It's not the taking part, it's winning that counts

Watching The Apprentice last night, I couldn't help but observe how the entire show reflects "nature in the raw". OK so the parties wear sharp suits rather than loincloths and compete with Blackberries rather than spears, but they do so knowing full well that the best team will win and one of the "losers" will be summarily sacked - the survival of the fittest as it were.
Strange stuff considering that we've spent the past couple of decades telling our kids that it's the taking part that counts to the point where schools ban sports days and everyone gets a prize in Pass the Parcel.
So starved have we been of competition that it's fun to watch a good old-fashioned fight to the finish (where no-one ends up brain-dead or eaten by lions, of course).
The very uncompromising nature of the programme and the inevitability of its conclusion gives the viewer a little frisson of delighted horror - especially when Sir Alan Sugar utters his now-famous catchphrase: "You're fired". Funny to think that when Sir Alan was young, being fired for underperforming was an everyday occurrence rather than the entertaining exception.
The other thing that strikes me is the fact that all these over-confident would-be apprentices fall over themselves to impress Sir Alan Sugar. It can't be just about the job - they all have pretty good ones in any case. I think it's a father-figure thing, which is ironic and rather poignant in this age of the fatherless family.
Anyway, enough of all this pondering. Who do you like best? I like Raif (because of his wonderful upper-class arrogance) and Simon (because he's hard-working and funny). The women are a nightmare. Sorry, sisters.

Bring back the breakfast-on-a-plate option

Whoever came up with the idea of breakfast buffets?

Let's look at the facts:

1. Whether it's fried eggs, sliced meats, waffles, croissants - we all have a definite idea about what breakfast involves and how it should be served
2. None of us are at our best in the mornings

So what do hotels do? They abandon the wonderful practice of gently seating you at a table and bringing you tea before serving you - silently -with the breakfast of your choice. Instead they lay on an assault course of multi-coloured fruit juices, viciously spitting hot drink dispensers and huge covered dishes with clattery lids to confuse and bewilder the poor, blinky-eyed guest. Then they'll throw in a few special challenges such as the do-it-yourself toaster that ressembles an old-fashioned mangle, or the Scandinavian teacup-with-no-handle.

If you're on your own in a hotel, you'll of course have the added problem of finding a table and leaving your breakfast there before wandering off to find a cup of tea, only to discover that the Breakfast Police have helpfully removed your dish in readiness for the next guest.

I'm becoming increasingly tempted to "slum it" these days and opt for the traditional B&B where there are just two options: tea and toast or Full English. I'll then meekly accept whatever this entails whether it is simply eggs, sausages, bacon and tomatoes or all of the above plus mushrooms, fried potatoes - and if you're lucky, the downmarket but fantastic addition of baked beans.

One of the things we DON'T need in the mornings is choice. Just bring it on - quietly - and we'll love you forever. Or at least until lunchtime.

Leave today's substitute for elderly foreign women alone

At one time, everybody used to moan about foreigners - and then it became racist and forbidden.
Women were also put down by society until sexism kicked in.
Then it was the turn of the old folk to become the butt of people's jokes. But Age Concern put a stop to that.
It's human nature to laugh at, moan about or put down someone else - preferably someone who's unlikely to fight back. Though the target group can't be completely defenceless like, say, toddlers. Or kittens. So now the elderly, the female and the foreign are out of the picture, who should we pick on next?
It seems it's teenagers who have become the target of today's outrage. The whole "Kevin and Perry" thing with teens portrayed as grunting, money-grubbing, parent-hating, loutish people started it off. Now you can scarcely pick up a paper without hearing about teenagers who binge-drink, play truant, take drugs or kick a person to death as soon as look at them.
Of course, some teenagers are like that. But has anyone bothered to find out what percentage we are talking about? For every loutish teenager on the street there are probably several hundred more at home revising for their A levels. And I think you'll find there are also plenty of loutish adults out there.
A recent BBC survey found that only 13 per cent of teenagers felt valued by society. That's very sad and it's time we changed it. Actually, teenagers are some of the nicest people I know. Some of the things I like about teenagers are:

• They're so enthusiastic. Whether their passion involves an ambition, a rock group, a hobby or a film star, they'll give it 100 per cent
• They're often much more polite than we give them credit for
• They still get excited about food. While older people are picking at their foie gras and caviare, they'll be tucking into their biscuits and chips with healthy gusto
• They still look up to their parents' generation and are more respectful than we sometimes deserve
• They look better on the dance floor than we do
• They're funny. A sophisticated sense of humour kicks in much earlier than you'd think

Mum's the word

My Mum hasn't been well this week, so here's a eulogy for mothers in general.
When I was young I thought there was nothing my Mum couldn't do. I remember watching an old Disney film called Old Yeller in which a family adopts a yellow labrador that saves their lives (or something) and becomes injured as a result. The family lives miles away from a vet so the mother has to sew up the dog's belly while the children watch in awe, safe in the knowledge that Mum would be able to save their dog's life. I instinctively knew my Mum, sitting beside me, could do the same.
When did they stop making Mums like that? I couldn't sew up a dog's belly to save my own life - let alone that of the dog. In fact I couldn't even gut a fish or stuff a chicken. I hope my kids never knew their hypothetical dog was as good as dead in my hands.

Other things Mums should be able to do:

Make pancakes
I tried again last night - ie Shrove Tuesday - but all I ended up with was little dollops of stodge covered with syrup and sugar. Poor kids - they still don't even realise how pancakes are actually meant to look and taste.
Know instinctively when a child is too ill for school
She doesn't say: Don't you think you ought to go? How ill do you feel exactly? Can't you decide by yourself?
Remember things
She'll have your packed lunch, ink cartridges, PE kit and school trip money all ready for you - and you'll just take it all for granted. In fact your lithe young brain will still be wrestling with where you put your school shoes while Mum's shrivelled up one grapples with everything else.
Be there when you're miserable
Let's face it, after you've reached your teens she'll become like some old coat that may be warm and familiar but doesn't quite fit any more. You hardly ever want to wear it - but you still like to have it around for thise rare occasions when nothing else will do.

Going round the bend of the 'U-shape' of life

Academics are always carrying out lenghty, in-depth surveys that reveal the flaming obvious. For instance they've just discovered that teenagers - who rarely rise before 9am - need more sleep than adults. And that people who drink a lot of (calorie-laden) alcohol are more likely to be fat. Rocket science it ain't.
It's a shame the surveyers don't have a bit more common sense and actually attempt to interpret the results of their work.
For example I read today that people in their 40s are more likely to be depressed than young people or pensioners. They refer to this phenomenon rather pompously as the "U-shape" of life, but have no idea why it should occur.
They should have asked me.
It's pretty obvious, actually. Life is fairly simple as a child and young adult. Everything (food, travel, work, social life, love) is all rather new and exciting. Young people are generally liked, admired and excused for a lot of things - particularly if they are attractive - and the world is filled with unlimited possibilities.
By your 40s those possibilities begin to thin out a bit. You will probably never become a model, an actor or a footballer now. You are on a treadmill and are constantly striving for material possessions and/or recognition at work. You might have a partner (though a lot of break-ups occur at this time) and you may also have children, but are probably too busy to enjoy them.
Once you become old, your horizons have narrowed even further but you begin to expect much less from your life. You gain more joy from your garden and grandchildren than you ever did from that new BMW and home cinema system. People make fun of your sideburns and high waistbands, but you no longer care.
This is a very simplistic theory from someone in her 40s who is still unaccountably happy, but I think there's some truth in it. I certainly intend to be a happy pensioner if I'm still around by then. I'll behave atrociously at weddings and everyone will excuse the drunken granny because of her great age. I'll dance with all the handsome young men who will humour me (since I'm obviously harmless) and I'll generally have a whale of a time. I might even grow sideburns.

Am I the only one who hates fancy dress?

We're going to a fancy dress party next week. It'll be full of people who've carelessly teamed old clothing and accessories together to create a totally co-ordinated, themed look. I really envy them.

I'll be agonising long and hard over what to wear. I'm always careful to avoid anything too over-the-top, since if you become miserable or angry during the party you look completely ridiculous when dressed as a clown or a banana. I also prefer to look reasonably attractive rather than go for the Frankenstein mask or full-face beard approach. So basically, I always end up as a tart.

You can't go wrong with a tart's costume. Short skirt, long boots and anything else you want to team with it, plus loads of make-up. And it works with almost any theme. Black and white party? Black mini, black boots. Rock band theme? Easy. A punk tart.

I've tried to be a little more adventurous in the past. I once went to a party as a stick of broccoli, wearing a green skirt and matching top and hat with some curly parsley in the brim. Yes it was rather lame, but arguably better than my friend's costume. She wore tartan trousers and a plain top teamed with Doc Marten boots. "Who are you?" people asked. "I'm Connie Frank." "Er.....who's Connie Frank?" "My friend in Canada. She always dreses like this."

I wish I were more like my husband, who embraces the whole dressing up thing with almost too much enthusiasm. Take for instance the M.A.S.H party where most people dressed in fatigues or camoflage. I, of course, went as a messroom tart. Brian went as a helicopter.

He made himself this elaborate costume with a wooden tailpiece and propellers on his head that cleared the place every time he went on to the dancefloor. Luckily there was bench seating otherwise he wouldn't have been able to sit down to eat.

Then there was the time he dressed as a jolly green giant for a work-related event in Switzerland - complete with Tarzan-style costume that had been elaborately-sewn by himself (funny he can't manage to sew on a button). The whole team even dared each other to travel back in fancy dress. He spent the flight with various kids on his lap being photographed by their parents. "Go and sit with the strange man while I take your picture." "Waaaaah!"

Then there was the time he went to a party with a "cruise ship" theme. Everyone went as a captain, a bathing beauty or a lounge lizard. Not Brian. He went as a deck chair. He made himself a seven-foot wooden frame and sewed a stripey cover through which he inserted his similarly stripey head. Very elaborate and very difficult to manoeuvre. When he walked through the door a German colleague threw a towel over him. And that's not a joke.

The theme next week is 50s and 60s and I'm already scanning ebay for costumes that don't make me look ridiculous, old and fat. I fear a mini-skirted tart seems inevitable.

We girls don't want to play with trains

I see Ed Balls is busy challenging the old gender stereotypes again. Apparently he's trying to convince more male students to follow childcare careers, while girls are being urged to choose engineering as a vocation.

What a load of tosh. Why put a square peg in a round hole......? etc.
I remember there was a similar movement in the early 1990s that involved younger kids and their toys. For some reason it was decided that boys became rough, tough scalliwags simply because they were given guns and trucks to play with. Chromosomes didn't come into it apparently. Girls, on the other hand, chose caring careers because they were given dolls.

So some bright sparks suggested we give our little girls train sets and baby dolls to our sons. And what happened? The boys pulled the heads off their dolls to see how they were made, while many a toy train found itself dressed in a bonnet and tucked up in a cot.

What's wrong with gender stereotypes, anyway? I remember when my little girl was about four and announced while helping me to wash up: "Mummies wash up and daddies fix things." No, no! I argued. Daddies can wash up too, and mummies can fix things! She looked very confused since I'd never been known to fix a thing in her lifetime - and she probably hadn't seen Dad wash up, either.

Surely the whole point is not to discourage any boy/girl from choosing the career they want - whether it is a sterotypical one or not? And boys should also be allowed to play with dolls if they wish. I still can't see them doing a whole lot of washing up, though. Lousy Y chromosomes.

"Make your gums bleed? That will be 40 quid."

What exactly is a hygienist? Someone who really, really cares about personal hygiene? Or someone who works in the hygiene industry? No, apparently not. It's a shadowy figure in a white coat who emerged about 10 years ago and whose teeth-scraping services we are told we can no longer do without.

Admit it, if you are a fee-paying adult aren't you constantly being urged to see the hygienist whenever you have a dental check-up? And when you finally succumb, does the hygienist ever say to you: "Your teeth look fine, no excruciating scraping required today"? No, of course not. Instead she (and it's always a "she" of about 18 who wanted to be a beauty therapist but who couldn't get on the course) fills your mouth with pointy objects and tut tuts about the plaque, the "pocketing" and other items you never realised you had in your mouth until now.

Another thing I object to is the fact that they poke and prod your gums with metal points and emerge from your mouth all triumphant at the first sight of blood. "There! You're bleeding, that's a sure sign of gum disease!" they say. If I weren't a lady I'd be tempted to nut them one and announce: "There, a broken nose! A definite sign that you're not getting enough calcium!" I mean, what sort of diagnosis depends on drawing blood and causing pain?

And all this for only 40 quid. What a rip-off. Unfortunately the hygienist isn't the only species who has emerged in the last few years to fleece as many of us as they can.

The personal trainer.
"You're too fat. Do some training. Now pay me." Only they spin it out a bit more.

The life coach
"You're boring. Get a life." I could make a fortune doing this.

The speech therapist
Brought in to make slow speakers anxious and their parents paranoid. Nearly all of us learn to speak eventually. And a speech therapist won't help the few who don't.

Colonic irrigation therapist
Frankly weird.

Be kind to yourself this January - it's the worst month of the year

I've been meaning to write a blog about the good things that January has to offer to cheer us all up. Needless to say I couldn't think of anything. I came up with plenty of bad things, though.

• It's cold, dark and raining


• Summer - and even spring - seem aeons away


• It's more than eleven months till Christmas


• It's ages since last payday. And since January drags on forever it's also ages till the next one


• Your partner is having fun on a snowmobile in Lapland while you're left tending the house (OK, that's just me)

So, what do we do to cheer ourselves up in this, the gloomiest of months? We launch ourselves into detox programmes, start exercising feverishly and make resolutions to give up all our favourite stuff. And all this while revising for mocks or AS levels if we happen to be teenagers.

We should be more like squirrels. They spend most of the winter sleeping - when they're not pampering themselves with little nutty treats that is. In fact, maybe that's what we're supposed to be doing. Look around you. It's dark all the time and your house is filled with leftover nuts from Christmas. A coincidence? I don't think so.

Here's my five-point plan on how to cheer yourself up this January.

1. Have a treat every day. One of those leftover truffles, a sliver of Christmas cake or a small sherry won't hurt, and it will make you feel so much better about the rest of the day's abstinence.


2. Book a holiday. If you've booked one already, pore over the brochure. If you can't afford one, enter a competition and google the destination to give you something to dream about.


3. Celebrate Burns Night. Good old Burns - thanks for giving us a reason to go out and have fun in depressing old January.


4. Go shopping. OK, you've missed the sales and you're broke, but time it right and your purchases will go on next month's credit card.


5. Find a snug pub with a log fire and enjoy the cosiness that only winter can bring.

Labelled for life as a Dick Brain or R Slicker

Some parents should be shot. Surely having a surname such as "Boner" or "Hardon" is bad enough without exacerbating the problem by giving them a Christian name that draws attention to it?
I mean, what's wrong with "Rick Hardon" or "Gerry Boner"? Why call these two boys Ivor and Daily respectively?
Then there are those families with relatively innocent surnames such as Myass and Ulate. Why would anyone call these two unfortunate babies Dick and Jack?
Still quoting from Potty, Fartwell and Knob, here are some of the ruder names I mentioned the other day.

Dick Surprise
Daily Boner
Ivor Hardon
N Gorge
Dick Justin
Mo Lester
Virtue Slip
Anice Bottom
Jeani Talia
Dick Brain
D Viant
R Slicker
Dick Myass
Ray Pugh
Jack Ulate

Gladys Friday? Love A Duck, me too!

A couple of months ago I wrote about a new book entitled Potty, Fartwell and Knob by Russell Ash which is a celebration of some of the more absurd British names through the centuries. I now have a copy of this book and had to share some of the odder names with you.

Do you remember those joke book titles that used to be bandied around some time ago - "The Baby Sitter" by Justin Casey Howles, and "Yellow River" by IP Daly? Well, these names are almost too perfect for jokey book titles - which is weird considering they were all real people, documented with dates and everything. Here are some of them:

Lou Roll
Gladys Friday
Dick Tater
Large Bee
Hugh Swelling
Page Turner
Mike Robe
E Vil
Love A Duck
Min Spiess
Tom Ato
P Freely
Luke Warm
Lew Pole
F Off
Ben Dover
T Cosy
Sally Vates

Then there were a bunch of names that would have meant very little to the holder in days gone by, but give us a chuckle now. Take for instance:

I Pod
ID Card
T Vee
E Mail
Eva Ready
Jay Walker
Jean Pool
Al Dente
Tommy Gun
Sue Perman
Al Fresco

There are also some delightfully naughty names, some of which I will share with you tomorrow.