Hanging around

There's not a lot to do when you're just four months old.

Indeed, in some ways, the only option is to hang around and wait for the next stage of your development and the ability to turn your hands or feet to something new.

For example, very soon, you'll be able to put your hands and feet together and crawl along the floor. How exciting does that sound?!

For now, Jamie remains in the hanging around stage. And, if you've got to hang around, you might as well hang around in style.

Thanks to our friend Hannah, he now has his own hanging around apparatus which even allows him to bounce - whilst hanging around.

Don't you just love the hanging around thing's tail?

Jamie thinks it's grrrrrreat! (see what I did there?)

Barred

I went to the gym after work and ran into a disappointment.

As I've said previously, I hate the gym but it's a necessary evil at the moment whilst my knees seek to recover from the ritualistic abuse of recent months.

One of the benefits of Pudsey Leisure Centre membership - which Vanessa and I signed up to - is the fact that the building houses its very own bar.

I appreciate that a gym with its very own bar on site would appear to defeat the purpose. But I would argue against this view. In fact, people like me would be - and are - much more likely to turn up.

But tonight, disaster struck.

As I walked towards the men's changing room, I noticed a big sign which revealed that said bar is due to close at the end of the month for reasons unspecified.

Which begs the question, what's the point of keeping fit if you don't have a reason for keeping fit e.g. working off the effects of alcohol?

I'm gutted - and my gut might now get bigger as a result.

Killjoys.

Hair today...but maybe not tomorrow

I mentioned a few weeks ago that Jamie was losing his hair.

Well, I regret to report that the end is almost nigh.

What was once a relatively thick covering of dark locks has been reduced to a few fair bits here and there.

And, if the truth be told, the little man's taking it badly.

He keeps demanding to know what other products he can try in an attempt to stop the inevitable. He's also very protective of the strands that remain.

"Let it go, son," I plead, "just let the hair go." But he just won't listen. It's all very sad.

A terrorist outrage

I thought I knew myself pretty well but, coming home from work earlier, I discovered something I wasn't yet aware of.

I appear to be a terrorist snob.

I walked into Bradford Interchange to find a long queue of people in front of me.

At its head was a mobile body scanner thingy, like the ones you see at airports but a lot, lot cheaper. Wannabe commuters were then invited to walk through, one by one.

The officer apparently in charge of the operation looked like he'd just walked off the set of Police Academy. And on the other side of the scanner were two young females who seemed to be Police Community Support Officers - "hobby bobbies" to you and me.

Finally, behind them, were half a dozen or more plain-clothed gorillas, arms crossed, chewing gum and looking stupid (or "hard" in their view).

When it came to my turn, I walked through and the machine went "beep." This was not a surprise given the fact that, in my bag, I was carrying two mobile phones, a large set of keys, an umbrella, a digital radio and an iPod.

Rather than ask to search my bag, the reaction of either Cagney or Lacey was simply to look at my crotch and announce, "it's OK, you're wearing a belt. Go through."

I did go through and, when I reached the top of the steps where the trains are, I thought to myself, "hold on, I wonder if..."

I went to the side exit /entrance, right beside the platforms, and guess what. There were no police to be seen and the good commuters of Bradford were free to go as they pleased. Oh, and so too were prospective terrorists.

Having grown up in Northern Ireland, I have a fair idea what a proper, professional security/anti-terrorist operation looks like. This particular operation didn't look like it.

Perhaps these individuals would be better refraining from putting the fear of God up local commuters and instead spend their time catching criminals who stab people and rob old ladies. Or might that be less glamourous and too much like hard work?

Meanwhile, Jamie's just got a brand new pair of Nike trainers. Cool!

Kay is king

So, Louis made the wrong call on last night's X Factor and poor old Bad Lashes are heading home to the North East.

And as Jamie and I predicted, Diana and Eoghan were excellent. Just ten weeks to go now until we see who wins. Excellent.

Meanwhile, Vanessa and Auntie Vicky came home from their evening with The Ladyboys of Bangkok looking bemused and amused in equal measure.

Mrs White said the show was the campest thing she's ever seen.

So, rather than let some one else say it, I'll say it myself; after 11 and a bit years of putting up with me, I must conclude that these ladyboys really must be very camp indeed.

After a quick cuppa and a cornflake cake - a batch of which I've just made myself (what?) - I'm going here to return to my desk and try to knock out another scene or two of my sitcom.

It's been so hard to find the time over the last little while for fairly obvious reasons. But the prospect of Peter Kay's spoof talent show on Channel 4 later tonight has left me bursting to get back on the comedy writing horse.

I love Peter Kay and everything he's ever done. And the word is that tonight's offering could well be his best work yet.

If you haven't seen any of the trailers or read the previews in the press, he plays a transsexual called Geraldine (pictured above) who gets through to the final stages of a talent show.

The judges are all familiar faces to regular watchers of reality TV shows but none of them got to see any of the acts - played by actors - in rehearsals so their on-screen reactions are basically genuine.

The whole thing is a great idea from a great writer and comedian.

It starts at 8pm on Channel 4. Miss it at your peril.

A possible omen as Cheryl coasts to victory

With Vanessa out having her hair resprayed in readiness for the ladyboys, Jamie and I have been continuing our preparations for tonight's X Factor by watching "Danni vs Cheryl" on VH1.

Needless to say, we agreed that Cheryl stormed it.

Indeed, in our considered and collective opinion, Cheryl's fellow Girls Aloud members Nadine Coyle, Sarah Harding and Kimberley Walsh also easily lauded it over the Aussie Botox bint.

However, it wasn't all bad news for plastic-featured Danni.

We thought she just about managed to pip the fifth and very much final Girl Aloud Nicola Roberts (above right) who sadly but predictably ended up with the doggy biscuit.

IT'S TIME...TO FACE...THE MUSIC!!!

Yes folks, the weekend is finally upon us.

And making this weekend even more exciting than normal is that tomorrow night marks the beginning of The X Factor live shows. (Woo hoo!)

All three Whites are big fans but probably Jamie most of all.

He, like Daddy, loves Diana and believes strongly that Simon was right to take a gamble on wee Eoghan from Dungiven.

Mummy and Auntie Vicky are actually due to pop into Leeds for an early evening date with some Bangkok ladyboys. Really.

As a result, the Whites (plus Auntie Vickie who's staying over) will be watching The X Factor slightly later than broadcast, thanks to Sky +. But they won't be going to bed 'til it's done (and Daddy's had the chance to see Holly Willoughby on The Xtra Factor).

Daddy is not in the least bit upset about the short delay in watching the shows is as it means he can squeeze in Slovenia v Northern Ireland at 7.45pm.

Plus Mummy and Daddy's wine delivery arrived last night so, in the event of Jamie falling asleep, Daddy will still have lots and lots of good company.

Marvellous.

Standing out from the crowd

I've just been checking back to see what pictures we took at Mimi's Christening last weekend and stumbled across the above incredibly bizarre shot.

The two men you can see on the left are Mimi's uncles and, since Sunday, her Godfathers. Behind them, as they walk back from the font at the front of the church, is Vanessa.

Now I can't remember any artificial lighting in the church and, certainly, the light that was in there was fairly uniform.

So how come Vanessa is so illuminated?

Was it a spaceship trying to suck her up and whisk her away to another planet for experiments?

Was there a hole in the roof?

Or is what we can see actually God's Light?

Clearly, I don't have the answer.

But posing such questions is the best way I can think of to kill five minutes whilst I wait for Vanessa to finish making my tea.

(By the way, it's my turn tomorrow so I can do without your cheap accusations of chauvinism or laziness, thank you very much).

The only Jamie in the village?

Vanessa took Jamie swimming on Monday and, thankfully, all seemed to go well.

This was something of a contrast to three weeks ago in Buncrana when the two of us dragged him along for his inaugural public dip.

On that occasion, wearing only a swimming nappy, he wasn't best pleased.

But on Monday, back in Leeds, he didn't complain too much.

Many possible explanations could be offered for his change in attitude, the most obvious one being the fact that this time he had a proper baby swimming costume on.

Vanessa explained all of this to me on Monday night, before joking that his new outfit did remind her somewhat of a well-known Welsh television character.

What do you think? (And, yes, a bit of padding has been added to at least one of the above).

Are you having a laugh?

"The Mr Universe contest is a fix," texted a listener into a radio show I was listening to this morning. "Because the winner always comes from Earth."

Although probably not the greatest joke ever told, it probably beats anything Vanessa and I were forced to put up with last night at the City Varieties in Leeds.

The picture above is of Andrew Maxwell. He is the comedian who was meant to be the headline act at Edinburgh and Beyond, a show currently on tour around the country supposedly showcasing the best of what was on offer at the Edinburgh Festival a couple of months ago.

He was certainly the advertised headline act when we paid for the tickets in May.

The two of us (plus my mates Wee John and Wee Colin) saw him at last year's Festival and he was brilliant. So last night, on one of our first nights out on our own since Jamie was born, we turned up at the venue having looked forward to the show all day and talked about it for weeks.

But instead of Andrew Maxwell, we got a hairy man. The another hairy man. Then a hippie woman with lots of hair (and a guitar). An interval. And then a really hairy man (with a drug problem). And then we came home.

Laugh? If only we could. Instead it turned out to be a very bad joke (followed by another, then another...)

Still, on the bright side, we are booked to see Brendon Burns - an Aussie comedian with no hair at all - in a couple of weeks.

Hopefully he'll actually make it along.

Great Scott

I witnessed a brief but funny incident in the gym over the weekend I thought you might want to hear about.

I was walking towards the men's changing room after my "workout" (tch!) and came across a seven/eight-year-old girl standing in my way, holding the door slightly ajar.

"Scott, hurry on!" she shouted through the gap. "And stop talking to yourself!"

I walked past her and, on the other side of the door, found a little boy with shaggy hair, probably a year or so younger than the girl and presumably her brother, trying desperately to put his trainers on.

"I'm not talking to myself!" Scott bellowed back, sweat on his brow.

"Who are you talking to then?" the girl demanded to know in a big sister type way.

"My brain," replied Scott calmly.

Back of the net!

Little Mimi's big day

"Jesus died in a cruel way at the hand of a foreign power. Christ, that sort of thing happens every day."

Those were the words of the priest who presided over the Christening of Amelia Mary Cotton in St Catherine's Church in Manchester earlier today.

And in saying what he did, not only did Father Whateveryoucalledhim - who I felt bore a striking resemblance to the druggy fake doctor in The Cannonball Run - take the Lord's name in vain, he also effectively drove a coach and horses through 2,000 years of Christan teaching. I suppose we all have our off days.

Thankfully, Father W's faux-pas did not take the spotlight way from Amelia - Mimi to her friends - of whom Vanessa is now a proud Godmother. 10-month-old Mimi is the daughter of Vanessa's lifelong friend Jane and husband Ed, who are now both good friends of ours. (Pictured blurrily above, from left to right, are Ed, Jane, Mimi, Tash - also a Godmother - and Vanessa).

Ed and I remain joined together in some people's minds (including his dad's) following an incident at his and Jane's wedding in Manchester City Hall three years ago.

The two of us had developed something of a party piece (at parties, funnily enough) where we, well, Riverdanced wildly but with very serious faces.

Jane and Ed's wedding was rather a posh do where formal attire was the order of the day. But weddings are no place for formality so, with the hour getting late and with me standing outside the door of the main banqueting hall, I heard the first few bars of Riverdance emanating from the DJ's decks. I walked in and there was Ed, standing at the front of the room, waiting to take my hand.

I offered it and off we went. For the next however many minutes (and, whatever it was, it felt much longer), we danced with all that possessed us, faces grim throughout.

And, like in the original version, we finished in a mass dance with everyone who could move in the hall joined together in one long line. (Feel free to watch Michael Flatulence and friends do it properly at http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=X5Mc03_rlWo)

What made the whole thing all the more amusing - for us at least - was the fact that several guests were heard to make comments afterwards which suggested they thought we were for real. Yes folks, that's how good we were (or how drunk they were, take your pick).

And today was memorable too in a much more gentle way.

Vanessa, Jamie and I actually travelled over to stay with the Cottons last night where a dinner party had been lined up. Unfortunately, the evening coincided with my normally twice yearly sinusitis attack which forced me to lie in the dark away from all the fun.

On the upside, I had Jamie with me for company and it did actually ease the pain somewhat.

My mood was lifted even further this morning when the sunlight revealed that Jamie had been wearing Mimi's sleeping bag thingy after we forgot to bring his with us.

Pretty in pink, I'm sure you'll agree.

Mandy slithers back on stage

I tried something new last night.

Instead of changing Jamie's nappy and then give him his 11 o'clock feed, I gave him his 11 o'clock feed and then attempted to change his nappy. Bad move - he peed on me. Twice. Back to normal tonight then.

Meanwhile, you may have seen in the news that Peter Mandelson has rejoined the Cabinet. For political junkies, it's like waking up and finding that Christmas and your birthday have arrived on the same day.

I was privileged to work in Westminster for the first six years of the Blair Government and had several opportunities to see the great man do his stuff at very close quarters. But one particular episode will forever stick in my mind.

It was April 2001, just three months after he had been forced to resign as Northern Ireland Secretary.

Tony Blair had intended to hold the General Election in May of that year but, after an outbreak of Foot and Mouth Disease, decided to delay the poll until June.

The Northern Ireland "peace process" was, as ever, at a sticky point and so I had arranged for Mandelson to come over to have a counselling chat with my boss, David Trimble.

My office was next to David's and, right on time for his meeting, Mandelson put his head around my door to ask if he could go in.

I shared the office with my mate Rodney who I wrote about a couple of days ago. But, when Mandelson arrived, it so happened that two other Ulster Unionist staff members were in there too and everyone was busy (from memory, Rodney and I were on the phone, Mike Kerr was using the fax machine and Tom Keown was doing something else).

Seeing all this activity, Mandelson suddenly halted in his tracks to survey the scene. We all began to stop what we were doing as an look of intrigue grew across his face.

He took a few more moments to stare and, more importantly, to ensure he had everyone's attention. And then he spoke.

"Look at you all, beavering away," he breathed. "It's wonderful - keep at it!"

He paused, for another moment or two, before opening his mouth once again.

"Use every second." (Count to five)

"Use every minute." (Count to six).

"Use every hour." (Count to seven).

There was total silence in the room, the four us frozen to the spot.

After what seemed like an eternity but was probably only another three or four seconds, I piped up.

"We're very grateful for the extra month," said me, somewhat lamely.

He turned to look me right in the eye. And paused again.

Then he blinked. Then he smiled.

"See what we do for you!" he boomed with a wild grin, before turning away and slithering out of the room.

It was a performance worthy of the stage. Simply magnificent.

Love him or loathe him, life and certainly politics are a lot more interesting when Peter Mandelson is around. The next few months will surely be fascinating.

Whoops!

There's been a development.

People who know me will no doubt be aware that, earlier this year, I ran the London Marathon. If not, you're very welcome to read my marathon blog at: http://www.runningforseb.blogspot.com/

It was something of an ordeal getting to start line but, given the reason I was running the race and the amount of money so many people pledged for me to do it, nothing was going to stop me.

I said many times during the training that I was never going to do it again. More importantly, I also made clear to many of my sponsors that I wouldn't be coming back for more.

Anyway, two days after completing the race, I decided on a whim to throw my name back into the ballot for next year's event.

The chances of me getting in were less than 20% so I thought, "let fate decide."

Fate has today revealed that it wants me to run the race again in 2009, as confirmed by the acceptance magazine I received in the post. This was not really part of the plan, particularly given the state of my knees.

All I will say it this early stage is that, if I do have another crack it, I won't be seeking to replicate the fundraising efforts. We could never do as well again and, as I say, I gave my word that I wouldn't be coming back.

However, depending on how my training is going, I may nominate a worthy charity, get a link up on Just Giving and if anyone feels they want to give some pennies to that particular cause, well, who am I to stop them? I'm glad you agree.

As for now, I continue to be in shock. And, if the truth be told, I'm just a teeny bit excited too...(YES!)

Taking the p*ss

I'm going to have a rant.

You may have read in papers yesterday morning about the row over the toilets in Manchester University's Student Union.

If you haven't, the story is basically that the "Men" and "Women" signs on the loo doors have been changed to read "Toilets" and "Toilets With Urinals."

The reason for the alteration is explained by Women's Officer (is that not a bit sexist?) Jennie Killip as follows:

"If you were born female, still present quite feminine, but define as a man you should be able to go into the men's toilets - if that's how you define.

"You don't necessarily have had to have gender reassignment surgery, but you could just define yourself as a man, feel very masculine in yourself, feel that in fact being a woman is not who you are."

So now you know.

I had actually missed the story but it was later pointed out to me by a gay friend I work with.

I like to think of myself as fairly open minded about most things (for an Ulsterman, at least). But the reason my mate (another Ulsterman) told me was because I was sounding off down the phone at the fact that someone else I work with had minutes earlier introduced me to a new phrase and a slight variation of one quoted above: "gender realignment."

Now, I have absolutely no problems with people having a sex change. It's their bits we're talking about and if they want to have them lopped off with a big knife then fair enough. And if they want to have other bits sewn on instead, again, none of my business - I genuinely hope it makes them happy. Why wouldn't I?

It's the patronising, politically correct phraseology that annoys me.

I've heard of people having the wheels of their cars realigned. I played rugby for many years and was always to taught to quickly realign the backline at a breakdown, ready for the next attack. Vanessa has even been known to realign the CDs in our CD rack after I've decided on a whim that I simply have to dig out my Debbie Gibson album.

But realign your gender?

I'm sorry, but they're talking balls.

The Little People

We went to visit Jamie's other probable nursery today i.e. the one we're likely to send him to next June when Vanessa goes back to work. And it was hilarious.

I've never actually been in a proper nursery before. True, I did deliver and collect my little niece Katie from her playgroup the other week when back home. But I only went as far as the door.

As a result, I was really quite taken aback by what I saw - not to mention extremely amused.

The Little People Nursery in Stanningley is housed in a stone built former mill owner's house a couple of hundred yards away from where we live and takes kids from three months to five years old.

We go to the door at 8.45 this morning - me in work suit, Vanessa pushing Jamie in his pram with a coat over his sleep suit since we were in a rush - for our appointment.

And, whilst waiting in reception to be met, we looked around and got a taste of what was to come.

One sign on the wall advised that the staff were happy to clean your child's teeth after lunch if a tooth brush was provided (Jamie might have some gnashers by June, so useful to know).

Another said that parents should supply a hat and gloves if you wanted your sprog to play outside. Again sensible enough - but also very cute.

Then the lady arrived to greet us and begin our tour.

"There are only two babies in today and they're sleeping at the moment," she said, in a warm tone of voice. "But, if Jamie's not starting until June, he'll go into Toddler One so I'll take you straight there," before guiding us towards a door.

On the other side were around a dozen or more real little people, two having their breakfast and the rest sitting around on the floor playing with the cheerful looking staff.

It looked like the cast of Rugrats having a break from filming.

And because I'm tall and was standing up, they were small and sitting down, I must've looked enormous to them. They gazed up in amazement. There weren't many smiles, just bewildered wonderment at the giant. I loved it.

We moved on to "Toddler Two" room to be met by a similar scene and almost identical response, albeit that these cast members generally had slightly more hair and a lot more teeth than the first gathering.

And we finished off in the "Tweenies" room where the older four to five-year-old occupants were a bit less interested in us but smiley nonetheless.

Jamie flashed a gummy grin several times along the way and the staff grinned back which is surely a good sign.

As we left, Vanessa and I gave a strong collective hint to the lady that we'd found what we were looking for.

But, before getting through the door, she added that we were very welcome to come back for another look.

Without pausing for a breath, I suggested we pop in close to Christmas and she agreed. I'm already looking forward to it.

(I wonder if they're looking for a giant Santa?)

Getting his own place

Jamie's preparing to move out.

Yes, just over three months after setting up his Moses basket in our room, the little man has decided he needs his own space and is readying himself for a new life in the nursery.

To be honest, the situation was pretty much forced upon him. He's already almost a quarter of the way to being ten feet tall and Moses baskets aren't really made for young men of that size.

So, over the next few days, he's going to start crashing out in his cot where there's a lot more room to grow into.

It's a big moment for the boy and a sad one for his parents.

Before too long, he'll be literally up on his own two feet. Then he'll start to talk. And not long after that, he'll start to talk back.

In the meantime, thankfully, the really cute stage will continue for a bit longer yet.

The words of a pro

My mate Rodney can be very hard to get hold of.

He's also very good at coming up with an original excuse for why he's failed to return your calls.

But the following, received on a voicemail yesterday morning after several days of me attempting in vain to track him down, is possibly his best yet.

Delivered in a simple matter-of-fact tone of voice, here's what Rodney said:

"Hi Barry, it's me.

"Sorry I haven't been about for a couple of days. I had to do that spacewalk thing.

"You know, the Chinese Government couldn't trust one of their spacemen to do it so they had to get me to do it.

"So, I'm just back."

You would never know he's a barrister.

A special anniversary

Jamie was conceived a year ago today. (Yes, I thought that might grab your attention).

I know this because the Conservative Party Conference begins in Birmingham in a few hours. And this day last year, I was preparing to go to Blackpool for the 2007 event where I spent the next four days (without Vanessa).

According to the calculations, the moment when Mr Sperm and Miss (or Ms?) Egg got their act together was either on that Sunday or in the handful of days immediately afterwards. However, it clearly couldn't physically have happened whilst I was at the conference (I'll resist milkman references at this point).

I can also guarantee that it didn't happen in the days following my return either since I was recovering from something close to alcohol poisoning and therefore didn't have babies as a priority.

So that Sunday it was.

I actually remember quite a bit about the day in question. We made a baby, had breakfast, went into Leeds to find a new suit, I ironed my shirts (modern man, me) whilst listening to now Presidential hopeful John McCain speak at said conference which had already started and then watched Argentina hammer Ireland in the Rugby World Cup (the reason I delayed my departure to Blackpool).

Then I got on the Blackpool train, got off, got lost, found my B&B, met up with some familiar faces at a conference hotel and stayed up for most of the night "catching up on old times." All good fun.

I'm not sure how quickly these things happen but, for all I know, Jamie consisted of at least four cells by the time I finally got to bed - or maybe even eight.

Happy first birthday to them all.

Jamie Wonder

I'm sitting here, typing away, whilst listening to commentary on the mighty Coleraine FC's visit to the Linfield scumbags - the miracles of modern technology, eh? (It's nil-nil at the moment, by the way).

Today's been one of those days when I got up with so much to do yet am sadly destined to return to my scratcher with nothing done.

To be fair, I did get to the gym (still hate it) and I do hope to get the grass cut but, with the Ulster rugby team due to run out in less than an hour and three quarters (Live on Setanta Sports 2, in case you're interested) and with Vanessa then due to head out for a girlie evening shortly afterwards, time is not on my side.

Jamie's been in reasonable form for most of the day following a bad start which involved him projectile vomiting down my back, on Vanessa's pillow and all over the headboard of our bed. Good man.

I think the sun's the reason for his relative good humour, mainly because it's allowed him to wear his shades once again. They didn't come out once in Northern Ireland, which was hardly a shock. But he's making up for it today. They also seem to have a strange effect on him.

(Sorry, but I've just heard one of the Linfield fans call the ref a cheating b*****d via one of the effects mikes. Belfast scum. Still nil-nil).

Yes, Jamie's specs. He was okay with them for the first few minutes today. But then he started to rock his head from side to side in the style of Stevie Wonder which, if you think about it, is somewhat ironic given the fact he's wearing dark glasses.

Vanessa reckons he was simply trying to shake them off but, for my money, it was clearly a deliberate - and convincing - attempt at a Stevie impression. The boy's pool of talent and wit appears bottomless. Kind of.

(Nil-nil at half-time. Come on the Stripes).

Return of the Jac(qui)

A tough old day at work today but one I will remember fondly for a long time after a very old friend found me on Facebook.

Jacqui is a couple of years younger than me which, when at school, is almost an eternity. She went to Coleraine High School (which is girls only) and I went to Coleraine Inst (which is all boys - I appreciate people from the area will be aware of these things but stick with me).

Thinking back all those years - 18 to be precise - I always regarded Jacqui as one of life's "good" people. There was nothing not to like although she had a tongue which could cut tin if the need arose!

One of the last times I spoke to her was in my early days at university when a few friends and I embarked on a series of wind-ups involving people we knew. Jacqui was at the centre of one of these after I asked one of my hallmates in Newcastle - Steve Chee his name was - to pretend to be Peter Hooton (pictured below, lead singer of The Farm with their one hit) and invite Jacqui to appear in their next video.

As a result of an incredibly convincing performance from Steve, the poor girl fell for it hook, line and sinker. So much so that I felt bad telling her the truth at the end. Typically, though, she took it in very good heart.

Now with two girls of her own and a co-partner in her own very successful interior design business in Coleraine, Jacqui's done good.

She also ensured I came home to start my weekend with a smile - and I haven't even prised open my beer fridge yet. (Needless to say, that's where I'm heading off now).

Down the gym

A bad old start to the day after Jamie woke up with a bit of a fever.

The poor little bloke had his second set of jabs yesterday and, according to Vanessa, yelped when the needles went in but was otherwise fine.

However, last night he started to get unsettled so we pumped him full of Calpol. And then this morning, he was burning up so we pumped him again.

He's now snuggled down in his cosy sleep bag on the sofa and all seems calm. For a little while at least.

Meanwhile, I'm just back from my first proper session in the gym at Pudsey Leisure Centre and, whilst the facilities there are good, I was very quickly reminded of why I've always hated the gym so much.

I must've been a member of about eight different gyms down the years. And whilst I do tend to go after joining, I just get so bored.

You set there on a machine and you lift a weight 10 or 15 times. Then you stop. Then you do it again. Boooorrrriiiinnnnngggggg.

Or you run on the treadmill for however many minutes and don't actually get anywhere (it's worse when you're facing the window). Same thing on the rowing machine. Dull, dull, dull, dull, DULL!

Unfortunately, after all the running I've been doing over the last year or so, both my knees are weak so drastic action was needed i.e. come off the roads for a while and try to stay fit some other way. And whilst I HATE the gym (have I mentioned that?) I see no alternative at present.

On the up side, earlier today I bought five new tee-shirts and a new pair of shorts in a conscious attempt to raise my enthusiasm. But, whilst I undoubtedly looked the part, I ended up feeling somewhat on the warm side.

Perhaps I'll just wear the one tee-shirt when I go back to the gym on Saturday.

Amongst friends

Last week, I was proud to show Jamie off to anyone remotely interested. But two stop-offs last Friday teatime gave me special pleasure.

First was a short drop-by with the Fitzpatricks. Regular readers have met Sean and Melanie before - he the Police Detective Inspector who likes to dress up as a fairy; she his long-suffering wife and sometime leprechaun.

Vanessa and I had been out with the pair of them the previous night. Indeed, my head still hasn't fully recovered from the experience - but Guinness definitely is better back home.

Sean doesn't do babies - as his body language above clearly and deliberately demonstrates - but it doesn't stop him looking like a giant one himself.

And, pictured below, is Geoff and Karen Walls together with their gorgeous five-year-old daughter Ellen.

Like Sean, Geoff and I first met at school almost exactly 25 years ago. Until he met the lovely Karen, Geoff needed a bit of taming - and she was certainly the girl for this.

Unfortunately, with happiness, came adversity when, just hours before baby Ellen was born in 2003, Karen was found to have a very large malignant tumour in her bowel. She was taken immediately into theatre to have this removed, returning again within hours for a second procedure which led to Ellen's premature birth.

As Geoff said to me afterwards, "at one point I thought I was going to lose both my girls."

Due to the determination and incredible bravery of both Karen and Geoff, things began to look up and a wedding date was set - only for everything to go back on hold when a secondary tumour was found on Karen's liver.

But, typical of the pair, they battled on and beat that too.

Last week, Karen was at home recuperating after the reversal operation on her bowel a few days earlier. And, as you can see, the three of them are looking good (Geoff will tell you he always looks good) and ready to finally move on with their lives.

Water baby

Having had a few days to reflect back on Jamie's first trip to Ireland, it occurred to me what a large part water played in proceedings (and not just because he peed on me a couple of times).

First, there were the ferry trips across the Irish Sea and back.

He wasn't particularly impressed by the sight of Liverpool from his cabin window (as you may notice above) but thankfully cheered up a bit once he got out on deck later in the day.

Our trip to Donegal involved another return ferry trip, this time across Lough Foyle. He seemed a little happier with that (left), principally because the journey time was only 13 minutes as opposed to eight hours on board the "big boat."

Then there were the occasions he took to the water himself, first in Granda' White's sink for a bath (below). And then in the children's pool of our Buncrana hotel were he grizzled a little but didn't properly kick off (at least until I tried to extract him from his swimming nappy). Unfortunately I wasn't allowed to take a pic of this in case I was a closet paedophile (which thankfully I'm not).

And, of course, throughout out trip, we were always a stone's throw from the most beautiful coastline in the world and, with it, the North Atlantic.

I was forever chucked into that particular ocean during my own childhood but thought it best to give Jamie a few more tries in warmer waters first before introducing him to the experience. Next time, he's going in (with Vanessa - I'd better mention it to her).

Up with the kids

Still more than a little under the weather which is why earlier tonight Vanessa and I did the obvious thing - and joined the gym. More of that another time.

But with regard to our holiday, it was - as ever when we cross the Irish Sea - very hectic and not in the least bit restful.

That is not in any way meant as a slight on anyone we met up with. Far from it. But there were just so many people to see or, to put it another way, just so many people who wanted to see Jamie (Mummy and Daddy now know their lowly place).

Top of the list were his new cousins Katie and Sebastian, pictured with him above.

The two of them have been very keen to hear all about our little man since his recent arrival and it was therefore a pleasure to do the introductions the Saturday before last.

One of the highlights of our trip was Sebastian's agreement, shortly before we departed for home, to be one of Jamie's two Godfathers.

Anyone who read my London Marathon blog from earlier this year will know all about Sebastian's bravery after he was diagnosed with congenital heart disease shortly after birth.

We've no doubt he will prove to be an excellent role model for Jamie (which is welcome, given the opposite effect my mate John, his other intended Godfather, is likely to have on him).

I'll tell you a bit more about our trip tomorrow. In the meantime, have you ever noticed how much Coronation Street's Liz McDonald now resembles Big Bird from Sesame Street?

I did tonight and, as Roy Walker used to beseech contestants to do on Catchphrase, "say what you see." So I have.

Back home

We're back from our week in Ireland - North and South as it turned out - and we're wrecked.

My poor physical state, coupled with the fact that the Ryder Cup singles are about to tee off, means I'm going to wait until next week before telling you more about the first White family holiday. No doubt you'll cope.

However, to hopefully keep you interested, I thought you might like to see a pic of Jamie doing his Father Jack impersonation on a Donegal beach. Pretty convincing I'm sure you'll agree.

Now then - come on Europe!

Off on holiday!

Yes, the Whites are about to set off on their first family holiday - to Northern Ireland.

The ship sails from Liverpool at 10.30 tomorrow morning, arriving in Belfast eight hours later. And we've even got a cabin!

Jamie is clearly a little nervous at the prospect of meeting his new Ulster aunts, uncles, cousins and friends who talk funny. But he's also very excited.

After a good night's sleep at Granda' White's, a Sunday afternoon back garden barbecue is his first planned engagement. And, with the sun set to shine, he hopes he's chosen an outfit appropriate for the occasion.

Looking good, I'm sure you'll agree.

As well as the Whites, this blog is also taking a short break.

But do not fret, it shall return next Sunday (21st) with a special report detailing exactly what we got up to - hopefully accompanied by a few pics.

We'll aim to have fun 'til then and trust you will too.

Boys' night in

Vanessa went off to a "candle party" tonight which she has since best described as "a modern day Tupperware party. With candles."

I was obviously very sad to miss that one.

My huge disappointment at not receiving an invite was initially lessened by the fact that Jamie and I would have the opportunity to hold our first ever boys' night in.

But, our evening now over, I would have to say that junior could've done better.

Whilst I appreciate the fact he's not yet on to solids, I thought he could at least have tried his steak.

He wasn't interested in the rules of poker. And, perhaps worst of all, didn't touch his whiskey.

Thank goodness the stripper didn't turn up.

Tomorrow, Daddy back at work, he can return to his mother's arms.

But I cannot help but think - opportunity wasted.

Putting the record straight

About five weeks ago, I agreed to write an article on fatherhood for The Suburb, a glossy lifestyle magazine published here in West Yorkshire.

As sometimes happens with these things, the words which have just appeared in print in my name are not a wholly accurate representation of those sent across by me.

This irritates me greatly so, if you haven't seen the article or wish to read what I actually wrote, you can do so below. I think my version is better.

* * *

Fatherhood

"I won't lie to you, fatherhood isn't easy like motherhood."

Not my words, but those of probably the world’s most famous dad, Homer Simpson.

Now, clearly, I would not possibly suggest that motherhood is in any way easy (you probably haven’t met my wife) but, as the father of a six-week-old boy, I can at least agree with Homer’s assertion that fatherhood is far from being a walk in the park.

Prior to the birth of little Jamie, I was unsure about what exactly I could offer in my impending new role.

As the youngest child of three, I’d never previously spent much time around babies and so had little experience to draw on.

And, whilst I’d been given several books to read by family and friends – Pregnancy for Blokes being one that springs to mind – I hadn’t quite found the time to actually open them.

Given that this was our first baby and therefore expected to be perhaps a week or more late, I was sure that a slot would become available before the big moment.

It was therefore a matter of some regret when, two days before the due date, I was sitting in the delivery suite at the Leeds General Infirmary wondering what was going on before me and what in goodness name I could do to help.

But, as soon as Jamie showed his face at 8.49pm that Monday night, nature sort of took its course with me just as it had done with him.

Admittedly I did get off to something of a false start after being asked to hand him back to the midwife only two minutes after holding him for the first time following fears that I would faint and drop him.

But things got better. Early next morning, I was given responsibility for pushing him down for a precautionary scan and then an x-ray on his sore right shoulder. Thankfully all was fine and I only crashed once, a glancing blow off a set of double doors.

I changed my first nappy shortly afterwards, following up with three more before I was kicked out the hospital at the end of visiting time.

Since then, I’ve done the lot – bathed him, picked out his clothes, lugged him around the supermarket in a baby carrier (something I thought I’d never do), fed him expressed milk in bottles, got up with him in the night, talked to him, even sung to him.

Now, I appreciate that none of these activities are exactly radical and should be the norm for any self-respecting father.

But the reason for me telling you is simple: I have loved every single second of playing my part, of helping our little boy start out on his journey, of protecting him, of loving him, of being a dad.

So, like Homer, I won’t lie to you either. Fatherhood certainly isn’t easy, but it’s also a joy.

Jamie: The Movie II

Regular readers of this rubbish might remember the little video clip I put up a couple of months ago which captured Jamie just a few minutes after he was born.

The other day, I used the video function on our camera to film him amusing himself - albeit with a bit of prompting from Mummy and Daddy - as he lay on top of our bed.

He's not doing a lot but, if you've got a minute spare, feel free to click on and see him in action.

The two amigos

Here's a pic taken at Judy and Mike's last night which I thought you'd like to see: son of Daggers and Han meets son of Barry and Van.

We think it's the first time the two have been caught together on camera.

Away from the bright lights, Oliver biffed Jamie a couple of times but the boy White didn't flinch.

Daddy's very proud (and Jamie will obviously get him in later years).

To pee or not to pee

The 2008 Leeds Half Marathon has been run and I finished it in a personal best time of 1 hour 47 minutes and 29 seconds (according to my watch). Happy with that.

The race itself was fairly uneventful. Indeed, for me, the two most memorable moments came before the gun sounded.

First was seeing my old friend and fellow Coleraine man Paul Gaile in the warm-up area. Unlike me, Paul is actually a very good runner and completed this year's London Marathon in well under three hours - a superhuman feat in my book.

Second was in the toilet area where dozens of runners has scurried off to for a final "visit" in advance of the off. There were two queues, one for "Men" and one for "Unisex" which everyone sort of assumed meant women but who can say these days.

Anyway, I didn't really need to go but decided to have a wee try (get it?!) nonetheless. However, when I got there, the "Men" queue wasn't moving too quickly so I began to wonder whether I might not be better getting back to the start line.

But, without warning, a fellow competitor suddenly appeared along the line to announce the following: "This queue seems to be for both pees and poos. There is something of a demand for the poo cubicles at the moment, but if you just need a pee then go on through."

No-one moved for a couple of seconds before a few of us began to shuffle forward towards what we were assured were several vacant urinals (true, as it turned it). Meanwhile, those who remained in what can only be described as the "number two queue" stood where they were, staring at the ground. Most bizarre and very amusing. In fact, had I not had my pee at the promised vacant urinal a few seconds later, I might've had trouble keeping it in.

I'm off for a shower shortly before Vanessa, Jamie and I head over to Grandma Judy and Grandad Mike's for Sunday tea.

The bad news is that Dagenham Dave is going to be there. He was true to form on Friday night and made my head hurt. Bless him.

The good news is that, along with baby Oliver, Auntie Hannah will be there too - fresh from her drumming gig yesterday afternoon at a home for the bewildered.

I will try to behave when I'm asking her about it but, I'll tell you now, it isn't going to be easy.

Divided loyalities

Probably around twenty years ago now, I remember watching the McDonald boys - Andy and Steve - grow up on Coronation Street.

Corrie fans will not need to be reminded, but father Jim was from Belfast and mother Liz from somewhere local to Manchester.

However, both Andy and Steve spoke with thick Mancunian accents. This was not unexpected as they both grew up there, went to school there and all the rest.

But, to this day, I can clearly recall saying to myself, "if I ever live, get married and have kids in England, I'll make sure they speak like me."

As fate would have it, I am now resident in this wonderful component part of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, I have a mouthy English wife and an increasingly gobby little boy.

Having spoken to many people about this, I now accept that the chances of Jamie ending up with a Coleraine lilt to his voice are minimal, "as he'll copy kids at school and there aren't likely to be too many kids in his school from Coleraine, are there?" is a fair summary of what people have said. This is both logical and truthful, if a little disappointing.

However, all is not yet lost.

Because whilst I must perhaps admit defeat in my quest for Master While "till speak Norn Iron like," there is no reason whatever why he can't grow up first aware and later proud of his roots in "the wee country."

Vanessa and I are taking him on his first trip there this time next week.

But before then, the Northern Ireland football team has two World Cup qualification matches and I think it's only right he watches them - starting at 4.30 this afternoon when Nigel Worthington's men kick off their campaign in Slovakia.

And as luck would have it, the country of his birth begin their game away to against Andorra at 7pm, thereby ensuring the White boys can watch both matches.

Unfortunately Wednesday is more problematic as England's game in Croatia is due to kick-off just 15 minutes before Northern Ireland's home match against the Czech Republic.

With Jamie as yet unable to operate a remote control, I reckon a "compromise solution" will be reached where we'll concentrate on Northern Ireland but flick over during breaks in play to see how David Beckham's latest hairstyle is coping in the wind.

But the years ahead could prove more challenging for me as I seek to remind my boy of his Ulster roots - and the need to turn over to Sky Sports 2.

Sitting Daggers

Jamie's bath over - before which our loving son peed all over my clean jeans - you would think the Whites' childly duties would be drawing to a close this fine day.

Hell no.

For, in a few minutes from now, we're heading off to babysit a 42-year-old (and his lovely little son Oliver, but he's easy).

For those of you who don't know him (and I envy you all), Dagenham Dave is my brother-in-law. He's also what can most politely be described as a divvy.

Actually from Guildford (but Dagenham goes better with Dave which is why Dagenham it is), Dave is married to Vanessa's long-suffering sister Hannah.

Today's his birthday and, because Hannah's heading out to drum for an hour later this evening (don't start me), we've been invited to keep Daggers entertained whilst she's away. We'll then be rewarded with tea.

This is a very kind gesture and I look forward to it immensely, principally because Dave might be starting to run out of words by then.

A "cheeky chappy" in the traditional style, old Daggers talks absolute, complete and utter b*lls at all times. Yes, it does tend to be extremely amusing but BOY can he talk.

And, being my brother-in-law, I'm stuck with him until one of us dies. What a thought.

Dagenham Dave is the telly on the right of the picture taken at a "black and white" party two years ago. Beside him is Hannah (dressed as a domino - obviously), her brother Jonathan (as the Phantom of the Opera) and me (as a priest).

But just look at Dave. What an idiot.

They say the camera never lies and it's true, for Daggers truly is wired up. If I had my way, he'd be wired to something very different. And sharp.

OK, time to go - bring on the fool..!

A timing issue

What do you think of my new watch? Yep, pretty dull isn’t it?

After my life-threatening leg problem was suddenly cured by miracle forces and therefore my last possible excuse for not running Sunday’s Leeds Half Marathon taken away, I needed a new watch.

The strap on my old one snapped a few weeks ago and, after going to see the man at the Kirkgate Centre in Bradford, was told that, unlike my serious leg disease, this problem was indeed terminal. This left me without a watch and you sort of need one to run things like half marathons so off to the shops I went at lunchtime today.

I do dither over these things but, having spent the guts of 40 minutes looking at the contents of one shop window, I marched inside to advise the shop assistant of my choice. She returned a couple of minutes later, holding my intended purchase, with a sheepish verging on embarrassed look on her face.

“I’m afraid this is a kiddie watch, sir,” she whispered. “Perhaps you might want to have a look at our gentlemen’s range.” I coughed a bit, smiled crookedly and rushed out the door in the direction of Argos.

15 minutes later I was £19.99 down but a watch up – and made it back to work before the end of my dinner hour. Even if the watch is a bit dull.

Back to Boots

It's incredible what you can buy for babies these days.

Vanessa sent me back to Boots at lunchtime today for two things - a packet of swim pants and a bottle of Infacol. Unfortunately I came out without the Infacol (which, if you don't know and I obviously didn't until ten weeks ago, helps with "baby wind").

However, the swim pants are great. Again, something I didn't previously know you could buy (until yesterday), you simply put these on your Jamie and then you can take him to the swimming pool. Fantastic!

"Boots disposable swim pants pull on easily and help to contain poo while swimming or playing in water," boasts the packet. "The absorbent core protects from small accidents before getting into the water, but does not swell up like a normal nappy once in the water." So now you (and I) know.

The plan is to take him swimming when we go to Northern Ireland in a couple of weeks' time, so more of that then. But, needless to say, I'm rather amused at the prospect.

The reason I forgot the Infacol was because I got distracted by the many other exciting items you can see above - after I bought them.

At the top centre is a pair of baby nail clippers. We already have a pair of baby scissors but we're not having a lot of success with them in terms of cutting his nails so why not try the clippers? No reason at all, thought I, so they went in the basket.

Below these are a pack of Milton Surface Wipes. These might seem a bit dull but get this: you can use them to wipe your Jamie's dummy when it falls on the floor. Brilliant - so I was having them too.

On their right is, obviously enough, a "Baby On Board" sign. Yes, I know these is a bit nerdy but there's a hidden agenda on this one. I'm about to start driving lessons again soon and this, coupled with my 'L' plates, might just encourage nasty drivers not to parp me as much as they might ordinarily do. Well worth £1.99 of anyone's money, I'd say, and certainly ours. Plus, it has "Child On Board" written on the other side so it's got longevity.

In the top left hand corner is the second best item I bought, a Floating Bath Thermometer in the shape of a whale. As it would be, clearly.

The actual thermometer bit - the black rectangular shape you can see in the pic - has three little squares, one containing a minus sign, one a tick and one a plus sign. What you do is put the whale into your Jamie's bathwater, ensuring the thermometer bit is covered. If the minus sign glows after 20 seconds, the water is too cold for him, and if the plus sign glows, it's too hot. But if it's the tick appears, you're ready to begin the splashing.

We've actually just tried it out and it works well but there also appears to be a downside. As ever, I'll explain. Vanessa got the water sorted until the tick appeared and then I plunked our little man into the water. Job's a good 'un.

What we didn't bargain for was Jamie's sudden desire to impersonate an actual whale. Just a few seconds after getting in, a fountain of water suddenly shot high into the air - in the style of Moby Dick himself - landing on Vanessa's top. Then, after a short pause, we had a repeat performance, this time all over her trousers. This has never happened before so it's obvious his inspiration came from the whale. Maybe next time we'll put him in a pair of his new swim pants.

One more thing, the eagle-eyed amongst may have spotted a Boots bag in the bottom right- hand corner of the photograph. You might also have noticed that, whilst I referred to the whale as my second favourite item bought today, I haven't yet mentioned my favourite.

Well, the Boots bag contains my absolute favourite purchase but I'm not going to show or tell you what it is until next Friday (12th), the day before we go to Northern Ireland. It's something you or I would normally expect to take on holiday, but perhaps you wouldn't expect a baby to do so.

Jamie and you are, I hope, in for a fun surprise.