Call that a haircut?

Although I've mentioned Jamie's "haircuts" here before, they have only really amounted to me doing my best to distract him whilst Vanessa hacked away at his locks with a blunt pair of scissors. Until yesterday, that is.

Because 24 hours ago Vanessa took yer man to the hairdressers for the very first time and, from what I'm told, most of it went very well.

He sat reasonably still and behaved himself whilst his mother fed him Milky Bar buttons. And whilst she said he never appeared to be particularly happy, he tried not to let it show.

But as he came back home to celebrate his heroics with a tipple and allowed me to have my first look at the results, one question loomed large in my mind.

Why did his hair not look any different?

The writing was on the wall

Last Thursday afternoon, shortly after arriving up on the North Coast to witness the final couple of laps of official North West 200 practice, my mum's partner Derek and I headed off for a wee pint.

We began at The York Hotel in Portstewart, before walking the short distance to The Portstewart Arms, better known to the locals as Murphy's.

And it was there that I spotted the poster above which I managed to capture on my phone.

I really hope Mickey wasn't forced to do overtime.

A horsey laugh

One of the best and most renowned things about Ireland, North and South, is the ready access to an amusing quip. And earlier this week, I heard a corker.

My dad was walking down the main street in Coleraine and bumped into a well-known local character who, having been capped once by the Northern Ireland football team many years ago, now channels his energies into horses and the odd pint.

"Do you do a wee bet?" he asked my father, who isn't a gambler.

"I don't," replied White Snr.

"Well, I've got a tip on a great horse - born around here, trained around here - which you can pass on to anyone else you see if you want. It's a dead cert."

So, our friend gave my dad the details and the pair of them went their separate ways which, in the case of my father, was the Railway Arms pub where he told several of the regulars about the tip.

A few of them soon rushed to the bookies next door to put on a tenner and a couple stuck on £20.

The next morning, my dad picked up his newspaper and went straight to the horse racing results.

The "dead cert" had come in sixth.

He headed back up the main street shortly afterwards and, lo and beyond, bumped into our expert tipster who he stopped for a word.

"Are you trying to get me hanged?" my father demanded to know. "That horse you gave me came in sixth! I thought you said it was a great horse!"

Our friend looked at my dad and, without a hint of irony, replied:

"It was. Sure, it took five to beat it."

Trip to the Triangle

Despite the delayed journey back - which, in truth, only ensured we could pack a lot more in - I think Jamie had a quite wonderful time in the place I still proudly call home.

After a short 40 minute hop across the Irish Sea (on a plane little bigger than the toy one he acquired on-board), it was off for lunch with his Granny White and Grandad Derek...

...followed by pudding.

On Friday, we "did" Portrush with Granda White.

And, on Saturday afternoon, Jamie spent some quality time with his gorgeous little cousin Katie.

They got on very well.

In fact, the only real disappointment from my point of view was that, owing to the cold, a smattering of rain and a bout of tiredness, he didn't see much of the actual racing at the North West 200.

Maybe next year he'll hang around for just a teeny bit longer.

Woe is us (aye right)

Well? Did you miss me? (Please don't answer that).

The eagle-eyed and the bored amongst you may have noticed that I haven't updated this tripe for five days, despite Jamie and I being due back from our manly jaunt to Northern Ireland on Sunday.

The reason, as you may have guessed, is that our plans literally turned to ashes: volcanic ashes.

But we got finally back to Pudsey about half an hour ago and normal service is about to be resumed.

However, I'll wait until tomorrow - when I hope to feel a bit brighter - before I begin to bang on about what we did.

Because passing unexpected extra time on the Causeway Coast appears to have sapped my energy levels.

Boys on tour

Jamie and I will shortly be off on a boys' long weekend.

Destination: Northern Ireland.

Purpose of the trip: the 2010 Relentless International North West 200, the biggest sporting event in Ireland and the fastest motorcycle road race in the world.

Held on public highways between Coleraine, Portrush and Portstewart, it is spectacular and it is mad.

To illustrate, during Tuesday evening's first practice session, one brave soul went through the speed trap - between hedges, telegraph poles and lamp posts - at an eye-watering 204mph. Twice. Hmmmm.

I'll try and update this drivel at some point whilst I'm over there, but the next few days should certainly be fun. Hopefully Jamie will agree.

Things Can Only Get Better

Until last night, Jamie only knew one Prime Minister in his short life.

So it was therefore appropriate that he had the chance to see the grumpy, bullying, tribal, narrow-minded, buffoon leave Downing Street for the last time - if only so he could confirm for me that it had actually happened.

And is that a smile sneaking across his face? I do believe it is.

Goodbye Gordo.

Jamie's b****** bed

Last night - over a period of almost four hours - I proved yet again that I am the world's worst handyman.

Two problems confronted me:

1. Turn Jamie's cot into a bed and
2. Attach a bed guard to stop him falling out.

And amazingly, I managed to complete task number one without too much difficulty (relatively speaking).

But then came the bed guard bit. I tried every which way to put this ****ing thing together and even gave blood for the cause (some of which is still plastered over said bed guard).

And after two and a half hours I actually gave up, branding myself a failure. Someone else would have to do it because I was simply incapable.

The problem, given that the cot was now a bed, was that Jamie was obviously now at risk of falling out and hurting himself during the night. So we put a quilt on the floor, just in case.

And, half an hour later, this was the scene.

There was nothing else for it; I had to have another go.

And, thanks to some calming/encouraging words from Vanessa and a bit of practical help, we kind of sorted it.

But it's bound to fall apart again tonight. Bound to.

It's cot fair

Just days after escaping from his travel cot/play pen for the first time, early this morning Jamie managed to make his way out of his proper cot.

I slept through the big moment at around 6am but the thud of Jamie's feet on his nursery floor woke Vanessa up. And 10 seconds later, he was standing at her bedside.

I put him back in his cot again a few minutes ago to see what he would do. The picture above gives you the answer.

He soon managed to get the other leg over - before crashing to the floor. (I felt quite bad about that but, hey, I got my picture).

I can't turn the cot into a bed until tomorrow after Vanessa has bought a guard to stop him falling out during the night.

So, tonight, there will be a big, soft quilt plus assorted pillows and cushions on the floor to try to stop any nasty accidents.

But what a craft little so and so he's becoming.

Surviving General Election Night

Tonight is General Election Night (you may have noticed) and, for political saddos like me, getting through it requires some serious preparation.

Or to be more precise, it requires an election night survival kit. Thankfully, mine has now been sorted and you can see it above.

It consists of:

• 1 box of southern fried chicken
• 1 bag of frozen chips
• 1 jar of coffee (strong)
• 1 bag of sugar
• 1 box of French Fancies (lemon)
• 2 packets of chocolate biscuits (1 milk 1 plain)
• 1 family-sized tub of ice cream (vanilla)
• 1 large bag of BBQ spare rib crackers
• 1 box of cereal bars ("the healthy option")
• 1 bottle of Bushmills Malt (for use in the event of Rodney winning or Ed Balls losing)

Hopefully I'll have just about enough of everything to see me through.

Aside from putting together my election night survival kit, I have already observed one other tradition which is now into its sixth year (including local and European elections) since moving to Pudsey.

I speak of my chat with a particular blonde-haired, middle-aged polling clerk.

And here is how it went earlier (in the exact same, word-for-word way it's gone since 2005).

Polling clerk: "Name?"

Me: "Barry White."

Polling clerk: "Are you the famous Barry White?"

Me: "No."

Polling clerk: "Do I ask you that every year?"

Me: "Yes."

I hope you enjoy your General Election Night 2010 as much as I hope to enjoy mine.

Escape to breakfast

One of the most "challenging" aspects of parenthood is that, just when you think you've outsmarted your little...er...darling, they find a way to stick two infant-sized digits back up at you.

For example, above you can see a picture of Jamie's travel cot which has served us extremely well up until this point. He hasn't spent many nights sleeping in it. But it has very successfully doubled up as a handy cage to keep him out of harm's way whilst Vanessa and I got on with other things.

Until the last couple of days, that is.

Because the inevitable has now happened.

Click on to the play button below to see exactly what I mean.

Next step - a ball and chain.

I won't vote Labour - but you might vote McCune

I clambered off my delayed train at New Pudsey station this evening to be greeted by the unwelcome sight of a smiling Labour candidate for Pudsey, surrounded by balloons (some rubber, others human).

Anyone who reads this dreadful blog on a regular basis will not be surprised to learn that I shall not be giving this individual my vote tomorrow for all sorts of reasons.

Like several other Labour candidates whose literature I've seen, he's tried to scare cancer patients with false claims about Conservative policy and for that alone he can take a little trip off something very high as far as I'm concerned.

Much more positively, my pal Rodney McCune - standing on the the joint Conservatives and Unionists ticket in East Antrim - has become something of media revelation back home in Norn Iron in recent days.

Above you can see a screenshot of him appearing on Thursday's BBC Ten O'Clock News in response to the third Prime Ministerial debate. A couple of days earlier he excelled in a 45-minute BBC online debate and, on Monday past, performed equally impressively during a BBC Politics Show punch-up. Just 90 minutes ago, he wiped the floor with his DUP opponent in a live piece for the BBC News Channel. (Maybe next time both ITV and Sky will give him a call too). And he shared precious airtime with David Cameron during the final Conservatives and Unionists Party Election Broadcast.

Despite having been selected as a candidate just a few short weeks ago, Rodney's had a good campaign and done himself proud.

Hopefully the good people of East Antrim will agree when they visit their local polling stations from 7am tomorrow.

The crowd deserved a trophy too

This is going to very short because frankly, my dears, I'm wrecked.

The reason for my fatigue is that I was one of the hardy band of poor souls still sat in the Crucible Theatre in Sheffield shortly before 1am this morning when Aussie golden boy Neil Robertson finally lifted the Betfred.com World Snooker Championship.

OK, I say "poor souls" and that's just wrong. It's always been an ambition of mine to see the famous old trophy being lifted "live" and it was therefore a privilege to be there.

However, in truth, it wasn't the most exhilarating snooker match ever played and, at times, had the feeling of a couple of boys smashing some balls up (so to speak).

Plus, getting to bed at shortly after 2.30am is not ideal preparation for the beginning of a new working week.

But it's nothing a good night's sleep tonight won't correct. And another box in my sporting dreams list has been very gratefully ticked.

I think I fancy a bit of netball next.

By the way, did you know these three were snooker fans?

Anything for a vote.

"Pot the reds then, screw back..."

The picture above captures the moment around 14 hours ago when "The Thunder From Down Under," Neil Robertson, clinched his 9-7 overnight lead over Scotland's "Pocket Dynamo," Graeme Dott, in the World Snooker Final at the Crucible Theatre in Sheffield.

Earlier, my pals Daniel (left), John and I watched (they did turn around first)...

...as Hazel Irvine did her pre-session piece to camera before bringing in former world champions Steve Davis (top right) and and John Parrott for their thoughts.

And after it was all over, the referee packed away his balls for the night.

Daniel and I are lucky enough to be heading back down again this evening for the final session of the match. I'll wave if I can.

The exceptions that prove the rule

There is a well-known saying amongst media types that "television puts a stone in weight on you" or "ten pounds" or however much it is (OK, perhaps it's not that well-known).

But this morning Jamie met his two favourite TV personalities who are on their first day of a two-day stay at Harewood House in Leeds. And against all expectations, they're actually much, much fatter in real life.

I am referring, of course, to George and Peppa Pig who really are absolute porkers in the pinky flesh.

Who would have thought it?

Jamie at the Antiques Roadshow

It looks like Jamie may well have made his network television debut, but we can't be sure for a few weeks yet.

The special moment may or may not have happened on Thursday when his manic Grandma Judy very kindly took him along to a recording of the Antiques Roadshow in Saltaire - and then spent the duration of their stay trying to get him into shot.

Initially he was a little shy and even attempted wearing a disguise.

But his confidence quickly grew and, before long, he was choosing which expert he wanted to meet next...

...before finishing his visit with a full-on showbiz strop after discovering a camera that wasn't pointing at him.

So, will he make it through to the final edit?

We'll find out later this year.

Barrys for Stuart

You'll be delighted to learn that this blog will be a General Election-free zone over the next days with lots of other excitement mercifully lined up for the Bank Holiday weekend.

But I've got to show you this.

Regular readers will be aware of my huge-forearmed next door neighbour Barrington who is in his element during times of crisis and an all around top man.

Like me, he is also a fan of Stuart Andrew, the Conservative Parliamentary Candidate for Pudsey, who has helped us both and will certainly be receiving my support in the polling booth next Thursday.

However, there's nothing like nailing your face to the mast and yesterday, when I received my latest piece of Stuart's election literature (pictured above), I found this was exactly what Barrington and his partner Eva had done.

Because opposite is a close up of the story on the bottom left-hand corner of the leaflet.

And what about that!

If you can't read it properly, this is what "Barry" (as he had to become for reasons of space) and Eva say:

"We are voting Conservative because we are worried about the way our country is going. We need a new direction to deal with the economy and we know Stuart will be a great MP."

Hear! Hear!

And what a small world we live in.

I'll name that Brown in one

So, what kind of a 24 hours have you had? Any worse than Gordon? I certainly hope not.

I was working on laptop at home yesterday and was able to follow the so-called "Bigotgate" episode quite closely. And it truly was one of the most bizarre twisty-turny sagas I can recall in my lifetime.

I'll not go into all the detail again here because no doubt you, like me, are a bit bored of it all now.

But the question which kept entering my mind was, did I feel sorry for our beleaguered Prime Minister?

And the answer each time was a resounding no. The reason is very simple.

He's a ****.

Peppa is a Tory

So now we know: Peppa Pig, Jamie's favourite TV star, is no fan of the Labour Government. I always knew she had something about her.