Alan Sugar was always a hero to my father: They had much in common.

Both London working class boys from religious minorities –the Sugars Jewish, the Harragans Catholic.

The Harragan brothers even built the first car in the family - better than Karen Brady, who seems to have been ennobled for services to pornography and football.

Yet the pressures of a young family saw dad trapped in an office job he clearly did not like.

Certainly he told me not to follow in his footsteps.

When I did spend a fortnight at it I found it incredibly boring with nothing to do after lunch-time. Time dragged.

When I discovered the teleprinter and fired off a series of messages aimed at sorting out the messed-up records I was told it was too expensive.

They told me at interview I had just the qualifications they needed, to which my unspoken reaction was “You’ll be lucky”.

Sugar also seems to have lost his grip over one Apprentice candidate, the Columbian lawyer who was fired for outwitting him. Yet it was clear he was in the right. It was Sugar’s specification that was wrong.

If it had happened in real life, rather than the imaginary world of reality television, Sugar would have found himself slapped down by a judge and ordered to pay compensation.

He ought to have realised that the chap who dressed normally had more to offer than those in sharp suits or bum-hugging miniskirts.

I went through my apprenticeship with flares and flowing locks.

Fortunately the work spoke for itself.