Peter Jones

Look, I know the nature of Dragon’s Den is for the people with shedloads of money to be incredibly rude to the people with very little money. I also know that the current TV zeitgeist requires the public to be pitted against each other for the promise of a big cash prize, fame and fortune, or, in this case, megabucks of investment, and that this necessitates humiliation and nationwide belittlement. But it still doesn’t excuse Peter Jones from being a monumental cunt.

Sporting a look which suggests a tramp has just shat on his breakfast and a sneer which could turn milk into custard at a hundred yards, he sits primed like an insectoid millionaire, frowning at terrified individuals who, for some inexplicable reason, want to be like him. You half expect him to bolt up and launch his giant gangly frame at some unsuspecting entrepreneur, beating him violently to death with his swivel chair while struggling to see through a red mist with the viscosity of tomato soup, eventually being pulled off by the other “dragons” (and that weird fucker with the googly eyes who presents the show) with cries of “Peter, no! Not again! You're right, his three-year projection is fundamentally flawed with an over-optimistic estimate of supply costs but he’s not worth doing time for!”


His profile on the show's intro tells us that he set up his own tennis academy at 16. What sort of cunt starts their own tennis academy at 16? When I was 16, I was playing computer games, drinking Woodpecker cider and agonising about how I was going to get Katie Jones to fancy me.


Occasionally, his look of smugness and incredulous disdain dissipates when one of his victims descends the stairs with their dreams in tatters and a metaphorical size 14 shoe branded into the arse of theirTesco suit, and he delivers a little pun, typically something to do with the nature of the presentation he’s just witnessed. 'I hope he doesn’t reach boiling point,' he might quip to the other "dragons" after someone’s tried to flog their idea for a new range of saucepans.


Oh hardy-fucking-har, Peter. Maybe if you’d spent more time making friends in school and developing a sense of humour instead of setting up fucking tennis academies, it would have progressed beyond the level of a ten-year-old. Cock.