Apprentice Week 5: Handbags And Sadrags

If there’s one thing six series of this Apprentice hooey has taught us all, business is simply about using the phrase “going forward” in as many different situations as humanly possible before passing the buck with the precision of a furious Wayne Gretzky. But fashion was what the candidates were lumped with this week, and they were giddy to be told that they should pack an overnight bag for their sartorial task. Talk of Paris and Milan drifted through the Apprentice townhouse upon waves of Paco Rabanne and hairspray, as they had clearly not listened to Mr Voiceover intoning solemnly every week that these are austere times for the Good Lord. When they were informed that their exotic trip would involve a minbus up the M6 to the glittering lights of Manchester, complete with a night in a Premier Inn, their collective face-dropping made a sound uncannily like the hooting of a million sarcastic viewers. They were charged with choosing two clothing lines to flog to the commoners milling round the Trafford Centre of a Saturday, and the Good Lord anointed Paloma as Apollo’s leader and Liz as Synergy head honcho. Alex immediately sprang to life like a demented shitzu on Team Paloma, offering himself up as both a retail guru who had been schooled by a Professor of Retailing – “retailing” ranking slightly below “Hob Nobs” as the easiest thing in the world to be a professor of – and a Manc insider who knew the Trafford like the back of his zealous little hand, pouncing upon the chance to select a suitable spot for a promotional stand for their shop using his infinite Trafford knowledge. Team Liz were slightly less enthused about the challenge ahead, with Jamie professing negative levels of fashion knowledge and a healthy disregard for the north. “Manchester’s a few years behind London. To get into clubs there, you still have to wear shoes,” he stated regally, temporarily confusing London with the barefoot nirvana from the musical Hair. First order of business for both teams – a lightning tour round some of the hottest designers Shoreditch could puke up, beginning with a very unwelcome visit to Cassette Playa, a preposterous hipster nightmare ejaculated straight out of the fevered balls of Nathan Barley. Cassette drawled that her line was “Future primitive, luxury streetwear”, stopping just short of claiming it was “a bit hot cold” and “kinda BBC4 ITV2″, and attempted to sell Apollo an eye-raping neon graffitied dishcloth for a grand.