I was making my Christmas chutney when the call came in.

"Sir Alan's in town, he can meet you at Ashton Gate at 12.30 tomorrow."

I felt like the poor saps in his show, The Apprentice. Tumble out of bed at 5 am, make a hash of some impossible money-spinning challenge, then meet S'rAlan in the boardroom for a dressing-down.

And if you think he's tough on his TV wannabes, you should see him with reporters. When my colleague in Newcastle asked him about his new role as an "Enterprise Czar", Sir Alan barked: "That's a pretty nasty question...."

So, I left the cranberries to simmer quietly, and grabbed my notebook.

I arrived early at Bristol City's stadium / conference centre, and popped into Al's Tikka Grill up the road for a fortifying cuppa. Inside, everyone had a question for Sir Alan.

"Can he lend us a few bob?" laughed Bob Petrie. Bob's a glazier, been in business 42 years. "Never known it as tough as this," he told me, ruefully. And you know the villain, don't you?

"The banks just aren't playing, still," he tells me. His mate Phil tells the story best. "When a guy who's been in business 42 years goes to his bank for an overdraft, and they say no - after taking his money every week: what's it coming to?"

The trouble is, Sir Alan has form on this. He loves small businesses, yes, but in the Lords last week he used his maiden speech to hit out at 'moaning firms'.

"Government and banks can't just write out blank cheques to anyone who thinks they've got a good idea," he told their Lordships.

Hmmm. Right oh, Bob, I'll try and ask him for you....

Ashton Gate had become a fortress. Years ago, I worked in Manchester and got used to the extreme security at Old Trafford. Bristol City is much more relaxed, on match days. But today, ranks of PR people checked our IDs. A security man escorted me and Andy the cameraman to the Director's Lounge. We both know the way, but we followed politely. Everyone's on edge.

In we go then. The man from the Western Daily goes first, and asks him harmlessly enough about the small firms he's been meeting. What are they asking? What is he saying? Eventually, Sir Alan has had enough.

"Look, the best way for you to find out is to come and listen in this afternoon," he splutters. "Why don't you do that?"

Because your PR people have banned us, Sir Alan, we politely explain. There's a small scene. Sir Alan looks to the PR minder. "Can they come and sit in?"

"Well the problem with press attending the sessions in the past has been..." she starts explaining.

"Right, there's a problem - just say no then," barks Sir Alan.

The well-groomed PR woman continues with polite explanation, but is interrupted.
"No, no, I've overstepped the mark, you can't come in, just tell him no."

It's almost a scene from the show. The interviews, curiously, are much less box-office.

On the recession: "We won't know we've come out until afterwards, it's not that easy to tell."

On making it in business: "Focus on what you're doing. Work out what's going well, and what's not, and do more of what's going well."

It's all a bit, well, ho hum.

Until I ask about those pesky banks.

"It's no good people just relying on anecdotes", he tells me, and I sense this might be a bit more interesting.

"The Federation of Small Businesses tell me the banks aren't lending, and said to them, I deal in facts, not anecdotes. Give me some examples. I met with them in July, and since then they've sent me four. Banks like lending to small businesses, they're full of cash. I just don't believe it."

There's more. Watch for yourself.

For a man who says he's the champion of small business, he's surprisingly defensive of the big banks.

But otherwise, the man who gets TV bosses fired up was, well, about as controversial as a Bristol bank manager.

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It's surely our version of the proverbial coal carpetbagger on Tyneside. Or the aggregates merchant touring Dubai offering a new, finer grain of sand.

Irish cidermakers Magners have got so hot at making cider cool, they've just bought one of Somerset's crown jewels, Gaymers of Shepton Mallet.

This is a story of the brazen nerve of the outsider, and the old business rule of finding the most sacred rule in the book, then smashing it.

A few years ago I was carrying out some intensive research at the Bath & West Show, with the nice folks of the Somerset Cider Brandy company. The Irish were the talk of the tent. Magners had crashed onto our TV screens with funky, dreamy ads. Cider was poured over ice. And if that wasn't bad enough, it was selling like hot cakes.

"They've broken the oldest rule in the book," smiled Julian Temperley, leaning a barrel of his old Burrow Hill brew. "Everyone in the English cider business has always sworn by it: don't mention apples."

He was right. And you can check, right now, with your eyes closed.

Conjure up every cider advert or logo of the past 30 years. What do you see? Bows and arrows. Strong English arms. Even a woodpecker, for goodness' sake.

"Cider has always been sold here as stronger and cheaper than beer," continued Julian, warming to his theme. "Essentially, it's a cheap route for northerners to get merry."

Anyone who knows Julian Temperley won't be surprised by his directness, but he had a point. And he knows his stuff. Just last week, he was awarded a Judges' Award by Radio Four's Food programme.

Magners read this rule book, and smashed it. They came over here and sold their Irish cider with backlit, young, groovy types enjoying a summer vibe. Orchards. Beautiful, rosy apples. It was cosmopolitan, cool, aspirational. Suddenly, every It Bar in town stocked it.

Well, Somerset fought back of course. Gaymers released their own vintage in chic bottles, and used the same "apples are it" marketing style. And it worked. There is, it seems, room for both Gaymers and Magners in the chillers of Europe's bars.

But today, the Irish have bought up the Shepton Mallet Cider Mill. C&C, the company behind Magners, have paid Constellation Wines, the people who own Gaymers, £45m. 250 staff will transfer, and I'm told there is no threat to their jobs.

And here's the irony. It's probably good news for Somerset cider. Gaymers have been owned by a wine group for years now, and Constellation are clear that "the drive is to focus primarily on wine".

Yes, a spokesman assures me, Gaymers will continue as a strong brand. But what a day. A Somerset cider company says it is in stronger health because the Irish have bought it.

The final twist in the tale is in Magners' history. In Ireland they're not called Magners, but Bulmers. Why? Because many years ago, the Herefordshire cider dynasty that is Bulmers set up an Irish offshoot. As happens, it split off after a while and went native. And now the Irish cousins are back here, teaching Somerset cider men how to sell their brew.

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Call them what you like, Urban Splash are no cowboys.

They've become famous for taking the toughest industrial eyesores and transforming them into fashionable apartments, desirable hotels, eye-catching office blocks.

They started out as a few funky young guys in Manchester, trying their hand at the property game. Now, when they give advice on urban regeneration, ministers listen.

Yet today they must wait on tenterhooks for a government bail-out to get them building again.

Why? What's happened to Britain's coolest developers?

"It's not Urban Splash's fault, it's not our customers' fault, it's not even our banks fault," the chairman tells me. "It's the world's fault."

Tom Bloxham has a reputation for straight talking, so I shouldn't be surprised at this. I met the Urban Splash founder and Chairman at an astonishing site in Sheffield, Park Hill.

There's plenty here to stop you in your tracks. Just look at the place. But for me, the amazing thing is the builders.

They are, well, building.

Everywhere else, they've stopped. At Watchet Harbour, in Somerset, plans for the marina development have stalled. Birnbeck Pier, off Weston, has had the Urban Splash hotel/apartment blueprint agreed, but there are no diggers here.

And the biggest mothball of them all is at Imperial House, in Bristol. I've been investigating what's gone on here for Inside Out West, our documentary series on BBC One, and you can read the story here.

But in a nutshell, it's another iconic industrial relic - this time the former offices of Europe's largest cigarette factory at Hartcliffe. And once again, fancy flats were promised - and sold. And a year ago, all evidence of building stopped dead.

People who bought the flats have their lives on hold. They paid deposits of around £8,000, which usually means most of their savings. They expected to be in by this summer, but have now been told it will be 2011 at best.

The odd thing, though, is Urban Splash have sold more than 200 of the 400 apartments. So, crunch or no crunch, surely this project could go ahead?

The problem, as ever, is not sales but debt. The company's latest accounts (which only cover the year ending March 2008) reveal debts of £201m. And total equity in the firm is just over £92m. When property accountants see a debt-to-equity ratio of more than two, their eyebrows start to twitch.

"What you have to do is stop spending money." That's the advice I get from a respected Bristol accountant, Mike Warburton. "Stop building apartments you haven't sold, and even stop building places you have sold. Hang on to your funds."

When you hear that, the silence in Hartcliffe sounds different. Looked at by a banker, the absent crane and the dearth of diggers is a perfect scene. No money is being spent, that debt is getting no bigger. Eventually, people will start buying apartments again on the completed projects, and then the glaziers and joiners will return.

So why, then, is Sheffield a hive of activity? Huge concrete and steel balustrades are being winched into place. The windows are going in. Miles and miles of scaffolding creep up the building like ivy.

But this is government cash - £39m from the Homes and Communities Agency, part of the so-called "Kickstart" programme. Park Hill is deemed a vital community project. It will lift the area, deliver affordable housing, bring jobs. So ministers are backing it.

Lakeshore, as the Bristol project is called, is also waiting for a bail-out. I understand that they've asked for up to £20m, and insiders say the signs are looking good.

"We're very hopeful," insists Tom Bloxham, atop his government-backed 13-storey block in Sheffield. "We're hopeful that very soon you'll see the HCA backing Lakeshore, and work going back on track, and hundreds of jobs coming to Bristol."

Hopeful? I ask. Can you do better than hope?

He shrugs, a little frustrated, you feel. "Look, I wish I was in charge of the economy, of the world situation, but I'm not. All I can say is, ask me next week and I'll be more definitive."

He runs a huge company, built on imagination, enterprise and bankers ready to lend. Now he must wait on Whitehall. Wait to see if his business fits the agenda of ministers and civil servants. Wait, in short, for a bail out from the taxpayer.

Sound familiar?

Have you been caught out by the property crash? I'd love to hear other tales of how the massive fall in flat sales has affected you. Join in the conversation here.

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