Is this an orange?

So the Apprentice is back.  I’ve missed a few series, but I sat down last night and have now added it to my Sky+ recording schedule for hangover / post-Easties viewing.  Where do they find these people? I know it’s a fairly obvious question to ask, but nobody seems to be able to answer it for me or point me in the direction of anyone like them. 

Do people really exist who work for a ‘major accounting firm’ yet cannot identify an orange?  I’d understood that the orange had been commonplace in household fruit-bowls for a few hundred years now, but perhaps that’s a middle-class delusion. 

Perhaps my familiarity with the citrus family is down to my comfortable upbringing or due to my unusual surname.  Perhaps I’m being unfair and nobody has ever sat down with last night’s loser Edward and explained to him what an orange looks like, or told him how good it tastes.

I don’t believe for a second, however, that nobody has ever told him that he is a mouthy little tw@t.

In fact, I’m quite sure that each and every one of the contestants has, at some point or other, been told in no uncertain terms that their very presence is offensive.  Yet still.  There they are.  On my tv.  Telling me they’re the best.  Making me record them out of morbid fascination.

I am better than all of them.  Which does not necessarily make me a good business woman or a fantastic person to get stuck in a lift with.  But I am definitely better than them.  And, the likelihood is, so are you.  You know what time breakfast is right?

I would go on The Apprentice myself were it not for the fact that I have a (slightly) more reasonable self-image than they do.  I understand that my prowess as a sales-woman at the Brownies annual jumble sale does not make me the next Alan Sugar, and the fact that people do not vomit when they pass me in the street does not make me good-looking enough for television. 

I’m sure some of you will defend them, as they do themselves in the ‘Boardroom’, by referencing their successful sandwich businesses or invention for a nail-file (now available in Boots).  But if they are such fantastic entrepreneurs, why do they need Lord Alan? 

If it’s for the 6-figure salary, then they will have been sorely disappointed when he changed the goal-posts last night, offering a prize of a measly £250,000 injection into a business that they will have to partner with him.  LOL.  Did you see their faces?  I saw tears.

Anyway…I will be tuning in tonight for the next instalment….

Stuff I liked this week

Bit geeky.... http://flowingdata.com/2010/12/30/the-joy-of-stats-available-in-its-entirety/

Not unrelated….this guy presents data about himself in a beautifully designed annual report: http://feltron.com/

Fat Bottomed Girls

So I’ve been cycling to work since Christmas.  I haven’t managed the 5 times a week that I listed in my new year’s resolutions.  But I definitely cycle at least a couple of times a week and sometimes three times. 

So far it’s going quite well.  I am not ashamed to admit that I am a little bit out of shape and that my short ride from Stockwell to London Bridge tires me out a little. When I initially started to cycle, my face-colour on arrival at work was akin to a surprised, embarrassed Ribena berry.  Now it is more like that of a toddler’s face, post-tantrum, complete with snot.

Boris’ magic blue road takes me more-or-less door to door and every morning (well..those mornings when I cycle) I come to the end of my road and plunge head-first into the hoard of cyclists on their commute. 

There is a kind of natural order of things on the road.  It’s a bit like the mosh-pit at a rock concert – you can start out right at the front, but unless you’re really determined to stay there, you will inevitably end up further and further back, depending on your love of the band and your attitude to personal space. 

Similarly, if you are cycling, you can stay at the front of the pack if you are super-fit, riding a racing bike and in a hurry.  I am none of these things and therefore happily pedal along in the middle, ahead of the elderly and those whose drainpipe jeans are restricting their movement / blood circulation.  I amble along behind those with fixies, shiny lycra outfits and, if I have anything to do with it, boys with big muscular bottoms.

There’s always one though isn’t there?  Someone with (as my brother would put it) all the gear and no idea.  Or someone who just wants to beat you.  There is one such girl who I come across a couple of times a week.  She usually turns up just by Stockwell station before embarking on a valiant campaign of overtaking, slowing down to the pace of a snail with a stitch, forcing me to overtake her and then overtaking me again. 

She is very small and feeble.  Each time she overtakes me, I have to force back my laughter as I watch her determined head bobbing up and down whilst her weak little chicken legs furiously pedal her enormous bike in front of me.  Within seconds of reaching her goal, she begins to flag and I find myself close enough to tickle her massive mud-guards.  And so we continue. 

What makes it particularly amusing is that I know what is going through her head each time she fires up the engines.  The same thing that is going through my head when Michelle McManus’ fatter sister is waddling along in front of me, her bike actually creaking with the effort of supporting  her…

…. “I can take her….I can take her.”

But I have quickly learnt that you must never under-estimate the power of the lard-ass.  In a triumph of natural engineering, underneath that mass of wobbling flesh is a pair of thighs which have been trained to bear and ferry a weight up to 10 times their size.  A little bit of cycling is a welcome break to the every-day load-bearing duties. 

Oh yes – Freddie Mercury knew what he was talking about – in the cycling world, as indeed in many spheres, Fat Bottomed Girls are the way forward.

Stuff I liked this week

You won’t find me in here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-13200114