PBR Special: Six of the best

You may have noticed that I quite enjoy my lookalikes.

So, in the wake of yesterday's controversial Pre-Budget Report, here are three pairs of identical twins themed around the event.

At the top - from left to right - we've got Chancellor of the Exchequer Alistair Darling alongside his brother, Sam the Eagle from the Muppets.

In the middle we see Bank of England Governor Mervyn King alongside his Doppelganger, Clarence, the shortsighted removal man (aka Ronnie Barker).

And, at the bottom, we have Liberal Democrat Treasury Spokesman Vince Cable with his very own spitting image, Yoda of Star Wars fame.

I really do spoil you.

What do they bang on about?

I'm sometimes accused of being a little less serious than I should be, flippant even.

Clearly, should you be a regular reader of this blog, you would regard such slights on my character as harsh and certainly unfair. My middle name is Serious (well, OK, it's not - it's Richard which can be shortened to Dick but let's not dwell on that).

But even at my most mature, I would have struggled to hold myself in check this morning when Vanessa and Jamie welcomed the local mothers and babies group to our house.

They've been going along to this for a couple of months now and, despite initial shyness on Vanessa's part, have enjoyed it.

It wasn't due to be their turn today but, after someone else backed out of hosting this week's gathering, Mrs and Master White stepped into the breach.

They were expecting maybe a dozen mothers and offspring but, in the end, 22 bodies - 10 mums and 12 sprogs - crowded into our living room to do whatever it is they do.

I say that as Vanessa will not tell me what they do, mainly because I really want to know - she's worse than a Mason. And whilst I have no doubt Jamie will tell me in time, he can't talk yet.

I have all sorts of theories, of course, ranging from them lighting joss sticks, playing guitars and banging tambourines to them showing each other fun parts of their bodies (I'm only talking about the mums here). But whatever it is they do, I'll bet it's funny - although it's probably not meant to be.

The one thing I do know is that the mothers can certainly eat chocolate biscuits, having collectively polished off an entire box full today (can't these women not accept they're no longer pregnant?!)

Anyway, whatever it is they did, it certainly left Jamie in fine form when I arrived home tonight.

And I definitely reckon there must be at least one tambourine involved in there somewhere.

Making a fist of it

I wrote a big long post to tell you all about what's happened to me over the last 24 hours - but then decided it's much too boring.

The long and the short of it was that I hurt my leg again last night running to the shop for sugar (told you it was dull) and then I had a 15 hour headache brought on by my recurring sinusitis.

The result was that I didn't get to run the Abbey Dash after all, which has left me feeling more than a little deflated.

On the upside, today was the day that I finally got to watch Star Wars from start to finish, a whole 31 years after my first attempt.

And Jamie proved that he could get his whole fistin my mouth, leading to the obvious and only conclusion that one could make - that my son has very small hands. (I mean, what other conclusion could you possibly draw?!)

Running on empty

Tomorrow will see the running of the 24th Leeds Abbey Dash and, yes, I'm in it.

It'll be the fifth time I've shuffled to the start line for the annual trundle from the centre of Leeds out to Kirkstall Abbey and back and I don't think I've been so ill-prepared as I am this year. Needless to say, it's all Jamie's fault - well, almost all.

I first hurt my back playing rugby when I was 14 and have had problems with it on and off ever since. I've also had all sorts of treatment from acupuncture to heat lamps to ultra sound.

The most impressive remedy I received was three and a half years ago when I damaged a vertebrae on my stag weekend (long story, but it involved me involuntarily flying through the air in a go-kart).

I was OK for the first 36 hours but, after a good night's sleep, I woke up and couldn't get out of bed. I stayed there for a day before Vanessa shoe-horned me into our Clio and took me to a chiropractor.

Until that point in my life, I had never even heard of a chiropractor never mind know what they did. (I would perhaps now best describe them as as osteopath in a very bad temper). I went into the room and, after a bit of poking, prodding, cracking and snapping, my particular chiropractor warned that he thought there was a very real danger I would be going up the aisle ten days later in a wheelchair.

Thankfully, three treatments and £100 later, I was fine to make the journey unaided.

I've had little trouble since, well, until Jamie arrived that is. But, after a couple of months of bending, lifting and carrying, I began to feel pain in my lower back once again and, despite being ultra careful, it's still there and has now reached my leg.

This has seriously affected my normally strict training regime (!) meaning that I've only actually been running once in the last three weeks. But I've literally bought my tee shirt for tomorrow, got my number and I'm going to do it, come hail or snow (and both are forecast).

None of this bodes particularly well for my planned running of next year's London Marathon but, hey ho, we'll cross Tower Bridge when we come to it.

By the way, I hope you like the pic - not my work, but that of my good friend and sitcom co-writer Ben. (I told you he was clever).

Separated at birth - or one and the same?

I was watching the football last night and something occurred to me.

Does England Manager Fabio Capello just look like Animal from the Muppets or is he actually him?

I've noticed their physical similarity the day Fabio was appointed but, throughout the game in Berlin, I couldn't help but think I'd never seen them together in the same place.

Anyway, something for you to think about.

At last - Jamie v Derek: The Rematch

Following a Saturday spent gnashing my teeth and swearing a lot, my technological problems now appear to have been resolved.

As a result, if you click the "play" button above, you will finally be able to see what happened when the Boy Jamie and the Teddy Derek climbed into the ring - Jamie's rubber ring - to settle their differences once and for all.

Those offended by extreme violence will have absolutely nothing to worry about - and it is very cute.

It's no oak (although it is)

Vanessa and I used to live exciting lives.

We met in that London, you know - where the Queen lives.

We worked in the Houses of Parliament where our nation's most important decisions are made.

We went to flash parties, mingled with celebrities and drunk champagne 'til the sun (or the champagne) came up.

We travelled to all the corners of the planet in search of adventure. And Wales.

We had big plans, big aspirations, big dreams.

But then we decided to, you know, "settle down," for want of a better phrase.

We bought a house, got married and, most recently, had a baby (you may have read about it).

And all of these things were and continue to be equally exciting in their own particular ways.

But then, the weekend before last, we went out and bought a new oak table and chairs. It was something we'd been thinking about for some time and we'd even looked at a few different options beforehand.

However, I preached caution. We couldn't just go for any table and chairs - it had to be the right table and chairs.

So, a couple of weeks ago, I went on a lunchtime recce to Harvey's in Bradford which sells, handily enough, tables and chairs (amongst other items). And there were a few reasonable deals although nothing earth shattering.

The Whites returned there en masse ten days ago, on a Saturday morning. And, when we walked in, there it was. The deal of the century (don't forget there's only been eight years so far): six shiny brown chairs for £199 and get this...A FREE TABLE! (which once retailed for £599, according to the shop assistant, although I am quite gullible).

We pretended to look at other offers on show (well, Vanessa and I did - Jamie was asleep in his mobile car seat on the floor) but, in truth, our minds were already made up.

Since then, our six shiny brown chairs and free table have been delivered (by Grandad Mike and Grandma Judy in their camper van) and we've set everything up (admittedly, Jamie slept through that bit too).

And do you know what? I'm probably as much if not more thrilled about our new table and chairs than just about anything I ever did in London.

Which begs the obvious question - how did I suddenly get so old?!

I'm A Celebrity - I feel like a beer!

I've just made a very distressing discovery; Homer Simpson is the same age as me. I love Homer Simpson but I thought he must be at least 10 years older than me. Or, to put it another way, I thought I was at least 10 years younger than him. Very depressing (although at least I've still got my hair).

One way I try forlornly to hold on to my fading memories of youth is by watching silly programmes on TV and they don't come any sillier than I'm A Celebrity Get Me Out Of Here which, you may have noticed, has just started a new three-week run on ITV.

This is, without any shadow of a doubt, my favourite television programme - partly because loads of people I know (who don't watch the show) feel some sort of snooty compulsion to slag it off.

The programme is clearly not meant to be the height of sophistication and the joke is very much on the celebrities although the great joy is that so few of them seem to understand that point, making it even funnier still.

Robert Kilroy-Silk, for example, is an arse. We all know that and, I suspect deep down, even he knows that. And for as long as he stays in the show, the producers will do everything in their power to humiliate him, degrade him and make him look a fool - magnificent (even if he is set to walk off with a big cheque afterwards).

Then there's another of this year's campmates, Carly Zucker, the "personal trainer" and girlfriend of Chelsea footballer Joe Cole. We've only seen a bit of her so far (although I suspect we'll probably see quite a bit more as she attempts to avoid being voted out). But she is also an arse. The difference with her is that she clearly has not recognised this obvious fact about herself and is unlikely to do so in the coming days. However, rest assured that the producers will do their worst to leave us in no doubt - and that kind of thing makes me laugh (tragic, I know).

There are also some nice people in there too and, whilst they might have a difficult few weeks, they will emerge with credit and love (and, OK, their own big cheques and probably contracts for panto).

Anyway, I'll try not to write too much about the show over the next three weeks, but it's going to be very difficult and I thought you better know. Just one hour and four minutes to go... (come on, watch it with me!)

AAARRRRGGGHHH to AAAWWWWWW!!!!!

Those kind people who took the time and trouble to check out this blog yesterday will have noticed the absence of a new post. This was not because of a lack of effort on my part.

I had this great idea, see. Following the success of Jamie's memorable scrap with Derek the Teddy the other day, I decided to set up and film a rematch (I'm 36 you know).

So, I got out Jamie's rubber ring, plunked him in it, added Derek to the mix and proceeded to film almost two minutes' worth of brutal combat. Excellent, all was going well.

I then wrote the text of the post and, last but most importantly, attempted to upload the fight footage. Unfortunately, after I'm sure well over four hours and probably 30 tries, I had to give up. Very annoying to say the least.

My mood wasn't raised by the All Blacks' early evening mauling of the Irish rugby team. Jamie hadn't yet seen the boys in green strut their stuff and I reckoned this game would provide an ideal opportunity for him to see them in action (which, coincidentally, meant I could watch too).

However, as the picture above shows, he quickly decided that he'd much rather look at me than at the telly.

But later, when I came to upload the photo on to my PC, I thought it would be interesting to flip it 180 degrees to see what he looked like the other way around.

The result - below - put the smile back on my face.

Yes, he was named after Pudsey

I've just been to our local supermarket in Pudsey. And who did I see? Yes, Pudsey Bear.

Being Children in Need night, this is hardly a surprise. Indeed, I would imagine there is a more than 50% chance that you too encountered Pudsey Bear at some point on your travels today (although maybe not in Pudsey).

The reason for telling you this is, whenever I tell someone from outside the North of England where I live, they very often say, "Pudsey Bear." That's it, just "Pudsey Bear." Almost Dalek-like, there's nothing else coming, they just have to say it. "Pudsey Bear."

It's very much like the many thousands of people I've met over the course of my life who, when I tell them my name, have to say, "Can you sing?" Then they laugh. Then I say, "only when I'm drunk," or "not as well as him," or "f**k off." It generally depends what kind of mood I'm in.

Anyway, back to Pudsey Bear. Occasionally when I meet someone a second time who (1) knows I live in Pudsey and (2) has said "Pudsey Bear" when I first told them, they then ask, "was he named after Pudsey?"

Well, tonight I can reveal - unless you already know in which case my revelation won't be that revealing - he was.

Pudsey Bear was created in 1985 by Joanna Ball and named after her home town of Pudsey where her grandfather was mayor.

A reproduction of Pudsey Bear - made of vegetation - stands in Pudsey Park, near the town centre, and you can see a picture of it below (and I'll bet you didn't know about that bit).

So there we go, that's the build up done. It's now time for Jamie's bath followed by seven hours of Sir Terry. Marvellous (and don't forget to donate).

Horrible thoughts

Like you no doubt, I watched on last night's television news and read in this morning's papers about the horrific life and death of 17-month-old Baby P.

And three things stick in my mind.

First - and this is a trivial point in comparison with the other two - I saw Prime Minister's Questions as it happened yesterday afternoon when Gordon Brown showed what a petty, small-minded, bitter and dark individual he really is.

All politicians as a rule seek to get in the headlines when they can, but I am certain that David Cameron had no intention of making this issue a party political scrap. Unfortunately Brown knows nothing else and picked a fight with the Conservative Leader. Like so many columnists in today's press, I felt sick as I watched his antics and I hope his shameful behaviour is remembered by voters when he finally decides to call a General Election.

Second, and much more importantly, the details of the suffering endured by Baby P has really touched a nerve inside me. Many parents told me prior to Jamie's birth that I would experience as yet unfelt emotions after his arrival. And I understand that better now than at any time over the last five months.

The idea of any individual or individuals abusing him fills me with unspeakable fear, rage and hatred. I'm sure I'm no different to any other ordinary parent, but the strength of my feelings has shocked - and scared - me nonetheless.

And finally, throughout my adult life, I've been opposed to capital punishment. Growing up in Northern Ireland in the early 1980s, I remember countless IRA atrocities being swiftly followed by ritual demands for hanging to be brought back. However, over the course of time, I began to believe that two wrongs didn't make a right and have pretty much settled on this view.

But as for those "people" responsible for the torture and murder of Baby P, well, my stance has altered somewhat.

In this instance, I'd happily pull the handle myself.

Get your gums around that

I did make it to the gym tonight (hooray!) although managed to hurt my leg in the process (boo!) But not to worry, it's nothing serious and I do feel much better for it (or maybe it's just the two thirds of a bottle of red wine I've necked).

Earlier in the day, I picked up something from Boots which I thought Jamie might find useful. It's called a Multi Soothe Teether and it's supposed to help him when he's, well, teething.

It's the "Multi" aspect of this little doofer which makes it so special (according to the packet). Or to put it another way, "the unique combination of textured cooling and chewing surfaces [which] offer double relief." Yep, pretty impressive stuff.

OK, I'll tell you the real reason I got it. According to said packet, the Multi Soothe Teether, "encourages the production of more and better saliva to protect against cavities." I mean, knowing that, could you have resisted?

From now on, should Jamie be in a room with another baby (or, indeed, any other person) who doesn't own a Multi Soothe Teether, I can say with confidence that my son will have better quality spit than them. That's what I call a proper claim to fame and maybe even his first genuine step towards greatness.

By the way, you'll see above that Jamie's Multi Soothe Teether is blue in colour. This may not surprise you given that he is indeed a boy. However, when I first stumbled across the Multi Soothe Teether shelf in Boots in central Bradford whilst on a bored lunchtime walk, the only colour I could find was pink. This did not please me, particularly as it clearly displayed on all the pink packets that blue versions were available.

I therefore spent the next 25 minutes visiting two other Boots outlets in Bradford in search of a blue one - and I appear to have snaffled the last available.

There are just so many things that Jamie will want to thank me for in years to come.

I shall overcome

Every so often, this parenting caper risks catching up with me and tonight is one such occasion.

I was feeling good on Saturday but, just as I went to bed, I began to feel my old sinusitis problem coming back and, sure enough, I didn't get to sleep until around 6.30am - a few minutes before Jamie decided that he'd enough down time for one night.

In the end, I got about an hour and a half before rising to write my Gordon Brown article.

The plan was then to go into Leeds to buy some clothes - I feel like a scruff at the moment - and on to the gym before finishing off my day of action with some work on my sitcom. But it was never realistic. With the wind and rain beating off the windows, I decided that Sunday papers, tracksuit bottoms, chocolate and family were much more attractive options.

And despite adopting the "do nothing" approach on Sunday, I got up on Monday morning feeling more exhausted than ever after Jamie began to yelp from just before 6.

As a result, I decided to once again bin the gym in favour of more relaxation last night. But this morning, Jamie thought fit to surface at 5am, guaranteeing no more sleep and another long day ahead pour moi. And, having had to work a bit later today followed by yet another delayed train home (have I told you how much I hate Northern Rail?) meant no gym again tonight.

So tomorrow, it's time to get back in the game!

Feeling ever so slightly at risk of being dragged down, I say now, tomorrow I shall go to the gym, I shall not lag and I shall achieve! Hopefully...

Let's get Teddy to rumble

Fully recovered from his bout of illness, Jamie is now literally fighting fit.

Vanessa bought a changing table the other day. (Never mind Baby, this is very good news for Daddy whose back is killing him after four months of bending over). And Jamie likes it. In fact, he gets very excited and flays his arms and legs about violently in all directions when he's placed there (which makes it very difficult for Daddy to actually get his nappy on and off, but that's another story).

Up until this point, Jamie hasn't taken a huge amount of interest in all the soft toys many people have been kind enough to buy him. But, a couple of nights ago after I got tired trying to wrestle him myself, I decided to give my tag team partner Derek the Teddy a go.

Derek was Jamie's very first soft toy and was sent over by Granny White all the way from Portstewart. Derek's quite a big boy. Indeed, he's almost identical in size to Jamie himself - which made me conclude it would be a fair fight.

And my prediction was right. I placed Derek on top of Jamie - lying on his changing tray - and rung the bell. Jamie immediately got Derek in a nasty arm lock. But the bold bear quickly fought back with a sharp right hook to Jamie's nose.

I left them too it for a couple of minutes to nip to the loo and, when I came back, the battle was still raging. It actually went on for another five minutes before I decided it was best to break the warriors up and resume hostilities another time.

I intend to enjoy this respite while it lasts for I fear it won't be long before Derek tags me back and it's my turn to take a share of the pain once again. Let's just hope Jamie doesn't have another growth spurt before then.

Meet Seanbo

It's a week today since we had our fancy dress party and, to mark the occasion, I decided to have a quick look back through some of the photos we took.

One particular picture caught my attention and gave me an idea.

Given he's now approaching 100, Sylvester Stallone has said that the recently released fifth Rambo film - the imaginatively titled John Rambo - will be his last in the role.

This clearly leaves a gap for someone else to fill and, as I believe my photo comparison clearly demonstrates, I think I have just the man for the job.

We've already had the first Irish James Bond in the form of Pierce Brosnan. Why not have the first Irish Rambo in the even more remarkable shape of my mate Detective Inspector Fitzpatrick?

I can see it now...he's big, he's mad and he hates baddies - he's Seanbo! Just a thought.

The passing of a giant

I try not to be anything other than happy and upbeat on this blog, but today I thought it wrong not to say something about the death of former RUC Chief Constable Sir John Hermon.

Jack died last night at a nursing home in Bangor, Co Down, aged 79.

For those who don’t know, Jack Hermon was the Chief Constable of the Royal Ulster Constabulary from 1980 to 1989.

His time at the top coincided with one of the most harrowing periods in Northern Ireland's history including the IRA hunger strikes in 1980 and 1981 and, in 1985, the single greatest loss of police lives in the Troubles when nine officers were murdered in an IRA mortar attack in Newry.

Almost twenty years after stepping down, he remained a target for terrorists and, last year, had to be moved from another nursing home because of a threat to his life.

Jack’s loving wife, Lady Sylvia Hermon, became an Ulster Unionist MP in 2001. I had known Sylvia a bit before she won her seat in North Down but, after her election, I spent more than two years working closely with her in the House of Commons.

In one of the classiest acts I have ever witnessed, both Jack and Sylvia – accompanied by tight but subtle Special Branch security - attended the funeral of my late stepmum Joan in Coleraine seven years ago. They didn’t say they were coming and they wanted no fuss – but they did want to be there. I’ll never forget it and neither, more importantly, will my dad.

And, that Christmas, Sylvia gave me a gift of Jack’s autobiography, Holding The Line, signed by both of them. Needless to say it is something I keep safe and will always treasure.

The phrase, “we’ll never see his like again,” is sometimes over-used.

But, in the case of Sir John Hermon OBE QPM, it is undoubtedly true.

Blue-blue blue suede shoes uh-uh-uh (and repeat)

I'm up late again tonight (well, it's morning now) to catch the result of the Glenrothes by-election. I appreciate that this admission once again confirms my status as a very sad man. Should anyone out there have a life going spare, I'd be grateful if you'd post it on to me.

But whilst I'm up, I might as well report that Jamie is now the owner of his very own blue suede shoes (uh-uh-uh).

I found them in a shop in Bradford earlier today (well, yesterday given that it's now officially tomorrow) and thought they'd look smart - handy for evening wedding receptions, that sort of thing. (To be fair, he will probably grow out of them in the next six weeks and we have no evening wedding receptions planned but you just never know).

In case you're wondering, Jamie's blue suede shoes (uh-uh-uh) are the ones on the right; the ones on the left apparently belonged to Elvis himself and are therefore bigger. And being dead, the King isn't actually wearing them. But I thought it might be interesting for you to see Elvis's blue suede shoes (uh-uh-uh) given that I managed to find a picture of them. Personally, I prefer Jamie's (although Elvis's probably retailed for more than £2.99).

I did hope our off-spring would exude a little more enthusiasm about his new blue suede shoes (uh-uh-uh) when I pulled them out of the bag. But he just fell asleep.

To my mind, that would suggest he ain't nothing but a hound dog.

Right, right, I get the message - I'm going to bed! (uh-uh-uh)

Sick

I don’t know about you but, when I was ill as a child, my mum used to make me up a bed up on the sofa.

However, as he’s still quite small, last night we decided to allow Jamie to continue his convalescence in a DIY bed on the floor. I think he looks happy enough.

I haven’t mentioned it here yet but our little lad has been quite ill over the last seven days or so.

About this time last week we noticed he was getting yet another cold – he’s had quite a few since his arrival in Pudsey.

Then, last Friday, his breathing started to become quite heavy, his cough a little on the violent side and he was going off his food.

He seemed a lot worse on Saturday morning and, after a particularly impressive vomit all over his new red sleepsuit, Vanessa phoned NHS Direct. 90 minutes later, we had him in with the emergency doctor who diagnosed a suspected chest infection.

We loaded him up with Calpol and antibiotics for the next couple of days and, tonight, the six-day course of penicillin will come to an end.

The most important thing is that he’s now just about back to himself. He’s eating almost like he was, he’s not coughing much and he’s smiling like he’s demented.

I’m sure there will be many more bouts of kiddie illness to come in the months and years ahead but – thankfully - baby, mummy and daddy appear to have passed their first sickie test.

A genuine bright new dawn

Well, I predicted I'd be wrong so that makes me right in my book! An Obama landslide it clearly was.

I turned off my light at around 4.50am, just a few minutes before the new President-Elect was due to speak - I simply had to get some sleep before work today. But I've just seen his full address on playback, with Jamie propped up alongside me onboard Vanessa's knee.

An absolutely unbelievable night and one that promises to bring great change to the United States and beyond, and also hopefully raise the bar with regard to the quality of political leadership we all currently endure.

This man appears to be sheer class and if he can achieve even 10% of his stated objectives over the next four years, the world will surely be a better for us all.

As for today, stand back and watch Gordon Brown seek to clamber on to the Obama bandwagon over the next few hours.

If I was Gordon, I would keep my distance if I didn't want to look even more pointless and irrelevant than I already do.

And it finished at 118 (or maybe a bit later)

Yes folks, as you can see, Saturday was indeed a classy evening at our house. Mrs and Detective Inspector Fitzpatrick (above) kept up their tradition of not disappointing on the big night.

Not-that-long-wed Mr and Mrs Lewis (Fran had taken some of her sexy policewoman gear off by the time this pic was taken) were as glamorous as ever.

Vicky (second from left), Mrs and Mrs Stevenson (next two along) and our new friend Tony (right) maintained the very high standard.

And His Holiness Pope Barry I and Mother Immaculate? Well, you make up your own minds.

Most importantly, it was fun. And will we do it all again next year? Absolutely!

Contrasting images

The above picture shows my mate John checking out Jamie, already in his outfit, before last night's annual fancy dress party at our house.

The photo below shows John in his own costume a little later on.

I'll say nothing else at this point other than to add that tomorrow I'll show you more of what went on.

In the meantime, I'm off for another night's sleep doomed to ruin by pumpkin-themed nightmares.

Sat on his Bum(bo)

"The Bumbo Baby Seat is a snug and cozy environment for your baby. This revolutionary infant chair is uniquely designed according to the baby’s posture. The Bumbo enables babies to sit upright all by themselves! Bumbo Baby Seats are suitable for babies from as soon as they can support their own heads unaided until they can get out of the seat on their own."

Have you ever heard of a Bumbo? I hadn't but Vanessa managed to stumble across this wondrous new invention and decided to buy one on eBay for our wee man.

As you can see, he isn't totally convinced about it as yet but hopefully he'll grow to love it whilst he can still fit in.

I say that as he was weighed again yesterday and tipped the scales at a somewhat humongous 17 pounds 11 ounces. Fat...erm...baby.

Anyway, Sean and Melanie arrive at our house later today for their annual weekend of Yorkshire debauchery so I might not get to write anything for a day or two.

Please stick with me until I do and I'll, well, tell you what happened - and I might even show you too.

Mr Floppy

I've been flicking through some pictures taken over the weekend and came across this one of Jamie with Big John Cottrell.

The Cottrells and Vanessa's family go back a long way after surviving a period living as yokels in a Norfolk village many years ago.

We all meet up a handful of times a year and John, his wife Sally and mum Sylvia were up on Saturday on Sunday to attend the wedding party I mentioned, followed by a get together the following day.

I spent a chunk of Sunday afternoon working on my sitcom script - up to seven scenes now - whilst everyone else went for a walk.

The big news of the weekend was that John and Sally are due to become parents in April and, as such, John wanted to get a bit of practice in.

Unbelievably, that's not a doll attached to John's person, it's our son who clearly felt very relaxed with his new carer.

It certainly looks like the dad-to-be will be a master of his craft.

By the way, the Yorkshire Post ran my letter today so that's three out of three. It'll still make no difference to the quality of service but at least I can now be fairly sure that someone, somewhere at Northern Rail must surely be getting it in the neck. Hopefully at least.

What a Warhol

“15 minutes of fame is an expression coined by the American artist Andy Warhol. It refers to the fleeting condition of celebrity that grabs onto an object of media attention, then passes to some new object as soon as people's attention spans are exhausted.”

So says Wikipedia and, today, I had my very own quarter of an hour after my angry man train letter was published in the Bradford Telegraph & Argus (above) and the Yorkshire Evening Post.

As I wrote here on Friday, my words are unlikely to have changed anything. Indeed, I wouldn’t be surprised if the letters pages of both newspapers weren’t placed in the bin more quickly in the Northern Rail head office today than in anywhere else in Yorkshire.

But the fact they were published must surely demonstrate that, on behalf of the thousands of Leeds-Bradford line users so long taken for granted and treated like animals by the Northern Rail big wigs who don’t care about their customers, I must have had a point.

I’ll sleep well tonight (Jamie permitting).

Jamie Somerville

I made another pleasant discovery last night: my son likes Jimmy Somerville.

This is helpful since I happen to be a massive fan of the potato-headed squealer fae Glesga. Indeed, he provides the lead vocal on my favourite ever song, Smalltown Boy by Bronski Beat, and I've seen him in concert many times although admittedly not for ages.

So how did I stumble across this incredibly uplifting fact? Well, the Whites were driving to a wedding party last night and all seemed well - until Jamie started crying in the back.

Normally he'll complain for a minute or two and then nod off, but not last night. So Vanessa stopped the car to let me jump in alongside him. With Mrs White on the decks - well, car CD player - we tried a bit of Bananarama's Cruel Summer. Nope, wrong season, wasn't happy.

Then a bit of the Fine Young Cannibals. Still no joy. Third time lucky hopes were pinned on some other obscure 80s band whose name escapes me (I bought a new compilation set the other day, can you tell?)

But then, Mummy struck gold with The Communards' Never Can Say Goodbye - lead singer, one Jimmy Somerville. I first saw him perform this song live in Belfast 22 years ago in a concert made unforgettable because of my sister Gwen's blond mohican. Perhaps more of that another time. For now, back to the plot.

So, yes, I hadn't heard this song for a while but at one time had about six different versions of it on vinyl. And, as luck would have it, the version on my wonderful new CD set was the best of them.

I asked MC Mum to pump up the volume and began to blast out the song - word perfect I might add, indeed, scarily so - with all my might. Jamie's frown changed to bemusement, then amusement and then, I'm sorry to admit, sympathy, as I got more and more carried away. Still, at least the tears had stopped.

This morning, whilst playing with him, I noticed that wee Jamie didn't look altogether unlike wee Jimmy. Once again, feel free to make your own mind up and also to ponder the question, is there anyone my son doesn't look like? Based on the ongoing evidence I continue to skilfully unearth, I'd say not.

Before I go, I feel it only right to report a crime. You might remember me talking previously about my divvy, irritating, frankly pointless brother-in-law Dagenham Dave Gates?

Well, in addition to all his other failings - and there are an infinite number - he has now turned out to be a criminal. Below I have uploaded a photo of the Southern Saddo force-feeding his helpless little son Oliver hard liquor at last night's party. It's a disgrace but not a surprise from a man -and I hesitate to use that word - not altogether suited for life on this planet and, I suspect, not originally descended from it.

Hopefully as a result of the damning evidence I provide, the authorities will act and send him down for life. But, if not, I'm sure I or one of the many others I know find him so annoying will be able to fit him up on something else. He's horrible.

Messy but warm

OK, so first a baby rice update (whether you want one or not).

Until last night, I hadn't actually seen our Jamie have a try of this wondrous substance although I had heard it was a bit messy.

Last night I had my chance and, as you can see, it is - and also very white.

But, working as a tag team, Vanessa and I were able to got more than half a portion down him.

First, Agent V would lull the target into a false sense of security by giving him a little milk. Then she'd quickly pull the bottle out to allow me to hit him with a spoonful of rice. And when he opened his mouth to eject it / complain, she's hit him again with a bit more milk, thereby washing it down. It was pure genius and a game we look forward to playing again in a few minutes.

Meanwhile, I don't know what the weather's doing where you are, but here in Pudsey it's cold and wet.

And what do babies need when it's cold and wet? Yes, folks - layers and lots of them.

We're hopeful that Jamie's attire will do the job intended.

Mr Angry of Pudsey

I don't particularly like busy bodies and, generally, people who have the time and inclination to write angry letters to newspapers fall into that category.

But, every so often, there comes a time when one must take up the pen in defence of one's beliefs and write a Letter to the Editor.

The attached text was fired off by me earlier today to not one but three Yorkshire newspaper editors because I've just about had enough. Clearly, my words will change the world as we know it.

Or perhaps they won't.

Sir

Tonight (24 October) will see the closure of Bradford Interchange for nine days and inevitable passenger disruption. However, judging by Northern Rail’s recent performance on the line to Leeds, I doubt regular commuters will feel any more inconvenienced than they already are.

Let me describe my personal experience of the last two days. Yesterday morning, I arrived to board the 0920 service from New Pudsey to Bradford before being greeted by an announcement that the train had been delayed by 10 minutes.

Then another announcement – it had been delayed indefinitely. Then another saying that the 0934 had been delayed. Then another, saying the 0949 had been delayed. Then the 0920 had been cancelled. The 0949 did eventually arrive, 12 minutes late but, when I tried to board, there was a sign saying that the door I was trying to get through was out of order. I moved along the platform to enter through another door, giving me enough time to hear the announcement that the 1001 had also been delayed.

Last night’s train home was delayed by only four minutes – early by Northern Rail’s standards – but this morning it was back to the old routine.

I arrived at New Pudsey for the 0901 train to Bradford. The announcement came – delayed by 11 minutes and, 13 minutes later, it turned up. We got on the train, it moved a bit and then it stopped. It moved again – then stopped. By the time we got to Bradford, the overall delay was a minute short of half an hour.

The ironic fact about each of the delays I refer to is that, according to the announcements, they were as a result of train failure which the planned works on the line will do nothing to improve.

The situation is a pantomime – sadly, without the laughs.

Yours etc.

Barry White
Pudsey

My protest will get me absolutely nowhere - a bit like the trains - and might not even make it onto the letters page of a single newspaper. But do you know what? Despite officially coming out as a sad man, I now feel a whole lot better - so there!

Baby rice and Brendon

Master White managed another two spoonfuls of baby rice yesterday afternoon and their effect seems to have been fairly significant.

We've got him into a reasonably consistent night feeding pattern in recent weeks with six or seven ounce bottles at 7pm, 11pm and 4am.

However, after his small quantities of baby rice on Monday and Tuesday, he only took four ounces in his 4am feeds a few hours later.

But then, last night, he didn't wake up at 4am as normal but well over an hour later and, when he did, he only took an ounce and a half.

The point of telling you all of this - and I appreciate it could rightly be interpreted as a bit dull - is that we may be getting just that little bit closer to the moment when our Jamie decides to sleep through the night.

I mean, can you imagine? No, thought not (it's OK, I'll change the subject very shortly). But, after more than four months of no sleep whatsoever, or so it seems, our lives might be about to take a turn for the better. Here's hoping anyway (and thanks for your patience in allowing me to indulge).

Now then, before this happens (or not, as the case may be), tonight Vanessa and I are off to see foul-mouthed Australian comedian Brendon Burns (above) in his show, "Brendon Burns: F**k You I'm Brendon F**king Burns (Again) Part VI."

Well, I did warn you he was Australian.

We first saw him in London about six or seven years ago and it was one of those shows where you really felt you shouldn't laugh but it was impossible not to. In fact, at one point, I was laughing so hard I was genuinely in floods of tears.

He's actually not that crude. Well, OK, he is quite crude. But, more specifically, he's extremely rude and offensive about anything, everything and everyone and particularly about groups and subjects which are normally taboo.

If you like South Park, you'd love Brendon Burns and, whilst I know it's often dangerous to build these things up, I really can't wait 'til 8pm.

Let's just hope we don't see anyone there we know because people who enjoy this stuff should really remain anonymous (which is obviously why I'm so relieved that no-one reads this rubbish).

What d'you m'call it?

There are many things that unite Northern Ireland and England. Equally there are many things that divide the territories, one being how Primark is pronounced.

Growing up in the fair Province, you always knew that Christmas wasn't far away when the Primark song came on the telly.

Ulster folk will know the one, "Primark's got a whole lot of things for Christmas, got a lot for the family..." Yes, that one.

The crucial point is that, in the song, Primark was pronounced "Pree-mark."

On moving to Newcastle Upon Tyne to study, I soon learnt that the shop name on the English side of the water was pronounced, "Pr-eye-mark." (My discovery was made and confirmed by word of mouth since, sadly, they don't have the Primark - or should I say "Pree-mark" - song over here).

However, one fact that residents of both Northern Ireland and England will no doubt agree on is the fact that you do get a lot for your money at said retail outlet.

I visited the Bradford branch at lunchtime today for a bit of Jamie clothes shopping and get this:

7 short-sleeved baby body suits

5 baby sleepsuits

4 pairs of baby scratch mits

3 pairs of baby gloves

1 baby hat

1 pair of (yes) baby pyjamas

How much?

£23.50

"Pree-mark" or "Pr-eye-mark?" On reflection, I call it great.

Small rice, big poo

I read a good line in the paper over the weekend.

One individual (I can't remember who it was) described another individual (can't remember who they were either - great story this, don't you think?) as follows: "He's as useless as a one-legged man in an arse-kicking contest."

I've never heard that line before and laughed out loud. Just thought I'd mention it.

Meanwhile, 17 weeks in, Jamie is now into his second day of eating baby rice. I haven't seen him have a try yet and so far he's only managed a total of four spoonfuls but I hear it's messy.

However, last night, he did a huge poo right into my hand (or into my right hand, whichever you prefer - both statements are accurate) so I reckon I can just about cope with anything.

Or perhaps I shouldn't have said that.

The night after two nights before

Well, I'm back online once again but still feeling more than a little under the weather.

In case you haven't heard - and I would imagine you haven't - Ulster got tanked on Saturday by 42 points (or was that pints?) to 21.

And so too did a great many of the Ulster fans I came across on my travels.

To be fair, Rodney, his girlfriend Firuza, her charming brother and me did try to end the evening sensibly by going for a cosy Tapas; unfortunately I don't remember too much about it.

Indeed, before I knew it, I was waking up at 7am yesterday morning with all my clothes on.

Still, at least it meant it didn't take long for me to get ready before heading back to the train station.

It's at times like that when I realise I'm glad I'm getting older because, like most people in their late 30s, my body is not the temple it once was.

It's great to catch up with old friends - and meet some new ones -especially now I don't get to go out as much as before. But it's also good to have a nice sleep afterwards.

PS Nope, I've no idea who the fiddler is but he was on my camera when I eventually made it home at lunchtime yesterday. I'll bet he likes a drink too.

An Ulsterman goes to that London

Big day planned for tomorrow as I head down to that London to watch the once mighty Ulster rugby team get stuffed by Harlequins at the Twickenham Stoop.

I wish I could be more positive in my outlook but, give how poorly Ulster have played this season, I'm resigned to a hammering - which is somewhat ironic as I'm likely to end up hammered myself before the day is through.

Mine host Rodney has assembled a group of 14 keen Ulster folk good and true to sit together in his group. And there will be several hundred more Red Hand supporters alongside us to swell the ranks.

And when the final whistle goes? Well, anything could happen but no doubt it will be fun.

I'm back on Sunday morning and hope to tell you the story sometime after that.

By the way, in case you're wondering and even worried, Jamie will be safe in Mummy's arms 200 miles away in Pudsey.

But NEXT time Ulster get drawn to play an English club away in the Heineken Cup...