24 hours to go

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24 hours until this gate is opened.

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The Apprentice: Heavier than a Batmobile

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I watched this week's Apprentice at half-past-three on Wednesday morning, having been staring at a computer screen for about a day. As a result, my memory of precisely what happened are slightly cloudy. The Guardian 's excellent " live blog " has handily filled in the gaps. Our six would-be apprentices were given the task of selling wealthy punters the chance to spend some time with some fantastic supercars. Apparently, this is a rapidly growing new business venture, although quite why struck me as a tad confusing. Surely the whole point of those things is to drive them – fast ? Unless you own your own racetrack, there's not much opportunity to do that on the UK's roads... It soon became clear, though, that the target audience was disgustingly rich grade-A posers. Depending on your point of view, poor/useless Lucinda was unfairly/fairly treated by her team-mates this week. Having said she wouldn't feel comfortable selling on her own (because she...
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I'm writing this post in bed, because I'm feeling a bit poorly. Which is really rubbish, because it means I can't eat loads and loads of chocolate (as I'd planned to do) and because I couldn't go to see Dartford notch up another win (this time over Canvey Island). My teeth are also giving me jip, although that was expected because of my appointment on Wednesday. It was the reason I had to stay in Sheffield for a few days after the end of the first "half" of the semester, but it also nearly forced me to stay for a bit longer. Not really thinking, I had booked a ticket on the 13.27 train home. This meant being on the train between 20- and 25- past, and this meant arriving at the station for about quarter-past one. My dentist appointment was a 11.45 sit-and-wait. The orthodontic department at the hospital is clearly so popular that they have to over-book appointments every day in order to treat everyone. So I knew that it would be a close-run thing...
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My very first memory of attending a football match, like so many others', contains virtually no details about the goals, nor the scoreline, nor the players, nor even who we were playing. These details, these statistics, these facts have been pushed aside and replaced by the sense of awe, the feeling of wonderment, the overpowering synæsthesia of multi-coloured scarves and burger-van smells. For my very first game, my dad took me to the Watling Street ground. It was (still is) three streets away from our house, but I was spared the arduous five minute walk and treated to being carried on his shoulders instead. This is where my memory begins: As we turned onto Watling Street, I was met with an incredible sight. Hundreds of people were walking down the pavements, dozens more weaving in-between the passing buses and cars. From every side road, from every footpath, from every gap in the fence, people formed a human river, flowing steadily towards the turnstiles. I had never seen...
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