Ultimedia PR blog

Woody Harrelson Learns About Reddit The Hard Way.

noreply@blogger.com (Max , Ultimedia PR) — Thu, 09 Feb 2012 14:07:00 +0000

Once upon a time, there was a thing called a "laptop". However, this "laptop" was merely shorthand for "laptop tray" and it was used to stop your dinner and your sofa becoming one while you watched the Generation Game. Back then, there was such a thing as the Internet, but it was rarely used as "I browse the internet" translated from Computer-speak to English as "I'm going to die a virgin, aren't I". This is a crazy idea to me, you see. The idea of someone working an office-y job without the Internet blows my mind! I mean, I would never get anything done at all if I had to, say, organise a meeting with people by ringing each and every one of them to confirm? I just want to type "meeting at 11. Biscuits available" and be done with it, thus leaving me with more time to think about important matters, like do Pigeons get dis-orientated by the way they wobble their heads while they walk, or why I always seem to wake up 10 minutes before my alarm, like my brain has a pocket-watch or something. Whatever, the lack of Internet is crazy enough, but I really can't get around the idea of lack of computer! I mean, I can't even imagine doing anything if all I had in front of me was a typewriter, and a biro. What can you do with that, besides maybe put on one of those hats with a cardboard "PRESS" thingy in it and pretend to be a 1920's journalist while saying, in gangster-voice "what a scoop, scheee".
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There's One Slight Problem With Saving Fuel...

noreply@blogger.com (Max , Ultimedia PR) — Thu, 02 Feb 2012 14:19:00 +0000

Being a thrill-seeking, fun loving, edge-of-the-seat kinda guy, I decided to break the habit of a lifetime and read an actual newspaper the other day. Since then, I've learned that apparently, we're all running out of fuel, that everyone is doomed to a lifetime of pain and sniffles, and that the Daily Express are still obsessed with Diana. Further venturing into the archives of the Daily Mail draws me to a list of things that cause cancer, and the answer it seems, is everything in the whole world! No seriously, it's a combination of electricity, long fingers, being tall, peanut butter and (my personal favourite) Prince Charles' Organic Crisps. The only obvious conclusion that anyone can draw from this is to build a shelter and camp out, waiting patiently for the plague to pass by us. So long as you don't bring any cancer-causing bread with you. Or be a man. Or a woman. All of these will literally make you explode in front of everyone's eyes. I'd be happy to dismiss this as sheer panic-talk and buy them all new tinfoil hats to replace their old ones, but then it occurred to me that they have a circulation of over 2 million! That's a lot of people who I assume spend the first few hours rocking in the foetal position every morning before braving the front door.
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I Don't Watch Too Little TV, I Watch The Best TV. There's Difference...

noreply@blogger.com (Max , Ultimedia PR) — Thu, 26 Jan 2012 16:38:00 +0000

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.
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Yes, You Are Very Boring Indeed. No, Money Will Not Change That.

noreply@blogger.com (Max , Ultimedia PR) — Thu, 19 Jan 2012 13:20:00 +0000

As much as I enjoy watching explosions and stuff, I'm really quite boring in real life. I know, right? I mean, so far the most interesting things I've done all day, apart from write two and a half sentences, is a trip and back from the train station and make porridge, so I'm not exactly expecting MTV to turn up on my door, wanting to film my crazy antics as I make lunch, have a cup of tea and put the washing on (living the dream, people, living the dream). I don't mind this, though, because if you're honest, you're just as boring as well. As much as you'd like to think that a review of your normal day would make you look like that guy at the party who's greeting the cool people while necking another shot, I bet it would actually make you look like the guy who wears his t-shirt tucked into his trousers, and asks everyone to use a coaster. Occasionally you'll use reason and common sense to get you through the day, which explains why your breakfast isn't a bowl of vodka-flavoured heroin chased down with a cup of nails. Whatever Reality TV tells you about the life of whoever they've decided to stalk for that week, Peter Andre mostly, they will still do boring things like fill in a tax return instead of burning it, do the washing up instead of burning it, and many other essential yet non fire-related tasks. They change their baby's nappy on a mat, instead of during a parachute jump (regardless of how much of an awesome anecdote that will be at school). In conclusion, there's nothing as mind-numbingly dull and uninteresting as the lives of ordinary people, especially if they're neither rich nor famous.
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The future moves very fast. Maybe a bit too fast?

noreply@blogger.com (Max , Ultimedia PR) — Thu, 12 Jan 2012 16:40:00 +0000

Sometimes, I imagine what would happen if I travelled back in time by forty years or so. I do this occasionally, and wonder what I could do. Sometimes, I'd imagine I would find my parents and give them a list of every massive company to invest in and when, and how I'd convince them I was serious and not just an escaped lunatic. I then try and imagine quite how I'd explain how my phone works to someone who has only just seen the emergence of holograms, or how a fancy touchscreen works when the most advanced thing they own are flared trousers and a moustache. They'd not get where the curly wire was hidden, what an Internet was and if having something called a "face-book" app meant I was a stalker. Then, they'd rip the thing to pieces wondering where you put in the film for the camera. To say they'd be confused and scared is an understatement; this is a generation that thought Jim Davidson was funny and that colour TV was showing off. How confused would they be? Well, what would you say if someone turned up with , say, an iJumper that changed colour depending on your mood, or thickness depending on prevailing weather conditions? It'd blow your tiny mind, wouldn't it? What about an iPen that doubled up as nail clippers, or allowed you to turn the volume down on the TV? Think that's a silly use for a pen? Well, I bet Mr 1972 thought that a thesaurus, piano and a torch would be pointless on a telephone, but mine has all three, and more!
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Someone's Got To Love Them, I Suppose...

noreply@blogger.com (Max , Ultimedia PR) — Thu, 05 Jan 2012 13:25:00 +0000

On weekday mornings, my routine is well considered and rehearsed. Currently, it begins with my alarm going off about an hour before I need to get up, mostly because it's January and it's still dark when I get up, and my brain will simply refuse to acknowledge any possibility that it isn't 2am with at least three more hours of Z's before I need to rise. Therefore, I spend that hour before I get up constantly pressing "snooze", which I know is a stupid idea but at the time, I'm usually so tired that I've got a better chance of working out the answer to the Middle Eastern Conflict than I have of figuring this fact out. Anyway, many people tend to read the papers at this time, as do I. However bearing in mind that it's 2012 and not 1972, "reading the papers" to me consists of checking Facebook, Twitter, Reddit and whatnot on my phone for about 10 minutes in bed. Finally, after the epic battle between the recognition that I need to actually get out of bed and the comfort of being toasty warm while in bed, I proceed to the shower in a manner that might convince any onlookers that the zombie invasion has begun. Only once copious amounts of tea have been ingested with so much sugar that I should be classed as a level 3 explosive do I start to resemble a human and I can get on with my day.
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Yes, It's Nice, But Do You Really Need All Of It?

noreply@blogger.com (Max , Ultimedia PR) — Thu, 29 Dec 2011 15:17:00 +0000

Normally, when I have "time off" from something, it's a nice relaxing affair. That sporadic double bank holiday in Spring, for example, consists mostly of me sleeping. Then, when I've dragged myself out of bed at a time closer to when I'd get back from work than when I'd leave for work, I'll sit there and make lots of interesting plans, ranging from finding some cold sausages to how to carve an evil lair out of a volcano without (a) dying or (b) anybody noticing. They're relaxing times, full of dressing gowns, eating beans from a tin without a single care and pretending I'm a multi-squillionaire and going through RightMove/AutoTrader and finding my dream house/car. However when it comes to Christmas, I get more time off than any other time in the year, yet I need a holiday to recover from it! Seriously, Having spent two weeks moving house (which, without a van, was a very busy time indeed) I then ran full-pelt into the fun of Christmas shopping, followed by a bigger national tour than U2. Seriously, I've had to go and see my Mum, my Dad, my Grandparents, my Aunts, Mrs Max's Mum, Mrs Max's Dad, Mrs Max's Sisters and the Hanging Gardens of Babylon. Or so it feels. New year's eve-eve will be the only day where I have literally nothing planned, and I intend to keep it that way.
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Enjoy Christmas, And All The Stresses It Brings.

noreply@blogger.com (Max , Ultimedia PR) — Thu, 22 Dec 2011 13:13:00 +0000

T'was the night before (the night before the night before) Christmas, and all across the land, we hear the sound of many people, desperately running up and down the shops looking for something for Great-uncle Geoff, ideally fishing related. Yes, we're finally (almost) here! Christmas is just around the corner, bringing with it a combination of calamities, coupled with cantankerous crones queueing to correctly order copious quantities of codswallop for their kids. After the great Pre-Christmas Salary Massacre, we have lots of lovely family lingering longingly while looking lovingly at your long-cooked Christmas Lunch, long carrots and less-popular lima beans, while lately you lack the longevity to let the lateness of the food lower your lust for life! If that didn't wake you up, then there's no hope for any of us. The Christmas parties have come and gone (where you totally didn't get really drunk, and then forget to wipe the icing off your mouth from all that cake that you totally didn't eat), and some sort of office "Secret Santa" ordeal has been dispensed with. Unless, you only work in an office with two people, that kind of takes some of the fun out of it. Now, onto the important part of the whole shebang!
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Moving House Cheaply Is A Very Silly Idea Indeed.

noreply@blogger.com (Max , Ultimedia PR) — Thu, 15 Dec 2011 11:28:00 +0000

So as you’re all aware, I bought a house a few months ago. If you actually know me personally, you’ll know this is the case because I’ve been going on about it for the last few months like a yappy child awaiting the arrival of a new puppy, only far more frequently and annoyingly. In the last six months, I’ve spent more money on this house than I probably have done in the rest of my life combined. I don’t know exactly how much, but it’s very much into the five zeros territory! I’ve mentioned the vast deforestation and extinction that hasn’t been seen since the last great asteroid impact that came about from the mountains of paperwork I’ve had to autograph, and the carpets I’ve had to actually co-ordinate with something called “fleck”. On a slightly side-note, talking about “carpet-fleck” is the surest sign that you’re now officially an adult. No longer can you grasp desperately onto being still vaguely “young” when you’re talking about high-traffic areas, and you suddenly realise that you sound like your Dad. It was quite awkward walking out of Carpet-Right thinking to myself “Max, you adulted the hell out of that situation”. But, whatever; It’s all in now, and I’d rather have that than acne.

In HollywoodLand, Money Isn't Needed. In The Real World....

noreply@blogger.com (Max , Ultimedia PR) — Thu, 08 Dec 2011 12:53:00 +0000

I'd personally love nothing more than to live in that funny colourful world where Hollywood Script-writers are grown. I mean, if you look at some of the stuff that they make, it sounds like absolute bliss, where wildlife programs don't end with the seal killing the penguin in a sloppy red mess. Instead, the naughty seal just misses the resilient penguin, who goes off afterwards with Mrs penguin to open a Fair-Trade vegan cafe. Are you a hopeless romantic? Well don't worry, there's tons of case-studies from Scriptland that tells us that you'll get that 6ft Supermodel that you're pining after in the end. Your boss being a megalomaniac? Never fear, he'll be usurped in a fit of frustration and throwing of many papers, followed by the entire office living happily ever after. Born with facial features that don't have a sense of teamwork? Never mind, your personality will shine through! It's all so rosy and middle-class.
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Want To Cut Down On Waste? Don't Buy A House!

noreply@blogger.com (Max , Ultimedia PR) — Thu, 01 Dec 2011 15:20:00 +0000

Apparently, every year, an area of forest or jungle the size of Wales is cut down. Having driven through Wales a few times, this is a lot of trees. Unfortunately it's one of possibly squillions of issues that sit in my "I haven't done anything about it yet" box, alongside such other pressing issues as bullying, racism and getting to the bottom of who steals all of my erasers before I finish them. Honestly, I've never ever used up a whole one before someone definitely comes and adds it to their collection of my stolen stationary. It's very obvious that it's not just me losing them, because they also take those lip-balm stick thingys. Honestly, have you ever managed to finish one? Anyway, the point is that lots of trees come down every year for lots of reasons, mostly cow-related, but it's hard to tell if this includes those ones where they use the wood for paper, and then plant eleventy-ten new trees for every single time they step on a twig. This week, however, I feel just a teeny bit responsible for what I can only predict is the loss of every single tree in the world, purely down to how many stupid bits of paper I've had to sign just to get my amazing new house ready! So, apologies to the Lesser-Spotted No-Eyed Rainforest Fruit Bat for using your childhood home in pulped form to sign-off the stairs.
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Do You Want To Be Rich? Work Out What It Means First.

noreply@blogger.com (Max , Ultimedia PR) — Thu, 24 Nov 2011 14:35:00 +0000

Today, for the umpteenth time, I awoke to discover that I haven't transformed into a billionaire. After consoling myself, I did what I suspect everyone has done at some stage: thought about what I would buy if I awoke to find that, despite not having bought a lottery ticket, that I'd won countless squillions of pounds. First of all, I'd do what I've always wanted to do in public: attach a £50 note to a fishing-rod and watch people run down the road chasing it as I reel them in, laughing manically! Once I'd grown bored of mocking the public, I'd buy myself probably every ridiculous thing from Harrods because, hey, why not? I've already mentioned before that I wouldn't buy a private jet, mostly because I am simply too lazy to organise all the shenanigans that go with buying one, like a pilot or an aircraft hangar or fuel or Health & Safety. I've also mentioned that I wouldn't promise to make 20 friends and/or relatives millionaires, as there's absolutely no way I would be able to explain to the 21st person why they apparently weren't deserving of a penny. I wouldn't do what most winners end up doing, which is blowing the lot within a few years, like this girl.
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After Defeating The iArgonauts, My Phone Is Now Here!

noreply@blogger.com (Max , Ultimedia PR) — Thu, 17 Nov 2011 14:51:00 +0000

Imagine the trickiest thing you had to do? The most baffling task in the world ever? Maybe it's all the guy readers out there, and it's that awkward and shaming moment when you must surrender your will and dignity to a stranger, and stop and ask directions? Maybe it's that awkward moment when you know a really long and impressive word, just not when you're trying to use it in a sentence? All you can do is sit there and say "oh-god-I-know-this-I-know-this". Maybe you've ended up at a school reunion, and you're trying to think of a good reason why you're not president of the world yet? I mean, you'll get round to it eventually, only you have other made-up projects in the way. All very difficult things. However, I've managed to claim victory over a challenge that fate itself seemed doggedly determined to thwart me at every turn, to defeat me with awkward timing, and to lure me into a false sense of security. Yes, finally I can say: I've received my eye-fone!
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There Are Better Ways To Get Famous Than Big Brother.

noreply@blogger.com (Max , Ultimedia PR) — Thu, 10 Nov 2011 12:14:00 +0000

After literally a whole night's thought at the pub, I've decided that I don't really want to be a "celebrity". By that, I don't mean someone like Sir Alan Sugar or one of the suited folk from Dragon's Den. They're successful in their own right, and just happen to be well-known due to some pokey show on BBC2. I don't even mean Phillip Scofield famous, where your job is to sit in front of a camera and chat to Jamie Oliver about his latest tomato. No, I mean the ones who are famous and well-paid, yet for the life of me I can't quite work out what it is they do: the "professional Celebrity". Chantelle, for example, turned up on Big Brother presumably for a joke. No-one in the house knew what she did, but she seemed to have the reading age of a chinchilla and the vocabulary of a teaspoon, so they assumed she must be a rich socialite at least... and that's it! That's all she's really done. Yet if she got married again, Hello would be tripping over themselves to be at the do, taking arty shots.
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Despite The Technology, We're Still As Daft As Cavemen.

noreply@blogger.com (Max , Ultimedia PR) — Thu, 03 Nov 2011 12:28:00 +0000

I'm jus' saying, I really like modern life. I mean, I can walk into a room and press a switch on the wall (sometimes with my head if I'm carrying something) and boom! A light comes on. I can switch on the internets and learn about whatever I want. The other week, I learned how Uranium is refined, whereas yesterday, I learned that a restaurant in Japan has monkey butlers! Instead of hunting for my lunch, I merely asked KFC to prepare some breaded poultry, which they did. My brother has a new eye-phone 4ess, which lets you ask it stuff. I, for example, asked it what the weather is, and it went on-line and found out instead of me having to look out the window like some kind of feral cave-man. I can watch live news from around the world on a TV that's flatter than the voice on most of the singers in the chart today. Modern life is just.... just great! Just 150 years ago, we had to walk everywhere, find out about stuff by asking Beryl over the garden fence, go outside to answer nature's call and burn our relatives just to keep warm. Plus, all of this had to be done before you died of dysentery. I'll take monkey-butlers over all that, ta!
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Who Cares About "Price"? It's What You Get That's Important!

noreply@blogger.com (Max , Ultimedia PR) — Thu, 27 Oct 2011 11:56:00 +0000

As we screech towards the end of October and slippy-slide into November, you'll find me a very excited Max. This has nothing to do with the up-coming fireworks extravaganza that spans mid-October and finishes some time just after the start of January (known as Bonfire night). Despite my awesome plans, it isn't even Halloween either, for which the great wide world of the Internets has given me an excellent idea to confuse my neighbours. We'll make a door of our own, complete with frame, and place it in front of their front door with a "please knock" sign on it. When they open their front door and see ours, they'll knock on it, then we'll open it dressed as grannies, and coo over their "costumes" while we hand them sweets. Then, we'll pick up our door and move on, leaving them utterly confused as to what just happened. Failing that, I might just look to make an intricate and artistic pumpkin carving, just like this Lord Of The Rings one, this Native American one or this Octopus one. However I suspect that my hours of carving, cutting my finger, whining about it, followed by more carving will actually look like this.
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Short-cuts; A Lot Longer Than You'd Like To Think.

noreply@blogger.com (Max , Ultimedia PR) — Thu, 20 Oct 2011 15:36:00 +0000

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!

Blackberry gone down? Could be worse.....

noreply@blogger.com (Max , Ultimedia PR) — Thu, 13 Oct 2011 11:22:00 +0000

A couple of days ago, a couple from Cambridgeshire awoke one morning to discover that they had £101 million to their names. They achieved this feat by purchasing a ticket for the lott-tree and are now discussing what shade of Ostrich-hide to go in the private jet, I assume. I bet that every single one of you reading this did exactly what I did when I heard about this: planned exactly what you'd spend the money on if you were the lucky buyers of that lott-tree ticket. I don't even know what I would do with that kind of money, it's something like £300,000 a MONTH (that's after tax) if put away properly! What do you spend £300,000 a month on? No doubt I'll figure a way eventually, but the first few months would consist of me being an idiot with the money, I suspect. What I wouldn't do, however, is announce in the Mirror that I am making 20 of my friends millionaires. The only sentence I can imagine are more regretful is Gerald Ratner's "it's all crap".

Embarrassed About "Drunken Night Out" Photos? Worry No More...

noreply@blogger.com (Max , Ultimedia PR) — Thu, 06 Oct 2011 11:56:00 +0000

It's been a funny old week, hasn't it! We've slid into October; a time normally of coldness, endless crunchy leafy pavements and that sad first morning where you have to spend five minutes scraping ice off your automotive pride and joy. Not this year. We've enjoyed a very un-British 29C here, and we've seen personal computer legend Steve Jobs pass away. These are indeed odd times, especially as the number one thing that most people seem to be talking about is neither of these two suggestions. Instead, it is the new layout for Facebook. Basically, they've changed it from a simple chronological line (which makes sense) to a mishmash of posts from here and there. Mostly there. Now, I can't quite get the whole brou-ha-ha about it all, as it sits in my priority list alongside a minor political dispute in Southern Bengal, or EastEnders. The biggest thing that people seem to be flapping their arms about, apart from the hilarious claim I mentioned last week about Facebook charging for their services, was the concern about privacy. Apparently, if you go out partying and post drunk pictures of yourself on the Internet, then other people may see them! I know, right?

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

noreply@blogger.com (Max , Ultimedia PR) — Thu, 29 Sep 2011 11:28:00 +0000

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.

Spending So Much Time On Other People's Fun, You Forget Your Own!

noreply@blogger.com (Max , Ultimedia PR) — Thu, 22 Sep 2011 11:26:00 +0000

The other day, I made the choice that unless it was going to be for a very good reason, I would not bother organising a party again. There are very few jobs that are as thankless as organising a shindig for people, whether it's a birthday bash, a corporate do or a wedding knees-up. Especially the last one, since the one thing that sticks out like a sore poke in the eye is politics. Since when did politics become a factor in a wedding? Sure, you want to invite a mate along, but that will mean that this person will be upset with you, or if you invite your fifth cousin because she's great fun, you are somehow obliged to invite every member of your family, regardless of the fact that you have no idea who they are or that they haven't seen you since the concept of you taking your first steps was discussed in the future tense. Why? It's my party. Don't like it? Diddums. Even my Mum fell foul of this logic recently, by suggesting I needed to invite her cousin. I don't even know who that is! If you make a rule of "No under 18's", then you instantly become a Commie Nazi relative hater. At least with a corporate do, you're doing it to please your clients!

Smartasses Bore Us To Tears, But It Pays To Be One Sometimes!

noreply@blogger.com (Max , Ultimedia PR) — Wed, 14 Sep 2011 10:28:00 +0000

If there’s one thing that winds me up, is those people who love to ruin a perfectly good film by explaining how the far-fetched plot line just couldn’t happen. I mean, that photon blaster would require more energy than a gazillion Hiroshima bombs and, like, really couldn’t fit into that handheld design, and that light sabre would totally not stop like three feet away from that handle. These people are so annoying, it makes you wonder how they have any friends to ruin stories with. I even heard one of these in a cinema while watching The Golden Compass (which, incidentally, was three hours of my life I’ll never get back). Near the end, when the giant bear snuck up on that Russian-looking bloke and turned the tide of the battle (don’t worry if you haven’t seen it, I’ve just saved you from an 8th of a day of utter brain-bleeding boredom), this guy, who sounded like every 80’s teen movie geek stereotype, said “well that wasn’t realistic, surely all those guys behind him would have seen it”. What, realistic like the idea of a giant talking freaking bear walking around and commanding armies?

Why Presents Are Not Always Worth The Price You Pay.

noreply@blogger.com (Max , Ultimedia PR) — Wed, 07 Sep 2011 10:59:00 +0000

Once upon a time, many thousands of years ago, I used to work for a well known clothing & homeware chain on the shop floor. This was my first "grown-up" job and, me being me, I did my level best to show off just how truly awesome I was. As soon as someone working full-time handed in their notice, I marched into the Manager's office and told them I'd like to replace them, figuring that it would be the perfect opportunity to go from a part-time dog's body to a full-time person. It worked, and I was put in charge of a whole department, over which I declared myself Imperial Department Overlord. As the Overlord, I made it my Divine mission to make it the best gosh-darn department ever in the history of departments. Again, it worked and, despite having arguments with management who seemed to think that employment laws were mere urban legends, I was very proud of my work. I even made my department the most productive of that kind of department in the region; That's how cool I was!

Charities: So Close, Yet So Very Very Far!

noreply@blogger.com (Max , Ultimedia PR) — Wed, 31 Aug 2011 11:50:00 +0000

So neatly following on from last week, I survived the weekend in the testing and harsh wilderness of rural Berkshire, and I am back here and can live another day. Although, I did suffer a battle-injury in the form of a slight coughyness. I know, it's such a hard and testing life being me! Anyway, after four days what can only be described as contrived poverty, lots of rain and a very fun time, I have come back with an interesting observation. Let me explain...

Whoever Would Go On A Holiday Where You Build Your Own Accommodation? Me.

noreply@blogger.com (Max , Ultimedia PR) — Wed, 24 Aug 2011 11:49:00 +0000

Tomorrow morning, roughly around 5am, you'll find me sitting in my car, making my merry way to Berkshire. When I get there, I plan to abandon my car in a field somewhere only to proceed on foot to a river. This won't be the most fun thing I'll do all day, considering that I'll be carrying four days' worth of clothes/food/tent/spare socks with me. After I've crossed the barren wilderness of middle England, I'll take the expedition across the river that's, oooh, about 10 feet across. Following that, I expect to make the arduous trek across yet more fields to find yet another field. At this point, having not given up and tried to find somewhere with plug sockets and a roof, I will spend what will feel like millions of years building a tent; which must be the hardest thing to build at 8am after exploring the desolate land west of London since the Pyramids! Then, I plan to live in this construction without the aid of such necessities as Broadband or Chewits or fridge-freezers for four whole days while I listen to a lot of well-paid people have a sing-song. Then I go home.

Yes, I am going to the Reading Festival!