Pics in the Parcs

The headache I was banging on about yesterday (OW!) appears not to have been purely as a result of over-Guinnessing after all.

Because, for what feels like the millionth time in my life, I've developed a case/dose/bout (delete where applicable) of sinusitis. Not happy.

And the result is a headache now well into its second day.

But you know me (possibly), not one for complaining (ahem), so we march on - albeit briefly (did I mention I had a headache?)

Now then, where were we? Oh yes, the CenterParcs weekend just gone.

Well, Wee John bored me whilst watching the rugby...

...but later he and Vanessa beat Vicky and me at Question of Sport...

...her and her helped Jamie with his reading...

...Wee John did a wee bit of shopping with his wee shopping trolley...

...Jamie had a couple of early morning visitors...

...before trying out his new wee chair bought for him (predictably enough) by Wee John...

...then Auntie Vicky rightly reminded us it was actually someone else's weekend...

...so, having mistakenly left Vanessa's original cake in my wardrobe in Pudsey (which I was clearly delighted about), I managed to requisition another one...

... before finally, with Wee John's wee back turned, Jamie helped himself to an advance on his Godson pocket money from Wee John's wee wallet.

So, CenterParcs Sherwood Forest was indeed great and I hope it won't be another year before we return.

I also hope my headache will have gone by then.

Something wrong in the head

We've been back from CenterParcs about three hours now and my headache still won't go away.

The past four days have been terrific, so no surprise there.

However, there wasn't as much "sporting activity" involving Wee John and myself as originally envisaged.

In fact, other than me joining Vicky, Vanessa and Jamie on the water slides this morning, watching three rugby matches and three football matches on the Sports Cafe big screen, and playing three games of pool and two games of the Question of Sport board game were as "active" as either of us got.

And each element was accompanied by copious amounts of Guinness - hence the piercing headache.

Despite me leaving her cake in Pudsey, Vanessa's birthday seemed to work out well enough.

But I'll tell you more about that and everything else over the next couple of days, because I really do need to lie down.

"Holidays" - tch!

Off down the Forest

It's time for the Whites' Annual February Break! (not that we're sad creatures of habit or anything, of course not, hell no).

The long and the short of it is that it's Vanessa's birthday on Sunday - she turns 35, making her a whole five years older than Kelly Brook - and so we're making a long weekend of it.

In recent years, we've sat in a big wooden hut in North Yorkshire. But, for 2010, we're doing things a little differently - we're going to sit in a big wooden hut in Nottinghamshire instead.

Actually, it's a bit more exciting than it sounds (not that sitting in a random hut in Nottinghamshire would be in any way dull). Because we're off to CenterParcs in Sherwood Forest.

And yes, I am incredibly excited.

We've been to CentreParcs in the Lake District once previously, in 2004 BJ (Before Jamie). And it was terrific. But because it was in the BJ years and we weren't kidded up, it was an entirely different experience than we're expecting over the next four days.

As well as our son, we're also bringing our pet - Wee John - and Jamie's Auntie Vickie is coming too.

Add the backdrop of the first weekend of Six Nations rugby to the mix and, well, it could be fun. And who knows, Jamie might even enjoy it too.

There or may not be Internet access down there but, to be honest, you probably need a break from reading this guff as much as I need a break from vomiting it up.

So I'll be back online on Monday when we return, by which time I hope to have been crowned the Whites' Annual February Break Adventure Golf Champion.

Have a nice few days.

PS Any burglars out there, don't even think about it. Our large-forearmed neighbour Barrington is watching, he's got a gun and he's not trained to use it - making him even more dangerous, should you choose to cross our threshold. You have been warned....BANG!!!

It's (almost) enough to put you off drink

Early last year before Jamie could walk, some doom-mongering Ulsterwoman said to me that every step he eventually took would be a step away from Vanessa and me.

My response to this observation was along the lines of:

"What do you know, you crumbly old b******?! F*** off, mind your own business and, actually, f*** off again!"

Thankfully, I said this inwardly rather than out loud so, unless she reads this, she'll never know.

However, the reason for relaying this brief incident is because you may have read that a new shatter-proof pint glass is being launched today in an effort to do something about a reported 87,000 glass attacks in British pubs each year.

We've all obviously heard that glass attacks happen in pubs although I, thankfully, have never witnessed one (and I have been in a few pubs in my time). But I had no idea they were so common. Scary stuff to say the least.

Which brings me back to Jamie and his endless march away from Vanessa and me.

Perhaps that depressing old bint had a point after all. Perhaps it's bad for him that he now walks. And, more to the point, what might happen when he gets older and wants to walk into a pub?

No, on reflection, she was right, the walking must stop - it's not safe.

As soon as he comes back from his Grandma Judy and Grandad Mike's later today, he's grounded. And he's not going out ever, ever again.

I'm sure, given a couple or three decades, he'll get used to the idea.

PS You don't think I'm over-reacting, do you?

Rocky moments

Parents/guardians amongst you will not need to be reminded that the looks of our children can frequently deceive.

Just have a look at Angel Boy above.

Butter wouldn't melt etc etc.

Ermm....balls!

Yesterday at nursery, Angel Boy became Devil Boy when, twice, he had a swipe at other mini-people who were doing him no harm.

He didn't do it in anger, according to the nice ladies in Toddler Two, and just thought he was playing a game. But, clearly, he'll have to think again on that one - if he doesn't want to sleep on our roof for the next couple of nights.

It was Vanessa who picked him up last night before telling me what he had done.

And I was annoyed.

But he then did something which kids often do when they know you're not too pleased with them; he did something incredibly cute.

For the first time that I, certainly, have seen or heard, he strung three words together.

And what did he say in arguably his first proper sentence, just as he was heading off to bed?

"Night, night, daddy." And then he kissed me.

Forget the butter - I just melted in front of him, although I tried not to let him see since I was still "angry."

It was one of those moments I'll not forget. And it was a perfect illustration of the swings and roundabouts that come with being a parent.

But let's hope the Rocky impressions stop soon (although, strictly speaking, he does look more like Ivan Drago).

Windy has a stiff one

I've never been described as being "up with the kids," but I would like to think of myself as being "down with the babies."

I base this belief purely and simply on my knowledge of modern day baby telly.

Because there's not a babies' TV show on Cbeebies, Nick Jnr or Channel 5 that I'm not an expert in. And, I have to say, that makes me very proud (although I should again remind you that I don't get out much these days).

But I've had to work at it and, I have to admit, Jamie's arrival has played a small part in my knowledge development.

To illustrate, in the early days, I used to make him watch shows like Scooby Doo, Top Cat and Hong Kong Phooey. But he didn't like them very much and either cried or tried to crawl off somewhere. So I did some research, discovered that they now make lots of new shows which cater for little scraps like he then was, and both of us set about becoming connoisseurs.

Thomas The Tank Engine, Roary The Racing Car and Peppa Pig are all shining examples of "modern greats." But they're also incredibly "responsible"/politically correct - which brings me to my point.

Last night, Vanessa and I were wrecked and decided to head off to bed early (don't be mucky). And I did what I always do when I walk into our room - I turned the telly on (ever the romantic).

It was still tuned into Nick Jnr 2, which Jamie had been watching before he went to bed, and they were showing an episode of Camberwick Green as part of their "Nickelodeon Classics" feature for sad parents who don't want to grow up. Like me.

So, as you would, I sat down to find out what was going on. And, essentially, Windy Miller had a mate over. I couldn't quite work out who he was or the nature of his relationship with Windy, but they were clearly very close.

However, at the end of their long day together, Windy did something which almost short-circuited my 2010 modern daddy brain (shut up).

He produced a huge barrel of cider and a glass each for himself and his pal.

And they began to drink heavily.

It was possibly the highlight of my year so far.

And it's true, they really don't make them like they use to - tragically.

Brief reflections on Mo

Last night's Channel 4 "drama-documentary" on the latter life and times of former Northern Ireland Secretary Mo Mowlam was, unquestionably, a fine piece of television.

And the details of the story were largely accurate (unlike Braveheart and all those American war films that forget that Britain played a part too).

However, a couple of quick observations.

As someone who worked for the Ulster Unionists throughout Mo's tenure as Secretary of State, I was irritated, but not in the least bit surprised, at the portrayal of my former boss David Trimble as something akin to a big bad wolf.

There seems to be an unwritten rule that any Unionist politician appearing in any drama of any kind must come across as cold, humourless and angry. It's unfair and it's untrue but I suppose it excuses both writers and viewers from the task of having to think for themselves.

Some of the castings also were a little on the lax side, a couple hilariously so.

For example, Peter Kilfoyle, whilst a Scouser, is neither tall nor dark. And Adam Ingram isn't a bald geriatric.

On the upside, whoever decided to cast Mini Me as loyalist godfather Johnny "Mad Dog" Adair and a short-arsed bulimic as Gerry Adams deserves some kind of reward. I almost wet myself.

As for Mo, clearly Julie Walters was an inspired choice - have you ever seen her in anything bad?

And I thought she got very close to the real Mo, who I had the privilege of meeting on several occasions.

People can argue about how pivotal Mo was in delivering so-called "peace" in Northern Ireland.

But her love for the place and its people was certainly beyond reproach. And for this, she should not and will not be forgotten.

Happy Andy stays in the locker

Whilst I did want Andy Murray to win his Aussie Open Final against Roger Federer this morning, I can sense genuine relief on his part that he didn't triumph.

Because the pressure is now off.

He doesn't have to smile after all.

PS Doesn't his mother Judy look like Julie Walters?

PPS Well, I think she does - alright!

A dark moment for the Whites

Jamie went to the beach yesterday, as you can see.

Actually, that's a complete lie, he didn't; he just spent a bit of the afternoon playing in the sandpit at a local play barn (that's him on the left, below).

And all was going well - until he suddenly began hurling huge handfuls of sand at the sole black child present.

I don't think I've ever felt so embarrassed.

Model parents

I write this blog for several reasons, one of which is to provide a record of what was going on in the world during Jamie's first few months (and now years) of life.

And today, I'm going to briefly discuss the subject of model parents.

So, Jamie, the current holder of the "Dad of the Year" title is a man called John Terry. John is the captain of the England football team and someone little boys like you are supposed to look up to.

However, everyone has just found out that John has been a very naughty boy. Because John has been caught kissing his best friend Wayne's girlfriend behind Wayne's back. Bad John!

And not only has John been a very bad best friend to Wayne, he's also been a very bad husband to Mrs Terry and a very bad daddy to his three-year-old twins.

John is a very rich man and is paid £170,000 a week. And because John has lots of money, the newspapers say that John gave some of his money to Wayne's girlfriend so she wouldn't tell anyone else they had been kissing. However, that didn't work because the newspapers found out and told everyone anyway.

Chelsea, the football team that John plays for, have said that they will support John and whatever he does is alright by them. That is because Chelsea is run by slags. And that's why John plays for Chelsea, because John is also a slag.

OK, Jamie, so that's the "Dad of the Year."

Now it's the turn of the mummies and, for a change, we'll go back to 2007 when the "Mum of the Year" was called Katie Price, although she sometimes calls herself Jordan. She is mummy to two little boys and a little girl. Katie is also a slag.

Katie will do absolutely anything to get money or get her picture in newspapers and magazines. She has kissed lots and lots of boys and then she tells the newspapers and magazines so they give her more money and take more pictures of her.

Katie's got a boyfriend and he's called Alex. A few weeks ago, Katie told Alex that she didn't want to be his girlfriend any more. However, she didn't tell Alex to his face. She announced it on TV in front of lots and lots of other people so she could get more money and get her picture in more newspapers and magazines. Bad Katie!

Then Katie found out that Alex was going to be in another TV programme that lots and lots of people also watch. So Katie became Alex's girlfriend again because she thought it might help her to get even more money and get her picture in even more newspapers and magazines.

Last night, Alex was voted as the most popular person in the TV programme and everybody cheered for him. Katie is very happy about that because for the next few weeks she's going to make lots and lots more money and get her picture in lots and lots more newspapers and magazines.

But as soon as she thinks she has made as much money and got her picture in as many magazines and newspapers as she can, Katie will tell Alex she doesn't want to be his girlfriend any more and she wants to kiss other boys instead. And then she will tell the newspapers and magazines and they will give her more money and take more pictures of her.

So, Jamie, when you eventually read this, I hope you're not too disappointed to learn that your mummy and daddy weren't model parents.

Having another dart at my new hobby

It's the weekend - hallelujah for that.

And I'm planning to spend a significant chunk of it playing darts.

You may mock, and with very good reason. But let me explain.

I bought a dartboard on New Year's Eve 2008 because I'd been watching the world championship on TV and fancied having a go myself.

However, after screwing the board to the wall and firing my first few arrows at it, I quickly discovered that it wasn't as easy as those fat blokes on the telly make it appear. In fact, at times I did well to hit the board at all.

And the problem with missing the board was that I then hit the wall - and Vanessa hit me. So I gave up.

But last Saturday I was bored and, in a flight of unplanned fancy, went on t'Internet and spent £20 on a dartboard wall protector which was delivered yesterday (it's the black thing in the picture above). And last night I had a go at trying not to hit it.

The good news is that I only missed the board three times during my 30 minutes of firing, and even achieved a highest score of 101 - which you can also see in the photo.

But, to be honest, that total is a little deceiving. I did hit a treble 20 with my first dart which was great. But the double 20 with my second was not intentional and neither, obviously enough, was the single one which I scored with dart three.

However, at least I appear to have made a little progress in the year and a bit since I bought my board. The next challenge is to continue to get better.

And after that, it's to get a life. That might be the really hard bit.

Oh joy

Those of you who have nothing better to do than read this rubbish on a regular basis (I do appreciate it, by the way) will know that there's a peculiar but hugely popular Yorkshire team sport entitled, "Digging up Barry, Vanessa and Jamie's Road."

It's a year round activity and all participants like have a go at least once every few months.

In recent times we've had electric people, gas people, water people, phone people and Internet people. And they've all had a lot of fun.

We were warned some time ago that the employees of Leeds City Council Highways Department wanted their turn too and, as a result, we wouldn't be able to park our car outside our house either last Sunday or Sunday coming.

They came and went last Sunday as planned. And, of course, we have been eagerly anticipating their return in three days' time.

But it appears they enjoyed themselves so much last weekend that they simply couldn't wait.

Because about half an hour ago, just as Jamie was going to bed and without any warning whatsoever, they rocked up outside to begin re-digging up our road. According to the sign, they hope to be finished at around 11.30pm tonight. (Oh, and they are still coming back on Sunday).

The picture above was taken from Jamie's window. And, as you might imagine given that it takes two men to hold that big diggy thing that digs roads, it's all very noisy in his room at the present time.

As my father once memorably said to me years ago when something was irritating him, "Is it any wonder I take drink?"

Nor me, Dad, nor me.

Carpet sledging

We had a lot of snow recently - you may remember it.

And, because we had a lot of snow, a lot of people decided they wanted to do a lot of sledging - you may have seen them.

But Jamie didn't get to go sledging. And the reason was simple; he didn't have a sledge.

However, Vanessa has now put that right.

You, like me, may have mixed views on the wisdom of this purchase.

Yes, it's great Jamie now owns a sledge. I can't think of anyone (of right mind) who would argue with that. However, the question is, when might he be able to use it?

Because the one thing you can absolutely guarantee (if you're a White) is that, as soon as you buy your son a sledge, there will be absolutely no chance whatsoever of snow falling near you for at least a thousand years.

So, until that day comes, all Jamie can do is wait...

and wait...

and wait.

Arctic Roll? Think Arctic hole

We've seen a lot in recent years of food products, once popular in the 1970s, 80s and early 90s but which then vanished, suddenly re-appearing back in the shops.

Think Spangles, Monster Munch and, most recently, Wispas. (Apparently there are no plans to bring back Rancheros, which I regard as little short of a national scandal).

And whilst most of these blasts from the past appear to have got smaller in the intervening years (or perhaps I've just got bigger), they tend to taste as good as ever.

It was with this in mind that I excitedly picked up an Arctic Roll from Asda the other day. I haven't seen Arctic Roll for years and, no doubt, neither have you - because they've only re-started making it after a gap of well over a decade.

I've since looked into its history in some depth (the nights can be very long when you've got a kid) and did you know that, during Arctic Roll's heyday in the 1980s, makers Bird's Eye used to sell more than 25 miles of it each and every month? No? Now you do.

Anyway, so I got my chocolate Arctic Roll out of the freezer last night, sawed a slice off the end, gave it a couple of minutes to defrost and then had a bite.

And what was the verdict?

Well, I'll put it like this. Apparently you don't find penguins in the Arctic (go to the Antarctic and you're in business) but there are loads of polar bears.

My chocolate Arctic Roll tasted (and looked) like something that could well have emerged from a polar bear's "hind quarters."

Don't buy Arctic Roll.

W for Gordon?

You'll probably have picked up the speculation on the news this morning (or heard it confirmed, if you're reading this after 9.30 when the official announcement is due to be made) that the UK economy has finally come out of recession.

This is obviously quite a big deal, not least for Jamie who has spent his entire life so far scurrying around under the dark shadow of economic gloom - he often talks of little else.

However, some commentators are already speculating that things could get worse once again before they ultimately get better in the longer term, known in the trade as a "double dip recession."

The particularly hi-tech graphic above provides such an obvious illustration as to why it's called a "double-dip recession," that even I get it.

Obviously, all of us hope that we do not slip back into the bad times and, instead, the next few years prove to be hugely prosperous (and fun) for everyone.

But I've been thinking.

Wouldn't it be wonderfully ironic if Gordon Brown's 13 years in charge of our economy were forever recorded in history by a huge W?

That's what I would call "leaving his mark."

THIEF CAUGHT ON CAMERA: EXCLUSIVE PICS

Vanessa, Jamie and I went up to Harrogate for a long-planned Sunday lunch yesterday with our friends (from left to right) Tim, Sarah, Tehya, Luca, Nicole and Ian and, unsurprisingly, had a very pleasant time.

In fact, here's another picture of the occasion (I do like to spoil you).

However, these photos aren't as straightforward they seem. Because a crime is being committed - a crime that Vanessa spotted upon closer examination last night, before reporting it to me.

Have a look at Jamie's right hand in the first picture. In fact, I've blown it up below to make it easier for you (I really do look after you).

Yes, the cheeky little so-and-so...in fact, no, I'll say it - the dirty little THIEF is slyly nicking one of Sarah's chips from right under her nose.

And then, see what happens in a souped-up version of photo number two.

Yep, he's eating it.

The shame of it - seriously.

Have we brought our son up or dragged him up? To be honest, I just don't have the answer any more.

I've thought about this shocking incident all day long. In fact, I could concentrate on little else. And, after much soul-searching, I finally decided to allow him one more night of restful sleep in his cot.

But tomorrow morning, it's no more Mr Nice Daddy. Because I'm marching him down to Pudsey Police Station to turn him in. Copies of the pictures will also be making the journey, given that they have now acquired criminal evidence status, and it will be up to the courts to decide his fate.

I'm sure he will thank me in later years - if they ever release him, that is.