The Apprentice is a show that is uniquely watched solely by the kinds of people who think they would win The Apprentice. They are convinced that they could outgame all of the other people whose only education in business is watching The Apprentice. In a certain way, it’s probably best that this is how it’s worked out. Imagine if everyone who watched Hannibal was also a cannibal. Imagine if your friends spoke solely in faux-therapeutic language and thought that lung was actually the thing to serve at a dinner party, and would sit there beaming and proud as you poked something that has the texture of mousse and the spongey consistency of sponge. Is this what being a grown-up means, you think, as you push lung around your plate. Sitting at a dinner with a cannibal trying to choke down the lung of some guy who sung a note wrong because, oh, the irony, that’s important. There’s only one kind of irony here, and it’s the taste of the blood in the –

What is it? A single, ensuite room in a house share. The ensuite is designed for a two-dimensional stick-figure person. It is a wardrobe with plumbing.

The shower is so tiny, so narrow, that even a moderately enthusiastic episode of Onanism will give you bruises on your elbows. Luckily there’s not even room to fall over in there, so you can just let your legs give out and slump, standing, in the spray of the water.

If you told me this shower was actually a secret entrance to the Batcave, and that you could get in, cross your arms, say “Go go Batman power” and be dropped into a chute that yeeted you out into a secret hideout: I would believe you. I would climb in there and say those words with my whole chest.

Where is it? Kersal, in Salford. It’s just in the crook of the Irwell, which winds down towards –

Isn’t this Manchester rental opportunity of the week? Listen. Listen. Come here. Let me cradle your sweet, soft face in my rough, Northern hands. Listen to me. Manchester is like London. Remember? I literally said this last week. There is a ‘City of Manchester’. Is all of London ‘The City of London’? No. No it isn’t. If Orpington counts as London, if fucking Barking, which is in Essex, is part of London, then Salford counts as Manchester.

Okay, shit, sorry. So what is there to do locally? Nothing. Catch a bus into Manchester city centre.

But you just said -: Fine! There’s…green spaces. People like green spaces, right?

What am I paying? £650 per calendar month, at least to start. However, I think it’s fair to assume that at some point the landlord is going to sit at your kitchen/boardroom table and offer to negotiate with you. You’re going to look across the table at someone who owns the building you live in; owns the room you’re sitting in; owns, for some reason, this cast-off prop from season 1 of The Apprentice and you are going to realise that he thinks he’s Alan Sugar.

He wants to negotiate. He thinks that there’s an Art to the Deal. He thinks that walking away with more of your money will prove that he is a superior negotiatior, that in this battle of wits he has triumphed. He will not consider for a moment that he is holding over your head the threat of there no longer being a roof. Over your head.

Anyway. Snap this one up today. It’ll be more tomorrow.