Electric Goose blogging win

The Twits

I keep vacillating between "getting" Twitter and "not getting" Twitter. Signed up in May last year and didn't get it. Then started to get it. Then didn't use it for a few months, which meant I forgot why I got it and had to start regetting it. But with a load of friends signing up fairly recently, I’m currently getting it, so here’s where you follow me: http://twitter.com/electricgoose. Oh, and you can see recent updates on the right hand side of this very blog, just below my profile picture. Neat.

Commuting sentences

Heh, Blog After Reading seems to have sparked Brand-Ross-Sachs levels of controversy, with a number of people wondering when all this page-flicking gets done (and good point from Fwengebola about William Gladstone's lack of access to latter-day time-wasting devices like boxsets of The Wire or b3ta newsletters).

I have one answer in the form of a commuting poem I originally wrote in response to a short ditty posted on Facebook by my old boss Martin (his went: "From London Victoria / To Brighton Central / I am always sitting / Next to someone mental"):

From Kennington
To Paddington
I get a lot
Of reading done.

And no, I do not use the Johnny 5 method.

The Electric Goose's new baby sister

This is probably going to make me sound a bit like a list-making OCD wrist-wringer, but for the past 11 and a half years, I have been writing down the name of every book I've read. It's simple, really: when I finish a book, I add it to the list.

I started doing this back at school in 1997, after a teacher, Mr Macfarlane, told our history class that the 19th century British Prime Minister William Gladstone used to read around 60 books a year - during his premiership. The man was devouring books like they were cheese and chive flavoured Pringles, in between running the country, bickering with Disraeli and inviting prostitutes back to his house for tea and biscuits. And I began to wonder if I got through that many (books, not whores, or biscuits), as someone who didn't have to rule the UK as well. So I started making a record.

Then, a few years ago, I discovered that Art Garfunkel has been doing the same thing since 1968 and I realised that untamed haircuts aren't the only thing we have in common.

Anyway, the reason for this confession is because I recently digitised my list, in case of fire (oh, all right, because I was bored), which means The Electric Goose now has a sister blog, called Blog After Reading. She wears glasses, is slightly pretentious and lives here.

The Electric Goose 'worried about Butterfly Effect'

Well, it's the eve of my 27th birthday, the end of the Diana inquest and the 69th anniversary of Italy's invasion of Albania - and therefore the perfect time to say, "Hey everyone, look: I've redesigned The Electric Goose! Now it's ridiculously wide and the logo doesn't quite fit on the screen (depending on what type of monitor or browser you're using)! Cool, huh (apart from the logo issue, which I will be working to resolve when I can bothered, which will probably be NEVER)?!"

But why? Why mess with perfection? Why? Well, The Great Widening of 2008, as it will surely become known, is mainly so my medium-sized 500x375px Flickr photos don't have to be compressed to be embedded on the page. Yeah, shine on you crazy diamond. Anyway, let's hope the widening of these here pages doesn't push some other poor soul off the edge of the internet and into THE ABYSS. That'd be regrettable - but hey, I didn't invent Chaos Theory, bitch.

Day 1, Japan: taking flight

My holiday to Japan starts on a shocking note after I spy this coffee shop at Heathrow. At first I'm a bit dismayed to see a potential rival to The Electric Goose, but then I realise The Tin Goose's coffee probably tastes like mud compared to the high quality hot beverages served up on this blog.

The rest of the day is basically spent on a plane. Luckily, BA have got all this on demand stuff to keep you occupied, so The Darjeeling Limited and Run Fatboy Run are duly digested alongside some tasty Japanese beef gyudon, an English breakfast and episodes of The Simpsons and Sensitive Skin. Hoorah!

Don't say boo to The Goose

Sorry about the paucity of blogging recently. If this blog was an urban development it would be Calcutta, which is a very paucity, apparently. If it was an airport, it'd be LAX. If it was a pair of trousers, it would be slacks. If it was a dress code it would be casual.

In the meantime, I will rack my brain, put on my thinking cap and do other exciting things which involve my head. In the meantime meantime, here's some writing which the daily grind wrung out of me today like an angry Russian washerwoman.

Britney denies pregnancy
What with her busy life of driving around a lot and covering her head with blankets, surely the last thing Britney Spears needs is another baby.

No Spice Girls ticket for Becks
Victoria Beckham has forbidden her husband David from attending the Spice Girls’ first reunion gig on Sunday, because she’s too nervous about the shows.

Christina Aguilera gets her bump out
Wow, Christina Aguilera’s looking a bit fat these days. She must’ve been knocking back pints of London Pride like no one’s business. What’s that? Pregnant?

Chantelle has changed
Yes, that is the same person.

Celebrity golden gobs
"We're in every night. Having sex." Pamela Anderson explains how her marriage to Rick Salomon works.

Ethics kin

My friend Sophie has turned to blogging. Ladies and gentleman, introducing... Ethics Girl!

I've got a lot on my template

Woah, check out my amazing new blog template! Ace, isn't it?

Okay, okay, it looks almost exactly the same as the old one. In fact, only Goose obsessives (you know who you are) will notice a change. But underneath, it's all Blogger 2.0, so bog off. Or jog on, your choice.

I AM THE NEW FACEBOOK.

TWO YEAR ANNIVERSARY & 500th POST

Yep, it's the time of year when we say happy birthday to this blog and mourn the constantly dropping quality of writing and subject matter.

Handily, this entry is also the 500th post. Looking back, you'll see that the one-year anniversary post was the 200th. What does this tell us? That I've been churning out dross at a faster rate. That's something, I suppose.

Anyway, before you start wrapping bunting round your head and destroying the environment by purchasing cheap candles you'll never use again, here's a nice birthday message send to me by God. He never forgets.



Aw. Cheers, God.

The ghost with the most

Ghostsign Sam (him of this fame) is BACK. So look out.

Actually, don't look out. Look at your screen. But first click here and you'll get his new blog. Then look at your screen. And read the words. Also look at the pictures.

NOW GO.

Inspiration

Nope, nothing.

Quote of the day

"I once got into trouble at a Fabian Society function when I said, perhaps a little tactlessly, that I thought [Liberal Democrat MP] Sarah Teather looked like a Pokemon, upsetting a nearby Lib Dem grandee. But they didn't understand that I was going through a real Pikachu phase at the time and was relating everyone and everything to a Pokemon."

From Beyond the New Economic Anthropology

Backdating

You'll notice that I've backdated the Moscow posts below, altering the post times so it looks like I posted them on the days they happened. I think we both know that this was not the case. I know this is wrong, and I wish to God it were otherwise. However, after much soul-searching I have gone ahead thusly, for the sake of simplicity and convenience. Dear readers, please accept my sincere apologies for bringing the internet into disrepute.

Crisp rejoinder

This is my kind of blog post. We need to keep the dialogue going.


The Electric Goose: a crisp retrospective
August 12 2005: Crisp innovation league
February 6 2006: A letter of complaint
February 14 2006: A crisp response
March 2 2006: The death of Mishima / the birth of new Hula Hoops

Why a goose?

I'm often asked "why is your blog called Electric Goose?" I always respond by explaining that to reveal why my blog is called Electric Goose would be akin to Bruce Willis and that woman getting together in that TV programme that I never watched but was apparently quite good until Bruce Willis and that woman got together. When Bruce Willis and that woman did get together, no one bothered watching it any more. Bruce Willis and that woman had amazing chemistry and the whole programme was filled with sexual tension, but when they did get together, the tension wasn't there any more and there was no need to watch. So if I told you and anyone who asks why this blog is called Electric Goose, there'd be no need to read any more, not because the sexual tension would be lost, but because the whole reason for reading would disappear. Not that you are necessarily reading just to find out why this blog is called Electric Goose. Maybe you're reading it to see if Bruce Willis and that woman ever get together. If you are, you're probably in the wrong place.


Buy Thomas Bernhard novels
That Bruce Willis programme

My other blog is a Porsche

We've just launched a News Blog at work. Myself, Darren (who also blogs at Wrong Angle) and a couple of others will be posting a plethora of pleasurable polemics at least once a day on the topics of the moment.

In direct contrast to The Electric Goose - which aims to lull people into a trivia-induced stupor using a heady combination of anecdote and dross - the idea seems to be to provoke people into reacting with our unyielding firebrand views. By the time 2007 is out, I would ideally like to be known as "the new Richard Littlejohn", so please drop by, have a read, and, most importantly of all, leave comments on every single post. Because if you don't, I'll get fired.

Go there now!

Ten grand

Scenes of massive partying and choked-up emotion pouring forth here at The Electric Goose, with the news that this blog had its 10,000th visitor over the weekend. That's what my stats counter Sitemeter says anyway, although it could just be spewing out random numbers and laughing at me behind my back for all I know.

The hallowed visitor in question hailed from the town of La Conner in Washington state and was referred from this page, which suggests he was looking for musical insights into the year's top tracks. According to Sitemeter, his stay here at Goose lasted for a disappointing "0 seconds", which seems to sum things up really.

A heartfelt apology

I'd like to apologise to my readers. I have neglected you both. Of late, this blog has become a graveyard of pathetic cultural titbits, with little to no original content. I think we all know photos and videos don't really count. I've been reading around the "blogosphere" (I hate that word so much) this morning, and it's made me realise what a total bastard I am:

• I haven't wished you happy Christmas
• In fact I barely even mentioned Christmas
• I haven't wished you happy New Year
• I haven't told you what I did on New Year's Eve
• I haven't written about the execution of Saddam Hussein
• I haven't even acknowledged the fact that it's 2007

And why? Because I'm lazy, readers, that's why. Because I'm lazy, and I have no respect for my audience. I would like to redeem myself. Here is my penance. It's a picture of me looking like a complete twat on New Year's Eve. In my defence, I have no idea where that stupid hat came from.


Please take me back.

Saturday's gone

Go to the pub with James on Saturday after an efficient house-moving operation. But throughout, I feel concerned about the fact that he is wearing green trainers and a red hoodie, and I'm wearing red trainers and a green hoodie, and how this might look.

***

Hop over to the White Horse on Brixton Hill for Toby's birthday drinks. Weirdly, despite its, er, 'trendy bar vibe', a number of the clientele are quite old. I point out a guy who resembles a 70-year-old Tony Blair. "There's a guy who looks like Prescott playing pool," says Johnny.

***

Toby tells me about the sadistic evening he inflicted on himself recently. Along with Ben (who harbours the most amazing Alan Lamb anecdote ever – I'll have to tell it to you sometime) he went on a pub crawl of London station pubs. And that's not pubs that are just outside stations, or pubs called 'The Paddington'. No, they had to be the hellish drinking establishments that are actually on the concourse. "We were the only people who were actually there out of choice," he explained. "Bonaparte's in Waterloo is an amazing place."

***

As I'm swiping my Oyster card coming out of the tube station, a plastic splinter of the yellow touch pad somehow comes off and lodges itself in my right thumb, between the side of the nail and the skin. It really hurts, and there's blood. I'm totally suing someone for that.

***

So this was fun: then I went to a (okay, another) pub to meet up with some bloggers. There was Huw (My Thoughts Exactly), Monica (An American in London), Astrid (*The Amazing Adventures & Untold Stories of Astrid*), Leonie (Sometimes Funny is All I Have), Curly (Hairy Tales), and Curly's friend Sud. All good people, and blogging is barely mentioned.

***

As closing time closes in, an extraordinary thing happens. The barmaid whose been telling us to get out comes up to our table wielding a signed Barry Manilow LP. "Is this anybody's?" she says, incredulously. Later we find the culprit and ridicule her.

***

We traipse off to Thirst in Soho. At first, it's pure hell, packed and musically upsetting. But then – and I don't think I was alone in this – it starts to become, like, enjoyable. But then all the booze I've drunk starts to weigh on me and it's time to go.

***

Feeling highly wrecked, I leave the bar. Unable to face the horrors of the Saturday evening night bus, I decide to walk home. On the way down Whitehall, two girls are dancing in the street. They suddenly start running and, without any consultation at all, jump onto the podium beneath the large statue of Field Marshall the Viscount Alan Brooke and start grinding against him, each with a hand on his nether regions. It is highly disrespectful, but bloody hilarious.

***

Reaching the Houses of Parliament, I stare up at the extraordinary architecture of the Victoria Tower Sovereign's Entrance, misty-eyed with drunken wonder and think, yeah, this is why you walk home.

***

And this is why you don't: going along Millbank, six guys are coming towards me. As they pass, refusing to alter my course, I brush against the coat of one of them with my arm. Weirdly, neither of us register this at the time, but a good ten seconds later, and a fair distance apart, we both look back. "Watch where you're fucking walking, you cunt!" he yells. "Come back here!" I glare, but silently turn down his kind offer. I have quite a lot of attitude sometimes.

***

Reaching Stockwell – the walk's taken just under an hour - I'm not that hungry, but I do need something, so, like the dirty addict I am, decide to indulge and pay a visit Millennium Fried Chicken. It's almost impossible to convey the look of amazement that appears on Shiva's face when I respond to his "the usual - two pieces of chicken and chips?" question in the negative. The poor man's eyes widen in horror and confusion. But I put in an order for a chicken burger, and he's appeased.

***

Fortunately, I have a new Tamil word to try out: 'Parkalam' ['See you later']. It works: Shiva returns to his usual state of intense jolliness and throws in a free can of Coke with my chicken burger. Heady times.


Another fun Saturday
And another

Other accounts of the evening:
Curly
Leonie
Astrid