Honking Box Review: The Apprentice

We're fully aware that The Apprentice has no shortage of coverage, most of which is far superior to The Sloppy Dog standard (particularly Grace Dent's outstanding commentary). Still, that's precisely why we're addressing the reality show it's ok to watch - we know how you scummy buggers love a bit of lowest common denominator.

After the hilarious gallery fiasco, the teams were this week challenged to sell British food to the French, which is like trying to sell pork to a Muslim. Oh, hang on...

Following on from our declaration during the Single Reviews that it's good to see Delores O'Riordan representing Ireland in the UK charts once again, it would seem that Kristina Grimes is an even better ambassador for Celtic aceness - multiple hats off for such an effective use of the word "eejit" on prime-time British television. Kristina now joins Tre on our list of favourite Apprenticees, although she's got her work cut out if she's to match the legendary "stupid titties and fish" genius of last week.

We're also waving a metaphorical banner for Adam, a man who's equal parts underdog and puppy-dog. Sure, he's a bit of a gobshite, but he's arguably the hardest-working and most level-headed contender in the boardroom, evidently traits spotted by Sir Alan, who's spared him the chop three times. Rather more worrying, though, is that Adam was once again the recipient of what appears to be some form of classism. The snorting, horse-faced trinity of Katie, Paul and Simon took immense pleasure in braying about Northern accents and car sales. Sorry Paul, would it help if he shared your magic ability to cook sausages over an ice cube?

Yes, this would be the same Paul who was described by fellow in-bred Sloanite and co-bumper-of-uglies Katie as "intelligent, capable and mature", a soundbite which was spectacularly well edited to accompany a shot of him dribbling. Can't put a plastic cup to his mouth, but believes he can herald in the new golden age of Amstrad.

But requiring a Winnie The Pooh sippy-cup was the least of Paul's problems. Sir Alan, his hench-pensioners, and most of the contenders were curious as to what sort of imbecile goes to Makro and comes out with their body weight in mass-produced cheese anvils. Sod that - what sort of imbecile goes to Makro and doesn't come out with a vat of Haribo sweets for just £3.29?

Fittingly, Paul got the boot. Katie's forlorn Moomin-face on learning the news was priceless. No more making foals in the attic for you, bitch. It's actually thoroughly satisfying to see the right people go each week, particularly when they think plummy accents will save them above someone 'regional' (perish the thought!). Of course, this theory will only hold weight until someone we like gets fired (although we're certainly not going to contest any decisions and risk facing the wrath of Margaret Mountford). *shudder*