Sugar White And The Sixteen Apprentices

My friend Irish Kim and I were discussing last night's The Apprentice this morning. For those of you who don't live in Britain, The Apprentice is a television programme, and here I will quote the actual synopsis from the BBC website so you can get a taste of what it involves;

"Sixteen candidates, two eagle-eyed advisers and one self-made millionaire. Sir Alan Sugar tests the nerves and brains of the hungriest hopefuls in the business world as they compete to win a six-figure salary job as his apprentice. Over twelve weeks the candidates will be split into two teams and given a weekly task with which to expose their entrepreneurial abilities. For those on the winning team, a taste of the executive lifestyle awaits in the form of a luxury treat, but the losing team must visit the boardroom, defend their respective corners and battle for survival. "

This is...well.... it's not exactly untrue. However, they omit mentioning that the contestants are almost always comprised of twelve or thirteen management types who couldn't find a tree in a forest, one or two oddly aggressive people and one or two actual decent humans. For the most part, the contestants are shouty, arrogant and tend to be very quick to blame everyone but themselves. I actually wrote a post last year about this same show (link here http://witandpendulum.blogspot.co.uk/2011/07/sugarers-apprentice.html ) which featured my favourite participant of all time, Helen.

Oh, Helen. How I miss your flair for creative thinking, your uncanny ability to deliver perfect pitches to clients, your sweet smile and classy taste in suit jackets. Okay, so I admit I had a little crush on Helen. But come on, who didn't?

 (courtesy of http://media.caspianpublishing.co.uk/image/894f4eaff8cbf30679c21becf8991ddd.jpg/crop:434x250:49:18)


Kim: You watch the Apprentice, right?

Me: Of course. That Irish woman is COLD. I can't believe she told Lord Sugar that she cared more about this job than she did about her crying child.

Kim: The Irish woman is awful! Also, is it just me or does she look 40, not 27? I am so sad that the eye-shadow-lady was fired. She didn’t deserve it. Also, I thought it would have been amazing to see her as project manager because I’m pretty sure she’d get violent.

Me: Yes, the Irish woman is old and is built like a tree, as well apparently being a seriously neglectful mother. Whereas Maria-in-the-sky-with-eyeshadow totally would have stabbed someone with her stiletto, which in my opinion would have made for excellent telly.

Kim: I would have bought that tap cosy, seriously. I now want to go to Amazon and pitch a million units of my flimsy piece of plastic that you can draw on.

Me: And come on, the Irish woman is totally picking on Katy who actually seemed to have a fair clue about what was happening, and when sent to do the market research job actually did it, and then was told “we’ve going to ignore that entirely” – so how can she be blamed? I like Katy. And the Scottish one, I don’t know her name and I don't like her accent, but at least she took responsibility for the idea and didn’t start throwing blame around in the boardroom so she has my respect.

Kim: I adore Katy. And Gabrielle. I don’t know why but I like Gabrielle a lot. She’s nice.

Me: No way, Gabrielle was a terrible project manager last week. I would have fired her ass, because I’m harsh like that. But Katy, hmm. She might be my Helen for 2012.

Kim: NO ONE WILL EVER BE HELEN EVER BECAUSE SHE IS THE ONLY HELEN

Me: OH GOD I MISS HER SO MUCH.

The rest of the emails were comprised of pictures of Helen, looking ever more radiant. I will of course keep you up to date on whether Katy can walk in Helen's perfect shoes, but I encourage you all to watch the show, if for no other reason than to potentially see someone hit someone else with a stiletto.

We're Going To Need A Bigger Bath

Since I've been learning to speak Portuguese recently, I sometimes can't fight the need to show off slightly in everyday conversations by trying to teach (a usually unwilling) friend a phrase or two. Since Wetsoks is around me most often, she receives the brunt of this...er...affection.

Me: Hey. Guess what?

Wetsoks: What?

Me: I've been learning all the essential phrases.

Wetsoks: (pinching her nose) Oh dear.

Me: Eu vou comprar um golfinho.

She stared at me blankly.

Me: It means 'I am going to buy a dolphin'.

Wetsoks: That's an essential - Nevermind. We're not keeping it in the bathtub. I'll tell you that right now.

Me: But that's not a full 'no'?

Wetsoks exited the room, rolling her eyes.

Me: BUT THAT'S NOT A 'NO', RIGHT?

The silence continued.

Me: WOULD YOU PREFER IF I PUT IT IN THE KITCHEN SINK?

The silence continued.

Me: A VERBAL CONTRACT IS LEGALLY BINDING!

Wetsoks: I didn't say anything.

Me: Well. Did you?

Wetsoks: No, I didn't.

Me: Well. Did you?

Wetsoks: Goddammit! Don't expect me to get up to feed it! And if it cries during the night then it's your responsibility.

Me: Sweet.

I know that people now breed miniature sheep and teacup pigs as pets, so I don't imagine it will be very long before science develops goldfish-sized sea mammals. If I can't have a pet otter, I'm damn well having a pet dolphin. Who's with me?

Give The Otter A Little Sugah, Sugah

Wetsoks and I were in her room the other day, looking at something on the internet, when one of those erotic pop-up ads sprung up from nowhere.

Me: Wow, look at that!

Wetsoks: I'm good, thanks.

Me: No, seriously, look! It's called Hunter's Revenge!

Wetsoks: I don't think anyone is getting revenge. Someone might be 'getting' something else, if you know what I mean.

Me: I don't. I'm very innocent. Click it.

Wetsoks: No.

Me: Click it.

Wetsoks: I'm not going to click it.

Me: Click it!

Wetsoks: No! What if I die and the last thing someone sees on my browser history is Hunter's Revenge?

Me: It's worth it.

Wetsoks: No! 

There was  a brief silence.

Wetsoks: Okay, fine, I'll click it.

I hate to admit it (actually I don't because I have no shame, as anyone who has read this site already knows) but our clicking led to an adult toy website (where our minds were, for want of a better word, stretched) by all the products on offer. My expression was mirrored on Wetsoks face - much like if Hansel and Gretal had discovered  the witch's gingerbread cottage hidden in a very realistically phallic forest.

Me: Do you suppose... Nevermind.

Wetsoks: What?

Me: This might be a stupid question, but could you wash those in machines?

Wetsoks: What kind of machines? Like a washing machine?

Me: (nostalgically) As a child, I broke our washing machine by putting Lego bricks in it.

Wetsoks: That's... a.totally similar situation. Yes, look, it says right here - dishwasher proof.

Me: Dishwasher proof?!

Wetsoks: Oh. Yes. That's kind of messed up.

There was another brief silence. 

Me: Well, it's good to know that they're promoting proper hygiene, at least.

In summary, practise safe sex and remember, almost everything can be put in machines now. 

Do try this at home. 

But not with Lego.

Dear Miss H. Granger

When my friend Wetsoks approached me at work the other day, jumping around excitedly, to tell me that our dear friend Fleetch (see here http://witandpendulum.blogspot.com/2011/11/harry-potter-and-draught-of.html  and here http://witandpendulum.blogspot.com/2011/11/im-dreaming-of-fake-christmas.html  for Fleetch and Wetsoks-related comedy) had emailed to say that she'd sent a package from Americaland, I was likewise thrilled. I miss the Fleetch and the many amusing things she used to do - although one of my absolute favourites was when she would walk around with her bathrobe pulled over her head, yelling "I'm a bacon-making BEAR!" at top volume. She always did have a slightly twisted sense of humour, so it was with no surprise that I found she'd sent this package to Wetsoks, but addressed it to Miss Hermione Granger.

The Fleetch lived in this country for a few years - certainly long enough to know that if you need to pick up a delivery from a Royal Mail depot, you need one or more of the following with you:

- proof of identification, such as a passport
- proof of address, such as a utility bill
- a urine sample
- documents pertaining to the right to name your first-born child
- sacrificial meat to offer to the great Post Dragon who devours all unwanted mail within 5-7 days

So, with this in mind, sending it to someone other than Wetsoks was highly likely to result in hilarity. I totally approved of this. Wetsoks did eventually manage to convince Royal Mail that firstly, Hermione Granger was a fictional character, secondly, that our friend has an odd sense of humour, and thirdly, despite what the package stated, it was actually probably not sent by someone called Severus Snape given that he too is a fictional character and in all likelihood would never have been caught dead using Muggle post. The post office gave in and Wetsoks finally got her package. It turned out to contain not just the promised gift, but presents for all of our group. My present in particular (see below) managed to be both endearing and an insult, for which I must thank the Fleetch.

Yes, that's right. It's a Justin Bieber singing toothbrush. I did not even know that such a thing existed. I challenge you, readers, to find any weirder Justin Bieber related merchandise.

In any case, I wanted to thank the Fleetch for her love and attention. I'm going to have to scour the interwebs to try to beat this one when we send your care package, dude. Challenge accepted!

The Portuguese Survival Guide: Part 1

My Portuguese friend and I were in Glasgow on Saturday night, heading towards a birthday party which incidentally was at Kelvingrove Museum, after-hours, on a Victorian theme. We got into a taxi as we were already rather late and I'm still nursing a hacking cough which oddly has not been improved by hanging around in the cold very late at night.As we got into the taxi, I put my seatbelt on. I often do this, even for small journeys, because you never know when disaster may strike and I tend towards the blackest sort of cynicism. Portugal looked at me in horror.

Portugal: What are you doing?!

Me: I'm being safe.

Portugal: I can't believe this.

Me: (genuinely puzzled) What? If we crash, I'd rather not fly three feet at high speed and break my face on the glass window.

Portugal: You're weird.

Me: I'm normal. And safe.

Portugal: You're weak. And you wouldn't survive in the wild.

Me: I wouldn't survive in.... Okay. (pinching nose)

Portugal: You're not used to pain!

Me: Tell me, how many times have you crashed in a taxi?

Portugal: Well, just one.

Me: Uh huh. And so you're "used" to pain, are you?

Portugal: Yes. More than you.

Me: I see. And just out of interest, are lions and other predators particularly attracted to seatbelts?

Portugal: ....Um.

Me: Because what you're saying is that since I have chosen to attach a potentially life-saving device while I am in a vehicle, in a city, this makes me automatically more likely to die in the wilderness of, say, a jungle.

Portugal: It's just so British of you.

Me: Yes, it's very British of me to prefer my face unsmashed.

There was a brief pause.

Portugal: Can I have some of your lip balm?

Me: No. Having dry lips is important for strength. If I give it to you, it'll just make you weak and then you'll die in the wild.

She may have been mad at me, but at least I arrived at the party safely and with appropriately moisturised lips. Otternator 1, Portugal 0.

Game on.

The Bathroom Less Travelled

Right. I've got one foot in the stirrup. If someone could just push a little here...and here....and perhaps pull a little bit there... thank you. Now I'm on my high horse, and let me warn you, this post is going to be a bit of a rant. I don't normally rant but I find myself exceedingly annoyed today by something that happens pretty much daily at work. The sad thing is, before I began this post I wondered whether I was turning into my mother (whose best stories all, for some inexplicable reason, end up being about weeing herself in various locations and in various stages of inebriation) but I shun this thought in favour of entertaining you with said rant. Let the tirade begin.

Firstly, I consider any bathroom to be a sacred place. To me, a bathroom is like Vegas - whatever happens there, stays there. Many private things are done in the bathroom and need never ever be discussed outside of it. The first rule about the bathroom is, you don't talk about the bathroom. This is in part because I have had many accidents in the bathroom (it's true that it is in fact the most dangerous place in the home, but I suspect for most people this is not because they have ever tried to rhythmically shave their legs while listening to Disturbed and balancing an array of rubber ducks on their head) which I have not and will not share with anyone, except perhaps on my deathbed. Some stories are best left untold. The scars have mostly healed. Mostly.

The toilet at work is a likewise sacred place. Because of the layout of the department and because I work with senior staff (I use 'senior' to mean 'important', rather than 'elderly' otherwise this post would already be heading in a totally different and perhaps slightly tragic direction), we have an individual room with one toilet, rather than the room with multiple stalls used by the peasants across the corridor. I really enjoy this toilet. It has a locking door, which of course is a basic part of any bathroom - although I must admit I have worked in more than one place which did not care about this idea and seemed to view hinges as an optional extra, which developed my calf muscles nicely over the years - and is rather flatteringly lit by pleasant lights. The door itself has a small indicator on it which displays a green sign when the door is unlocked, and a red sign when the door is locked, corresponding to the universal colours for "stop" and "go". I realise that I am stating basic facts but trust me. It's about to get real, yo.

So, earlier today I visited the bathroom. Imagine my shock and horror when, in the middle of a perfectly nice and relaxing wee, I was rudely interrupted by someone jiggling the door handle. If I'm honest, 'jiggling' is too nice a word to use. This person basically threw their entire weight at the door several times, completely disregarding the red sign which clearly indicated that the toilet was occupied. If you have ever been in this situation, you will understand the level of discomfort I experienced (I don't know if anyone has ever tried to stand up in panic during a wee, but I suspect the consequences would be dire) while this happened. It made me wonder two things - firstly, whether whoever was on the other side of the door was such a complete imbecile that they were unable to grasp that the red sign and the fact that they couldn't open the door as indicators that the room was occupied, and if so, I worry about the responsibilities they have within my company; secondly, whether their need for a toilet was so immediate, so extreme, that trying to ramraid a solid six-foot wooden door was preferable to walking fifteen feet or so to the next available bathroom.

This wouldn't be so bad if it had been the first time, but I have been with this company for over four years now and I experience this exact situation, on average, about four times a week. It ruins my wee. I don't have many small pleasures, and I really don't ask for much from life, but I do expect to be able to vacate my bladder in peace.

If you'll excuse me, I've got some unfinished business to attend to. It's Yo Momma. And she doesn't like to be kept waiting.

Poultry In Motion

I was enjoying an Indian takeaway with Wetsoks last night. I hadn't had spicy food in some time so this was long overdue and much appreciated. Unfortunately it also led to the following conversation.

Me: This is so GOOD.

Wetsoks: Isn't it?

Me: Mmm. Wait, what do you have?

Wetsoks: Chicken something. Er (looking at the top of her carton) - Diazepam Chicken!


For those readers who are not from the UK, Diazepam is a drug used for purposes of sedation.


Me: (mouth hanging open in horror) I'm pretty sure that's not what it's called.

Wetsoks: It is!

Me: It's bloody not.

Wetsoks: (ignoring me) Anyway, remember you owe me for the pots I bought to replace the ones we'd cooked to a crisp?

Me: I do remember. I feel like we should be given an award or something, because making metal look like that is something that took real effort, time and culinary idiocy.

Wetsoks: Totally.

Me: So, how do you want the money? I could give you the princely sum of £15 now, or I could give you a £1 a day for the next 15 days.

Wetsoks: The second option.

Me: I was kidding.

Wetsoks: I will not accept more than £1 per day from you.

Me: Goddammit!

Wetsoks: Please present me with your first pound.

Me: What if I don't have a pound?

Wetsoks: Then there will be consequences.

Me: Consequences like Diazepam Chicken ?

Wetsoks:.... Perhaps.