YOU probably won't believe this but I was watching Meet The British, a documentary about the unintentionally hilarious government films which used to promote the UK to the rest of the world, and the programme had just uncovered footage of politeness
on public transport when, outside my parlour window, a hoodied lout tried to impress his friends by kicking a football at a passing bus.
I can only imagine the fear and alarm the scudding ball must have caused the passengers, some of whom will have been returning home from bingo or recession-inspired nightclasses in cooking with wood shavings and holey socks, and DIY dentistry. How has Britain, which according to Meet The British, used to be a happy, friendly (and often surreal) land of monocycling Boy Scouts, suburban maidens thumping out family favourites on gigantic Wurlitzers and Union Jacks fluttering from every mast, been reduced to such bad behaviour? Some will complain that we've mislaid our Victorian values, and these same people were doubtless looking forward to the return of Ladette To Lady, the reality show which attempts to teach alcopops-glugging trollops how to cross their legs, on the first date and beyond.
This time the alco-trollops are all antipodean. Had the battle-axes of the Eggleston Hall finishing school run out of British girls to refine and polish? Not quite. In its plodding way ITV simplifies everything, even programmes like this which are already very simple. So, in case we hadn't appreciated the irresistible force-immovable object dynamic of the tutor-pupil relationship beforehand, the producers have had it repainted in broader strokes with the academy admitting an intake of bottom-baring Sheilas.
On the bus journey from the airport – itself delayed by some in-flight malarkey – the stripper, the "geyser bird" and the five-times-expelled blonde bombshell all mooned at the slowly setting sun over the Yorkshire Moors. What a pretty picture. But if the girls were playing to the cameras then so were the teachers, who became more extreme, stuck in the past and desperate in their determination to uphold "the rigid disciplines of the ruling classes".
When "the cream of the British public-school system" was invited to a party at Eggleston Hall, I started to change my opinion of loud, vulgar, attention-seeking yoof. The Sheilas were dubbed "a menace to society" and "a little piece of scum", which seemed very harsh since their only crimes were to get pissed and snog each other after serving the posh boys the wrong drinks. And when the first one booted from this ludicrous institution flashed some more bare Aussie backside in full view of the horn-rimmed dragons, I don't mind admitting that I cheered.
Loud, vulgar, attention-seeking yoof don't need lessons in using the right fork and the female, er, rump certainly won't be helped by a wholesale return to an era where women had to defer to men. What the kids want are jobs, but unfortunately there aren't any. If this grim situation improves, however, candidates should dig out the penultimate edition of The Apprentice which offered crucial advice on how not to conduct yourself during interviews.
Discerning viewers never miss the round before the final (that's tonight) where we're down to just five contenders and Sir Alan Sugar summons his best mates in business to administer stiff kickings to the over-confident CV liars. If Sugar did step over the inquisitors to get to the top then they bear his loafer imprint lightly. And I mean it as a compliment when I call them corporate bastards.
This year's fivesome looked so smug that I thought they might wet themselves. If anyone was going to oblige it was likeable but gauche James. Acknowledging his relief at not being fired earlier, he confessed: "There was a tiny bit of wee…" James got the toughest grilling from the biggest bastard, Claude Litner. Initially I was dismayed when Paul Kemsley, he of the Sugar tribute beard and previously the most fearsome, didn't show up the interrogations, but Litner proved himself a shiny-heided anti-waffle Exocet.
If all of that sounds too much like work, then the yoof has always got Big Brother. Post-Susan Boyle, there was probably more scrutiny than normal of the 16 wannabes on launch night, to make sure they knew what they were letting themselves in for and that they understood how reality-show fame can be the cruellest of mistresses, perfectly prepared to dump them in the taxi queue or outside the kebab shop. Also, that the housemates were not the type who would hitch up their skirts for the cameras at inopportune moments.
Third in, after the obligatory toff ("I'm from the countryside," announced Freddie, possibly meaning most of it) and the statutory lesbian, was Sophie, a 20-year-old model whose claim to fame is being able to balance a beer bottle between her boobs, increased to 30FF with surgery and she's contemplating another op: "I want them bigger so it's like pushing a double buggy down the street." The next day she was a page 3 girl, which must be some sort of BB record.
After criticism of last year's dreary bunch (and the lowest ratings since the show began), Channel 4 has spread the net wider for BB's first Pakistani-Muslim (named after Benazir Bhutto), an Indian student activist, a former Mr Gay Newcastle, a Russian girl boxer and a 4ft 11ins banking assistant (at all previous moments in history banking was a dull profession; now it's decadent and dangerous).
Scotland is represented by Karly, 21, from Fife, who dropped out of university after a week because it was "full of weirdos" and already seems happier here. The most vulnerable housemates could be the impossibly smiley Brazilian lad and the window-fitting Wolverine. There are few creature comforts this year and no beds, so it would be nice to think that Sophie, the Human Pillow, might look after them. They could have one each.
The full article contains 1038 words and appears in Scotland On Sunday newspaper.
