The programme I’m enjoying most at the moment is The Apprentice (BBC2, Wednesday), in which teams of men and women, all of whom have supposedly resigned from their high-powered jobs for this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, take part in various business-related competitions and are whittled down week by week until there is only one survivor. His prize is a highly paid job with Sir Alan Sugar. (In the American version it was Donald Trump.)
I say ‘His’ because on current evidence it’s almost certainly going to be a bloke who wins. If you’d seen the boys and girls in action during the flower-selling episode, you’d know exactly what I mean. Even my wife, who thinks of herself as a bit of a feminist, was taken aback by the girl team’s astounding crapness.
Their task was to buy 500 quid’s worth of flowers from New Covent Garden market and sell them for the maximum profit by that evening. While the victorious boy team made a few quick decisions and got on with it, the girl one spent ages just bickering, vacillating and trying to make up their minds what each other’s roles were. They couldn’t even decide on a team name. While the blokes took all of ten minutes to choose ‘Impact’, before heading off for a drink, the girls floundered for hours over whether ‘Daisypetalbarbie’ (I forget the exact names) was maybe too girlie and ‘Ocean’ too broad and wet. Twenty weeks later, they settled on the monumentally rubbish ‘First Forte’.
‘Heh heh heh,’ I sniggered as I dug my wife in the ribs. ‘That’s your sex, that is.’ But I didn’t really take it as proof that all girls are terminally useless. Au contraire, I think chicks are mostly way better than us — hardier, more intelligent, more sensitive, and great for a shag.
Comments
Join the debate for just £1 a month
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for £3.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just £1 a monthAlready a subscriber? Log in