The Grundies

It could be the pall of fog that has descended over the Midlands. It could be the cold that has swelled up in my respiratory passages like a water filled balloon. It could even just be the time of year...

But I feel like pants this morning.

And not nice, saucily exotic pants either but dull, off-white, verging on grey pants with a bobbly gusset.

In the great Pantheon of the Pant Gods, I have been transfigured by the Pant God of Death and Depression.

My elasticised waist is ropey and loose. I’ve gone horribly baggy around the back. The fabric around the front is wearing unpleasantly thin. And the less said about the skid-marks on the left inside leg the better.

I need a makeover but boxers and G-strings just aren’t my style.

I’d go commando but I have strong pacifist leanings.

Sports briefs on someone as naturally sedentary as myself just wouldn’t wash.

And as for fig leaves... well, they bring me out in a rash.

Geez. Is there really no other alternative but ladies underwear?

Aren’t I depressed enough without having to shop at Ann Summers for myself...?

Reservoir Dorks

Karen and I were further amused by the antics of the business bods on The Apprentice last night and even more amused by the antics of Sir Al.

There is a definite grey motif going on at Amstrad Mansions or wherever it is that the Holy Sugared One bases himself. Sir Al seems to be covered in a fine down of grey hair that I’m sure covers his entire face. Does he employ a topiary expert to shave his head into the inimitable Alan Sugar shape that we all know and... well, not exactly love but instantly recognize?

My own personal theory is that aliens are ruling the Amstrad roost. The greys have landed. Sir Alan is some kind of genetically modified gooseberry and rather appropriately sits between the two greyest people on the entire planet: Margaret Mountford and Nick Hewer. Surely these people are automatons controlled by remote signals emitted from the depths of some Amstrad computer shaped spacecraft in secret orbit around our primitive little world?

There is something dead eyed and emotionally void about them both. Every last drop of personality has been leeched out of them. Maybe Sir Alan regularly sups this heady brew to keep himself so vital and young looking...?

Great. First aliens and now vampiric qualities to boot. You can see why The Apprentice keeps me hooked can’t you?

Anyway, Mr Grey and his two plaster-board sidekicks rule the booted and suited combatants with great aplomb and the programme is a great demonstration of business psychology and competitive human interaction at work. There is something incredibly satisfying about watching all these smug, arrogant, super confident scheisters continually falling flat onto their own faces and displaying their immense business ineptitude... thus proving that despite their 6 figure salaries they really are no better than the rest of us grubbing about in the mud to acquire a paltry 5 figures on our payslips.

I pity Sir Al having to choose one of them to be his next apprentice, I really do.

He’d be much better off employing that bloated little dwarf they found at Roswell...