The Apprentice Haggler
Wednesday night is Apprentice night. After I’ve stretched and bent my body in amazing positions as well as balanced on one foot in really weird postures at the yoga class I return home grab something to eat and plonk myself in front of the telly.
“This is not a game” Sir Alan Sugar barked at the contestants at the beginning of the 2007 series. Oh come on – who are you kidding. This show is just one big game. Only it goes under the name of “serious business” meets “reality TV”. In fact I would like to take part in it just for the fun of it. Certainly not because I’d want a job with the bearded one.
The contestants want to win because they are competitive. The egos selected have no interest in a poxy job working as SAS’ side-kick. They all fawn, promise they’ll be his most loyal doormat, guarantee they’ll move heaven and earth to make him lotsa of the filthy stuff but I don’t believe it for a moment. They don’t want his job. They want to come out on top. The thrill, after all, is beating the other contestant – the job incidental.
You can see their minds racing.
“I must survive this board room grilling because that bitch/bastard/wanker accused me of …., which is totally untrue, and in any case she/he is a wimp, and useless, and a waste of space ….whereas I, I did my best and am in any case, better, cleverer, much more competent than her/him with a much better business acumen …and I have an MBA”
Makes for good telly viewing and as G. and I sit on the couch we of course know exactly how we would handle the task, what the best strategy would be – and oh no what a clanger! We would never do that.
Getting a Moroccan butcher in the non-Jewish quarter of the Marrakesh souk to chant halal, halal over a chicken that was supposed to be kosher has got to be one of the biggest clangers in the Apprentice – and that from a guy who studied classics at Edinburgh and who is half-Jewish.
So last night’s episode was all about buying ten specific items in Marrakesh and haggling the price down. Whoever paid the least amount would win the task. Penalties would be doled out on the purchasing of incorrect items. This was one task I would have relished. Surely I would have helped the team to win on this one. Surely.
Now, I like to think that I can haggle with the best of ‘em having had a jolly good bash at it in various parts of the world less subject to regulation than the EU such as Asuncion, Bangkok and Tangiers. Its impossible to haggle and negotiate prices in, say, Zara or Ikea. So having the chance to haggle like a fish wife straight out of an Astrix and Obelix cartoon on a truly open and unregulated market is a fantastic opportunity.
It was easiest in Bangkok. Almost too easy. There the market vendors seem to be genetically handicapped to “sell at any price”. The opening bid is something ridiculous like £200 for a T-shirt. The trick is to well, just walk away. The market vendor will then follow you desperate for a sale:
“Give me a price. Give me a price.”
“OK £ 1”
“Hmmmm, too low, too low.”
“OK £ 1.50 and that’s my final offer”
“You kill me but OK, OK.”
In the end it was so easy and efficient I developed a guilt complex and a social conscience. I had to remind myself that my budget could actually accommodate more than 50p for a silk scarf and that the scrawny guy desperate for a sale probably had a family to feed.
In last night’s episode one of the contestant bought a cow-hide off a man with a wracking cough for just £15. Sir Alan, the greedy old goat, was delighted and even mentioned it in the board room – but come on! Please. The seller had a wracking cough, had probably been working in a dodgy tannery with dodgy chemicals since the age of five and was quite possibly on his last legs. In spite of this, and in the interest of winning the task, all the rich SAS contestants wanted to offer him was £15 . Surely they could have bumped the price up a little bit or given him something extra for a good drink on the way home and still won the task?
Before G. dropped off to sleep last night he mumbled.
“I want one of those green alarm clocks that wakes you up to the sound of an imam calling you to prayer.”
“OK – you can have that on condition that I can have a Philips alarm clock I read about that imitates the rising sun and birds calling. Its great for in those horrible long winter months.”
“Waste of money. Stupid idea – why on earth would you want something as wamsy pamsy as a “fake sunrise” alarm clock.” G. retorted – but if he’s getting an alarm clock from the souk then I want my sunrise lamp as well.
Now there’s an amusing thought. G. stirring awake to the call for prayer whilst I, Zen-like and peacefully, awake to a fake rising sun and canned birdsong. You can tell which of us does yoga – and yes, I agree I don’t think that Philip will negotiate the price down even though it is probably manufactured in Asia for the half the price it retails for.
“This is not a game” Sir Alan Sugar barked at the contestants at the beginning of the 2007 series. Oh come on – who are you kidding. This show is just one big game. Only it goes under the name of “serious business” meets “reality TV”. In fact I would like to take part in it just for the fun of it. Certainly not because I’d want a job with the bearded one.
The contestants want to win because they are competitive. The egos selected have no interest in a poxy job working as SAS’ side-kick. They all fawn, promise they’ll be his most loyal doormat, guarantee they’ll move heaven and earth to make him lotsa of the filthy stuff but I don’t believe it for a moment. They don’t want his job. They want to come out on top. The thrill, after all, is beating the other contestant – the job incidental.
You can see their minds racing.
“I must survive this board room grilling because that bitch/bastard/wanker accused me of …., which is totally untrue, and in any case she/he is a wimp, and useless, and a waste of space ….whereas I, I did my best and am in any case, better, cleverer, much more competent than her/him with a much better business acumen …and I have an MBA”
Makes for good telly viewing and as G. and I sit on the couch we of course know exactly how we would handle the task, what the best strategy would be – and oh no what a clanger! We would never do that.
Getting a Moroccan butcher in the non-Jewish quarter of the Marrakesh souk to chant halal, halal over a chicken that was supposed to be kosher has got to be one of the biggest clangers in the Apprentice – and that from a guy who studied classics at Edinburgh and who is half-Jewish.
So last night’s episode was all about buying ten specific items in Marrakesh and haggling the price down. Whoever paid the least amount would win the task. Penalties would be doled out on the purchasing of incorrect items. This was one task I would have relished. Surely I would have helped the team to win on this one. Surely.
Now, I like to think that I can haggle with the best of ‘em having had a jolly good bash at it in various parts of the world less subject to regulation than the EU such as Asuncion, Bangkok and Tangiers. Its impossible to haggle and negotiate prices in, say, Zara or Ikea. So having the chance to haggle like a fish wife straight out of an Astrix and Obelix cartoon on a truly open and unregulated market is a fantastic opportunity.
It was easiest in Bangkok. Almost too easy. There the market vendors seem to be genetically handicapped to “sell at any price”. The opening bid is something ridiculous like £200 for a T-shirt. The trick is to well, just walk away. The market vendor will then follow you desperate for a sale:
“Give me a price. Give me a price.”
“OK £ 1”
“Hmmmm, too low, too low.”
“OK £ 1.50 and that’s my final offer”
“You kill me but OK, OK.”
In the end it was so easy and efficient I developed a guilt complex and a social conscience. I had to remind myself that my budget could actually accommodate more than 50p for a silk scarf and that the scrawny guy desperate for a sale probably had a family to feed.
In last night’s episode one of the contestant bought a cow-hide off a man with a wracking cough for just £15. Sir Alan, the greedy old goat, was delighted and even mentioned it in the board room – but come on! Please. The seller had a wracking cough, had probably been working in a dodgy tannery with dodgy chemicals since the age of five and was quite possibly on his last legs. In spite of this, and in the interest of winning the task, all the rich SAS contestants wanted to offer him was £15 . Surely they could have bumped the price up a little bit or given him something extra for a good drink on the way home and still won the task?
Before G. dropped off to sleep last night he mumbled.
“I want one of those green alarm clocks that wakes you up to the sound of an imam calling you to prayer.”
“OK – you can have that on condition that I can have a Philips alarm clock I read about that imitates the rising sun and birds calling. Its great for in those horrible long winter months.”
“Waste of money. Stupid idea – why on earth would you want something as wamsy pamsy as a “fake sunrise” alarm clock.” G. retorted – but if he’s getting an alarm clock from the souk then I want my sunrise lamp as well.
Now there’s an amusing thought. G. stirring awake to the call for prayer whilst I, Zen-like and peacefully, awake to a fake rising sun and canned birdsong. You can tell which of us does yoga – and yes, I agree I don’t think that Philip will negotiate the price down even though it is probably manufactured in Asia for the half the price it retails for.
posted by Kathleen at 12:55 AM
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