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.
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.
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.
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.”
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.”