Sugar would put the clueless egomaniacs in their place
No doubt about the big draw on BBC One this weekend. It’s the final of The Apprentice: the TV talent contest in which a rabble of clueless egomaniacs screw up task after task through a combination of ignorance, incompetence and delusional vanity.
I’ve already seen a preview. And the ending is an absolute cracker.
Scene: the boardroom.
Lord Sugar: “Right. Which one of you idiots was in charge of this bladdy shambles?”
Theresa May: “I’m very clear. What I’m focused on is – ”
Lord Sugar: “So you was the project manager, was you? You was the brains behind this bladdy disaster?” Theresa May: “As I believe I made clear in answer to an earlier question, what I’m focused on is – ”
Lord Sugar: “You there. Chuckles. What you smirking at?”
David Davis: “Ha ha ha ha! No but seriously, Alan – Al, if I may – this whole task would actually have been very simple, if only we’d done things my way. You see, what I said, Al, from the very beginning, is that we should use a little tip I picked up during my days in the Territorials. Believe it or not, the quickest way to break a man’s kneecap using only a toothbrush and a packet of Revels is to – ”
Lord Sugar: “How many times do I have to tell you, I don’t want to hear about no bladdy kneecaps. Now which idiot was in charge of the other team?” Jacob Rees-mogg: “Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet.”
Lord Sugar: “Oh, here he is. The pin-striped pipe-cleaner. Go on, then, what you done to contribute to this glorious triumph?”
Jacob Rees-mogg: “If you will kindly forgive my impertinence, Your Lordship,
I would rather venture to suggest that – ” Lord Sugar: “Forget it. I can’t take no more of that bladdy silly voice. You sound like Bagpuss went to finishing school. Jeremy, you ain’t had much to say about this task, have you?” Jeremy Corbyn: “Actually, Lord Sugar, my sub-team carried out some very important research into cuts to Bolivian bus routes, and – ”
Anyway, I’d better leave it there. I don’t want to give away which team wins.
(Spoiler: it’s Michel Barnier’s.)
I know we read stories like this all the time these days, but this one’s something special. A stand-up comedian has, not unreasonably, pulled out of a charity event at a university after being presented with a list of subjects not to joke about. Konstantin Kisin had been due to perform at the University of London, until he was asked to sign a contract “agreeing to our no-tolerance policy with regards to racism, sexism, classism, ageism, homophobia, biphobia, transphobia, xenophobia [and] Islamophobia”. According to “student leaders”, this was to ensure the event was a “safe space” providing “joy, love and acceptance”. Now, I could of course write some boilerplate rant about freedom of speech. But what I really want to talk about is that last bit. “Joy, love and acceptance.” I mean, hang on just a minute. These people had asked Mr Kisin to do some stand-up comedy. Have they ever actually seen any stand-up comedy?
Stand-up isn’t about joy, love and acceptance. It’s the exact opposite. It’s about misery, resentment and failure. It’s bitter and snippy and boiling with self-hatred. That’s the whole point. That’s why we love it. It makes us feel better. We think: “Hey, this person knows how it feels to be a loser like me. In fact, they actually seem to be even more of a loser than me. Their failures are even more humiliating, their relationships even more disastrous, their private thoughts even more shaming.”
Honestly. If it’s joy, love and acceptance you’re after, comedy’s the last place to look. When BBC Four shows a biopic of Tony Hancock, you can be reasonably confident it won’t be 90 minutes of him beaming at kittens and pressing a shiny sixpence into the paperboy’s hand.
I was going to suggest that if these people want joy, love and acceptance, they should go to church. But imagine the kind of contract they’d hand the vicar. Religion is, after all, a sensitive subject, so they’d probably ban him from mentioning it. When did children – or rather, their parents – start buying Christmas presents for their teachers? I swear no one did it when I was at school. But now apparently it’s quite normal. Expected, even. Which is why we spent last Saturday afternoon hunting frantically through our nearest shopping centre for a suitable gift our four-year-old could give his teacher. Oh, and gifts he could give the classroom assistants. And all the staff at after-school club.
Of course, for all you know the teachers don’t actually want presents from the children, and sigh as they stagger towards their car laden with 33 tubs of Cadbury’s Heroes. But at the same time, you wouldn’t want your child to be the only one who didn’t give his teacher a present. In case… you know. His marks start slipping.
Trouble is, though, what should you buy? I mean, you probably don’t know much about the teacher’s tastes or interests. But you don’t just want to get them a candle or a tin of biscuits, because they’ll get dozens of those. The one thing you can be sure a teacher will be grateful for is booze. On the other hand, they might feel a tiny bit weird, receiving a bottle of gin from a four-year-old boy.
Apparently a girls’ school in Oxfordshire has placed a cap on the value of presents for teachers. It’s £50. Fifty pounds! I love that. Dear parents: please don’t go overboard. Just a cheap trinket will do. A ticket for the north London derby, say, or a bottle of Decadence by Marc Jacobs.
Honestly. In the old days, if you wanted to suck up to the teacher you’d give her an apple. Now it’s an Apple Watch. FOLLOW Michael Deacon on Twitter @Michaelpdeacon; READ MORE at telegraph.co.uk/opinion