WHEN someone who is not taking strong medication says in all seriousness: “Don’t tell me the sky’s the limit, when there are footsteps on the moon” it can only mean one thing... The Apprentice (BBC1, Tuesday, this week only, and Wednesdays, 9pm) is back. Yay!

Love it or hate it, this is event telly. Not since a certain couple tied the knot the other week have so many people been talking about what’s on the box.

Prokofiev’s Dance of the Nights dum-de-dum-de-dumming out of the speakers as the trademark aerial shots sweep over a convoy of big gleaming motors driving through a sexed-up London is your first call to drop everything.

The ensuing profusion of sharp suits, sharp elbows, straightened hairdos, suitcases on wheels and shots of Lord Shugster of Amstradshire staring wistfully into a brave new future, confirm it’s a major phone-off-the-hook moment.

What I was praying for was a bunch of deluded losers who believed they were winners, à la Charlie Sheen, yet with this being the seventh series and everything, I wondered if they could possibly maintain the sort of momentum that gave us Baggs the Brand.

My prayers were immediately answered though in the shape of Melody Hossaini, the woman responsible not just for that majestically pretentious quote about the footsteps and the moon, but for the best piece of career showboating in the history of the world – ever.

Deadpan and in her strange voice that makes her sound like a female version of Boycie off Only Fools and Horses, and which is already becoming annoying, she declared: “I have worked with 12 Nobel Peace prizewinners in over 100 countries. I was once trained by Al Gore, and personally taught by Desmond Tutu and the Dalai Lama.” Blimey. And there was me thinking that my Robert Burns poetry-reciting award was a CV showstopper.

Then there was Northumbrian Helen who joylessly announced: “My social life and my personal life don’t mean anything. I was born to work”... at sucking a lemon 24/7 judging by her pained expression.

Vincent Disneur, a man who describes himself as vivacious and ‘the best in breed’ in his business told us what an amazing chap he was, then, winking to camera, added that he also happened to be very good looking.

To a hungry lion, perhaps.

Tom, a faux-geeky inventor, who cites Thomas Edison as his icon, was the only candidate with any perceivable sense of humour so far, but even he said: “Behind these glasses is a man of steel.” Or some such tosh.

Gavin and Ellie seemed relatively normal – for now – and Jim, whose background includes helping his dad run a chippy in Northern Ireland is my tip to win, though with 12 weeks of apprenticing in store, anything could and will happen.

So far, so good.

The voiceovers were classic Apprentice – all forced gravitas and tongue-in-cheek statements.

“The money is on the table, the boss is in the boardroom . . .” etc.

And Shug himself, resembling Nooky Bear more than ever, was on top form, spouting all manner of nonsensical soundbites, mixed metaphors and general drivel.

“Ah’m offerin’ you the business deal of the decade. What ah’m lookin’ for is the entrepreneurial elite. Sick of the moaning culture, humble background, hard work, blah, blah.”

Said deal of the decade was £250,000 to the winner and his Lordship as a business partner.

“Ah don’t wan’t no sleepin’ partner, mind,” warned the great grizzled one.

“Ah won’t be doin’ all the work. In fact this will be an uncivil partnership so to speak.” He looked especially pleased with that last one.

Nick and Karen oversaw the proceedings with their customary repertoire of rolling eyes, nodding heads and disbelieving expressions.

But try as they might, no one can do killer raised eyebrows quite like the mighty Margaret, who is still greatly missed, at least by me.

Episode one’s star loser was Ed, in every sense. An accountant with an accountancy phobia, he was out to prove that people who add and subtract for a living are not boring.

He rolled with the punches, he spoke in Twitter-style sentences, he thrust himself forward as project manager, and wore the obligatory silly net hat while cocking-up the fruit-based task so before you could say ‘you’re fired’, he was walking the walk of shame into the taxi, muffler riding high to hide his trembling bottom lip and toting all his hopes and dreams in a little wheelie case.