Fear and Loathing on the Learning Curve: Observations on Life, Tech and Web Design from a Slightly Misanthropic Mind
The Bloody Apprentice, S07E01
My viewing of the first episode of the new Apprentice series was conducted under an assumption, rapidly formulated during the first ninety seconds of the show, that these people cannot possibly be real; that such a concentration of frantically self-aggrandising, masturbatory gawpers cannot possibly exist — outside of fiction — in the space of one boardroom without the entire city of London disappearing up its own backside in an enormous implosion of bullshit. Once I established that premise, the show immediately became several times more watchable.
Be ye warned: this post contains spoilers. By which I mean I will talk about which useless shaft got fired last night.
I speak, of course, of this year’s “contestants” in the Lord Sugar Brown-Nose Superbowl. I nearly had an aneurism during the last series, as glob after glob of bullshit fell from the mouths of such luminaries as 14-year-old school uniform model Stuart “The Brand” Baggs, as he attempted to froth and thrash and blub his way out of being sent home with a note, but somehow that has already been eclipsed by the new series, which after a mere minute and a half had me stuffing a wet towel into my own throat to make the pain stop.
The format is a little different this time: instead of scratching at each other’s eyes for a chance to make Sugar’s tea (har), each contestant now attempts to insert their tongue the furthest up his ZX Spectrum in the hope that he will deign to invest in their own business, and proffer the odd bit of fatherly advice. Which, as it’s Sugar, will probably extend no further than, “shut up and finish your bloody homework.”
We’re introduced to the lucky few — “it’s the deal of the decade,” says the empurpled narrator — in a series of guff quotes and fast cuts of people walking through serious business locations like, you know, a featureless corridor; a tube platform; the toilets of Waterloo station. Each candidate, filling the screen, delivers a self-synopsis so vapid and cliche you wander if they’ve got a gun to their head, an off-screen interrogator demanding they say the first thing that comes to mind. “Don’t tell me the sky’s the limit if there are footprints on the Moon,” says plastic-face Melody. “I’ve got plenty of charisma and yeah, I’m not bad-looking,” says Vincent, a strange derivative of Nic Cage with Ron Jeremy’s moustache. Tom, a Michael Sheen lookalike, theatrically removes his specs and warbles, “underneath… these glasses… is a core of steel.” Alex: “I am cold and hard.” And Gavin, with a hunted look in his eyes, manages to gasp, “fear of failure drives me every single day.” The poor sod.
And then out shuffles the Grand Scrotum himself, his trademark scowl permeating the frosted glass door of whatever wanking-cupboard-type arrangement that is at the back of the definitely-not-a-studio boardroom long before his chubby firing digits reach it. He’s back, but this time he wants you to beg for his help. And for most of these ego-strokers, the only help worth giving would be to hold up a mirror connected to a loudspeaker system playing their own absurd pronouncements on a loop until they threw themselves under the nearest bus. “Afternoon,” he grunts. “Afternoon, Lord Sugar,” they chorus. One chap nods enthusiastically as he mouths the words. He’s got the right idea.
Their task is to take £250 of Sugar’s pocket money, buy some fresh produce, add value to it and sell it on for a profit. And so as the day unfolds we’re treated to the sad but amusing spectacle of two gangs of snake-oil merchants trying to outdo each other in a game of Who Can Be The Most Serious Business Person as they argue over strategy, market, budgets and how to juice oranges quickly. Everyone tries to assert some dominance early on, but by a strange process of shouting and ignoring the business strengths of their teammates, Edward and Melody are “elected” project managers. Melody talks like she’s speaking to an infant and mentions the Dalai Lama within a few seconds; Ed is an accountant who hates his job so much that he forgets everything he ever learned while doing it and attempts to complete the task by bluffing, guessing and going a bit red.
The task isn’t that remarkable. Some early character traits start to become apparent, though — pocket-size Susan will almost certainly be the first to cry, probably in the next episode. Jim is a good sort, getting on and being sensible, and deploying his highly effective situation-defusal technique (of saying “I’m defusing the situation” while bundling one of the aggressors away) to prevent a fight among the empty orange halves. Ellie is a bruiser of a lass from Yorkshire who can’t spell “vegetable” and considers pasta to be culturally beyond her. Edna is a terrifying battleaxe of a woman whose iron grip on the purse-strings will likely be misapplied to someone’s throat before the series is done. And there are quite a few people we still haven’t heard a peep out of, which will probably be used as justification for silently offing one next episode.
The adventure in food production winds up and Ed’s complete failure to be at all useful predictably results in his team placing last. He blusters his way through the boardroom mud fight by abandoning relevance and blaming Gavin for being “spineless” in the way he tried to volunteer for PM. All very odd, though perhaps he’s angry that Gavin didn’t work harder to save him from himself. Sugar gives him the boot, along with a gentle word about having no shame, which he certainly seems to have already taken on board. In the waiting room, he gives the other two the silent treatment, and 16-year-old walking fringe Leon practically falls over his fellow survivor in their rush to escape the awkwardness. Ed goes home, presumably to watch people from his flat window and stop washing.
The victorious Team Venture celebrate with champagne and more exalted tales from Melody’s star-crossed life. There is something very strange about her indeed, like she’s speaking from within the confines of strong hypnosis. Her lines are practised to perfection; one must wonder if they must eventually run out. What will she say then? If we’re lucky, her trap-door of a mouth might fall open, and a small creature might tumble out, just like that one in Men in Black. Ah, a man can dream.
Xbox 360 UK Repair Timeline: A Gamer’s Renaissance Tale of Woe
When I was still at school I had a big thing for PC and video games. I used to run a Counterstrike clan, played a lot of random FPS/RTS/wtf titles and had a great time doing so. On the console side I’ve always been a bit behind the times — had a SNES quite some time after they came out, an N64 (with GoldenEye, of course) the Christmas after they were released, and more recently a GameCube and some borrowed time on my brother’s PS2. I didn’t even get a Game Boy until the Color version came out. But I was usually reasonably up to speed with PC gaming, from the days of Doom onwards.
Continued →
Sanity, Solitude And The Death Rattle of Productivity
These are strange times. Someone once tried to apply Einstein’s Theory of Relativity to produce something to the effect of “work to be done expands to fill the time available to do it.” Conversely, I’m experiencing something of the opposite, a sad failure of self-discipline where amount of free time and apathy toward work and study are set up in a tragic correlation.
Continued →
Reflections on Making the Right Choices
I am sick of this house.
I am sick of waking up to filth; to dirty floors, the same piles of crap day after day because nobody can be fucked to lift a finger to clean them up.
I am sick of my property being abused under the assumption that since we live together it is theirs to do with as they please.
I am sick of being treated like a piece of shit every time I try to get someone else to do something that might be of collective benefit to the household.
I am sick of being made to clean up after everyone else if I want to live in what might be described as clean and tidy surroundings, and then receiving no thanks for doing so.
I am sick of being forced to chase people for their share of bills, since the concept of prompt repayment is apparently some sort of fantasy.
I am sick of looking after every single administrative facet of the house without a word of thanks because nobody else is prepared to take any responsibility whatsoever.
I am sick of having the piss taken behind my back every time I ask something of my housemates that might require looking beyond the ends of their noses at issues outside of their immediate personal atmosphere.
I am sick of being shown no respect by anyone in this house, who claim that they are adults capable of handling their own lives without being told what to do, yet are utterly unable to maintain any kind of decent living standard without my continual janitor act.
I am sick of living with people who have never had to take any responsibility for the care of their surroundings, and so feel no need to start doing so now.
I am sick of living with people who through their own negligence, inconsideration and laziness create large amounts of filth and then have the gall to suggest our collectively paying someone to come in and clean it up.
I am sick of living with people who cannot or will not realise everything I have done this year to help them and the household, or look upon it as some sort of duty of care that merits no thanks or support or recognition.
I am sick of being looked at like an idiot when I try to convey an idea of consideration for others to my housemates, such as when they insist on screaming at the tops of their lungs while playing video games at 11pm on a Sunday in the living room of our terraced house.
I am sick of being told that I have a need to control people when I try to get people to do something to help.
I am sick of worrying about having to fight for my property at the end of term as my housemates conveniently forget what was bought and what was brought by me at the beginning of the year.
I am sick of the inevitability that I will have to work my ass off to clean the house single-handedly at the end of term in order to secure the return of my security deposit, as my housemates who spent most of the year moaning about how they would surely be swindled out of theirs by the landlord conveniently find other things to busy themselves with (or just leave).
I am sick of being brought to the end of my tether by people who simply do not give a shit about anyone or anything besides themselves.
An Alternative Easter Message
Spotted in a supermarket near you…
Celebrate the death of Jesus through self-love. Go, the eggs command you.
Rattling the Cage
The weather has taken a turn for the worse, in reflection of my souring mood. Oh, what happened to the carefree optimism of yesteryear? Every day I find myself thinking of the future, and every time I think of the future I am filled with fear and anger.
So many parallels to school. Now as then, our stability is to be uprooted. I find myself thinking of “Will the Circle Be Unbroken,” and as the song describes its answer, I know mine is also “yes.” Right now, the only stable circle is what’s left of those I knew from school — and those relationships seem so much truer than these. We have been here two months and already talk is of next year and living plans — and the forecast is for more unrest. Last year’s decisions made anew; another search for solidarity among dwindling numbers.
I have lost the plot here. What I am doing is becoming less and less relevant — I have stopped existing from day to day, completely lost sight of the objective here because the objective has lost all meaning, because with every day my loathing of the stuffed-shirt business world grows, and all I am doing here is hard time on a degree that will put me into just that, unless I can come up with a solid alternative plan. That is why I fear the future, becase I can’t yet see a valid, self-sustaining path that doesn’t involve working to the bone in a shitty office to make enough money to live.
*
Already I’m having twisted fantasies about getting up and leaving this house, taking all my stuff, and closing all my utility accounts, just to show the rest of them how much I take care of here. Every time I tidy up tossed-aside shit downstairs, empty the trash, wash up, sort out bills, fix the network, drive them to the supermarket; every left-on light, oven hob, shower, and TV I turn off reminds me that I do this without asking for thanks, just out of a basic desire to improve living standards for all of us — and, in most cases, because if I don’t, noone else will. I do these things unasked, yet the moment I try to ask for a little support in return, I am shouted down.
We received an electricity bill yesterday for £135, for the last two and a half months, so I took the time to write a friendly note to the rest of the house highlighting a few ways in which energy could be saved, to ease our collective wallet strain. Coming home in the evening to find lights on in empty rooms, and the shower empty but switched on, I asked Josh if he had read the note, which resulted in another hitting-head-against-the-wall argument. He endeavoured to set me straight on a few points, namely that I shouldn’t try to “nanny” the rest of the house, nor should I feel compelled to “tell 20-year-olds what to do.” Naturally my defences were worthless — the very idea that I would do this for the good of the house, and not out of some sort of preternatural vaunting of authority, was out of the question. And so I died a little more.
You can see the attraction of this idea though, no? A quiet escape in the dead of night; they wake up to a house with no water, electricity, gas or Internet connection (no dedicated firewall, media server or cabling throughout); to a kitchen free of half its equipment, a fridge free of beer, and no car out front to shuttle them around. Not looking for praise or reward, just the tiniest hint of recognition. A savage demonstration of my part in the running of this house, but too late :-).
You can find a complete history of older posts in the Archive.
