One Language That Even Google Translate Can't Help WIth

        A few years back, Mrs Max and I went on a little jolly around the world, because, why not! Oh, the places we went. The people we met, mostly European backpackers, in every country. It was amazing! It wasn't just the locals in the various countries that we met as well, it was totally normal when in, say, Byron Bay in Australia to be surrounded by three Swiss, two French, four Spaniards and millions upon millions of Germans. One of them was also called Max, which naturally won him first prize in life, according to me. It was fantastic! A perfect opportunity to learn about different people, different lives and different cultures that are normally just a few hundred miles across the Channel, while we're half way around the world. I learned that; the Swiss eat far too much pasta, the Germans simply cannot say the word "smurf" and everyone I ever met from Norway had the brightest and blondest hair of anyone I ever met on the whole trip, and we even went to Los Angeles! It was an amazing time, and a fantastic experience I'd recommend to anyone who wants to do it.

Read more...

The Kony 2012 Campaign Highlights An Even Bigger Problem Among Us

        To me, Facebook is like the local pub. Most people pop in just after work for a while, even if they've already stopped by briefly during their lunch-break, and spend most of their time complaining about how their manager could be replaced by a scaffolding pole, with no noticeable difference. There's the person who seems to enjoy making out that their life is so dramatically bad that the people of Darfur should take a break from being shot to hold a charity concert for them. There's the clown who spends far too much time thinking of witty one-liners to belt out at random (that'll be me, then) and let's not forget that ever lovely person sitting in the corner who waits until it's late before starting a massive rant about something or other and blaming every problem in his life on "political correctness" or "immigration", followed normally by an argument. You still get the charity tin rattlers, but on Facebook, they're soliciting for "likes" instead of money. Plus, it provides ample opportunity for people to awkwardly run into their ex.

Read more...

I Don't Watch Too Little TV, I Watch The Best TV. There's Difference...

If I stood up and announced that I was planning on selling my shins for medical research, I'd probably not get a strange look. Instead, people would probably point out that without shins, I should now be called Tony (toe-knee, get it? I'm here all week, try the beef). If I decided that I would now sell all my worldly possessions, set up in a tent and wear nothing but shoes on my ears, I'd barely get so much as a raised eye-brow. Even if I went so far as to declare that I will dive into the sea with a Great White Shark because I thought he wanted a hug, then you'd probably come up with a reason or two to agree with me. However if I tell people that at most I watch probably two or three hours of TV a week, they stand there gawping at me, their jaw sitting on the pavement three feet away from them, while they wonder if I've injected an extra strong dose of stupid. I might as well have said that 1+1= a jam sandwich, the reaction would probably have been better. But, honestly, I watch so little television simply because I am too busy doing other things, like working, studying and maybe using the screen to work my Xbox. If I do watch it, it's normally to watch one of the endless Top Gear re-runs on Dave, new Top Gear when it comes on, and sometimes Come Dine With Me.

Read more...

Short-cuts; A Lot Longer Than You'd Like To Think.

So the other week, Denmark decided that it was time for another round of taxes. They sat down, I presume, and decided that it was boring to go for things like income and beer and daffodils. Instead, they looked out the window and saw McDonald's, and struck an idea: they would tax fatty foods! That's right, they were going to cut down obesity and make the populous far healthier by charging them a few coins on a Big Mac. Because that's the solution, isn't it. Apparently, this will turn the country into lean & fit individuals, it will save the Mexican Fruit Bat and stop the third run of the Rapture, which was apparently rescheduled to this month. It will consist of a surcharge on any food that contains more than 2.3% saturated fat, which is the real bad boy on the colourful circle you get on food packaging. How bad? Well, it gossips about you to all the other food when your back is turned. That mean! Anywhoo, this is all totally meaningless, partially because it doesn't say 2.3% of what? 100g? The whole cake? All the food in the drive-thru? This is kind of important information, because if it's per item, that's nearly all foods excluding a bottle of water, and possibly some fresh air. Not really convinced by this one, I'll be honest!

Read more...

Why Some People Will Believe Anything, Because "Someone" Told Them.

Last week, Mrs Max and I found ourselves in Tesco. Nothing out of the ordinary as, just like everyone else, our Sunday was filled with the urge to swing by the nearest zombie holding-pen that we call supermarkets to fill a trolley with some stuff that we might be able to combine into something resembling a meal, and most stuff we really fancy at that time. This is why it isn't a good idea for people to go food shopping when they're hungry as apparently, you will end up with a trolley-full of Smarties. At least, I would be. However I also wouldn't be, as there are only a tiny number of things that I refuse to try and get used to: taking a bus being high up the list, but one of them is weekend supermarket shopping. I can't stand any supermarket when they're busy; why does the weekend turn the shoppers into the living dead? I mean, if I have a trolley and I want to take my time deciding which brand of Wine Gums I can most easily convince Mrs Max are entirely suitable for a Shepherds Pie, I will dump my trolley out of everyone's way. This is because I'm not five years old and can tell that this will only serve to annoy everyone else. So when everyone else seems quite content with just abandoning theirs in the aisle, it starts to make me want to scream. So, to avoid the frustration, I am simply left near the entrance in the magazine aisle, which I have renamed "The Man Creche". I wait. I read Top Gear or whatever, and am collected once the milk and Tiger Bread have been bought.

Read more...