Sugar high

<em>The Apprentice</em> boss is more capricious than ever.

It's series eight, and the troops march into the boardroom. Sugar looks up, vaguely harassed, as though disturbed doing some very important work in his office and not, in fact, in a TV studio in Ealing, having just got his make-up done in a trailer.

He's a fascinating man. The camera men think so too, picking up the faintest of mouth twitches, the smallest crocodilian flicker of the eyes. No-one can keep their eyes off him. He's indomitable. He's never wrong.

In fact I find I can't describe him properly without reference to the Dominican dictator Rafael Leónidas Trujillo. Between 1930 and 1961 he wielded complete power over his people - no-one challenged him. The source of this authority? He was irrational. The more unpredictable and capricious he was, the more insecure his subjects became.

Lord Sugar's fearsome charm resides in an ability to switch something, at random, from the category "things that are really important and obvious" to "things he just doesn't give a shit about". Whichever answer the coin flips to, he presents it with maximum aggression - cue sycophantic scrambling from everyone.

In episode one, the boys were lambasted for spending all their time talking about margins, "and ignoring the product!" They win, however, and suddenly margins were "obviously" the priority all along, idiots. "What went wrong, girls?" "The guys were very focused on their margins," plead the girls. "That's called strategy," comes the smug answer.

Mentioning humble beginnings, once a brilliant way to get Alan Sugar on side, is now apparently out. "I don't want to hear your sob story", is the new line. Now he wants "aggression" in his business partner ("if I want a friend, I'll get a dog") - but be aggressive, and you're " far too shouty".

Not that I feel too sorry for the contestants. It's just that they don't seem to have much of a chance. The formula seems to be: film them saying something (possibly with the off-camera instruction, "Can you just say something obnoxious please? Yep, that's great, yep, like that"), and then show a montage of them doing the opposite, with tuba sounds.

The sneaky rug-pulling tactics are used on us as well. So violently edited is the show that it allows radical plot twists (the team that seemed to get everything wrong wins) - and complete character changes (shrinking violet becomes team bully) - from episode to episode.

Having said that, there are a couple of nicely captured moments in episode two. Jane (Irish, shouty) spotted Maria (another one) asleep in the car. A heaven sent chance. She decided to engineer the situation, stuff of classroom nightmares, where you wake up to find yourself required to participate in a conversation you've missed. Waking Maria, she immediately asked her the (completely out of context) question "So, what do you think about that? I mean, do you have ideas ... or ..." Maria had no answer. It was brilliantly evil - and lead almost directly to Maria getting fired.

Azhar was another highlight. "People describe me as a killer whale of the sea world." That's just a regular killer whale, Azhar. That's not how metaphors work.

I won't go on, because they are indeed fish in a barrel, but then so are we for watching it.

Lord Sugar, Getty images

Martha Gill writes the weekly Irrational Animals column. You can follow her on Twitter here: @Martha_Gill.

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The mizzly tones of Source FM

Drewzy (male, fortysomething) composedly, gently, talks of “time condensing like dew on a damp Cornish window”.

A mizzly Thursday in Falmouth and the community radio presenters Drewzy and the Robot are playing a Fat Larry’s Band single they picked up in a local charity shop. Drewzy (male, fortysomething) composedly, gently, talks of “time condensing like dew on a damp Cornish window”, and selects a Taiwanese folk song about muntjacs co-operating with the rifles of hunters. The robot (possibly the same person using an electronic voice-changer with a volume booster, but I wouldn’t swear to it) is particularly testy today about his co-host’s music choices (“I don’t like any of it”), the pair of them broadcasting from inside two converted shipping containers off the Tregenver Road.

I am told the Source can have an audience of up to 5,500 across Falmouth and Penryn, although when I fan-mail Drewzy about this he replies: “In my mind it is just me, the listener (singular), and the robot.” Which is doubtless why on air he achieves such epigrammatic fluency – a kind of democratic ease characteristic of a lot of the station’s 60-plus volunteer presenters, some regular, some spookily quiescent, only appearing now and again. There’s Pirate Pete, who recently bewailed the scarcity of pop songs written in celebration of Pancake Day (too true); there’s the Cornish Cream slot (“showcasing artists . . . who have gone to the trouble of recording their efforts”), on which a guest recently complained that her Brazilian lover made her a compilation CD, only to disappear before itemising the bloody tracks (we’ve all been there).

But even more mysterious than the identity of Drewzy’s sweetly sour robot is the Lazy Prophet, apparently diagnosed with PTSD and refusing medication. His presenter profile states, “I’ve spent the last year in almost total isolation and reclusion observing the way we do things as a species.”

That, and allowing his energies to ascend to a whole new plateau, constructing a two-hour Sunday-morning set – no speaking: just a mash-up of movie moments, music, animal and nature sounds – so expert that I wouldn’t be surprised if it was in fact someone like the La’s Salinger-esque Lee Mavers, escaped from Liverpool. I’m tempted to stake out the shipping containers.

Antonia Quirke is an author and journalist. She is a presenter on The Film Programme and Pick of the Week (Radio 4) and Film 2015 and The One Show (BBC 1). She writes a column on radio for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 11 February 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The legacy of Europe's worst battle