A confession I have to make is that I LOVE the Apprentice. I love it so much that I want to build a little dungeon for it in my house to live in FOREVER…or I at least want it to be shown on television until my unique combination of anger and gin has blinded me, and I am only able to entertain myself by listening to dubstep and pretending robots are invading. I’ve commented on each week’s episode so I thought it was time to do a recap of all the episodes before the final tomorrow where Lord Alan Sugar ends up with Pudsey, Britain’s Got Talent winner, instead of any of the finalists. After all, he’s looking for a DOG NOT A PARTNER. Funnily enough, the line “If I was looking for a friend I’d get a dog” is often uttered by psychopaths, according to Jon Ronson’s The Psychopath Test. Not that I am, in any way at all, inferring that Lord Alan Sugar is a psychopath. He’s actually an alien.
Being home from university for a month means I’m more susceptible to my mother’s suggestions for ‘activities’ we can do together. I need to remember that this is a women, who bought 20 motion-detector frog alarms from Poundland last week and hid them around the house, in a fit of lulz.
So I accepted her invitation to a Zumba class, on the understanding that it was a fun activity, where I would lose several stone immediately, whilst eating cake (admittedly I might have zoned out at some point but my understanding was that this was a FUN WHOLESOME ACTIVITY). Imagining it to be like Pulp’s ‘The Common People’ music video was probably my first mistake, although immediately spotting a group of women wearing Justin Bieber t-shirts and rave whistles immediately disillusioned me of my optimistic predictions.
I was wary, since upon entering the room, I was treated with the same level of suspicion Arthur Kipps received from the villagers upon arriving at Eel Marsh House, as the super skinny lycra-clad yummy mummies cast their beady eyes upon me, wondering if I would be responsible for the death of their first born. Alternatively, they felt threatened by my very swagger into the room, making it clear I was here to win the perma-tanned teacher’s approval, forever relegating them to the back of the class.
It started badly and ended catastrophically, as I began to realise the amount of balance and co-ordination I possess makes a baby lamb look like the next obvious member of Diversity. We were instructed to lunge left and right, it’s not an over-exaggeration that I have ‘recovering from a debilitating disease 80-year old’ hips. I can no more gracefully move across the floor then I can speak Swahili.
The two moves I found I could identify with were ‘Serve a Drink!’ and ‘Give it Attitude’, although I usually find myself doing these in conjunction at the student union, with eyeliner and hairspray AHOY and I’m usually so drunk that I demand Beyoncé is played all night, not sober in a dance studio.
Attending with my mother meant that I immediately saw where I got my immense lack of co-ordination and balance from, as she proceeded to canter like a horse for an hour, regardless of what torture move we were meant to be displaying…”Do the Guantanamo” was an utterance I expected to be barked any minute, instead a series of increasingly incomprehensible instructions were given, resulting in my own canter, as I realised that was all I could do. I don’t shimmy, I definitely don’t hip thrust and my hips DO LIE. They are serious politican-esque hips who lie about EVERYTHING and made me believe I could do Zumba.