Grace Dent's screen burn Sir Alan's back! It's series four and once again he's looking for The Apprentice (Wed, 9pm, BBC1). Now remember everyone, this is a very desirable position. It's a whole year spent in glamourous Brentwood shadowing fractious Al. Oh yes, just imagine, day upon day that vision of slate grey perma-incredulity, looming towards your desk, angrily fingering a sales spreadsheet, heralding another in-house bumkicking competition with you at centre-stage. Just the thought of this makes my heart soar.
The excitement's the same for Raef, Jenny, Lee, Lucinda and the other wannabes, all shown clomping along with pull-along suitcases and bullish expressions, spouting soundbites full of keywords nicked from the back blurb of isotonic energy drinks.
"110%! That's what's imperative!" yells Raef at the all-boy team, Renaissance during week two's laundry task, "110%!" everyone agrees. Raef is elated. He pushes his Heseltine comb-across hairdo eastward and sits back in his chair confident the troops are roused. Over on the female team, Alpha, Jenny and Lucinda are already squabbling for power. Jenny (flame red hair, boho glasses, outraged face, a lot like Eddi Reader might look just after someone had stolen her banjo) does not tolerate backchat or tardiness. Lucinda (small, seemingly fey, quickly giving way to a default setting of sulky, sob-prone and manipulative) thinks Jenny is a bit of an arse and seeks to destroy her.
No wonder by week two Sir Alan's started ducking out of briefings, preferring to appear by iChat, his wiry face jammed slightly too close to the camera, claiming to have "vital appointments elsewhere". We all know he's lying. In actual fact he's in his pyjama bottoms leafing frantically through CV's hoping to find a real potential apprentice. One quite different to Lindi, 22, who dresses like Mutya Buena playing the Carlisle FM roadshow or Simon, 35, who was in the Royal Artillery Regiment and uses this experience to turn the simplest tasks into world war three by yelling at everyone until his head turns violet.
Or aesthetically beautiful Ian, Lee and Alex who look like the sort of boys you'd normally see stood on a rock clad in Y-fronts pointing out to sea in the Next catalogue. Obviously, I'm confident these men were chosen for their powerhouse business acumen and not simply to make my uterus gurgle every time Frances from Sir Alan's office makes an impromptu dawn phone call and the boys have to run about near naked. I'm confident about this 110%.
I find it genuinely bemusing during the laundry task how many members of the public willingly donate their soiled garments to the plight. As the teams run door to door accompanied with a full BBC1 camera crew, residents run upstairs stripping off bedsheets covered in Marmite and egg and heaven knows what other bleak remnants of the night. Who are these people who rush to their door shouting "Yes please Raef! I know you've no experience of laundry but please take this! Wash my smalls on prime time telly! Please make sure the camera lingers on this odd map-like stain! It can only be a good thing for my social standing!'
Obviously, I won't spoil a moment of week two by revealing the true drama, but be sure Sir Alan isn't a happy man. Sir Alan is a shrewd man. He knows the direct correlation between candidates scrubbing a gusset to Daz doorstep white standards and, erm, their ability to run an international technological empire, or something.
Margaret Mountford, Sir Alan's flunkie, understands this too, her face never shedding its look of disbelieving ire, especially when pants go awol without trace. Poor Margaret, she always reminds me of a stall-holder at a Women's Institute marmalade fete who's found a wasp floating in her prize-winning batch and now needs to kill everybody. I can't imagine this gang will be any less stressful for her. They're all rather rubbish. Luckily, it's all the rubbishness that makes series four such brilliant, unmissable telly.
guardian
