I love the Apprentice. Even after eight series, I do not tire of the enormous entertainment it offers. I imagine there may be people in the world who watch it as a study in emerging and developing entrepreneurial skill; but I’ve never met any or heard anyone say that. Except Suralan of course. Who perhaps believes he truly has the cream of the crop of current business leaders. Poor Suralan. Like Pontius Pilate played by Michael Palin in Life of Brian, he may not know why the nation rolls in fits of laughter every Wednesday night.
For those of us “left of centre” The Apprentice is like Lions vs Christians. But without the unnecessary animal cruelty. People we would loathe if we met them in real life are exposed as egotistical, deluded, incompetent half wits – who would probably lecture all and sundry on how the public sector really needs to allow the private sector get in on the act. Entrepreneurial spirit could transform the public sector. Imagine your local health services being transformed by Apprentice candidates? Yes, quite, now wipe away the cold sweat and breathe. Although of course, under this Government it could actually happen.
But this series, the real draw (if draw means staring at the television in open mouthed horror) is the way the candidates look. Especially the women. In early series, women looked quite diverse in appearance. No longer though. Now, virtually every female apprentice has
Long Shiny Hair: Always down so it can swish around in a prancing pony way.
Eyebrows. Oh Jesus, the eyebrows. I can hardly hear what the candidates say, such is my obsession with the eyebrows.
Make Up applied with a Trowel
Eyelashes. Yes of course, everyone has eyelashes, but I’m talking about the kind that would give you neck ache to wear them.
Heels. Dear God, the heels. No wonder the women’s team always lose. Because whereas the men stride, (puffing out their waxed chests, calling each other “silly shits”, until,they win and then they’re all Maaaate) women totter in six inch spindly heels, hair swishing and jabbing their gel nails at each other. It’s like a competition which is supposedly equal, but one team has to do everything on stilts.
I miss Ruth Badger. And in missing her, I wonder what the hell happened. When did it become somehow compulsory for women to feel that the only way to appear on primetime television is like some horrendous hybrid Bratz and Barbie Doll, covering up how they really look with some standard issue, enforced plastic construction of reality – not on Take Me Out, or Next Top Model, but on a programme in which supposed entrepreneurs compete. If I wasn’t wiping tears of laughter from my eyes, shouting Knob! or Tie Your Bloody Hair Back, you’re in a FOOD shop, I could weep, I really could. How is L or any other young woman supposed to know how they are really supposed to look with these hideous distortions of womanhood on parade.