More Money Than Sense?

Florentino Perez has returned as President of Real Madrid and has wasted no time in making his mark, splashing out £136m (€150m) on two players, breaking the world transfer record twice in four days. First, he bought Kaka from AC Milan for £56m, only to surpass it days later with an £80m bid for Cristiano Ronaldo. Rumours abound that Perez has a transfer pot of €300m and he will not be satisfied until further big-money signings are made, such as David Villa from Valencia, Franck Ribery from Bayern Munich and Xabi Alonso from Liverpool.

Perez is simply repeating the strategy from his previous reign, when he bought a star player every year to build the first team of galacticos: Luis Figo, Zinedine Zidane, Ronaldo (the original), David Beckham, Michael Owen and Robinho. Inevitably, his new team is already being described as galacticos mark II, but Perez is now a man in a hurry, seemingly aiming to replicate his previous squad, only desperate to complete it in year one. How about that for a “project”, Garry Cook ?

These transfers raise many issues, such as whether ManYoo will actually be better off without their preening peacock, who is undoubtedly a great player, but was relatively ordinary last year. Not only is he unloved by opponents, but he is not even that popular in the United dressing room, because, let’s be honest, he’s a bit of a tit. If you ever doubted the lack of honesty in football, you could review any number of quotes from Ronaldo pledging his allegiance to United, though he did spare us any badge-kissing. His manager, Alex Ferguson, has also hardly covered himself with glory when you remember his strident declaration that he would not sell Madrid a virus. Who will United buy to replace the winker? They could probably buy all of Newcastle from the car boot sale, though that would be the act of a madman (or an obese Cockney chancer).

What interests me most is whether Madrid’s strategy makes financial sense. On the face of it, spending on this massive scale could be considered as megalomaniacal madness, but, in fact, it is part of a carefully considered commercial strategy, which is less about building a team (see any defenders on the wish list?), more about building a brand, the Harlem Globetrotters of football.

Real firmly believe that they are in the entertainment business, so act like a content provider, similar to a Hollywood movie studio. For Brad Pitt, read Cristiano Ronaldo (albeit with a considerably larger Adam’s Apple). For this strategy to work commercially, it follows that they need the best content, thus they consider the likes of Ronaldo and Kaka to be solid gold investments, which improve their brand identity and can be leveraged into higher sales.

Perez would argue that this has worked in the past for Madrid, pointing to the tripling of revenue from €100m a year to €300m during his first presidency between 2000 and 2006. In fact, Real Madrid has topped the Deloitte’s Money League for four years in a row with annual revenue of €366m in 2008.

The engine driving this remarkable revenue growth has been the club’s ability to increase commercial revenue, which now represents over a third of their business with €129m. However, the largest revenue stream of €136m is actually broadcasting, thanks to the exclusive rights contract with Mediapro, which guarantees the club €1.1 bln over the seven years duration of the agreement running until 2013. Match day revenue is the traditional revenue generator for a football club, but is lagging behind the other revenue streams at €101m, though even this has been boosted by reconfiguring the stadium to increase corporate hospitality.

The galacticos factor has clearly been enormously important to the commercial revenues, securing major sponsorship deals and selling a shed-load of merchandise. Academics have conservatively estimated that David Beckham generated $300m additional revenue during his time at Madrid, when his crossing ability was outshone by his ability to sell a shirt. In fact, commercial revenue at Madrid actually fell following the departure of Brand Beckham in 2007.

But will Ronaldo earn it like Beckham? Becks married a pop star (sort of) and exudes a cuddly metrosexual charisma, while Ronaldo may not possess that “likeability” factor. On the other hand, Ronaldo has the appeal of a sulky boy-band singer. That petulance and rebellious streak may appeal more to youngsters – and that’s a bigger audience (just ask the music industry). Also, don’t forget that advertising is expensive, but news is free. Madrid’s shirt providers, addidas, wll be well aware of that.

Real also greatly benefit from their individually negotiated television contract, as opposed to the collective selling in other leagues, which means that the likes of Bolton eat into Manchester United’s potential revenue. You might argue that this is a good thing, but consider the implications. If clubs like United continue to lose their best players to under-achievers like Real, will this not hasten the day when the Premier League’s “big four” decide to cut loose from the pack, sell their own individual TV rights and help establish a European Super League?

As well as the huge income, the other factor driving Madrid’s strategy is obviously the powerful El Presidente. Florention Perez is a billionaire, who bought his company for a Peseta, before building a construction, engineering and energy conglomerate with revenues last year of €4 bln. A natural risk-taker and deal-maker, by all accounts Perez is very down to earth (favourite meal – egg and chips) with his only vice being president of Real Madrid. Last time around, Perez sold the club’s training ground and used the money to clear debt and finance transfers. This time he has secured a €300m four year bank facility.

That’s fine, but surely increasing your debt in these recessionary times cannot be a good thing? UEFA’s president, Michel Platini, was quick to condemn “these excessive transfers … as representing a serious challenge to the idea of fair play and the concept of financial balance”. However, Mr Fair Play himself, the FIFA president Sepp Blatter, insisted that the record deal merely emphasised the healthy state of football (under his presidency), bizarrely likening Ronaldo to a Picasso. Maybe these comments are best ignored, as we know that Blatter is a gigantic hypocrite, who four years ago vowed to stop “greed ruling the world of football”, as he launched a blistering attack (aka vote-winning campaign) on hugely wealthy club owners.

In any case, Real expect to reduce the debt by offloading a large number of their players, including most of their Dutch contingent, for around €100m. They also expect to increase revenue from tickets and commercial operations by €40m. When you consider that Real earned €15m for playing two meaningless friendlies in Japan in 2004 during the Beckham era, that does not seem too aggressive.

The reality is that the unique nature of the football industry will enable major clubs to be relatively resistant to the economic downturn. The revenue growth at these clubs has comfortably exceeded that of the “big five” European football nations’ economies during the last decade. Madrid don’t live in the real world, but a Real world, where they can continue to spend Ronopoly money and no bank wants to be the one denying a line of credit.

Life In A Northern Town

While I have a strong affection for The Long Good Friday and Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels, there is no doubt in my mind that Get Carter is the “daddy” of British gangster movies. For the avoidance of any confusion, I obviously mean the original 1971 film featuring the iconic Michael Caine, which Total Film magazine rated as the greatest British film of all time, as opposed to the muscle-bound 2000 re-make starring Sylvester Stallone.

Get Carter is a brutally simple tale of revenge, featuring a series of vicious killings, as Jack Carter, a vindictive and amoral gangster, sets out to avenge the death of his brother, who died in suspicious circumstances in Jack’s home town of Newcastle.

The film is the proverbial game of two halves. The first half establishes the movie’s mood, as Carter travels from London to Newcastle for his brother’s funeral. While preparing for the burial, he begins to suspect that the death was not an accident, so seeks out his brother’s friends and acquaintances in the local underworld.

Although it is highly satisfying watching Caine once again proving how well he can play a tough guy, particularly set against the grim background of derelict housing in a run-down Newcastle, the movies really kicks on in the second half after Carter discovers that just about very low-life he’s questioned has been lying to him.

Carter: You know, I'd almost forgotten what your eyes looked like. They're still the same. Pissholes in the snow.

Eric: Still got your sense of humour

Carter: Yes, I retained that, Eric.

Carter’s subsequent vengeance is unrelenting and ruthless, as he dives back into the seedy northern town to take out each of his enemies with no remorse and maximum brutality. Early on Carter is shown reading “Farewell, My Lovely”, which is ironic, as Carter is nothing like a Raymond Chandler hero: he’s a violent thug who shows his victims no sympathy with anger replacing any trace of compassion. He knifes one man in the heart, pushes another off a multi-storey car park, sends a third out to sea in a shale dumper, shoots a fourth in a ferry boat ambush, drowns one girl and gives a leather-skirted prostitute a fatal injection of heroin. This film was evidently not produced by the North East Tourist Board.

This is old-school violence, real fist-in-the-face stuff that you can feel, as we journey towards the downcast ending. Although the likes of Tarantino and Ritchie have clearly seen Get Carter a few times, their violence is of the post-modern, desensitised variety that leaves you unmoved (oh, did the bad men get hurt?)

Hard as nails and as mad as hell, Carter could have been the inspiration for the unstoppable android in Terminator. He strolls through Geordie-land with the detached air of Clint Eastwood in his spaghetti westerns, though he sensibly gives the poncho a miss in favour of a sharp suit - except when he appears in his birthday suit, shotgun in hand:

Carter (naked): Out!

Con: Come on Jack, put it away. You know you're not going to use it.

Peter: The gun he means!

The young Michael Caine had built his reputation in the mid-60s with films such as Zulu, The Ipcress File and Alfie, but arguably Get Carter was his career high, where he was very much the epitome of cool. Incredibly, the film was Mike Hodges’ first job as a director. Arguably, he never bettered his debut, though Croupier (with Clive Owen) had its moments.

Other notable performances come from John Osborne as the silky-smooth local crime boss, whose Edwardian beard detracts little from his air of menace. Britt Ekland adds a touch of glamour, featuring in a telephone sex scene, though it’s actually Carter’s landlady who gets the treat. Best of all is Alf from Coronation Street getting slapped around:

You're a big man, but you're in bad shape. With me it's a full time job. Now behave yourself.

The pivotal moment comes when Carter discovers a pornographic film starring his brother’s young daughter. The scene cuts between Carter watching the extremely upsetting film and the woman he’s just slept with smoking a cigarette in the bath. There is no dialogue, just the sound of the projector slowly growing louder every time we see Carter and cutting out when we see the woman. Caine’s tremendous facial acting speaks volumes, as the hard man is for once reduced to tears.

Although bleak and uncompromising, Get Carter is a landmark movie that has inspired many others and not just in the film world. The influential electronic album “Dare” by The Human League featured a version of the title track. Maybe it’s just my vivid imagination, but it’s surely no coincidence that the two main characters in The Sweeney, the television drama focusing on the Flying Squad, share Jack Carter’s name: Jack Regan and George Carter.

However, maybe the film’s greatest legacy is the gritty, humorous dialogue, which remains eminently quotable to this day, nearly 40 years after it was released:

Eric: So, what're you doing then? On your holidays?

Carter: No, I'm visiting relatives.

Eric: Oh, that's nice.

Carter: It would be... if they were still living.

Lip Up Fatty

A snarling, fat-headed beast and Roar the Lion

For all lovers of the beautiful game, perhaps the most depressing outcome of the recent season was “Big” Sam Allardyce’s Blackburn Rovers kicking their way out of the relegation they so richly deserved.

Once again, Jabba has fashioned a truly hideous team, which is now perfectly set-up for his trademark brand of negative, route one, anti-football. Although Arsenal thumped Blackburn 4-0 at The Emirates this season, there was the usual price to be paid.

His Northern cloggers welcomed Andrei Arshavin to British football with a gift of four stitches; the customary “reducer” was delivered to Theo Walcott "early doors"; while the despicable El Hadji Diouf attempted to break Manuel Almunia’s leg. While I know that football is a physical (man’s) game and have absolutely no problem with teams being competitive, this policy is verging on pre-meditated assault and if the FA had any backbone they would throw the book at them. For good measure, they could also include the most obvious dive you will ever see from Morton Gamst Pedersen. Even the drones on Match of the Day could not stop laughing.

Allardyce’s approach to the game is not only a disgrace, but it is cheating the fans. Who really wants to pay good money to watch an endless display of fouling, grabbing, blocking, shirt pulling, time-wasting and cheating? Even the usually delusional Newcastle fans could not bear to watch any more of this rubbish. The Blackburn supporters have been rewarded for their fortitude by the club slashing the cost of their season ticket by £100 for next season to £199, an incredibly low £10 a match. Good value ? Not really, by my reckoning, that’s still about £10 too much.

If I were a Blackburn fan (and, thank god, I’m not), I might as well pay my hard-earned cash to watch the local rugby team, as Allardyce’s tactics resemble nothing more than a miserable parody of the oval ball game. A long kick into touch to gain territory, where they can contest the line-out, sorry, throw-in. Their designated fly-half is, in fact, the goalkeeper, whose main role is to hoof any free-kick into the opposition’s penalty area, where they can ruck, a.k.a. “win the second ball”, to their hearts’ content. Sam’s tactical master-stroke towards the end of the season was to convert Christophe (inevitably “Big Chris”) Samba, his Congolese 6 ft 4 in stopper, into a lock, sorry, striker.

Big Sam explaining his tactics

Allardyce patented his “let’s get physical” method at Bolton, where his teams were obviously sent out to rough up the opposition. I still remember with anger a match at The Reebok Stadium where his pack of Orcs put three Arsenal players out of the game in the first half-hour. Cue mass media reaction along the lines of the Johnny Foreigner (that would be Arsenal’s French players) not “liking it up them”, as opposed to trying to stamp out (pun intended) this GBH football. During Sam's tenure at Bolton, his captain, Kevin Davies, officially committed more fouls than any other player in the Premier League for three seasons in a row - and he's theoretically a forward.

When you hire Fat Sam, you will also need to blow-out your backroom staff (physios, sports scientists, statisticians, Prozone analysts, dieticians, etc) to Fat Sam proportions, though why you need a large support team to, basically, tell the lads to get stuck in is far from obvious. Maybe one of them could spend some time thinking up what to do when his team has the ball.

In any case, the walrus-faced, gum-chewing meathead is getting more sensitive in his old age, as seen when he was so “humiliated” by the “dismissive and disrespectful” gestures from Rafa Benitez after another top side had put four past his boys. Sensitive Sam was clearly put up to this by his old mucker and mind games expert “Slur” Alex Ferguson. The Guardian’s excellent Fiver likened their performance to the popular 1980s ventriloquist act, Keith Harris and Orville, whose light entertainment consisted of Orville, a useless fat lump of gristle, getting upset about something trivial, when he would start to cry; Harris, the brains behind the act, would then give him a cuddle, sing Orville a song – and the audience would start to cry.

Maybe Sam is still smarting from a 2006 Panorama documentary, in which conversations with player agents suggested that he and his (football agent) son, Craig, had accepted back-handers as part of their transfer dealings while at Bolton Wanderers. Sam furiously denied all the allegations, threatening legal action against the BBC. He would be better advised to direct his complaints against his local postal service, as three years after the programme was broadcast, the BBC has still not received his libel writ.

This week Kevin Bond, the former Portsmouth Assistant Manager, was scheduled to bring his own libel case against the BBC for “Football’s Dirty Secrets”, but mysteriously dropped the case when it emerged that the BBC legal team was preparing to show the jury 50 hours of unseen footage, including three top-class managers being named and shamed for taking secret payments.

We may never know the identities of the managers who were “bung to rights”, but the documentary also incurred the wrath of Harry Redknapp, owner of a large house in Sandbanks, the most expensive property area in Britain. In his autobiography “Readies” advocated that those in football “should make the bucks while you can … if there is a chance to earn a few quid, take it, because it doesn’t last forever”. It would be kinda funny if Harry were guilty, if only to see his “pundit” son Jamie’s reaction: “That’s a lovely little arrest – he’s literally banged to rights !”

Another result of the Panorama accusations was a promise from Fat Sam to never speak to the BBC again in his lifetime. I suppose we should be grateful for small mercies, as we saw more than enough of Allardyce offering us his expert punditry on any other media outlet in a shameless attempt to pimp himself out for any job vacancy. However, you can’t help think of a big baby spitting the dummy while throwing toys out of the pram.

"I'm doing my job and tonight is very difficult in that time in itself."

However, since joining Blackburn, Sam appears to have made his peace with the BBC and we are once again privy to his unique ability to mangle the English language, as he delves into his dictionary of long words, not realising that it would help if he also understood the meaning. Maybe he is big enough (oh yes) to forgive and forget or perhaps he simply cannot resist the overwhelming desire to get his handsome face back on prime time.

Incredibly, during the hiatus after Sven’s departure, it was rumoured that Allardyce was in the frame (an XXXL frame) to be the next England Manager, only to lose out to the “wally with the brolly”, Schteve McClaren. What a choice for the long-suffering England fans. Talk about being caught between a cock and a lard face.

Service, please!

Given the perilous state of most companies in these recessionary times, you would have thought that the very least they could do is to ensure that their customer service is firing on all cylinders. Not so, if my recent e-mail exchange with a magazine publisher is anything to go by.

Magazine: Thank you for your order. Payment amount, payment details and reference number are shown below. Your goods will be delivered in 28 days.

Me (5 weeks later): I have not yet received the back issues ordered below. Please advise me of the status of my order (attached below).

Magazine: Thank you for your recent e-mail. Please could you send us more information regarding the order.

Me (slightly perplexed): The only information I have is the e-mail that you sent me (attached below), which is an Order Confirmation for the two back issues. This includes the order date, payment amount, credit card details and reference number. Not sure what other information you might need.

Magazine: Unfortunately I have been unable to locate your payment. May I request that you please check whether your credit card company has processed the payment?

Me (getting a bit fed up): My credit card company has indeed processed the payment, which should come as no surprise, given that I received an e-mail from you confirming the order (see below). This has caused me some inconvenience, especially as the two back issues that I ordered have now been sold out (per your website). Given the circumstances, I would be grateful if you could suggest a solution.

Magazine: I have been unable to locate your web order. What you may have is the "print details", which is not confirmation that the order has been successful. To complete the process you need to click 'submit' to finalise the order. An email will then be sent within 30 minutes to confirm the order has been successful quoting your reference number. May I therefore ask you to resubmit your order online?

Me (totally pissed off): I am clearly wasting my time here. Firstly, the order confirmation that I have is not the "print details" as you suggest, but an e-mail that I received with the helpful title ORDER CONFIRMATION. If you page down to the end of this e-mail chain, you will see this e-mail - which you should have realised, as I have mentioned it three times in my previous e-mails. Secondly, there would be no point in re-submitting my order for the back issues, as they have now sold out. Again, I stated this clearly in my last e-mail (see below, if you can be bothered). Your "customer service" is evidently nothing of the sort. At this point, the only thing that would interest me is if you could tell me whether you and your colleagues are too: (a) blind; (b) stupid; or (c) lazy to read a short e-mail in plain English, understand it and respond accordingly. I have copied this correspondence to the Editor of the magazine in the hope that he might address this issue with a touch more efficiency. If not, at least it might give him something to laugh about in these trying times.

At least this lengthy saga had a happy ending, as the Editor then intervened, miraculously finding copies of the “sold out” issues of the magazine and sending them to me for free.

Moral of the story: when the service sucks, stop being so British and complain. There’s no need to become as litigious as the Americans, but overcome your inhibitions and stand up for yourselves. If companies aren’t told what they’re doing wrong, they will continue to give you poor service.

Obviously, you don’t want to go to the other extreme like those ridiculous holidaymakers whose complaints are almost unbelievable in their stupidity, such as the tourist on safari lamenting that the sight of an aroused elephant ruined his honeymoon by making him feel inadequate. Or the woman who complained that it took them 9 hours to fly home from Jamaica to England, while it only took the Americans 3 hours. Or even the man who was disgusted to find that almost every restaurant in Goa (India) served curry, as he did not like spicy food.

On the other hand, occasionally you will come across a gem of a complaint letter, such as the infamous missive from an unhappy NTL customer. The whole letter is a masterpiece of its kind, ending with this broadside:

Suffice to say that I have now given up on my futile and foolhardy quest to receive any kind of service from you. I suggest that you cease any potential future attempts to extort payment from me for the services which you have so pointedly and catastrophically failed to deliver - any such activity will be greeted initially with hilarity and disbelief, quickly be replaced by derision, and even perhaps bemused rage. I enclose two small deposits, selected with great care from my cat’s litter tray, as an expression of my utter and complete contempt for both you and your pointless company. I sincerely hope that they have not become desiccated during transit. They were satisfyingly moist at the time of posting, and I would feel considerable disappointment if you did not experience both their rich aroma and delicate texture. Consider them the very embodiment of my feelings towards NTL, and its worthless employees.

Difficult to top that, but the man in seat 29E on Continental Airlines penned another classic with a heartfelt epic about being seated right next to the lavatory, thus sharing his flight with the stench of sanitation fluid (and worse), the noise of constant flushing and the passengers’ asses invading his personal space. Read it and weep.

Sing When You're Losing

Has there ever been a more embarrassing reaction to a defeat than Phil Brown strutting onto the pitch microphone in hand for a spot of impromptu karaoke ?

Let’s not forget that he was celebrating losing at home to a reserve team, thus reaching the giddy heights of fourth worst team in the league. In terms of buttock-clenching television, Brown’s determined attempt to “sing when you’re losing” is right up there with Cliff serenading the ladies at Wimbledon with “Living Doll” and Delia’s half-time howl of “let’s be having you”.

Brown’s bizarre response completely ignored a dreadful run of form during which his team recorded 15 defeats in their last 22 games. It’s hardly cause for celebration that Hull survived in the Premier League only thanks to the staggering ineptitude of their north east neighbours, Newcastle and Middlesbrough, though there would have been dancing in the streets of Zurich if somehow Hull had managed to stay up, while relegating the South Shields messiah.

Brown, of course, has previous in what could most kindly be described as an eventful first season in the top tier. His whole approach has positively screamed out for attention. “That’s enough about me, let’s talk about me”. Even when he was being interviewed following the Great Escape, you could see the irritation in his eyes when his chairman muscled in on his moment. He described narrowly evading the drop as “my greatest achievement”. Note the considered use of the personal pronoun. No thanks due to the players, fans, backroom staff, chairman ? Nope – any success is all down to the perma-tanned buffoon, the loud-mouthed loser with the headset. “Hello, it’s me. I’m in the technical area”.

We had already been given some idea of Brown’s approach to man management on Boxing Day, when he single-handedly demonstrated how to lose a dressing room in 15 minutes by keeping his players on the pitch like naughty schoolboys for the half-time team talk against Manchester City. An altercation with Geovanni then followed after he substituted his Brazilian striker to the displeasure of the fans. Brown's reaction ? When informed that Geovanni was undergoing a drugs test, he informed the press conference, "hopefully, they'll find that positive". Laugh ? I thought I'd never start.

Still, at least it's clear who's in charge at Hull. Or maybe not if you consider the behaviour of some of his players last season. Marlon King developed an impressive rap sheet: driving ban, fighting with Dean Windass in a local casino and then getting arrested for assault in a London strip club. His judgment in the transfer market can also be called into question following the acquisition of the perennially crocked Jimmy Bullard from a delighted Fulham for a record £5 million. Bullard duly got injured in his very first game.

He also proved to be on shaky ground after the FA Cup defeat to Arsenal, when he accused Cesc Fabregas of spitting, first at his assistant manager, then at the ground, as well as other major crimes such as “being on the pitch after the game” and “being dressed in the manner in which he was dressed”.

This is curiously reminiscent of the classic “Constable Savage” sketch from “Not The Nine O’Clock News” in the early 80s, featuring Rowan Atkinson and Griff Rhys Jones. This was a swipe at racism in the police force in which a white policeman repeatedly arrests a black man for offences such as “loitering with intent to use a pedestrian crossing”, “smelling of foreign food”, “urinating in a public convenience”, “looking at me in a funny way” and “possession of curly black hair and thick lips”.

Brown’s comments smack of xenophobia and those parts of the media that immediately took his side against the foreign player should be thoroughly ashamed of themselves. The gormless goatee’s hasty post-match rant was somewhat undermined when the FA subsequently cleared Cesc of the spitting charges, maybe because video evidence reportedly showed Cesc still on the pitch while the Hull staff were in the tunnel.

The best thing to come out of this spat (see what I did there ?) is a BBC 5 Live interview which showed the whole world that Phil Brown is not only a complete tool, but demonstrably a liar, as he claimed that Arsene Wenger would not shake his hand after either the Hull victory at The Emirates, nor after Arsenal’s win at the KC, only for photos and videos of said handshakes to appear on the web the very same day.

Could this be the same Phil Brown who penned an article in November’s Daily Telegraph entitled “How can you criticise Arsenal’s Arsene Wenger ?” It’s funny how defeat can affect your point of view. Come on, mate, it’s clear that you’ve been tangoed.

I don’t suppose we should be too shocked at Brown’s shameful displays this season, as his mentor and “mate” is our old friend, “Big” Sam Allardyce, a man responsible for some of the most negative, one dimensional, cheating, time-wasting, dirty football that this country has ever seen. Hardly surprising that this season’s Fair Play League had Hull City (manager P Brown) in last position, only just below Blackburn Rovers (Manager S Allardyce). Truly, Phil Brown is the Son of Sam.

Girl Power

Mona, Yasmina, Kimberly, Anita, Surallan, Lorraine, Kate, Paula, Debra

Karren Brady, the managing director of Birmingham City, explaining why women wear the trousers now, was quoted last week as saying:

"The women who did so well on The Apprentice are further evidence that we not only do better in  exams ... Maybe men really will become extinct".

Now it is understandable that Mrs Brady may be a tad distracted, given that her elegant collar has been felt a couple of times by officers from Her Majesty's Revenue and Customs, whose investigations into conspiracy to defraud and false accounting are described as ongoing. However, can she really believe that the women on The Apprentice provide evidence that women will do better in business ? Let us review the lady apprentices from the current series:

• Anita - a qualified lawyer and "business strategist" (whatever that is). Forehead like an old-fashioned number 9. Also hopes to complete a chick-lit novel and launch her own business providing emotional, psychological and spiritual therapy. Despite this plethora of talents, she was unable to understand that when you are given a budget, the objective is not really to spend all of it, but to "keep the bloody costs down".
• Paula - a human resources consultant. Fired for making a slight error on the numbers, when her team calculated the cost of their sandalwood soap as £5, when it actually worked out at £700. If you ever wondered what use HR consultants could possibly be, this Crystal Tipps lookalike would have left you none the wiser.
• Kimberly - a marketing consultant from New York. The self-proclaimed "rough tough cream puff" made a complete hash of, ironically,  a marketing task, first with the suicidal decision to advertise breakfast cereal with the completely bizarre Pants Man, then by running out of time to prepare more than one side of the box. Did herself no favours in the board room by scrunching up her face and shrieking like a demented munchkin.
• Mona - aptly named senior business manager. Never got behind her team's plan to re-brand Margate for the gay market, instead suggesting the smallest re-brand of all time - the family market. Refused to believe that there were any gays in Kent and missed some obvious slogans: Wish You Were Queer, Glad To Be Margay, All The Fun Of The Fairy, Suck My Rock, etc.
• Lorraine - a national accounts manager and the only single mum in the country. Believed that she had a special skill, but did not use it to find the word to describe this great asset (intuition). Mystic Meg also failed to notice that she had lied on her CV about the time spent at her current job, though it probably "felt" longer.
• Debra - a senior sales consultant. Although she possesses a face that looks like it was crayoned in by a 5 year old, by far the most unpleasant (female) candidate. A very scary, shouty lady who was roundly savaged in the references that she herself had provided: "people either love her or hate her. Most people hate her".
• Kate - a licensing development manager. Fell at the final hurdle, which is appropriate, as her constant toothy grin made me feel like feeding her a sugar lump. Seemed to be assured of victory until she showed some desperately poor judgment by getting cosy with Philip, the complete cock of a non-selling salesman, then launching into air guitar on the shopping channel like your aunt at a wedding, sprinting towards the dance floor as she hears the first gruesome notes of "Dancing Queen".
• Yasmina - a restaurateur. The Finance Director who does not know the difference between gross and net profit. The entrepreneur who launched a restaurant funded entirely by her mother (who had to re-mortgage her house). The team leader who insisted her team call her "Chef", while she slopped tomatoes over discus-sized bruschetta. The one who continually told us that business is a simple formula, make more than you spend (really ?), then helped screw up the pricing of the sandalwood soap. The one who stuttered and gurned her way through the shopping channel test. The one who delivered a pitch as embarrassing as the new Wembley. The winner. Obviously.

Maybe these wannabe's were inspired by the original exponents of girl power, our very own Spice Girls, who told us in their seminal hit, er, "Wanna Be" what girls really, really want. Apparently, they want to "zigazig ha".

Seriously, it is clear that women are just as capable as men at managing organisations (equally good or indeed equally bad) and the male candidates on The Apprentice were, if anything, even worse.

A personal favourite of mine is Anne Mulcahy, who lead the transformation and turnaround at Xerox. A 25 year veteran, when she was interviewed by the ubiquitous, kerb-crawling consultants in a bid to identify the company's culture, her response was, "You're looking at it". You go, girl.

Six Machine

"Get up, get on up, get up, get on up, stay on the scene, like a six machine".

Cricket's Twenty20 world cup took off yesterday when Chris Gayle came to play. Having been AWOL during the first part of the English "summer", the big West Indian captain absolutely destroyed the Aussies by blasting six sixes, though I may have lost count, and another six fours during his match-winning innings of 88. The Caribbean Gayle force simply blew away the opposition.

Leaving aside the question of whether "throw ball hit" should be considered a real sport or rather an updated version of "It's a Knockout" with David "Bumble" Lloyd acting as the Stuart Hall de nos jours, this big-hitting display was in stark contrast to England's feeble efforts during their humiliating defeat to the Netherlands on Friday, when our boys managed the grand total of no sixes. That's right, in a game where the crowd is there for the big hits (and/or the dancing girls), we managed to clear the ropes precisely zero times. How can we have nobody with the strength to hit a single six against a bunch of pie throwers ? No Six, We're British. Cue headlines of Clogs vs Clots, Orange Crush, Pass the Dutchie, etc.

How can this be ? Granted, the team's talisman, Kevin Pietersen was again out injured, having pulled a muscle lifting his cheque from the IPL, where he did actually manage to swagger onto the pitch for a few minutes, but against a team boasting only two full-time professionals, we should not have missed the South African import that much. In the words of Janet Jackson, "what have you done for me lately" ?

Oncer again, the curse of the international tournament hits an England team. Some would ascribe the ineptitude to complacency, but I think it's a bit subtler than that. The English psyche is such that we cannot bear to be seen to be making an effort or trying too hard. We would rather expend the bare minimum and win "professionally". Why not show some personal pride and give it a lash ? Even Scotland, that well-known cricketing nation, did better than us in their exhilarating thrash against New Zealand, albeit lead by a couple of players with the very Scottish names of Kyle Coetzer and Navdeep Poonia.

Any team lead by Paul "Colly" Collingwood is unlikely to have this drive. Having resigned/bottled the one day captaincy last year, do we really expect great things from him this time round ? My mind drifts to Warnie's special sledge for Colly, as he referred to him as "Paul Collingwood, MBE" after he received the gong following the 2005 Ashes victory, essentially for being a drinks waiter (12th man). Not quite as good as Warnie's "Sherminator" nickname for the dreadfully timid Ian Bell, given his uncanny resemblance to the geeky, red haired virgin from the movie "American Pie".

The tournament itself got off to a shaky start, as the rain came down (really ? in a British summer ?), forcing the cancellation of the opening ceremony, which was clean bowled for a duck. In fact, they decided to do away with the bit that some might find interesting (Alesha Dixon flashing her greatest hits), while retaining the tedious speeches - and the national anthems.

Not that I care too much whether England recover from their awful start, but at least pick some players with the cojones (or even Dutch courage) to go for it.