White Stuff

Wednesday, 11 November 2009

And you think you're having a bad day

Vanessa's out tonight, I've got beer and steak in and am about to put my feet up in front of the telly and hopefully something involving a ball. But I had to share this with you first.

I was completing the last few steps of my journey to New Pudsey station this morning when - oh, the shock of it - I heard an announcement that my train had been delayed.

So I slowed down to funereal pace because there was clearly no rush. I reached the car park a few seconds later and then turned to walk down the steps onto the platform. But, as I did so, I heard a hissing sound which stopped me in my tracks.

You see, we don't have snakes in Ireland (other than some of the politicians), but they do exist on this side of the water so I'm always on my guard. You just never know.

However, after a very short and - one might say - brave investigation by me, I discovered that the hissing sound was actually coming from the right rear wheel of a car parked at the top of the steps. Closer inspection revealed quite a large shard of glass still stuck in the tyre which had obviously led to a puncture.

My heartbeat now having returned to normal following the realisation that I wasn't about to be eaten by a large, limbless reptile, I felt a few pangs of sympathy for the poor driver who was set for a nasty shock when they arrived back at the station for the final stage of their commute home.

However, being the weak, selfish mortal that I am, I quickly forgot about this unfortunate individual's plight as soon as my train turned up - until I arrived back at New Pudsey station tonight, that is.

I was a little earlier than normal as I had to collect Jamie from nursery. And what I saw was something I'll not forget for some time.

Walking through the car park, I noticed that the driver of the vehicle with the puncture had yet to return and was therefore still to test out their abilities with a jack, wheel nut remover and spare tyre. But, sadly, their plight had worsened considerably in the hours since the puncture was sustained.

For not only did this poor man or woman have a flat tyre lying in wait for them when they returned from their day's toil - they now also had a parking ticket for leaving their vehicle in an unauthorised spot.

Clearly none of my business, but I do hope you'll join me in wishing the nice, responsible traffic warden a really sh*t Christmas for their efforts.

What a ****.

Seasonal adjustment

It's a key day in my personal calendar.

It comes only once a year but, when the change is made, the impact is felt for several months to come. For once it's on, there's simply no going back until at least early spring.

Because it's a habit, see. And when I've made the call, I stick by the call.

Yes, friends - I have decided to get my big coat out.

Mainly because of my refusal to accept that it's about to get really cold for a few months - but perhaps also a little bit to do with global warming (even in Yorkshire) - the date when I get my big coat out seems to get later each year. I certainly can't remember ever stretching it as far as Armistice Day.

But in recent days, as I've gone on my little lunchtime walk around Bradford city centre, I've noticed I appear to be the only individual not wearing a big coat. And I've also been a bit chilly.

So my big coat from the Moores sale in Coleraine - I hope you like it - is about to go on. I trust you'll have a very pleasant winter.

Tuesday, 10 November 2009

Could be!

I have conceded several times on this blog that my son looks nothing like me.

And, not surprisingly, I am far from the only one to have noticed. Indeed, this fact has been pointed out to me so often in recent weeks that my stock response has been to suggest that Boris Johnson is the man really responsible for Jamie's arrival in Yorkshire.

All frightfully amusing, I'm sure you'll agree.

However, less than an hour ago, I was sitting in a chair at Jamie's nursery trying to get him into his coat, whilst he waved and smiled at the other parents walking past with their beloveds. All very endearing.

But just as I got his second arm in, the front door swung open and a somewhat rough looking bald man appeared.

Jamie's face immediately lit up and his free arm began to wave frantically in the man's direction.

And then the immortal word shot out of Jamie's mouth.

"DADDA!"

Talk about feeling crushed.

At least Boris could have paid to put him through private school.

Ups, downs, ins and outs

I didn't have enough energy to update this dross yesterday after a particularly draining Sunday night / Monday morning with His Jamieness.

He was up at 3am and promptly decided there wasn't much point in going back down again. Excellent.

Vanessa was the one who led the drawn-out efforts to persuade him that sleep might be a good thing before handing him over to me at 6am. But I didn't really sleep in between, meaning a very long day at work yesterday and an early night last night. And I'm still wrecked.

Meanwhile, Starbucks owes me 20p. I went to meet a work colleague in the Bradford Centenary Square outlet shortly after lunch yesterday and, at my insistence, he chose a piece of chocolate chip shortbread to accompany his latte. (Just so you know, I had a cappuccino and a double chocolate muffin).

When I came to pay, the girl behind the counter asked if we were "eating in or taking out," to which I replied "eating in." (I hope you're as fascinated reading this as I am writing it).

However - and here's the thing - whilst I beat my muffin into me in about three mouthfuls, my friend decided to save his for later. Absolutely far enough. His piece of shortbread, his choice.

BUT, I know for a fact that I paid an extra 20p in return for Mr Starbuck allowing him to eat it inside the premises - and he didn't.

So I'll be popping in later for a refund. Or maybe just a double chocolate muffin to takeaway - I'll see what mood I'm in.

Sunday, 8 November 2009

Whites on bikes

I've experienced countless firsts since becoming a father, but perhaps the most surprising of all so far is that I managed to successfully fit Jamie's new child seat to my bike.

I actually did this a couple of weeks ago but, such was my level of shock at the feat, that it took me until this morning to summon sufficient composure to take the wee man out for his first ride on Yorkshire roads.

Regular readers may remember that he had his first experience as a pillion passenger whilst we were on holiday in September, and he seemed to enjoy it then.

And today, he started off in a state approaching euphoria.

He was slapping me on the back, crying out with glee and waving at every passing man, woman and beast (mostly dogs, but there was a cat and a couple of fat birds in there too).

We got as far as the Leeds-Liverpool canal, about a quarter of an hour from from our house, where ducks and swans were added into the mix. All was going swimmingly (particularly the ducks and swans. Obviously).

But, somewhat inevitably, the wheels flew off (metaphorically, you understand). Jamie suddenly became irritable and his helmet began to itch. And, as every young man knows, there's nothing worse than an itchy helmet - especially when there's loads of people around.

The tears began to flow; the dummy was plonked in; the dummy was spat out -and on it went.

By this time we had turned for home but were still about 20 minutes away and the only option was for me to pedal like blazes, Jamie crying all the way, with Vanessa flying along behind.

Once home, a few cuddles from Mrs W and a plate of lunch quickly did the trick and he's now snoozing away in his scratcher.

But I think, overall, it was a successful venture.

Next time we'll probably not go quite so far.

And we'll also have to remember to give his helmet a proper scrub the night before.

Saturday, 7 November 2009

UG!

Welcome to my cave.

Well, OK, that's not strictly accurate: I'm in the spare room. But, except when we have guests, I regard it as my cave and will accept no counter argument.

You'll probably not be remotely interested to learn that a recent survey of 500 men found that half of all respondents regarded it as “very important” to have a room of their own in the house. Additionally, 67 percent of those surveyed said they liked to retreat to their own personal zones for hobbies, while 37 percent escaped to watch films and sport.

Good boys.

Despite regularly complaining about how busy I always seem to be, I have taken a brief amount of time out to look into this hugely important matter further. And, apparently men's need for their own bit of space goes back to prehistoric times when they lived in caves and insisted in having a personal area therein. And, because males are still essentially cavemen, they remain programmed this way. Fascinating (it IS!)

Anyway, the reason for telling you all this guff is because, for one afternoon only, my cave is being expanded. For Vanessa is taking Jamie out to spend time with his Auntie Vicky and Auntie Jenny and I'm being allowed to stay in on my own to do my own thing in my own space i.e. the whole house. How brilliant is that?!

Even better - and not entirely by coincidence - today marks the beginning of the autumn rugby internationals with England kicking things off against Australia in exactly 61 minutes.

So, I'm very excited about the next few hours.

And, whatever you're doing, I hope you are too (and if you're not, please feel free to be excited for me instead. That would be nice).

Friday, 6 November 2009

And it all went with a few (quite small) bangs

Bonfire night last night and, for me, it got off to a particularly embarrassing start.

As promised, I bought a box of what turned out to be fairly sensible fireworks for the inaugural White Family Display. But, shortly before I left my desk in Bradford City Hall, the heavens opened.

So, I put the fireworks in my bag, put my brolley up and marched determinedly into the deluge - which just got heavier and heavier as I walked.

It became so bad that I began to ponder whether it might be better to delay our plans until tonight when the weather was due to be better. After all, I didn't want Jamie to get wet, Vanessa only had her hair done last weekend and I was still very unsure about how to light the fireworks anyway. Perhaps a couple of hours reading the instructions, in the warmth of our living room, might be the best solution.

I continued to walk whilst all these thoughts were running through my head. Into the Bradford Interchange building, through the station and up the escalator. And then, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed someone laughing. At me.

Yes folks, I had walked into the Bradford Interchange building, through the station and up the escalator - with my brolley still up.

"It might be wet outside, mate, but it's perfectly dry in here," came the rapid fire comment from the young man at the top of the escalator whilst others watched on. 10 out of 10 to him - but I was gutted.

By the time I made the final approach from New Pudsey station towards home - following the inevitable 20-minute train delay - the rain had almost stopped. And this, of course, made me wonder whether it might yet be possible to go ahead and "light 'em up" after all.

But then my phone rang. It was Vanessa to say we'd had a power cut and were likely to be without electricity for another hour at least. Oh, and Jamie was starting to go a bit mad. The decision was therefore made.

I rushed home and changed my clothes by candlelight whilst Vanessa and Jamie put on about six coats each, and outside we shuffled.

Equipped with Jamie's Thomas the Tank Engine torch, a BBQ lighter and my box of fireworks, and perhaps against the odds, the whole thing came together rather well. And, most importantly, Jamie loved it.

As I say, there weren't the most exciting fireworks anyone has ever witnessed but they were colourful, some shot up in the air and they weren't too loud - just the ticket for a 16-month-old boy and a 30-something mummy (34, almost 35 in case you're interested).

And crucially I didn't kill anyone - or even maim them horribly.

A welcome irony was that, within about a minute of the 11th and final firework (which I'd been saving but which ultimately turned out to be an anti-climax in firework form) doing what it did, our lights came back on. Marvellous.

Only 365 more sleeps now left until next year's big night - when I might even decide to increase the White Family Display budget to more then £5.99 (including discounts for cash). Sure, you only live once.

Thursday, 5 November 2009

A note from Number 10

Some months ago, I was one of 72,234 bored individuals who took two minutes out to sign an online petition calling on Gordon Brown to resign as Prime Minister. And then I forgot all about it.

Because, you know, I watch the news and all that I don't think he has the slightest intention of going anywhere this side of a General Election. And, plus, I'm as sure as one can be that he doesn't give a tinker's cuss (I've ALWAYS wanted to use that phrase!) what I or my 72,233 cyber brothers and sisters in arms think.

Anyway, I was checking my e-mails a few minutes ago and, lo and behold, I found a message from 10 Downing Street in direct response to the petition which has now closed.

This is what it said:

"The Prime Minister is completely focussed on restoring the economy, getting people back to work and improving standards in public services. As the Prime Minister has consistently said, he is determined to build a stronger, fairer, better Britain for all."

Inspirational stuff?! Err...no. It's not. At all.

I mean, America gets Captain Charisma as their leader - and we get a cross between Baron Greenback from Danger Mouse and a speak-your-weight machine.

AARRGGHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!

It's enough to drive you to the fridge for something cold and fizzy. Which reminds me, I need to stop off at Asda on the way home tonight...

Wednesday, 4 November 2009

A big bang in the night

As a humble Ulsterman, I am happy to concede my ignorance about many subjects, and fireworks is one of them.

I say this because, prior to the paramilitary ceasefires in 1996, outdoor fireworks (other than sparklers which don't count) were banned in Northern Ireland. And, following a series of attacks on police officers using fireworks as low grade bombs, restrictions were subsequently re-introduced in 2002.

As a result of this and an incident I'm about to describe, I have set off just a single outdoor firework in my entire life - although I do remember that moment well.

The year was 1992 when I was a student in Newcastle Upon Tyne. And, in advance of bonfire night, I happened to mention to some English friends that I had never previously had the chance to use outdoor fireworks.

Nice people that they were - and still are, for that matter - someone went and bought a box of rockets and I was taken to Jesmond Dene to have my moment.

I was then presented with an empty milk bottle in which I was advised to place a single rocket prior to ignition. And so I made a little indent in the ground with my heel, placed the bottle in the hollow, lit the fuse and ran back to join my friends.

However, just a few seconds later, the milk bottle toppled over (unfortunately, the little hole I'd created wasn't deep enough) and, without delay, the rocket shot off about half an inch above the ground in the direction of a clump of trees - which it promptly hit, before exploding.

And I promise you this is true: two young individuals - one male, one female - then suddenly appeared from amongst the trees, shrieking and in a state of undress, before running off into the darkness.

I quickly decided against setting off any more fireworks that night and have not tried again since.

But tomorrow evening will hopefully mark a new beginning. For Jamie has never witnessed fireworks before and I'd very much like him to see a few from the comfort of our back garden.

I have no idea what I'm going to buy, what they're going to cost or how they're supposed to work (are you still meant to use a milk bottle and, if so, where would I get one these days?!) But I won't be overly-ambitious and, if you're reading this mother, I will be careful.

Should be fun.

Tuesday, 3 November 2009

Mothers in arms

A couple of brief ditties from last weekend whilst my vital organs continue their (hopefully full) recovery.

First, my grandmother on my mother's side was renowned for getting names wrong. And so at times decided that, rather than risk making an error, it was best not to try.

To illustrate, my nephew Sebastian is special for lots of reasons, one being that he's the first Sebastian in our family. However, unsurprisingly, my grandmother had never met anyone called Sebastian before and therefore had little or no previous experience of saying the name.

So, for ease, she improvised and "re-christened" him.

As Basketball. (I think it's best described as a "syllable thing").

Fast-forwarding to this weekend, my mum is a big fan of Strictly Come Dancing but is not alone in regarding gobby Aussie judge Craig Revel Horwood (pictured) as something of a pain in the hoop. But talking about him whilst watching Saturday evening's show, she proved she was indeed her mother's daughter by getting his name wrong.

She called him Norville Horwood.

And a little research by me has since revealed that this would make him only the second "person" in history to be called Norville - the first being Shaggy from Scooby Doo whose "real" name is Norville (and I'll bet you didn't know that).

The other little nugget I wanted to share with you relates to the son of one of my mum's friends who is currently at medical school. One of the few facts that most of us know about medical schools is that, early in their studies, each student is given either their own complete dead body or part ownership of a complete dead body to cut up into bits (I'm sure there's a less ghoulish way of putting that, but there we go).

But it appears that nothing and no-one is safe from the effects of the recession. Because not only has my mother's friend's son not been given his own full body to mutilate, he hasn't even been the chance to share a full body. Oh no.

He's been given half a body.

And even more bizarrely - it's the bottom half.

Apparently he can expect something more exciting further down the track but, for now, this is what he's left with.

Hopefully, for his sake, it won't be long until he finds out how the other half lived (COME ON!)

Monday, 2 November 2009

Whiskey on a Sunday

I really shouldn't drink whiskey. Ever. Because I can't - simple as that. And I've been paying the price all day.

Yesterday was my mum and Derek's last full day of their visit and, with the skies chucking it down in Yorkshire, we decided to spend the afternoon at a Wacky Warehouse in Leeds.

And it was undoubtedly a good idea (of mine) because, after we all had lunch, Jamie went into the play area with "the ladies" whilst "the men" (GRRRR!!!) watched the rugby in the main bar - everyone's a winner (in my view).

The six pints of Guinness were not a problem for me. I can drink Guinness all day and all night and still be OK (ish). The pre-dinner can of the same was also no major deal (Vanessa's mum Judy and stepdad Mike came over to join us for some food). And, I suppose, the majority of a bottle of red wine with my roast pork might have marked something of a turning point in my evening.

But it was really when the Bushmills and then the Black Bush came out that I began to scoot down a big hill at breakneck speed. Before crashing. Horribly.

You see, I think I'm Jimmy Dean or Jimmy Stewart when I'm drinking whiskey but, in truth, I'm more like Jimmy Crankie. And, after not very long, the roof caves in and I wake up a mess. Just like this morning, in fact.

Derek stayed with me sip for sip and seemed alright this morning as I waved him and my mum off from the comfort of my bed. But I was far from alright and, today at work, was one of the longest I can remember.

All day I've pined for my chair, a mug of tea and crap TV. And, as soon as I finish writing this guff, that'll be my lot. Thank goodness.

The one good thing about the two of us drinking my whiskey supply dry last night is that, by definition, I now have none left.

So, as the festive season begins to approach, I make the following plea to my friends and family: buy me pants, buy me socks, buy me the dullest and cheapest Christmas present you can think of. But please, please, please don't buy me any whiskey. It's evil.

Sunday, 1 November 2009

Taking the little boy to football

I wasn't able to update the blog yesterday as I was in that Liverpool, eh.

My mum and her partner Derek are over for the weekend and Derek is a big Everton fan. And, as luck would have it (and if you think luck had anything to do with Derek's choice of dates, you'd be mad), Everton were at home to Aston Villa in the Premier League - so we went.

And it was nice for me to have a different little boy to look after.

Derek was very excited as we approached the ground, as you can see above.

He'd been saving up his pocket money for his big day out and, when we got inside, he bought a big glass of fizzy drink for each of us.

And then we went in to see the match itself where there were lots and lots of other boys.

Derek's team drew 1-1 in a game which saw two boys being sent home for being naughty. Bad boys!

Derek was also a bit naughty and shouted some very rude words at the man with the whistle. I can't remember what he was called - "referee" or "cheating bastard," one or other. I must ask Derek again.

But it was a very fun day out.

Today it's raining hard in Yorkshire so, if he's good, I've promised Derek he can have some more fizzy drinks whilst my mum plays with her grandson. What a nice boy I am.

Friday, 30 October 2009

Mozza: The Pope of Mope

Apparently refreshed and back to normal after last weekend's well-publicised collapse, Morrissey played the O2 Academy in Leeds last night and, I have to say it - he was magnificent.

Vanessa is "the Morrissey fan" in our family rather than me. But, although I had been to see him once before, I'd actually forgotten how good he was.

He is often regarded as the most depressed - and some might say depressing - man on the planet, and the vast majority of his songs include lyrics which back this up.

I had always thought that a lot of his "life is sh*t" stuff was very much tongue in cheek - until I saw him interviewed on one of the music channels earlier this year. And the interview suggested that, in reality, he really is that dark.

But leaving all of this aside, he shook the venue to its rafters last night. Playing a combination of old Smiths songs, a handful of solo hits and tracks from his newly-released album of "B" sides, he gave an energetic and vocally outstanding performance which, right from the outset, had the 2,000-plus crowd eating out of his wavy hand.

Of course, no Morrissey performance is complete without a selection of off the wall one-liners and last night was no different. My personal favourites included:

"Home is a question mark" and
"What is a song?"

I'll leave you to decide what the heck he was on about.

But, no doubt about it, a great night out and a lanky streak of misery well worth seeing if you get the chance.

Thursday, 29 October 2009

A prisoner in his own home (at last)

Finally, finally, finally, I managed to summon the patience and wherewithal to install a safety gate for Jamie. That was last night, and this morning, I am delighted to report it hasn't - as yet - fallen off its hinges.

Regular readers may remember that, many weeks ago, I made an attempt to put up a set of stair gates - only to find they were too narrow. So I did a bit of research and discovered that ready-made extensions were available for our particular make and model of stair gate - so I ordered two, costing a total of 20-odd quid.

They arrived a few days later (there was no postal strike on then) but, never one to rush into these things, I let them have a month off. But when I came to fit them, I found that, whilst they were for the same make and model as our gates, they were not for that make and model if made before 2006 (which ours were). And because I'd waited a month, it was too late to send them back. Excellent.

I put matters off for another little while before buying a different model of gate - although only one this time, because I was certain something would go wrong. And needless to say my hunch proved to be correct.

I eventually worked out that, because our house is so old and wonky, the only way to mount a gate at either the top or bottom of the stairs would be to attach one side to the banister - which is simply not strong enough and is also the wrong "shape" (I know what I mean).

So, after swearing for a couple more days, I had another brainwave: I would attach the gate to the living room door frame - the idea being that if we could keep Jamie in there, then he wouldn't be able to get to the hall and hence the stairs. Absolute genius, I'm sure you agree.

I pinpointed last Sunday morning as the moment of destiny and, after breakfast, got my tool bag out. Unfortunately, after making the necessary eight holes in the door frame in preparation for mounting the gate, it became apparent that I was about to put it up the wrong way round - forcing me to make eight new holes.

However, I'd started and was very determined to finish, come what may. And the first four screws went in without any great problem. I even began to feel a little cocky which, for me, is always the precursor to something going horribly wrong - which it promptly did when the head of screw five snapped off, leaving the remainder embedded in the wood.

But there was no way I would be defeated. So I found a single brass screw in my trusty tool bag, put it in instead and added screws six, seven and eight - and, bingo, the four brackets were firmly on the door frame. All that remained was to click the gate into place.

I managed to get the first three corners into their socket thingies easily enough. But, as you might expect, the final one was a greater challenge. So I forced it a bit - and broke the heads off the two screws holding the bracket to the wall.

Again, determined not to go to bed (it was only lunchtime at this stage) without this ****ing gate being up, I headed round to Asda to buy more screws - but they didn't have the ones I needed. So I gave up.

That was until last night when, following a quick visit to Wilko's earlier in the day, I arrived home with the right screws, fired them in and, well, the gate is up.

Jamie only had a few minutes to get used to his new impediment before it was time for his bath, so the reality hasn't yet dawned on him.

But there is one fact you can be absolutely sure of. As soon as he's worked out that this big white contraption is there to block his former right of way, he's going to turn on it. And he's going to break it.

Let's just hope, when the inevitable happens, his actions don't break me too.

Wednesday, 28 October 2009

Pile problems

It is often said that people have never been busier than they are now and no longer have time for anything.

But the question I would ask is, how have parents of a young child EVER had time for anything?

The 16 months since Jamie was born have gone like a flash for me, and sometimes it feels like I barely have a moment to visit the loo. (But please don't be alarmed - all "little accidents" in our house since last June have been exclusively Jamie's, unless Vanessa's not telling me something).

Clearly, some former hobbies have had to be sacrificed through a basic lack of time or, indeed, sheer physical exhaustion. And one of these has been the task of getting through the huge pile of books I've built up over the last few years.

Ironically, I think I've read more in recent months than at any other time of my life. The "problem" is that the books I've been wading through are Jamie's rather than my own, with him plonked on my knee (no, I don't read them on my own!)

It is in this context that last night I was delighted to finally finish a book from my pile, the first of Jeffrey Archer's three prison diaries detailing his time in the clink.

It wasn't a particularly long book and it wasn't even that good. But I was determined to get there and get there I did - FIVE MONTHS after I started reading it. (Yes, that's 20 whole weeks).

The book, a hardback, has been to Northern Ireland with me - where I read a total of zero pages - to a caravan park in East Yorkshire - where I read two - and to Spain where I read four.

The next tome to be tackled is Piers Morgan's God Bless America: Misadventures of a Big Mouth Brit. You may not like Piers Morgan, I'm not sure I like Piers Morgan, but he does write an entertaining diary and, having read his previous two, I can't wait to get on with it.

Hopefully I'll have it finished by Christmas - 2010. Or possibly 2011.

Tuesday, 27 October 2009

Jamie the fashionista

Tonight marked one of the biggest nights in the annual fashion show calendar as Jamie personally unveiled his 2009/10 winter collection.

And there were undoubtedly a few surprises for the full house (i.e. Vanessa and I were both in) to be inspired by.

Designed, as last year, in partnership with that renowned style guru Pri Mark and clearly drawing on Jamie's North of England roots, warmth is the recurring theme, incorporating lots of luxurious acrylics and polyesters at incredibly reasonable prices.

He began with the "Confident Cream" zippy jumper with assorted stripes (above) - which simply oozes class.

Next was the "Embarrassing Uncle" sweatshirt complete with built-in paunch, which he very kindly dedicated to Dagenham Dave in Guiseley.

Item number three was his "Sunday Morning Hangover" zippy thing which, coupled with the bedraggled facial expression, he said was inspired by his father.

The penultimate outfit was simply entitled "Bullet-Proof Vest" in recognition of his Northern Ireland connections.

And finally, there was the "Is This Over Yet?" pullover which he named only tonight after getting really fed up having things pulled over his head.

So this is what Jamie will be wearing for the next few months. Look out for cheap imitations in shops - one chain in particular - around about now.

Monday, 26 October 2009

Weight 'til you hear this...

The Whites were invited along to Jamie's Grandad Geoff's last night for a quite magnificent Sunday tea cooked by his wife Susie.

Also present (above right) was Geoff's sister Kate - Jamie's great aunt - who's up from her home in Surrey for a week.

Kate became a grandmother again in May when her daughter Jane, who lives in the United States, gave birth to a lovely little boy named Dylan.

The reason for telling you all of this (you will be pleased you stuck with me, I promise) is that the American healthcare system does not, apparently, offer the same level of care and attention to babies when compared to our own often unfairly criticised NHS.

To illustrate, Vanessa and I were telling Kate that Jamie had been weighed again recently and, whilst the nurses were happy with his size and so on, he did nonetheless tip the scales at something approaching 2.2 tonnes.

However, Kate pointed out that, after the initial few weeks, American babies are not weighed routinely and parents are therefore forced to improvise if they want to keep track. And young babies, of course, are not necessarily the easiest "things" to weigh.

So how has Jane kept an eye on Baby Dylan's weight? Get this - I love this.

First she gets on her bathroom scales and records her own weight.

Then someone hands her Dylan and she records the new reading on the scales - and the difference between the first reading and the second reading is Dylan's weight!

I would never, EVER have thought of that - and I'm incredibly impressed that someone else did.

Who said life is dull? (This blog, maybe, but not life - come on).

Sunday, 25 October 2009

Jamie the guide dog

Ever since coming back from his holidays last month, our Jamie has been running around like a mad thing.

This is obviously a very positive development in many different ways. For example, given the amount of food he devours during the course of an average day, he really would now be a fat b****** had he not transformed himself into a mini Forrest Gump.

But the downside is that he’s very hard to keep an eye on. We can just about manage when he’s indoors, although he still pulls off at least one spectacular and, generally, physically damaging fall each and every day.

However, he’s clearly in much greater danger when outside and a fairly dramatic step has therefore had to be taken: we’ve got him a lead.

Vanessa carried out a brief road test involving him and his new restraint yesterday afternoon and it was a big success

But how long he continues to smile happily whilst having his style well and truly cramped is still very much open to question.

Feel free to click on to the video above if you’d like to see a short clip of Jamie (and his mum) in action. No pressure.

Saturday, 24 October 2009

Balls to hoovering

I appear to have found the solution to wives badgering beleaguered husbands to do a bit of hoovering. Balls.

And when I say balls, thankfully, I don't mean standing up to these wife-folk, for that could obviously be very bad for the physical wellbeing of us husband-folk.

No, I mean get them a hoover with a big ball in it.

Vanessa found an offer (another thing wives are good for) a few days ago in which you could trade in your battered old Dyson (one of which we happened to have) in return for a discounted "Dyson Ball Vacuum Cleaner" (right).

She asked my opinion before proceeding with the deal. And, of course, I had very strong views.

Vanessa: "What do you think?"

Barry: "Yeah, whatever."

Anyway, she proceeded to arrive home with this thing and now absolutely loves it - LOVES IT.

She has long complained that our house is too big for one person to hoover and that we should consider hiring a cleaner (over my twitching corpse). But now there's simply not enough carpets for her new toy - which apparently has "great manoeuvrability" - to suck on.

So fellow men, hear my call:

Let your ladies get their balls out and, before you know it, the only whining you'll hear will be from the hoover rather than their sweet, angelic little mouths - at least for a day or two.

Friday, 23 October 2009

Friday fun with chocolate

You'll no doubt have seen and, like me, smiled at the Yorkie bar "It's Not For Girls" campaign. (I think the slogan is still carried on the side of the product - I must buy a three-pack at lunchtime just to be sure).

However, yesterday, some fine individuals from the Yorkshire Regiment were in Bradford city centre on a recruitment drive and their exhibition stand incorporated examples of typical ration packs - including one of these:

Brilliant, isn't it?!

But whilst I was searching for a picture of this online (I didn't have a camera with me yesterday), I inadvertently stumbled across another variation on the theme.

Does it win the prize?

Thursday, 22 October 2009

White woes

We haven't had the best of times since my last post.

The first unfortunate little incident happened at about a quarter past midnight this morning. I'd turned off my light shortly after 11, about an hour earlier than normal, in need of some extra rest following the excesses of Tuesday evening's rugby dinner.

However, I was woken up by Jamie coughing very loudly and repeatedly. After a couple of minutes, I thought it best to look in on him. And from a parent's point of view, if you've made the effort to get up for a look, you might as well give your charge a bit of a stroke whilst you're there. So, I reached down to put my hands on him.

He was warm and sticky. Not ideal, but not that unusual. But he was also gooey which was clearly not normal. It took a second for the penny to drop - and then it did.

Our little man had just chucked up buckets - all over himself, his sleeping bag, his sleepsuit and his cot. And he was now trying very hard to get back to sleep, face down in a puddle of boke.

I had no option but to do what every other man I know would have done - shout for the baby's mother (what?!)

I hadn't a clue what else to do and women always tell us they know best in any case. This was Vanessa's chance to do it for the sisters.

To be fair, I did more than play my part in the overall operation. We stripped him down together, then I cleaned him up whilst Vanessa dealt with the "cot situation."

And finally, somewhat heroically one might suggest, I took him into the spare room for the next five and bit hours until it was time for Vanessa to get up to go to London.

Jamie tossed and turned pretty much throughout, meaning I didn't get a heck of a lot of sleep. I was therefore very much looking forward to this evening for a bit of R&R. What I didn't expect was to come home to a power cut.

To shorten yet another of my very long, dull stories, we appeared to be the only house on our street with no electric, I couldn't get hold of Vanessa to find out who our supplier is (she's in charge of all that stuff - I'm in charge of bins, as you know) and Jamie was getting very restless as it became pitch black in our house.

All we had for light was his Thomas The Tank Engine torch (thank heavens) and some chocolate biscuits for sustenance.

About an hour and 20 minutes later, just when matters were getting a touch on the desperate side and with Vanessa's mum now on the way over to rescue her grandson, Vanessa finally returned my call - and the lights miraculously and simultaneously came back on.

Clearly, both of our mini-difficulties could have been worse - but I do still feel the need to be cheered up.

Hopefully BNP scumbag Nick Griffin will get taken apart on Question Time later tonight. That would do the trick.

2047 UPDATE: They say bad things come in threes but you still might struggle to believe this. Jamie's just produced another mega-barf all over himself and his cot. But please do not be alarmed - Vanessa's in there scrubbing as I type.

Wednesday, 21 October 2009

Lion Man

I had the rare privilege last night of meeting one of my absolute heroes - British & Irish Lions rugby legend Ian McGeechan.

For those non-rugby fans amongst you (are there any rugby fans amongst you?) Ian McGeechan was Lions head coach during their dramatic South African tour this summer, when they eventually lost the Test series 2-1 to the home side.

But previous to that, he coached the Lions to famous series wins in South Africa in 1997 and Australia in 1989.

And before that (what do you mean, you're "bored?") he played for the Lions himself on two overseas tours - including the legendary (to people like me) 1974 tour to South Africa - and also both played for and coached Scotland. (I think it's really important that you know all this).

After every every sporting success story (or "almost" sporting success story) these days, comes the obligatory autobiography (is Jenson Button's out yet?) And last night my good friend John McIlroy and I went along to Headingley to see Ian McGeechan publicise his, the aptly titled Lion Man.

But it wasn't just a bog standard book launch. Hell no. This was much more exciting (yes, for me - and John).

The format was beer, a two-course dinner for 350 people (well, men), more beer, an hour-plus Q&A session with the man himself, followed by some more beer.

And then - get this - you had the chance to meet him and leave with a "free" (once you'd paid your £35 for a bit of overdone pork and some cheese and biscuits) personally signed copy of his book. (Yes, perhaps it was a bit like visiting Santa, but there's really no need for you to be so cynical).

There have been far too many pics of me on this site in recent days, so I took a photo of the great man meeting an equally impressed John instead.

Leaving all his achievements to one side, the thing that has always left me in awe of Ian McGeechan is the sheer class which he exudes in everything he does (WAKE UP!)

Unlike, say, Alex Ferguson, he never complains if he loses, never courts controversy and never seems ruffled. But he clearly inspires everyone around him and the results of this are evidenced on his CV (and no doubt in his book - which you really should buy. And you'll definitely get it cheaper than I did).

The souvenir I stumbled into the taxi with at around 11.30 last night is something I will genuinely cherish forever. What a man.

PS Thank you for letting me have my moment, albeit begrudgingly.

Tuesday, 20 October 2009

A big weight off his mind

Given Jamie's new found status as a media darling, Vanessa and I thought the time was right to have him weighed again.

He hadn't actually been on the scales at the local clinic since June and, if you read this blog regularly you'll know, he's done a hell of a lot of eating since then.

I've faced some criticism in the past - not least from my mother - for describing our boy as "fat." But whilst, OK, he's hardly obese, he's certainly "well at himself" (as they say where I come from) which could arguably be translated into "fat."

Anyway, my name-calling had clearly got to him so, prior to visiting the clinic in Pudsey, Jamie insisted on having a practice go himself on the bathroom scales.

He began with a quick prayer.

Before climbing on.

And then, well, the result (which he refused to share with us) seemed to throw him into shock.

I thought at the time that this must mean bad news - but I was wrong.

For, later at the clinic, he weighed in at an even 30 pounds which, whilst certainly enormous for his age, is absolutely fine and comfortably within the official babybook boundaries for someone of his height.

Indeed, one of the nurses added that there wasn't "an ounce of fat on him." (A couple of pounds, maybe, but nothing in actual ounces).

So, the outcome of all of this is that I have henceforth been ordered by Vanessa to refrain from calling our son any names which might suggest he's a bit of the tubby side.

It looks like a long, hard winter for me then.

Monday, 19 October 2009

If you want something done...

I spoke too soon on Saturday when, after the sudden arrival of a refuse lorry, I suggested the Yorkshire Evening Post article about our bin plight might not appear - because it's in today, big style.

As you can see, I've dropped the picture and headline in above and the text of the piece appears below. (You can just make out the head of Jamie's wind-up Prince Charles in my right hand although, hopefully, you won't be able to spot that I'm biting my lip in a weak attempt not to laugh).

More seriously, it is now crystal clear that Leeds City Council only moved to help us once they knew the paper was on their tail, and that simply isn't right.

But the strike goes on, and so might the battle.

*****

Leeds bin strike: Families at breaking point as rats and maggots flourish

By Suzanne McTaggart

DAD-of-one Barry White has to deal with plenty of dirty nappies – but his bins haven't been emptied since the start of the strike.

The 37-year-old, who lives with his wife Vanessa, 34, and 15-month-old son Jamie, hasn't had a bin collection for more than six weeks.

Mr White hit out at the council after hearing friends in other areas had received more than one service during the strike.

He reached breaking point when he saw a rat "standing guard" over bins near his home on Bradford Road, Stanningley.

He said: "Jamie goes through a lot of nappies. It's not particularly pleasant and the rubbish is stacked up. In five years, I have never seen a rat in this area. It's one of the main routes into Leeds and it doesn't give the best impression.

"This is not a healthy place to be at the moment and it's fairly worrying from a parent's point of view."

Mr White said his wife received a "standard response" after sending a complaint to council leader Richard Brett.

The couple put their bins out on the usual day – but private contractors failed to visit.

"I've spoken to the neighbours and we feel we've got to do something. We're law-abiding citizens and we pay council tax like everyone else. We don't want special treatment but why are we not having collections when so many other people are?

"Refusing to pay council tax is something we are definitely considering. Why should we pay for a service we're not getting?"

Pensioner Yvette Massey, 78, is registered disabled and hasn't had her rubbish collected since the strike started.

Mrs Massey, who suffers from arthritis, tried to tidy up the bags in her yard on Norman Terrace, Roundhay, only to find maggots.

She said: "There were hundreds of them and the smell was disgusting. So I just dropped the bags because I didn't like it. I've called the council six times and every time, they've just said they'll pass it on. It's not on really. It's a very serious situation."

Simon Morgan, of Norster View, Beeston, also said the bins down his street had not been emptied since the strike began. He added: "The bins yards are full of rubbish which has spilled over the bins themselves.

"The whole street is a mess. The fear is that rats will settle in feeding off the rubbish and there's maggots everywhere.

"You hear of other areas in Leeds having their bins emptied but we've just been ignored."

Jenson Button: Not powered by Gordon Brown

It will hopefully not have escaped your notice that Britain's Jenson Button, one of the most genuine men in sport from what I can ascertain, last night became Formula One World Champion.

And, with every sporting success in this country these days it would appear, comes a pre-cooked press release from a Labour Government desperate to jump on any bandwagon which may offer popular acknowledgement.

Read this from the BBC website:

The prime minister has led celebrations after Jenson Button was crowned as the new Formula One world champion.

Gordon Brown said there was much pride in the fact Button had become the 10th British driver to take the title.

The prime minister said: "I want to send my warmest congratulations to Jenson Button for clinching the Formula One drivers' championship in Brazil, on the same circuit that Lewis Hamilton won the drivers' championship last year.

Sports minister Gerry Sutcliffe praised the driver for "realising his potential and answering the critics.

"We are fortunate and privileged to have two drivers able to compete at the highest level of the sport and so many constructors continuing to make Britain their home.

"I hope this success will be a real boost for the sport in this country and make a new generation want to follow in the footsteps of Jenson and Lewis."

Business Secretary Lord Mandelson said the victory was a fitting tribute to the Brawn team "who have worked very hard to get the cars on the grid this season".

He said: "UK motorsport contributes £3.6bn to the economy as well as provide highly-skilled engineering jobs in the UK. It also has an important role to play in the development of green technology as we move to a low carbon future."

Catch the sincerity / relevance of those quotes written by either civil servants or special advisers (all of whom are paid for by us).

Do you reckon Jenson Button really gives a damn what these parasites think?

I wish they would all...well...go elsewhere.

Sunday, 18 October 2009

There's a next time for everything

It was the Bradford City Run this morning, essentially a test event for next year's inaugural Bradford City Marathon.

As well as a two-mile fun run for kids, the adults had an option to tackle either five miles or ten miles. And being a man (GRRR!!!) my original plan had been to compete at the longer distance.

But then nature intervened - or, more specifically, my sciatica plus a damaged Achilles tendon - leaving me with little option but to cut my losses in terms of missed training and settle for entering the five-miler instead.

And I did OK. I'm not a natural distance runner by anyone's stretch of the imagination, but I somehow managed to stumble over the line in 17th place out of 258 finishers with a time of 35 minutes and 53 seconds.

Most importantly, I won a medal to give to Jamie - once I'd finally found him and his mother wandering around Centenary Square.

Such is the level of awe and reverence in which I am held by the two of them, that they didn't actually bother to witness my moment of athletic glory. They were too busy drinking coffee and eating cookies in Starbucks.

Maybe next time.

Saturday, 17 October 2009

You couldn't make it up - so they didn't

I've just picked up my copy of today's Yorkshire Evening Post. And guess what?

You got it first time - the "Jamie living in his own poo" story isn't in there.

There are three possible explanations for this:

It was in yesterday (very doubtful)
It will be in on Monday or
The most likely reason - the contractors emptied our bins yesterday afternoon

Yes, can you believe it?! We finally get to the point where some much desired retribution can be meted out - and the f***ers turn up!

But don't think for a second that this is a coincidence. You don't have to be a media expert to work out that the YEP would almost certainly - and rightly - have contacted the Council's press office to offer them an opportunity to comment on our situation. And the easiest thing for the Council to have done was to quickly dispatch a refuse lorry before going back to the paper to say that the contractors had emptied our bins.

On top of this, both Vanessa and our fine neighbour Barrington (he of the bigger forearms than me) were in direct contact with the relevant Council officer yesterday to advise of their growing frustration.

Whatever the truth, the fact is that we got what we wanted and I suppose we've got to be satisfied with that.

One final piece of news. Last night, it looked like the strike itself would end this coming Monday following a vote of union members. But a further twist in the tale, only about an hour ago, means that the workers now seem set to reject the Council's offer and remain on the picket lines for, perhaps, many more weeks to come.

So maybe the story isn't over quite yet - for us, as much as for them.

Friday, 16 October 2009

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?

Thursday, 15 October 2009

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!)