So long Sophocles!

You have to smile at the self-delusion that sums up this year's candidates. It really is quite something. Yes, Michael has gone. His glimmers of brilliance, as he puts it, so cruelly snuffed out by Surallun’s finger of doom. Was it a surprise? No. Was it three weeks too late? Hell yeah! In fact, last night I got the distinct impression that The Big Man was actually quite embarrassed that he had been seduced by those big old doe eyes, cunningly duped into thinking that Sophocles 'had something about him'. Hmm. What exactly was that 'something'? Nick? Margaret? Anyone?

And while I should be dancing my little victory dance, flicking 'Vs' at the telly and generally trumping about how fabulous it is that the little weasel has gone, I feel strangely empty. It wasn't like I thought it would be – Michael was a broken man. In fact the minute that Raef went, it was all downhill. He was the Rhett to Michael’s Scarlet, the Fagin to his Oliver. Without him, Michael had no one to understand him, to play yoghurty games with …or to blame.

Back to the task. Luxury cars. Sell them to rich city boys. Sorted. Or so you would think. What seems painfully straightforward to us normal folk is like deciphering a particularly tricky Mensa conundrum to the candidates. Devoid of all common sense, it was always going to be a challenge. Both teams picked two of the cars, Alpha went for the tippetty top car, the Zonda and a mid-price Aston Martin while Renaissance opted for the Spyker and a sexy, red Ferrari.

Claire sold like the big, brassy saleswoman that she is, Helene skulked about firing off 'corporate speak' at anyone who would listen and selling so softly that no one realised they were being sold to and so she didn’t actually sell anything. PM Michael generally appeared listless and sulky and proceeded to sabotage his way through the task by opting to sell his car at that famous 'rich man's playground,' Portobello Street market. Aided by the rubbish, the shrill cry of the fruit and veg man and the stink of the greasy spoon caff, he managed to give one poor fellow nightmares with his buy-or-be-damned-forever sales approach. Result: zero sales.

Over on Alpha, the testosterone was positively oozing out of Lee. "Thas' wot I'm talking aaaabaaaaaaht" he cawed as he revved the engine of the Zonda. However cringe-worthy, that kind of boisterous enthusiasm was clearly needed in that task. Alex sold well, closing the lion's share of the deals but I was silently fuming at Lucinda's lack lustre performance.

Ok, she's not a saleswoman but PM Lee blatantly pushed her to one side to concentrate on perfecting his sales prowess with Alex. However, rather than try and prove them wrong, she whined and whinged. Lucky for her, Alex and Lee collectively made £11K compared to Renaissance's paltry £2K so she was spared a roasting although Sir A was on fighting form with the old sound bites and offered her a spade with which to dig herself an even bigger hole. Touché.

But for the losing team, it was actually quite painful viewing. The word 'begging' springs to mind, except it wasn't Michael's begging that made me wince, it was Helene's. Surallun was inches from firing her, it was only when the scales fell from his eyes that he realised he would look a right berk if Sophocles was to slip through again and the decision was made.

So one more down, five to go. My absolute fave task is next week: the interview stage where we really will see whose flowery CV will land them in hot water. I'm a bit gutted that I won't get to see Michael enter the coliseum and be ripped to shreds but I'll live. And judging from the trailer for next week, we get to see Lee's pterodactyl impression again. Now that's entertainment.