The Apprentice Final 2011 - A Look Back

In a similar manner to discussing the best night's out, it seems appropriate to discuss the final episode of the seventh series of The Apprentice the morning after. For many of us, the last twelve weeks have been one long drunken night out, with a series of characters performing acts one only thought possible after racking up a bar tab that'd make Amy Winehouse go a bit pale.

Yesterday's final had me shacked up in front of the box armed with a child-hating Frenchman and a selection of Emergency Biscuits, with a manner of excitement that hasn't been seen since Vincent watched The Three Muskateers for the first time and realised he wasn't alone in this world.

So what happened? Well, in short, Tom won. All the business plans had about as much potential as News International selling pay-as-you-go phones. Suzie demonstrated a similar lack of judgement that plagues many deceased stuntmen. Deep down inside Helen is a party-mad alter-ego trying to escape through an armour of efficiency. And Jim is the scariest thing to come out of Ireland since the IRA.

Series over? Time for some Emergency Champagne.

In my post that ushered in the new series, I proclaimed Tom as my favourite candidate ever. But did I ever think he was gonna win? Not a chance! It would have been as optimistic as the parents of a paraplegic wanting their child to scoop a record haul of medals in the Summer Olympics. The man has the hindsight of Mystic Meg but the get-up-and-go attitude of Johnny Vegas. A combination I doubt Siralan had pinpointed as his 'ideal candidate'.

Yet somehow, in a manner that only a true mad scientist would know how to do, he stumbled his way through 12 weeks of intense scrutiny and somehow made it out the other end with his glasses intact and an ingenious idea. Siralan proclaimed Tom's idea of a chair that eliminates backache would need 'tweaking' but there is potential. I don't think Siralan hired Tom because of the chair. He hired Tom because somewhere, in that brain amongst all the misspelled words and ideas of traffic light apps, there is an amazing idea that could be massive. The same couldn't be said for any of the other three finalists.

One of whom, Jim, the tough-talking Ulsterman who could probably solve the Middle Eastern crisis with an umbrella, totally lost his mojo in yesterday's final.

The man revealed to us all, that he has a heart. It was just the wrong time to do so.

Watching Jim reel off his idea of taking e-learning into schools was very similar to the moment when I watched Luke Skywalker take off Darth Vader's helmet amidst the Death Star's destruction at the end of Return of the Jedi. Underneath all that power and mystical aura, there lies a human after all. Developing a heart and simultaneously trying to lick the faeces out of Siralan's bottom was ultimately Jim's downfall. But not to worry, he'll bounce back during the Clone Wars.

He probably thought he was applying to be Darth Sidious' Apprentice.

Then there was Helen, who has got progressively better looking as the weeks have tumbled. There's a strange attraction in the way she plays down talk of a social life and just seems to tease you with the fact she does nothing all day apart from work. Her idea of starting up a nationwide concierge service was in terms of stupidity, on par with News of the World inviting BT into their offices to check their phone bills. Such was the madness of it all that Siralan was forced to forget that Helen was arguably the strongest Apprentice candidate ever and threw her body onto the mass grave outside the boardroom marked 'rejects'.

There was a moment during last night's final where I thought Suzie had it. Siralan had ripped seven shits out of this woman, yet there she was, still sat at the table with that permanently confused face she wears, in with a chance of winning. Her childish attitude towards business mixed with last night's interviews was TV gold. Her interview technique is best visualised as her riding on an albino donkey, throwing marshmellows to fend off a group of Velociraptors. The verbal undressing she received from Apprentice veteran Claude Littner (who is so evil if you were to cut him he would bleed spiders) should have been censored by the BBFC. Yet she had survived it all, right up until the point where she turned into an Oriental Del Boy and announced she was going to make a million quid in year one. And with that, Siralan pointed her in the direction of the Early Learning Centre and that was the last we heard of Suzie.

So congratulations to Tom and I genuinely wish him a long and successful career, whether it's working with Lord Sugar or on his own (the proposed synergy between him and Suzie that was discussed on 'You're Hired' was quite frankly a disaster waiting to happen). It's nice to see someone who is so utterly charming and bought up with manners win a competition like this, where shouting and swearing are more often than not rewarded.

As Dara O'Briain yelled on You're Hired last night, 'it's a win for the nerds!' In a society that so-closely resembles a school playground's ethos of cliques, it's not often something you hear, so big Chewbacca thumbs-up from me on that front.

Wimbledone

It's not often I write about sport. I spent most of my childhood and teenage years playing the thing and will happily slob in front of Sky Sports for hours yet when it comes to putting sport-based thoughts into words I've never really had an urge.

UNTIL NOW.

Like many other middle-class people, I have enjoyed the Wimbledon fortnight. Armed with pheasant sandwiches and tomato juice (just kidding) I've watched the British quest to emulate the success of Fred Perry disintegrate into anti-Scottish extremism for the umpteenth year in a row. It's great fun watching people's opinion of Andy Murray swing from being the best thing since Hawkeye to him then being as Scottish as Billy Connolly reciting the script of Braveheart eating a deep-fried Mars bar while simultaneously prancing along Hadrian's Wall in a tartan kilt.

But enough of Friday's disappointment, today saw the crowning of a new champion. Novak Djokovic out-Nadaled Nadal essentially. It was a fantastic display from the ice-cold Serb, as he made Nadal play every point, something Nadal probably doesn't expect when he whips his devilishly accurate cross-court forehand on every other point. The second set was a masterclass from Djokovic, racking up 13 winners on his way to putting one hand on the trophy. It's often not particularly pretty from Djokovic, who is usually quietly efficient in the way he dispatches his opponents, yet today he came up against someone in a similar mould and stepped up when it mattered. It was a fine display, and it is a rivalry I look forward to watching for many years to come.

Djokovic's bear hug was a particularly useful method of beating opponents.

Elsewhere we saw a new star in the women's game emerge. I'd be interested to know the last time we had two brand new Wimbledon champions, so if anyone could find that stat for me, then it'd be rewarded with a virtual pat on the back. Petra Kvitova is going to be a serious force to be reckoned with. The way she hits the ball is Williams-esque, and what with Williams brothers finally reaching the status of mortality, there is definitely a space to be filled at the top of the women's tennis. Wozniacki is lacking in mettle and some of the European players like Clijsters and Schiavone are about as consistent as an old person's bowel movements.

We saw a huge improvement from Maria Sharapova in this tournament, suggesting her best chance of emulating her early success lies on grass. I just wish she would shut up. You'd have thought any kind of screaming coming from Sharapova would be erotic at least. Wrong. It's a sound you wince at, like the sound of a bear crying when it gets shot. Which is anything but sexy. And as for Azarenka, I thought noises like that only occurred during Halloween, but the howling Belorussian made me question my belief that banshees and other mystical creatures were merely the stuff of fairytales. Get some gaffer tape love, tie it over your face and be quiet so we can enjoy the tennis with the sound on.

Searching for Sharapova on Google Images is an enjoyable experience.

And now we get to Murray. Who like the mints he shares his name with is just a disappointment.

I don't really have a problem with the man. Sure he's said a few jokey things about England's World Cup opponents, but then several centuries of heads on spikes will pay testament to the frosty relations between England and Scotland. If we want Chris Hoy, we're gonna get Andy Murray too. And lets face it, who else have we got? Britain's number 4 is probably just some tramp who found a tennis racquet and enjoys beating pigeons with it.

On Friday Murray got completely schooled. He got a lesson from Nadal. He wasn't the first to be taught a lesson by the magical Spaniard and he certainly won't be the last. During the French Open and Wimbledon, Nadal has not played to his absolute best, a factor that will make the defeat even more difficult to take for Murray as many believed Nadal was there for the taking.

All seemed to be going so well. The crowd was excited, it'd been about four days since a Murray tantrum and Andrew Castle was practically calling the Scotsman a Wimbledon finalist. All it took to turn it all back into usual British disappointment was a missed forehand. He was 2-1 up at 15-30, when the ball bounced for an inviting and easy forehand. Instead, Murray sent it a few inches long, leading to long sighs, some tutting and Harry Redknapp making claims his 'nan could've done better'.

After that, we saw why there is still a gulf between Murray and the top three of Djokovic, Nadal and Federer. When Djokovic lost the third set tie-break to Jo-Wilfried Tsonga in the first semi-final despite having two chances to get to his first Wimbledon final, did we see him miss a string of forehands? Like hell we did! The Serbian came out in the fourth set, tore Tsonga a new arsehole and wrapped everything up as though the third set was just a figment of people's imagination.

If tennis fails, Murray is going to start doing impressions of Professor X.

When Murray missed an opportunity, it haunted him like he'd been cursed by a court side witch. It is encouraging to see significant improvements in Murray's mental game, but he still doesn't possess the steely resilience needed to make that final step and fulfil his potential. If he can sort this out like he's sorted out the tantrums, then he has the shots in his arsenal to get that first Grand Slam.

Because there's no shame in losing to a player like Nadal, who is probably the finest human being to ever hold a tennis racquet. The combination of athleticism, never-say-die attitude and a selection of quite frankly, ridiculous shots mean that only Björn Borg is in the same league as the man from Mallorca. While his performance today was fragmented to say the least, this is probably the first time in a good few years at Wimbledon that Nadal has wobbled. And compared what us Brits have had to endure over the last few Wimbledons, we'd happily sacrifice Greg Rudseski to Imhotep if we could have some of what the Spanish were having.

Away from the actual tennis, we saw a flawless performance from the ball boys and line judges alike. Well, I say line judges, fortunately for them they have a pretty swanky computer system to help them out if they turn up to the courts after a few too many Pimms. I've never understood why they ask old people to be line judges at these tournaments. For one, if I am to go by what my nan is like, then old people can barely see who's playing, let alone work out if that 130mph serve clipped the line or not. And another point, I often find myself cringing when some Eastern European powerhouse sends a supersonic serve arrowed straight for the middle line judge's forehead, only for said 60 year-old man to have to dislocate a hip in order to dive out the way of the ball. Why not just get a more mobile, better sighted set of judges and let the oldies sit in the shade so they don't wind up like over-ripe prunes.

And finally, how long is it going to be before the roof on Centre Court stops being the 'engineering miracle of the 21st Century' and starts being a roof? Everytime rain is threatened, I swear Sue Barker and co. start nursing a semi in anticipation of the roof sliding over Wimbledon's flagship court. It's as though the roof (which is so ugly the design team might as well have drawn a moustache on the Mona Lisa to finish off their quest to ruin everything beautiful) turns the BBC team into cavemen. I'm waiting for the day Tim Henman steps out of the commentary box and starts bowing before it, proclaiming 'IT STOPS THE WRATH OF THE CLOUDS AND TURNS NIGHT INTO DAY!'

It's a roof guys, honestly I know it seems farfetched, but most of us have had them since the dawn of man.