Thursday, May 04, 2006
No Tulips For Alan's Plan
I came to The Apprentice late. But I've been watching it for long enough. Long enough to feel great pleasure watching that plump chump, red coat, Paul Tulip get nailed last night after his first boardroom face to face with Sir Alan Sugar.
When I first saw this guy - during the flight advertisement episode - I thought he was in his mid thirties. He then seemed to get progressively younger as the episodes rolled on, late twenties, mid twenties, early twenties. If he had stayed any longer - you have might have been excused for thinking he'd have been Buntering around with a school cap on his head and a catapult hanging from his shorts by the last task, before demonstrating a bandy-legged, milky stained romper suit totter and a face full of mashy rusks for the interview stages.
Week after week he escaped the mauling he so deserved, by either sneaking through on the winning team, or drawing on his blokish, cheeky chap chipperese to win over undiscerning punters and steal yet another dubious win and the shield it gave him from scrutiny. The chinks were there, but the format bailed him out again and again. Full of pompous nonsense about being the best candidate in the programme, the house, the world, it was quite plain to me that he was seriously deluded, but all those 'wins' fuelled that delusion and somehow actually made him favourite to be hired.
By the time our Paul had been structure interviewed by Sir A's trusted henchmen he was exposed - not before time - as a shallow chancer. Once these facts were reported back to the straight talking no-nonsene Sir A, he could hardly wait to send him packing. And he went with barely a whimper.
I am deeply satisfied.
When I first saw this guy - during the flight advertisement episode - I thought he was in his mid thirties. He then seemed to get progressively younger as the episodes rolled on, late twenties, mid twenties, early twenties. If he had stayed any longer - you have might have been excused for thinking he'd have been Buntering around with a school cap on his head and a catapult hanging from his shorts by the last task, before demonstrating a bandy-legged, milky stained romper suit totter and a face full of mashy rusks for the interview stages.
Week after week he escaped the mauling he so deserved, by either sneaking through on the winning team, or drawing on his blokish, cheeky chap chipperese to win over undiscerning punters and steal yet another dubious win and the shield it gave him from scrutiny. The chinks were there, but the format bailed him out again and again. Full of pompous nonsense about being the best candidate in the programme, the house, the world, it was quite plain to me that he was seriously deluded, but all those 'wins' fuelled that delusion and somehow actually made him favourite to be hired.
By the time our Paul had been structure interviewed by Sir A's trusted henchmen he was exposed - not before time - as a shallow chancer. Once these facts were reported back to the straight talking no-nonsene Sir A, he could hardly wait to send him packing. And he went with barely a whimper.
I am deeply satisfied.
// posted by garroo @ 5:31 pm 
