I was standing outside my house the
other day, when an unkempt, wild-eyed man, dressed in official BBC
morning knitwear, thrust a battered cardboard box of VHS videotapes
into my hands.
“Watch these. You will know what to
do,” he said.
Moments later I saw him being bundled
into a car with blacked-out windows, which screeched away from the
curb in a cloud of tire smoke.
I took the box indoors. When I finally
got around to viewing the tapes a few months later, I found that they
contained clips from Reality TV shows.
The man was wrong; I did not what to do
with them. I have transcribed the footage and posted it online in
the hope that someone on the internet will know.
Also, if the person who gave me the
tapes is reading this and wants them back, could you please get in
touch. If I don't hear from you by the end of May, I will take them
down to the charity shop.
MASTERCHEF
Peter (obviously lying): “When
I turned eight years old, instead of asking my parents for balloons
at my birthday party, I asked them for a balloon whisk!”
Gregg Wallace: “And what are
you whipping up for us today Peter?”
Peter: “Sausage Pâté.”
~
Andrew: “Today John, I will be
cooking using ingredients that I foraged from my back garden: A
lawnmower, some potting compost, a shard of a terracotta flower pot,
and next-door’s cat.
John Torode (aside):
“I don't know about Andrew's main. A lawnmower and a
terracotta flower pot? Those are both strong flavours. I can see them
working against each other and maybe even overpowering the other,
more subtle ingredients.”
Gregg Wallace (aside):
“But I'll tell you what, John. If Andrew gets his flavour
combinations just right, it'll be genius served up on a rectangular
slab of Welsh slate, with the sauce in a tiny white jug on the side.
Later...
John Torode: “Andrew: I can't
taste next-door's cat. I feel like we should be putting up missing
posters for it.”
Andrew
bursts into man-tears. He retreats to his happy space in the kitchen,
where he attempts to blind himself with a sugar tuile, so that he
might never again have to gaze upon a poorly-conceived lawnmower
rosti in a flowerpot and compost reduction, with tabby mash.
THE APPRENTICE
Paul: “Lord Sugar: Instead of
literally firing me, I urge you to load me into your troubleshooting
gun and fire me at the problem of your choosing. I promise that I
will strike your target with pinpoint accuracy. Unlike other
man-bullets who pass through a problem, causing minimal damage, I am
the type of human ammunition who ricochets randomly around inside a
problem, like a concussed bluebottle attempting to escape from a
greenhouse, not stopping until I have utterly obliterated everything
in my path.
“Lord Sugar, with me you will be
spared the expense of the 'two shots to the chest, one to the head'
school of troubleshooting, which the writers of CSI would have us
believe is the watermark of the professional contract killer. With me
Lord Sugar, it's always one shot, one kill. Job done.”
Later, inevitably...
Lord Sugar: “I took a chance
on you Paul. I loaded you into my troubleshooting gun, just as you
requested. Instead of hitting the target you strayed very wide of the
mark and wounded Karren Brady in the shoulder. Now I'm down one
advisor which means that any decision I make will be 50% less
accurate.”
(to the other candidates) “Right
I want the rest you to go back to the house. I'll see you on the next
task. Nick I want you to give me a 4 letter word beginning with
“cunt” and then I want you to write it in capital letters on
Paul's forehead with this Montblanc pen.”
~
Lord Sugar: “Jeninne: Explain
to me why I shouldn't fire you. And I don't want to hear a sob story
about how you grew up on a council estate with your five sisters and
survived on tinned fish fingers.”
Jennine: “Well, because, like
you Lord Sugar, I'm self-made. Nothing's been handed to me. I grew up
on a council estate with my five sisters. We were so poor we had to
eat fish fingers out of tins. Also, Lord Sugar, there's so much of me
that you haven't seen. Part of my strategy coming into this process
was to reveal different parts of myself to you in reverse
alphabetical order. You haven't seen my armpits or my arse yet.”
Nick Hewer (checking his notes):
“But you showed Lord Sugar your arse a few weeks ago. None of us
were particularly impressed by it.”
Jennine: “That was a mistake
on my part. I meant to show you my elbow but I got confused and
showed you my arse instead. But, Lord Sugar I have so much potential.
I'm begging you, give me one more opportunity to show you my arse
again.”
MAN VS. FOOD
Adam Richman: “This 16oz
rib-eye steak, served with jalapeño peppers, onions, and a
haystack-sized portion of All American 9/11 Freedom Fries has bested
me at Scrabble.”
Bill Oswald-Kennedy (Restaurant
Proprietor): “Your
failure to captilize on triple-word scores has earned you a place on
the wall of shame of my dining establishment, which has served
artery-clogging food to the people of New Jersey since 1987. The
record of your defeat at the hands of the superior board-gaming abilities of my
signature dish will stand as a permanent reminder that man's greatest
adversary is his own hubris.”
Adam Richman: My dishonour is
complete. The stain of my failure will darken the crotch of my family
trousers for 1000 years.”
The Ghost of Alan Richman's Japanese
Forefather: “Adam San. The restless spirits of your ancestors
have grown weary of your inability to defeat large portions of food
in simple games of skill, for ages 4 and up.
Adam Richman: “Ahhh.”
DEAL OR NO DEAL
Noel Edmonds: “The
banker says that you all owe him £16000. If you don't pay up before the
end of the show he'll foreclose on your mortgages... STOP FUCKING
CRYING MARGARET!”
EVERY FUCKING TV
REALITY SHOW EVER
“I'm doing this for my grandfather,
who I murdered. This morning.”
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