The Apprentice, Hosepipes and Snowboarding Rats

Entertainment News.

Show business.  Series 8 of the The Apprentice returns to our screens soon and the new hopefuls have started to set their rickety stalls out courtesy of a BBC press release.

“Football fan Katie Wright says she will blow her rivals out of the water on the hit BBC show.”

There is no word on whether, in order to win, she’ll also give Sir Alan a good blowing out of the water, or even in the water, or in the toilet or in the stationary cupboard.  She’ll only stop when “He’s Fired!” in her mouth.  That joke is as good as it gets for the whole piece.  You’d best leave now.

This behaviour is highly likely, given that the majority of Apprentice “hopefuls” are vile, egotistical, double-speaking, smug, double-crossing, backstabbing, whores (both male and female).

She will be joined by “ex professional wrestler, Ricky Martin, 26”. 

Nope I didn’t make that up. He regards himself as “the reflection of perfection”.  One assumes he thinks this only while masturbating in the mirror.  And that’s probably all the time.  Judging by the look of the fool, I’d even hazard a guess that his mirrors have a 2inch diameter hole in them, about 3 feet up.  So he can go fuck himself.

The last contestant I’m able to copy quotes from is, “Glaswegian former figure skater, Laura Hogg, 28”.

Expect a wealth of depressing mixed skating puns in the boardroom from the ever-more bafflingly repetitive and two-dimensional, Sir Alan:   “you’re skating on deep water, sunshine”, “hurry up! Get your icy-slide-shoes on, sweetheart” and “I faking hate vile cants like you. Morgan! Get Piers Morgan.  get my pills.  Mother! Mother!”

Or something like that.

Laura says she may be “one of Scotland’s next biggest exports”. 

After The Krankies, child obesity and Alex Salmond.

Now The Weather….

UK basks but hose pipe bans loom……

It’s that time of the year again (ie any time of the year) where the water providers bang their sabres against their dusty,  dried out watering cans, in order to stabilise the already bloated share prices of a commodity which should never be sold for profit to domestic households in the first place.  Even though Severn Trent told everybody it didn’t predict a ban this year, only last month.

Stay with this, people.  It goes in the usual direction in a bit. 

Spraying fleet street with the same soggy press release, this winter was the driest in x years, we are expecting a “record” summer, etc, particularly in the South East of England.   Which is odd to say the least as no-one in london drinks from taps.  On average a Laaandaaaner drinks a bottle of vitamin-volvic every 6.3 seconds.   That’s almost as frequent as the consumption of toffee-nut-lattes, the snaffling of Pret organic falafel wraps, and theshit-eating-smile we give to our landlords while they stretch their ever-expanding pockets.

Keep using water responsibly, carry on as usual and if we really do get into difficulties, they’ll just turn the water mains off for 3 or 4 hours a day. Until that point, keep using the water most of you have ALREADY PAID FOR IN ADVANCE.

Still here? LET’S DO IT! 

There is ongoing talk of piping Scottish water 300 miles south to help-out the drier areas of United Kingdom.  In return, plans are already in place to pipe back Tennants Super and chips.

The Middle East already has another tried and tested solution, which removes the salt from seawater to create drinking water.  Being an Island Nation, saltwater is something we have in clear abundance.  Women up and down the country must be licking their lips with glee at being able to legally ingest huge quantities of liquid saturated in salt ALL YEAR ROUND.

One positive of a possibly switch off, if water mains do get turned off, it’ll give us a chance to live out our Mad Max fantasies: chasing down water tankers, screaming like feral men while hanging off the back of dune buggies waiving razor sharp boomerangs and ipads.

The berserk and thirsty population will drink Britain’s lakes and rivers dry while baracading and fortifying backyard water purification machinery.  We can finally grow mullets without shame and keep brummies on a leash, releasing them only during a high-speed chase behind a coca cola delivery.

Just like the film… Let’s take toilet attendants captive and force them to fight a downs syndrome child for our entertainment in the O2 arena, now renamed the “Cowell Thunderdome”… Adele will be forced at knifepoint to don leather chaps, fish net tights and to apply sixteen cans of hairspray; blacking-up her face to reprise Tina Turner’s shitty cameo as the thunder-thighed Thunderdome’s ringmaster.

Day 738 of the Water War.  The urine tanks are running terribly low.  I’ve never seen them this low, yet still we must guard the precious resource with our lives.  Our tribe drinks continue to beat our own women and children night and day.  The screaming is unbearable, i can’t sleep through the noise, but we need their tears to water the chrysanthemums.

People will go on brutal other TV game shows just to win the opportunity to water their geraniums.  Middle-aged mums, thrown into gameshow ghettos, pursued by supervillians, armed only with an M&S cardigan, a pair of sensible shoes and a hand trowel. “The Running Mum” would be sadistic, ruthless but by-golly, NEVER underestimate a women who’s sweet-pea is withering.

Welcome to a world where super-soakers are revered as weapons of a long-lost civilisation, where people wash in dust baths like birds, where the fashion for spray-shampoo makes a remarkable comeback.  Outside of my bathroom.

Or maybe nothing will happen.  Again.

And Finally

The Metro has a snowboarding rat on it’s front cover – and on two-thirds of page 3, with the other third being an advertisement aimed at sponge-brained retards.

 Good Night.

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