"No! Not Simon!"

"Oh My Word!" You're thinking - "Sir Alan chose a puppy!"

"Now, don't be cheeky and say he got rid of a dog last week! And no I don't have my (or any) tail between my legs, nor am I clearly as barking as some imagine..."

Interviewer: "Bitch?"


"Oh - I see...Anyway, the more observant of you will have spotted from last week's teaser that Sir Alan nodded over to his right when he uttered his 'You're Hired! - the quick-fingered spread-betters amongst you may even have made a tidy profit from that observation as the teams filed into the boardroom this week."

"The look of melting, avuncular pride on Sir Alan's face as he hired Simon, was almost as priceless as Simon's simpleton-canine yelping as he took the news. Nowhere near as malevolently satisfying as the crushed 'Oh-Bollocks-I'm-So-Past-It-and-This Was-My-Last-Chance' sidelong rictus of Kristina at the very same moment..."

"So, a puppy it is for Sir Alan. I wager there'll be a fair few poo-poos on the boardroom carpet before long."

"Anyway, we all know who the real winner of this series is and I'm off for a fag and a bottle of sherry..."

The Finale / "Spunk and Balls"

So, the finale - or should I say anti-climax (no that's not something rude involving your parents' sisters) - this evening.

Of course, I already know which of The Incapables (as I like to call them) has won and I'll give nothing away, but will say that neither the über-orange Kristina or that feckless mummy's boy, Simon, strike me as deserving of anything beyond middle-management obscurity. They simply lack the spunk and balls required to really make it in business. I know all about spunk and balls - having both in abundance.

Will I watch the show with any regret, troubling myself that I made my exit a week too early, that I was hoist by my own petard?


When Simon is back where he belongs - pretending to be an internet whiz, but surfing for smut all day long no doubt as his mortgage-payers snooze on his sofa - and Kristina implodes under the strain of life well outside her league, I'll probably be signing my latest contract with Sky One - probably the only station who can afford me.


"Sacked / Minted"

"Yes - I've been relieved of my day job and frankly I couldn't care two hoots. Or even one, for that matter. Now that I've worked my way into the country's affections - or in a few cases, seem to have turned people against me, something I really don't understand - I think bigger and brighter things must surely be on the horizon."

"Or if not bigger and brighter things then at least a shit load of cash and access to some testosteroney alpha-male business leaders for me to attach myself to like a Sloaney parasite. Ha Ha!"

"OK, so I wasn't earning £90,000 a year really, but you know, you have to tell a few fibs to make a few quid these days - I was only doing what's best for my family (if not anyone else's...) Everyone knows that you never start earning real money until you give the impression that you're absolutely minted."

Interviewer: "So, would you say you're absolutely minted yet?"

"Well - not absolutely minted but certainly a half pack of Polos and well on the way to a bumper pack of After Eights..."


"I'm not saying I will deliberately pick on a married man. But at my age, and the level of man I go for, they don't tend to be single."

That's a quote from the latest 'reveal-all' with my beloved gutter press - willing dupes in my fast-accelerating plan to cream off a few million, which I intend to employ as a war fund for my next husband-seducing endeavours.

I think I'll be aiming for someone a little higher profile this time round.

I mean these chappies I've allowed into my drawers thus far were alright for at that stage of my 'ascension', but now that I've arrived at my proper place in the larger public consciousness, I feel I owe it to myself to acquire a partner who corresponds to my, uhm, rather grandiose ambitions. I'm naming no names, but all I'll say is:

"Watch out Cherie! Watch out Samantha!'

Mission accomplished

"Is it credible that I would spend '11 weeks' debasing myself alongside these plebeians and middle-brow low-achievers only to realise at the very end that I couldn't commit to the job?"

"Well, er, frankly - yes!"

"I mean look at the completely plausible expression of sincerity I mustered on the BBC breakfast show, when I averred that, 'I went there to win the apprentice. I went to work for Sir Alan and that's what I wanted'.

"You'll notice I used the word, 'aver' there. That's a word that clever people like me use to say, erm, 'say'."

"Anyway. Mission accomplished. Does anyone have Max Clifford's number?"


"Some people suggest I have been a little harsh in my observations about Northerners. Let me be absolutely clear - I bear no ill-will towards Northerners, so long as they don't venture away from their hovels in the North."

"Cloth caps, clogs, whippets, black puddings and the like are all well and good so long as they never appear on the streets of Budleigh Salterton. There again, I might consider having one of those Northern chappies placed in the stocks to be pelted with the discarded fruit from the Pimm's jugs at our summer fête."

"Summer fête over and the fruit-bespattered Northerner dispatched back to his benighted province, I'll probably slip away to romp in a meadow with my best friend's husband. Or, son, perhaps."

"'Fruit-bespattered'. Gosh! How awfully clever and colourful is my use of language..."


"Well, how frightfully cheeky!"

Honestly! I'm really rather baffled by the level of vitriol my appearance on 'The Apprentice' has provoked.