No, I don't get it either. Why fire Simon? Why? Why? Why, Sir Alan, why? You could carve the reasons directly on to my mind's eye and I still wouldn't understand. Why? Why? Why?
By some measure the most likable, competent candidate in The Apprentice (Wed, 9pm, BBC1), Simon was inexplicably hoofed out this week, in perhaps the most dispiriting miscarriage of justice since the trial of the Birmingham Six. I'm writing this on Tuesday, the morning before the broadcast, and can only imagine the nationwide outpouring of indignant fury that accompanied his sacking. The rest of Europe probably stopped what it was doing and looked round to see where all the yelling was coming from. Bet you could hear the shouts on the moon.
It was the final proof that the show is a SHOW first and foremost, not a test of business acumen. Even so, it may prove too audacious a narrative twist for the audience to bear. Killing the hero in week three? Jesus.
The Apprentice traditionally engages in a little sleight of hand during its opening weeks, hiding the eventual winner somewhere at the back, letting them slip past unnoticed until somewhere around the final three episodes where they suddenly transform into a serious contender. That's what's happened with the previous three winners, all of whom were "the quiet one" in their respective packs. Since the victors are essentially boring, the show instead concentrates on villains and clowns - yer Katie Hopkinses and Syed Ahmeds.
But this year, there seems to be a surfeit of shitbags - not one central baddie, but three: Jenny, Claire and Alex. All three employ the same basic tactic: blame and belittle your opponent at every turn.
Jenny was the first to emerge from the undergrowth, pummeling the hapless Lucinda into a blubbering heap with her monotone cosh of a voice. There's a terrifying lack of emotion to Jenny at the best of times, but it really comes to the fore when she's dishing out a bollocking. She becomes possessed by the spirit of nothing at all. The light in her eyes goes out. Her elocution flatlines. It's like being nagged by a Sat Nav. If you ever wondered what it'll be like when the machines rise up and take over, look no further. Forget images of robot warriors thrashing us with electric whips; it'll be an army of Jennys slowly talking us to death.
Claire, for her part, is essentially Ruth Badger gone wrong. Apparently convinced she's a bastion of straight-talking common sense, she instead comes across as a huffing, eye-rolling bully. It's easy to picture her standing up to give her two cents' worth in the audience of The Jeremy Kyle Show, which is surely reason enough not to employ her.
And rounding out the bastard pack, my least favourite of all: Alex, who I've disliked intensely since week one. If the final edits are anything to go by, Alex is an objectionable, buck-passing, jumped-up, passive-aggressive, know-it-all streak of piss with a short fuse, a sour mouth, and a petty, needling, finger-pointing demeanour. Unless you're a woman, of course, in which case he's a blameless dreamboat. Every girl I know swoons like all the oxygen's vanished the moment he dribbles onscreen, which only serves to make him even more irritating. I want to run in front of them clapping my hands and clicking my fingers, like a man trying to prevent the invasion of the bodysnatchers. Can't you see, girls? Can't you see? He's tricking you with his beauty! Wake up! See through the matrix! He's a bastard! Stop batting your eyelashes like that! That's how he feeds! Stop feeding him! Stop it!
Anyway, the sheer amount of bad feeling from these three threatens to unbalance the show as a whole. Who are we supposed to like, exactly? My current favourites are posho Raef and weepo Lucinda; the former because he's an affable arse, and the latter because the girls keep kicking her around like a rag doll and I'm a sucker for underdogs.
They'll do. But Simon was my first choice. Why? Why Sir Alan? Why?
