Live long - by staying out of balloons

A quick early-in-the-day observation.

We all woke up this morning to continuing news coverage of that balloon boy who turned out not to floating across the skies of America after all but, rather, had been hiding in a box.

I understand his name is Falcon.

But, having now seen his picture, I think the media may have got that wrong.

Shouldn't it be Vulcan?

No win, no matter

Job done.

The Yorkshire Evening Post photographer has just left, the words are written and the story of the 15-month-old baby boy from Pudsey, forced to live amongst his own used nappies for six weeks and counting, is set to appear in Saturday's paper.

The main problem for me whilst the pictures were being taken was trying to keep a straight face.

I had former EastEnders bully boy Trevor Morgan (above) in my head and was doing my level best to adopt a similar scowl to him. But sadly, I fear my refrain probably had much more in common with Dale Winton.

Jamie spent the entire "shoot" (get me) playing with his clockwork Prince Charles and, every time a photo was about to be taken, I had to try to cover the toy with my hand.

Goodness knows how we're going to look, how the story's going to read or whether it's going to actually change anything. Indeed, I would suspect it will make no difference whatsoever.

But we had a go (and, perhaps not that secretly, it's been a laugh!)

And the mystery virgin is...

...Ann Widdecombe!

And it wasn't just Vanessa and I having dinner with her, although you've probably already guessed that. There were about 60-odd others there to eat, DRINK! and listen to the star guest speak.

She was very entertaining too and afterwards even went to the trouble of signing copies of her best-selling novels - with all profits raised going somewhere other than her pocket. Well played that strange-shaped lady.

It was also nice for Mrs W and I to get our best bib and tucker out for the night. Sadly, Vanessa had to drive to and from the event in Bingley. (Whilst a cynic might put this forward as another good reason why I should remain in no particular hurry to get my driving test, the official line remains that I would love to have drunk water all night).

Our journey there was slightly delayed whilst I did my mooted Yorkshire Evening Post interview about our bins (tee hee!) and the photographer is coming at 6pm tonight to capture the Whites' continued misery at the hands of that nasty Leeds City Council - BOO! I've also asked our next-door neighbour Barrington to come along and look sad with us (he's got much bigger forearms than me and they'll look very impressive when folded alongside mine as we stare harmed but unbroken at the camera lens).

What's the odds that our bins do actually get emptied between now and the photographer's planned arrival in nine and a half hours' time?

FOOTNOTE: Please note that no offence is intended by my description of the Rt Hon Ann Widdecombe MP as a "virgin." I've checked this out, and she is genuinely on record as saying she would sue anyone who described her as "not a virgin" - so I'm only keeping myself right.

Bin banter

The latest news on our bins is that there's no news, other than the fact that the contractors still aren't able to find our street - and we're now into week seven.

But there should be developments of one sort or another within the next 24 hours.

I spoke to a friend at the Yorkshire Evening Post last night who said she understood the Leeds bin strike could come to an end later today.

And if it doesn't, I can expect to receive a call from a reporter with a view to running a story on my grievances in the paper later this week.

So, whilst we wait, I'll share a quick piece of extremely loosely related trivia with you.

We haven't heard a lot from that old warhorse Osama bin Laden in recent months - rumour has it he's been having trouble getting his hands on cassettes following the closure of Woolworths.

However - question - do you know when his name was first referred to on the Internet?

Answer - something like 15 years ago following the discovery of a bomb in Northern Ireland. Sir Patrick Mayhew, the Secretary of State at the time, was asked by the media for some more detail on what had been found, to which he replied, "a wheelie bin laden with explosives." True story - and I thank you.

Tonight, Vanessa and I are off to have dinner with a famous virgin. More on that tomorrow.

Just empty them, you ****s!

It's often exhilarating to jump out of bed in the morning with a sense of anticipation for what the new day will bring.

Will your expectations be fulfilled?

Will your goals be reached?

Will you come home at night feeling that something has been achieved?

These are all feelings that I have at this early hour, but I'm not exhilarated about them. And there's a very good reason.

For today I'm wondering whether Leeds City Council are finally going to empty our bins and take away the stacks of bin liners that our neighbours and ourselves have accumulated over the last six weeks (or is it seven?) since the refuse collectors last visited our street.

As I said when I first wrote about this a little while ago, I'm not necessarily angry at the striking binmen themselves (although I'm not best pleased), but I am becoming apoplectic with the Council.

They've hired contractors to fill the void left by those on the picket line and I know for certain that almost all parts of Leeds have had their bins emptied at least twice since the dispute began - but not ours.

Last Friday, Vanessa took the unusual step - for her - of writing to the (Liberal Democrat) Council Leader to essentially ask what the **** was going on. But his standard response had a similar aroma to our bins.

So, when I come home tonight, I really do hope that:

1. my expectations have been fulfilled i.e. our bins have been emptied
2. my goals have been reached i.e. our bins have been emptied
3. something has been achieved i.e. our bins have been emptied

Otherwise it's going to be another week at least and drastic action will most definitely need to be considered.

Watch this space.

If only all they were all so truthful

MPs return to Parliament later today after their three-month summer break (at least they'll be well-rested) and their expenses are again dominating the headlines.

But here's one for you.

A number of MPs have obviously been accused of claiming too much in travel expenses and, since the scandal broke, the House of Commons authorities have taken it upon themselves to be much more stringent than previously. This includes a desire to clamp down on individuals who wish to fly to London from their constituencies when the train could be just as quick and much more cost-effective for the taxpayer.

But, of course, some have no choice but to fly. These include politicians from Northern Ireland and from the more northerly parts of Scotland. And you cannot find a more northerly part of Scotland than the Orkney and Shetland Isles.

Enter Alistair Carmichael, the jovial Liberal Democrat MP for Orkney and Shetland (pictured above).

A friend in the know recently told me that Mr Carmichael was filling in a travel expenses form and came to the following short and seemingly straightforward question:

What is your nearest mainline railway station?

Wanting to do the right thing, Mr Carmichael contacted the House of Commons Fees Office to explain that, as his constituency was slap bang in the middle of the North Sea, this question was not really applicable to him.

But the official was having none of it and insisted that he answered it to the best of his ability.

So, Mr Carmichael did a bit of research and filled in the blank with the name of his nearest mainline railway station.

Oslo.

Leave them be

Jamie was very much a babe in arms this time last year. But 12 months on, he's up and about and ready to enjoy the delights of a British autumn.

Key to the season is, of course, lots of leaves.

And, if you know where to look, lots and lots and lots of leaves.

Like little boys, dogs also love leaves - particularly to pee on. Tasting is therefore best avoided.

It might take a bit of time for Vanessa and I to get this message across to our man.

Mine's a double

It's not always easy writing a daily blog because, if you want people to return, you've got to at least try to come up with something remotely original/interesting seven times a week.

Clearly I fail hopelessly in this task on a regular basis and, sadly, today is to be one such occasion.

To explain, tonight marks the beginning of The X Factor live finals - one of the most keenly anticipated nights in the television year (if you're a 37-year-old father of one, living in Pudsey and saddled with a comedy name).

And I thought I was incredibly sharp in noticing some weeks ago that Dublin twins John and Edwards (above), one of the 12 acts due to appear tonight, bear a remarkable resemblance to the Double-Take Brothers from the Harry Enfield and Chums show of the 1990s.

So, this morning, I decided I would find a picture of the Double-Take Brothers, find a picture of John and Edward, put them up alongside each other and then take a bow for being dead observant and funny.

But two quite significantly developments have chucked it down on my parade.

First, I can't locate a good image of the Double-Take Brothers.

And second, a very quick piece of research on Google has revealed that several hundred if not several thousand others have also noticed the similarity between them and John and Edward.

So here is what we're going to do.

If you've never seen the Double-Take Brothers but have been watching this year's X Factor, click onto the following link and watch a short clip of the Double-Take Brothers: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ukf10sTmWPU&feature=related

Next, forget I've already told you that loads of other people have also noticed their similarity to John and Edward.

And finally, be dead impressed by my keen eye for people who look like each other and how funny I am.

However, if you:

1. Don't watch The X Factor
2. Don't remember the Double-Take Brothers and can't be bothered to watch the clip
3. Have already noticed the similarity between them and John and Edward or
4. Don't care

Then please come back tomorrow - remembering how difficult it is to write a (good) daily blog.

Self-service now available

My three nights in Manchester added up to the longest period I've been away from Jamie since his birth. And there's been a development.

Yes, Fat Boy has learnt how to use a spoon.

It's very exciting for him as he can now gorge even quicker than before, no longer having to wait for Vanessa or me or whoever to shovel his tucker in.

Fortunately, he also has a big mouth, thereby making the task of hitting the target relatively easy.

Given his blond hair and blue eyes, at least I can feel proud that he shares one physical characteristic with me.

The best seat in...erm...my house

Meet my seat.

And it's from this very spot where I will shortly be watching Conservative Leader David Cameron's party conference speech, live from Manchester.

Some of you may be wondering why I'm not witnessing it from rather closer quarters i.e. inside the conference hall itself. But I have the answer.

Basically, the hall isn't that big and, because I'm not very important, I would have to queue for about an hour and a half to have a chance of getting in. And if I did eventually get a perch, would probably have to relinquish it to a pushy old person with a stick.

So, taking all of this into account, I decided to return to Pudsey with a packet of biscuits to watch yer man do his thing.

Being the last night, I stayed out a little longer yesterday evening than on Monday and Tuesday - and retained all my faculties.

Highlights included Steve Nallon - the bloke who did Margaret Thatcher's voice on Spitting Image - doing, well, his Margaret Thatcher impression. That boy's really got range.

I also had a little drinkie with two old acquaintances from Banbridge, Belinda and Joanie, in what turned into a full-on Norn Iron night. (Just for the record, Joanie is the older of the two acquaintances but, as Belinda's mother, that's not unexpected).

Right then, kettle on...

Now that's what I call branding

Party conferences are held for a variety of reasons.

The first and most important is the opportunity for a party to get its message across to voters by hogging the national media almost exclusively for four or five consecutive days.

The second is to raise money from exhibitors, party members and others who pay their money on the gate.

And the third is to invigorate said members, particularly close to a General Election, by reminding them why they give up so much of their own free time in an attempt to propel their chosen political party to power.

The creation of a team spirit is key to this and the task is helped by providing supporters with a memorable slogan with which to go away and campaign.

In the mid-1990s, in advance of Labour's landslide General Election victory, we had the Alastair Campbell-penned "New Labour, New Britain." (No mention of Northern Ireland there, you will note).

And the pre-2010 General Election Tories?

Well, a quick tour of the Conference venue last night quickly revealed that answer.

I think we've got the message.

A shuffle back in time

I've just returned from a fun, surreal and nostalgic lunch with my old boss, former Northern Ireland First Minister David - now Lord - Trimble.

Although I stopped working for David and the Ulster Unionists back in 2003, I have kept in relatively close touch with him and we meet up from time to time.

Like me, he has joined the Conservatives although his role in the Upper House of the Mother of Parliaments is slightly more pivotal to the Party's fortunes than mine in Bradford City Hall.

He is here all week with his wife Daphne who continues to be one of the nicest and most charming individuals I have met in politics. But as the picture shows, David has had a bit of an accident - he fell off his canal boat in Warwickshire.

As a winner of the Nobel Peace Prize, he was a prime target for the IRA during the darkest days of the Northern Ireland Troubles. But whilst they thankfully failed to cause him any physical damage, his wooden water chugger very much did.

And the Tory faithful clearly share his pain. Just like in the old days when I used to accompany him to these events, he was stopped at every turn, as we headed to the coffee bar, by people wanting to shake his hand, ask how he was, get an autograph or have a picture taken with him.

He was then grabbed by Michael Crick, the Political Editor of BBC Newsnight, to do a television interview for tonight's programme - captured above.

And by the time he eventually reached our table, it wasn't just Daphne and me there but also Shadow Justice Secretary Dominic Grieve and Shadow Northern Ireland Secretary Owen Patterson. Both will be key figures in a Cameron Government should the Conservatives be elected, and both wanted to hear David's thoughts on the world.

And like any politician worth his salt, he was only too happy to provide them.

It really was a true rewinding of the clock for me personally, and it was wonderful to be back there, albeit briefly.

In town with the Tories

I'm writing this in a Wetherspoon's pub in the centre of Manchester. I've never used Wireless Internet before and it seems more trouble than it's worth. But more of that another time because I know you're sitting there at home or at work dying to find out how things are going at the Conservative Party Conference.

Well, now I can put you out of your misery. Things are going OK. I hope that makes you feel better.

I didn't arrive at Manchester Central - the somewhat unimaginative new name for the GMex - until well into the afternoon yesterday after the tram I was travelling on broke down. We then all had to change onto the one behind which, obviously enough, couldn't get past the original one which conked out. (I'm no expert on trams but I do know they're not very good at over-taking - I think it's something to do with the fact they're on rails).

The first sight I saw after finally arriving at Conference was a welcome one - old-hand Conservative MP for Lichfield Michael Fabricant (below right).

I've never met the man in my life but, in my six years working in Westminster, was constantly amused by him from afar. Prior to entering Parliament, he ran a mobile disco, performing under the name of "DJ Mickey Fab". Mr Fabricant also wears a very bad blond wig and every time he stands up to speak in the House of Commons, is greeted with calls of "hair! hair!" from Labour MPs and sometimes a few from his own ranks.

After having a nostalgic chuckle at him, I went to the ba....er....caught up with some old friends and even took the rather radical step of attending a fringe meeting. It was about blogging and there wasn't much to report other than the fact that Guido Fawkes - the "renowned right-wing blogger" who I would like to think you've never heard of - got up to utter an immortal phrase:

"Twitter is shit."

And then sat down again. Credit where it's due (he's the one on the left).

Next was surely the highlight of the week if not the entire social calendar year. Yes folks, I'm talking about the Yorkshire and North-East Conservatives Conference Party. Wow.

Predictably enough, William Hague was the "turn" and gave a shouty speech which can best be summarised as follows:

• Yorkshire great
• Conservatives great
• Labour bad
• See you next year

And then they had a "disco." Indeed.

The best bit of the evening for me was bumping into my "eccentric" and ever so slightly mad old friend Dr Jason Aldiss. Jason is a vet by trade and a very special vet at that. For Jason doesn't try to make animals better. No, that would be much too dull. Jason kills them.

My association with Jason goes back three and a half years when I misguidedly stood as the Conservative candidate in Pudsey at the local government elections. I polled 2113 votes but, proving to me beyond all doubt that there is a God, still lost. Never, ever again.

As for today, I would imagine I'll be spending the rest of the day and night with a load of Tories.

Is it still only Tuesday?!

No, seriously...

I'm about to do something you might find a little odd; I'm about to head to Manchester to spend the next four days at the Conservative Party Conference.

It might not be your cup of tea. And, to be honest, I'm not entirely certain it's my cup of tea either. But that is where I'm going so we'll all just have to get used to it.

The good news is that I will try to update this rubbish whilst I'm there, so you too can revel in the joy that is Tory Conference.

I hope you enjoy the ride.

It's a boys' thing

Although our guests from Australia, Graham and his little boy Cleve, left our house on Tuesday to continue their travels on the other side of the Pennines, they don't actually depart for home for another few days.

And yesterday our mutual friend Smiley Simon (below) and I hooked up with them at Turf Moor, the home ground of Graham's beloved Burnley Football Club.

Graham has been a manic Burnley fan since his very early years but, until last Saturday, had never seen them play in the top flight of English football (they only got promoted to the Premier League this season). Sadly, Spurs stuffed his boys 5-0 at White Hart Lane. So, would yesterday's visit of Birmingham City allow him to witness Burnley winning a Premier League game before he travelled back Down Under?

He took Cleve to the club shop before kick-off - he is very determined to ensure that his boy is a chip off the old block when it comes to who he supports, and quite right too.

Cleve then had the rare honour of meeting Bertie Bee, Burnley's famous mascot (yes, famous in Burnley).

Graham himself had the chance to taste a half-time drink for which there is apparently little demand back in Australia (can't think why).

It was 0-0 at that stage but, in the second half, Burnley began to lay siege to the Birmingham goal.

And eventually they scored - twice, in fact. Making two little boys very happy indeed.

Birmingham secured a consolation goal with virtually the last kick of the game, leaving the final score 2-1 to the home side.

Graham was very excited and not a little emotional at this - and I was more than a little relieved on his behalf.

I'm fortunate enough to be meeting Graham very shortly for a couple of farewell pints in Leeds before he heads south tomorrow, and I'm sure it will be fun.

But yesterday was a day I will always remember and will always feel privileged to have shared with him and his boy. Hopefully it will not be too long before they're back.

A (fat) chance discovery

There is a view that a disproportionately large number of fat people live in the North of England and, certainly, there is some evidence to support this.

But they don't appear to live in Burnley.

I went to the Lancashire town this afternoon to watch the newly promoted local football team take on Birmingham City in the Premier League.

I'll tell you more about the trip tomorrow but, before X Factor comes on, I thought it might be interesting to show you a picture of the turnstiles at Turf Moor, home of Burnley FC.

Have a look and my point becomes obvious. Because no authentic "big fat Northern b*stard" could possibly squeeze through one of those doors.

The only conclusion I can therefore reach is that Burnley - or its football fans at the very least - is the skinny exception which proves the fat Northerner rule.

Have good evening.

Bin there - now empty mine, please

The picture above was the scene in our street first thing this morning.

If you don't live in Leeds, you may not be aware that the local refuse collectors are on strike over pay.

It will be five weeks on Tuesday since our bins were lifted - i.e. back in August - and this is not ideal when you're living with a 15-month-old boy who gets through a lot of nappies (now I've got your attention).

I've been in two minds about the whole thing. As a Council Taxpayer and someone keen to ensure that his family is not struck by the plague in the coming days, I'm not pleased. (I'm equally not happy about the fact that, according to Leeds City Council, 95% of households will by today have had their bins emptied by contractors - leaving our street in the 5% not so fortunate).

On the flip side, I have inherent sympathy for binmen because, for six glorious years whilst still a student, I spent my summers hanging off the back of refuse lorries as a temporary employee of Coleraine Borough Council.

In addition to emptying house bins, the "Wombles" - as we were known by all and sundry - also cleaned the beaches along the beautiful Causeway Coast, picked up litter along the sides of roads and shined the public bogs. And it was wonderful.

In fact, below you can see some snaps from an end-of-summer Womble night out in the early 1990s - I'm the one at an angle (for some reason) in the top left-hand corner. Thankfully my particularly bad parting is just out of view.

One of the best things about being a Womble (shut up!) was the chance to work with some of the full-time staff. As a 17-year-old, as I was when I started, there was something rather nice about being treated as an equal by men twice and three times your age. You got to know about their lives, their families, their hopes and their fears. And they were the salt of the earth with, almost always, a wicked sense of humour.

Their pay and jobs were placed under threat during my time there and it bothered me deeply. So much so that I wrote my entire undergraduate dissertation on this very subject.

I don't know any binmen in Leeds so I'm not aware if they're as decent or entertaining as my former refuse collecting colleagues in Coleraine. But I don't wish them any particular harm - so long as our bin gets emptied on Tuesday.

Sit on that

I went hunter gathering in Bradford yesterday lunchtime (kind of).

But rather than going out with a big spear and coming back with a big bear for tea, I ventured forth unarmed before returning with a bicycle child carrier and a baby helmet. So, very similar.

You may remember that, last weekend, my local bike shop quoted me several tenners more than £100 for a child carrier. Since then, the Whites' economic situation has worsened significantly - diesel, petrol car, etc etc - so the cheaper Halford's option suddenly became more attractive than ever. But, I have to say, I'm pleased with my purchases.

Unsurprisingly, Jamie initially seemed much more interested in his new blue helmet emblazoned with lots of cars than his seat. (He should really be too small for a helmet yet but he's got a massive head so we're alright).

But then he decided to investigate the many possibilities offered by his new perch (which I reckon could be the actual one used as Tom Cruise's ejector seat in Top Gun. It's certainly the right size).

He even climbed in for a try.

However, a couple of minutes later, the boredom kicked in along with the realisation that he hates having anything on his aforementioned massive head.

I hereby declare that I will summon the enthusiasm to fit his new throne to my bike in time for Christmas. Maybe even this Christmas.