touchy-feely bliss.

The laughable part comes at the end, when the entire premise of the show is turned upside down and they have to, uh, look at each other. Through a two-way mirror. So they don’t have to hide their revulsion that the guy they’ve just been necking with is – eww – ginger!

After seeing what they look like, they can ask each other on a date, which the other either accepts and yay, love. Or, er, wanders off and leaves the ugly sod even more convinced that it’s their horrific looks that are stopping them from having a relationship, even though they’ve just plucked up the courage to ask the selfish, selfish bitch out on a date in front of millions (actually, it’s Living, so hundreds) of viewers.

Watching a despondent chap’s head drop as he sees the girl he’s been kissing all night wander off because she’d rather be alone and fiddling with herself over James Corden presenting Never Mind the Buzzcocks than spend another minute with his stupid ginger face – beautiful.

I’m not ginger.

Or ugly. My mum said so.

This was a guest post by Nik Johnson from Shouting At Cows, who may very well be both of those things

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“Who is your daddy, and what does he do?” asked Arnold Schwarznegger in improbable 90s action film Kindergarten Cop.

If the bumstains on Young, Dumb and Living off Mum were to answer, they’d say “daddy is the best, he does what I tell him”, and then run off to cry because their new Porsche is the wrong shade of blue.

YDALOM is a reality show following eight spoiled, lazy buggers as they’re forced out of the comfort zone of being pampered by mummy, and into a house together. Like Big Brother, except with feckless young idiots. Each week, they perform a task, and at the end, one of them is evicted. Nothing at all like Big Brother.

As you might have gathered from the title, they don’t really have a lot going for them upstairs, so even the act of flushing the toilet is too much for someone, leaving a big skiddy mess for the rest to point and laugh at. A trip to the shops is an emotional journey. Washing up is worthy of an all-out screaming assault.

Biggest poohole of the lot is the ridiculously named Dogan, an Essex wankah whose dad owns an empire of gaudy nightclubs. Being rich entitles him to be a patronising, condescending gimp to people who aren’t miwwyonaires. i.e. Everyone. Clearly, he’s been taking lessons from those other cockends on Dragon’s Den.

The real comedy comes about when they’re set to work, having to actually prove they can be competent at, uh, anything at all. Pie-botherer Nikki (25, “jobs depress me”) spends her day on a farm getting further and further wedged into some mud. Shamefully, the others help pull her out, much to the displeasure of the poor farmer that was conned into allowing them to ‘help’.

At the end of each episode, the parents get together to watch the week’s footage and decide which of the halfwits has been the rubbishest, sending them home. If there were any justice in the world, voiceover guy Robert Webb would bundle into the room at this point with a massive sign saying “THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT. LOOK WHAT YOU HAVE RAISED.”

Will the parents learn an important lesson about raising their children? Will the teenagers manage to hoover a carpet without descending into all out warfare? Doubtful, but it’s bloody funny to see them try.

This was a guest blog by Nik Johnson from the frankly stupendous Shouting At Cows

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To the despair of Google Image users everywhere, there are several Jordans in the world: The basketball player, the Asian country and the brand of Nike Airs to name just three.

However, potential masturbators will be most familiar with the variable-titted cock-holster better known as Katie Price.

As promised on Twitter, Katie has been keeping a dignified silence about her divorce with Aussie warbler Peter Andre, breaking it only briefly to swear about him. Which is about as dignified as you can get without talking to Piers Morgan on TV and revealing all – thankfully not literally: one slimy twat is more than enough.

Katie and Peter met on jungle-based bug-pestering ITV reality show I’m A Celebrity and spent the following years documenting every single argument, holiday and blowjob in front of an adoring crowd of three ITV2 viewers. With the series Katie and Peter: Stateside coming to an end, so too must their marriage. Here, Katie tells the ‘truth’ about the end of an era. A weird, spotlight-hogging era that shifted more newspapers than a really big lorry with loads of newspapers in.

Jordan’s face, expressionless under the weight of having to carry so much make-up, doesn’t move as she tells us “this is not a publicity stunt”, in a programme with her name in the title. On the second biggest channel in the country. On Saturday night at prime time. “The fairytale is over.”

The divorce is all about Peter getting angry over a picture of Katie in The Sun, where she’s wasted and waving her tits around. Like this is the first time she’s ever done it. Pete, mate, it’s what she does. That’s her whole career, you Aussie doofus. Turns out that one of the guys there fancies her, and Peeeete has a problem with him. Again, Petey, she used to be a glamour model. Look around you. Every single person in their 20s has cracked one out over her.

Things descend into a Jeremy Kyle-esque “I told him this but he doesn’t believe me and now I’m talking to my friend and Pete thinks I fancy him and I don’t but he’s good looking and I’m his friend and and and sdlhpf[jkfkghalrod”.

In a typically chavtastic way, Jordan admits to fancying Pete just before they split, but now can’t understand what she saw in him. Despite spending 10 minutes talking about the good times, the good pecs and the good sex. This really is Celebrity Jeremy Kyle. With Morgan playing a more evil, sneering Kyle.

Hilariously though, after a gratuitous compilation of Kate rolling around on the beach, in clubs and on a boat in a variety of ever-shrinking titpants, Piers Kyle says he has one word for her. Lucky, because any more than that will confuse her. That word? Slapper.

Pete comes across as a nice bloke, but one who wants to be married to Katie, and not Jordan. Katie describes Jordan as her wild side, when she’s had a couple of drinks and wants to be a slag again, that’s Jordan. When she’s sucking off a Premiership footballer, that’s Jordan. Taking her kids to a horse riding show? Katie. She says that Jordan is behind her now, then flashes her boobs at Piers. She’s confused and all over the place, doesn’t know whether she wants to be Katie or Jordan.

I’d quite like Jordan back, please. As, probably, would Pete.

This was a guest blog by Nik Johnson from Shouting At Cows. Go familiarise yourselves.

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In this age of getting mediocre celebrities to try their hand at something new for the telly, it’s an amazing coup for BBC Three to sign Britney Spears up for a one off documentary where she performs open heart surgery – with crazy consequences!

As entertaining as that would be, it would require several things that this program doesn’t have: A budget, willing patients and, crucially, Britney Spears.

This is a documentary about her fans, not just those that have an album or two, but the absolutely hardcore mentalist ones, the ones that own red catsuits and you’d cross the road to avoid. Especially if you were Britney Spears.

Britney Spears Saved My Life focuses on a handful of these nutcase fans, almost without exception teenagers, and therefore exactly the sort of blithering idiots that know everything about the world and are best placed to comment on it.

One warns us that it’s “weird how her fans understand her, but her family don’t.” This isn’t a close personal friend, or, in fact even someone who has met Britney, but can still give us her under-qualified opinion.

The programme, for 50 minutes, is a parade of idiots telling us how they feel a connection to Britney, like her songs were written for them, or how she got them through a tough time in their life. Because if there’s anything to brighten up your life, it’s deep, meaningful lyrics like “I spotted you dancin’ you made all the girls stare”.

Since they are Super Fans, they must own every piece of tat that she puts her name, face or signature on. “This is shower gel, not just perfume,” we’re excitedly told, “she does everything.” Small but important correction: She does ANYTHING.

For some reason, they’re far more interested in every tiny turd in Britney’s life than the real people around them, with a strange looking sod popping up to tell us that “I used to wake up in the morning thinking ‘is she going to be okay?’” Not entirely sure why, although I must confess I did the same with Michael Jackson, but only because of the whole him being reported dead the night before thing. I don’t do it every day. Certainly not now, anyway. The same guy also says, with a completely straight face, “Strong independent women doing it for themselves”. You go, er, girlfriend.

The final ten minutes shows all the fans getting together in a room, dressing as Britney and doing a little happy dance. I think they were supposed to be doing the same dance, but not everyone got the memo and offer some uncoordinated jumping, like Stephen Hawking trying to go for a jog.

I’m not entirely sure what the point of the programme is, as none of the people in it particularly make you feel sorry for Britney, just pleased on her behalf that she lives so far away from them. But I just don’t understand, it’s all so meaningful, man.

This was a guest blog by Nik Johnson from Shouting At Cows, which is all in all fairly brill.

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Everything about Alan Carr is ridiculous. The high-pitched, squealing voice, the mincing walk, the thick black glasses and enormous teeth.

So it’s no surprise that his new Channel 4 talk show has a silly name too. Alan Carr: Chatty Man.

Who says “chatty” in real life? I imagine only mothers in the playground, whinging about someone being too chatty. Or not chatty enough. Or bullying them into an eating disorder. I don’t know. Alan Carr: Chat Man sounds a bit too much like a rubbish superhero. At least they didn’t go for a pun on his name and a cheeky Carry On-style innuendo about a gear-stick.

The first striking thing, aside from Alan’s face, is that the set is enormous. Made up to look like a 1970s house – key theme: brown – room after room is placed side-by-side, helpful for those with ultra-widescreen TVs, less helpful for the audience, squinting into the distance for half the show.

The opening monologue, shamelessly stolen from Every Chat Show Ever shows just how difficult it is to be relevant and funny on short notice. He brings up Cristiano Ronaldo despite not having a joke to make.

Things pick up once the guests come out, Bruce Forsyth, looking more and more like a cross between Mother Theresa and a walnut, arses about like someone half his age and banters well with Alan. Ross Kemp does the same, singing the Fruit and Fibre advert (which he appeared in before he was famous, as you’ve no doubt seen on 3,000 editions of Before They Were Famous) live, as you can see below if the video is on YouTube. All annoyingly good fun.

When Heather Graham comes on, she claims to be jetlagged and definitely hasn’t had a drink or seven. It must be weird to interview someone when you’ve seen them naked in a film. Weird in a good way, although Alan probably doesn’t hold an opinion either way about her minge. He doesn’t really carry this interview off as well as the other two: he’s better with guests who are more up for a laugh and titting about. She’s only here to promote her new movie, and it shows.

Overall, it’s a show of varying quality, completely dependent on who the guest is and how much they’re willing to put up with Alan’s squawky voice and camp banter. His enthusiasm is oddly endearing and if you skip through the rubbish guests (which there’ll probably be loads of) then the rest of the series will be worth a watch. C’mon, it’s on a Sunday night – what else are you going to watch, The South Bank Show?

This was a guest-blog by Nik Johnson out of that Shouting At Cows.

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Remember when you were a child and you went on holiday, you inevitably ended up making best friends with some other family, spent two weeks doing everything together and then promised to meet back up when you got home. And never did.

But what of the other berks you met out there: The beer-bellied, tattooed chap wearing Union Flags anywhere possible, drinking in English pubs and eating English food. While in France. Or the perma-drunks, slurring their complaints at the waiter, while not even bothering to learn a single word of Spanish? Or the wife-swapping tapas eaters that didn’t notice their daughter had been abducted? What if you had the power to make them bugger off back home and stop spoiling your week away from reality?

This is the premise behind Channel 4′s Coach Trip, a reality show that follows a handful of couples on a free holiday around Europe.

Each day is contained within an episode, focusing on the activities that they’re forced to enjoy: the sort of wine-tasting, tower-climbing, art gallery appreciating things that package holiday tourists are herded through like cattle every single day.

All this is presided over by Brendan, a tour operator so camp that even Butlins would have reservations about having him sing the YMCA. His comments should be rudely sarcastic, putting down anyone who doesn’t want to get involved or has a bit too much to drink, but because he’s so amazingly camp, it comes across like Kenneth Williams inviting you to a fight to the death.

At the end of each day, the couples stand around dramatically in a semi-circle, and vote each other off. Yep, that old Welsh couple that stand around in their cagoules moaning? Cheerio. Or the bloke who’s a little bit too competitive and hilariously shouts “shotgun” as he barges everyone else out of the way to get the seats at the back of the coach? Bye.

The voting process, unlike tamer reality shows like Big Brother, is done in front of the rest of the group, and hilariously edited so that the polite, public reason (which is always “we haven’t gelled” or “we’ve not really spoken to you”) is shown directly before the bitchy private one, filmed away from the group: “he’s a bit of an obnoxious bell-end, really”. The response is invariably a good old stoic, British, “well, that’s fair enough.” Before voting for them the following day.

The couple with the most votes earns a yellow card, shown in Schindler’s List style black-and-white with the card in full technicolour, making the whole thing seem far more meaningful than it actually is. TV would be improved if every programme were contractually obliged to do at least one scene in this style.

The following day sees the couple with a yellow card doing their best to be matey with everyone else, throwing around “no hard feelings”, while secretly plotting, stewing and going mad with the insecurity of being least popular.

A second yellow card and they’re off home, which is usually dealt with in the spirit of the show,with the dominant partner bitterly warning that “well, we didn’t really like any of you anyway. Not our sort of people, right Jean?” And Jean nods meekly in agreement with her ogre of a husband who has publicly humiliated her and ruined another holiday, but offers the security that stops her begging for a divorce. At least they didn’t have to do pottery in Lichtenstein.

Coach Trip is fun, doesn’t take itself seriously and there’s enough of a turnaround of people that everyone ends up facing someone they hate. And isn’t that the real essence of a holiday: being trapped in a cramped environment, being forced to enjoy yourself, with people you’d rather just get away from?

This was a guest blog by Nik Johnson from Shouting At Cows. Other publications espousing the verbal abuse of cattle are available.

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According to lie-factory Wikipedia, Gok Wan’s name means Noisy Big City, but it would be far more appropriate if he were called Nosy Big Twat.

From the Trinny and Susannah school of tit-prodding and granny-groping, Gok is desperate for you to dress properly. So take off that stained T-shirt, wipe the crumbs off your trousers and get ready to look beautiful.

Come on, you slob. You disgust me. This is Gok’s Fashion Fix.

Each week, Gok berates someone new for wearing clothes that he disagrees with. This week is a sports therapist, who owns a lot of shorts. Five whole pairs, the selfish bitch. He surprises her by waiting until she gets to work and running full pelt towards her, bellowing “SAAAAAAAMMMMM” like a deranged Vietnam veteran.

At some point on her journey to work, he’s managed to break into her house, steal all the clothes (including those in the wash) and hang them up across a football pitch, in a manner that’s not at all creepy. Any that she doesn’t really REALLY like, get thrown on the floor. Next up! A wardrobe identity. Whatever that is.

BUT FIRST! An American woman shows off a chainmail dress that costs £1,200 and will never, ever be worn by anyone in the real world. Ever. She then gushes about a pink dress in a way that sounds almost sarcastic. Like someone claiming a chipmunk can cure cancer. The colour! The style! The shape! It’s just a dress! Gok is off picking dresses too, and there’ll be a dress-off on the catwalk. LATER!

Back to sporty girl Sam, now in trouble for not liking dresses. Even though one of them is so “this season”, whatever that means. She has to work with her hips to balance out her shoulders, which is a piece of advice so relevant to everyone that it should be taught in schools and tattooed on our souls. Every thing that comes out of Gok’s mouth sounds like he’s just making it up to see what bollocks he can get away with. By the end of the series, he’ll be advising women to widen their legs to lengthen their necks. Just you wait and see.

Out on the street, a 20-stone woman finds it difficult to get a skirt that fits and looks nice. Shocking. The skirt Gok lends her, while resisting any jokes about going to Milletts, gives her a tremendous gunt and makes her look a bit silly. Pro, Gokky boy. She then goes ice skating, which isn’t kind to anyone.

Lucky Sam has had a whole new wardrobe bought for her, and she dresses in clothes that are nice, but obviously pretty expensive. Gok makes a big show of playing dress-up with her, and earns bonus points for a cheeky tit-grope as he straightens the dress. Unfortunately, he still thinks that catwalk fashion works in the real world, and gives her a Mr. T style necklace, ridiculous pantaloons and says things like “funky not chunky” in a not ironic way.

AND NOW! THE BIT THAT NOBODY HAS BEEN WAITING FOR! The catwalk argument thing. Mad American lady thinks that a £675 dress is good value over ten years, even though the whole point of the opening bit was Gok trying to get someone to reluctantly throw away old clothes. Which is it, GOK? If that is your real name. Oh, Gok is pro-cheap clothes and is going to prove that the expensive ones aren’t worth it. Of course they’re not. But his idea of cheap is £500. We’re not all TV presenters, Gok, some of us are struggling writers. That, er, don’t wear dresses anyway.

The outfits are absolutely ridiculous too, a combination of Ostrich-chic, a giant red flower in the hair that looks like a shotgun wound and a bowler hat. A bowler sodding hat. On a woman. Who isn’t a banker. From the 1930s.

Just to piss on Gok’s dreams, the expensive clothes win, just like him throwing loads of money at SAAAAAMMMMM made her look better. So there you go, tonight’s staggering conclusion is that to look better, spend money on clothes.

This was a guest blog by Nik Johnson of Shouting At Cows fame. That’s the name of his website, by the way. He doesn’t literally shout at cows.

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