The truth doesn't get bent more than this

You, like me, may have been one of the several million viewers who tuned into tonight's MasterChef Final. Alternatively, you may have a life - and I envy you. 

MasterChef will forever take me back to Wee John's 40th birthday weekend during which someone (I can't remember who) told me that hosts John Torode and Gregg Wallace were live-in lovers.

And I believed them.  Indeed, I believed them until very recently when I remembered to check.

Thanks to Wikipedia, I now know that they're not.

And so do you.

He's a warmer

I've been in London for the past couple of days and, last night, had the dubious privilege of Wee John cheffing for me.

Well I say cheffing but, in truth, all he really did was warm things up.

Together with his flatmate Shane and blokemate Pav, we had warmed-up prawns and chilli on warmed-up bread to start, and warmed-up chocolate pudding for dessert.

In between, we were presented with warmed-up chips, warmed-up onion rings, warmed-up Yorkshire puddings and warmed-up pepper sauce.

To be fair, he did pan fry the steaks, because you kind of have to do that with steaks.

But then it soon became clear why he relies so much on his oven.

Do not touch - and definitely do not twist

An awkward moment at bath time last night, when Vanessa walked in to find Jamie twisting Charlotte’s nipples.

“What are you doing?!” a rather startled Mummy demanded to know.

“Playing with Charlotte’s buttons,” replied Jamie. “What are they for?”

“Not for playing with!” (would have been my answer. Tragically, I wasn’t there ).

Groundhog Weekend - Part IV

I spent a mere 19 hours decorating this weekend, turning the "toy room" - as Jamie calls it - from what you can see above to what you can see below.

Sadly, the walls still need another lick and I haven't touched the woodwork yet.  After all that, it'll be time to begin the kitchen.

So determined was I not to be interrupted that I employed the services of two pirates to keep unwanted visitors at bay.  

Despite their good work, rum was banned from the premises.

Less than a remote possibility of this happening again

Ever since he's been old enough to know better, I've made house rule number one very clear to Jamie: never, EVER touch the TV remote control.  

He's become very aware of this rule but, given half an opportunity, cannot help but attempt to break it. 

And the temptation is made worse by the fact that there are four remote controls to choose from - a Sky and telly remote in the living room and the same again in the kitchen.

So you can imagine my horror when I came down the stairs this morning to see what you can see above; that's the Sky remote in his hand. 

However, what I then didn't expect to see - and didn't notice when I first walked in - was this sight.

  
I think Charlotte is now equally aware of the fact that the TV remote is also none of her business.  And how she managed to get her tiny paws on it is beyond me.  (Well, not really - her brother must have handed it to her for badness). 

Anyway, I hope they enjoyed their big moment because the next one will be a long time coming.

Let's hope she licks it soon

Vanessa's tongue has gone for a wander.  In fact it's gone geographic. 

Until today, I'd not been aware of the term - or should I say "condition" - known as "geographic tongue."

And neither was Mrs W.  But now she is and it's in her mouth.

She went to the doctor's first thing this morning to seek a diagnosis of her poorly licker, and her symptoms matched up. 

These include (and I quote from some random site I found on Google):

• Map-like appearance to the surface of the tongue
• Patches that move from day to day
• Smooth, red patches and sores (lesions) on the tongue
• Soreness and burning pain (in some cases)

All lovely, I'm sure you'll agree.

Treatments are uncertain, although I have suggested an indefinite ban on tongue-lashings aimed in my direction.

If she agrees to that request, I'll know she really is sick.

Me and Jim

Brilliant, brilliant, brilliant.

That's all I can say about Jimeoin live on stage in Leeds tonight.

Two reasons:

1. He was
2. I've been drinking since 5.30.

Let's "speak" tomorrow.

Guaranteed to be a Lovely evening

I'm all excited. 

Thanks to him and her, a night out continues to be something of a rarity for she and me.  But tomorrow our luck will be in when we go to see Jimeoin live at the City Varieties in Leeds.

For those of you who have never heard of the great man, Jimeoin is a comedian who, although huge in Australia, has only risen to proper prominence over here in the last couple of years.   

And he's from Portstewart in Northern Ireland.

He's not particularly rude, he's not even especially edgy.  But he is incredibly funny. 

I've read a couple of reviews of his new show - simply entitled "Lovely" - and subjects for discussion will include toe movement and whether or not to wear a coat outside.

Despite leaving the North Coast 24 years ago, he has retained his accent. 

I therefore purchased two tickets on the second row, right in the middle; my thinking being that, whilst I'm not saying I'll definitely interact with him, he is likely to be one of the few people on any English stage with a chance of understanding what I'm saying. 

We'll see how it goes.  

Come dine with me

I'd love to think that today will be forever remembered for me finishing painting our dining room.

But it won't. 

Because Norn Iron's Rory McIlroy has just become the world's number one golf player. And Antrim man Mark Allen has won the final of the World Open snooker. 

Like most Ulsterfolk, I'm very, very proud. 

But while I have you, what do you think of our dining room?

I appreciate that it might look a bit dull.  But new curtains, some pictures on the walls and a new carpet are on their various ways . Plus, it's all my own work so don't insult me (please). 

I intend to dine out on this

As I write,  it's getting quite late on a Saturday night, so you'll probably not read this until Sunday, Monday - or not at all (the most sensible option, if it were me).

I haven't actually left our house today because, as boringly trailed, I'm back on the decorating horse with our dining room the focus of this weekend's productivity.

What you can see above is how it looks at the present time (despite 10 hours of effort).  But, by tomorrow teatime, it should hopefully look different again.

I'll have two main objectives when morning comes:

1. That the wall colour will be even
2. That the wall colour will not be pink

At least I have some help.

WANTED: All clear/evidence of a brain

I had my first CT scan 12 years ago when I lived in London and my sinuses were giving me dixie. 

And I remember it being quite a daunting experience. 

I was working for the then Northern Ireland First Minister David Trimble and Mo Mowlam was Northern Ireland Secretary of State.  Mo was continuing her well-publicised battle against a brain tumour which ultimately and tragically cost her her life.

And when I was transported into the scanner, all I could think of was her.

Tonight I had my second CT scan at the Leed General Infirmary - my sinusitis is back - and, for the first couple of moments, it was a case of deju vu all over again.

But then, as is my wont, my mind began to wander. 

The next thing I knew was being woken up by a nurse, 

"Oh, sorry," I said, "how long have I been in there?"

"Four minutes," she replied. 

Well, I have been very tired of late.  But at least I appear to have conquered my dislike of CT scanners.

Ben 10 Barry 3

Yes, from the distance you're viewing Jamie's new Ben 10 wall sticker - and I know some of you are several thousand miles away - it might appear quite impressive. But I assure you it's not.

Compare the Ben above to how he looked before Jamie's Daddy got at him...

...and you'll notice that half his left shoulder is now missing. 

And if you did see him up close, you'd quickly notice all the folds and air bubbles and, well - the whole thing is something of a disappointment.  And it's entirely because I made a balls of it.

At least I'll not feel so bad when, three weeks on Thursday, Jamie no doubt decides he wants his room repainted blue.

But he won't be getting a Batman wall sticker, I'll tell you that.

(Closed) eyes right

The Whites are very tired at the moment.

So much so, that I have no idea how Vanessa mustered the energy to take this picture at 6.45 this morning.

I'll name that monster in one

Jamie's inner Ulsterman is beginning to show himself more and more. 

And why do I say this?  Simple - because he's really starting to take the p*ss out of me.  I like that.

Rather than read him a bedtime story this evening, he said he wanted me to make one up. 

"And who would you like to be in it?" I enquired.

"Jamie The Knight," he began...awwwwwww!

"And Daddy Big Legs." Yes, very funny - Mr Smart Ar*e.

Earlier, in an attempt to help him to remain fascinated by Ben 10 long enough for his Ben 10 novelty item to arrive in the post and complete his new room, I bought him a handful of miniature monsters from the series.  These included Jet Ray, who you can see above.

"What's he called?" I asked White Junior as the figure was taken out of its packet.

"Shit Breeze," said Jamie.

I really wish I hadn't laughed as loudly as I did.  It only encourages him. 

A Barry's work is never done

This was Jamie's reaction a little earlier when I took him up to see his newly decorated and almost complete Ben 10/Toy Story-themed bedroom.

The centre-piece - which will fill the bare wall you can see behind him - is still in the post.  But don't worry, I'll bore with that when it arrives next week.   

Two weekends it's taken me to do the necessary - that's TWO WEEKENDS.  I even had to make do with listening to yesterday's Ireland v Italy Six Nations Rugby match on the radio, such was my dedication to the task in hand/willingness to get the bloody thing over with. 

The good news is that it's done.

The less good news is that, next week, I'm due to start on the dining room.  

Oh joy. 

And there was light

We've moved house twice since setting up camp in Yorkshire in 2003 and, both times, problems with our new abode quickly emerged.

It took a whole five minutes for the bathroom pipes in our last house to leak through the roof onto our kitchen floor. So that was good. 

However, the problems in our new house have been more of the slow burner variety and have emerged over the course of time.  Ill-fitted windows, damp, wonky radiators and a knackered garage door have all eventually come to light. 

However, the electric wiring has caused greatest concern. Some mains sockets are temperamental, as are one or two light fittings.  And we will have to sort them out.

But the only terminal issue seemed to be the kitchen spotlights. I blew the first bulb in the middle of last summer, bought a replacement, screwed it in and, hey presto - it didn't work.

"Ah," said me to she, "it's knackered.  We'll have to get a man in."

That was seven months ago.  But then, on Monday night, another of the three lights went, reducing us to one.  So, I got another replacement bulb out, screwed it in and - nothing.

It was at this point that I had an idea, and went to Morrisons.

Did you know you that spotlights come in different sizes?  I didn't.

On an entirely different and sadly more serious matter, a quick mention for my local MP, friend and Guiseley neighbour Stuart Andrew who, as you may have heard/read, was the victim of an horrendous assault in Parliament's Strangers' Bar on Wednesday evening.

There are some not very nice people in politics, but Stuart is most definitely one of the good guys.  Let's hope he's back to his best soon, and that he gets the sort of justice that he and his fellow victims of this appalling incident deserve.   

A wee day at the movies (and some Doctor Who)

An odd day dominated by mental flashes of Doctor Who, Ghost (the film with Demi Moore as opposed to Casper) and The Terminator.

I've never changed mobile phone networks before so today was my first experience of "porting."

For the uninitiated, "porting" is the process by which your mobile number is physically transferred from your old network to your new one.

In preparation for this, I had two conversations with O2 yesterday to tell me what would happen followed by a text shortly before bedtime.

And, first thing this morning, I had another text saying that the process would begin within hours.

At this stage both phones were fully operational, but my old companion of the last two years was clearly about to depart - a bit like Patrick Swayze in Ghost.

All morning I kept an eye on it, waiting for the inevitable to happen.  A daylight vigil, if you will.

But ironically, when the end did come, it was unexpected.  In fact, I was standing at a urinal having a wee with a phone in each pocket.

First, my right pocket, containing my new phone, began to vibrate (somewhat disconcerting when you're a boy in active wee mode). Then it beeped a couple of times.

All I could think of was Doctor Who regenerating - from David Tennant into Matt Smith, to be entirely accurate (again, a new experience for me when having a wee).

Two minutes later, all delicate parts of me safely tucked away, my old phone made a dull sound - and a message appeared on its battered screen to advise that its SIM card had been deactivated.  Almost reminiscent of that moment at the end of Terminator 2 when Arnie lowered himself into a tank of molten metal.  I could have sworn it tried to give me a thumbs up, but obviously couldn't because mobile phones don't have thumbs.   

So anyway, that was my day.

iKidyounot

I took my first tentative step into the 21st century earlier today (a bit late, granted) when I became the owner of an iPhone.

So far I've successfully charged it up and typed in all my contacts.  And having done that, I now genuinely have no idea what I do next or, more specifically, what it does.

Save for one "app" (get me).

I speak of iPoo. 

And what is iPoo, I hear you cry?

Well I'll tell you, and I quote:

"Always find yourself with nothing to do while you're sitting on the can?"  (It's American). 

"Introducing iPoo - a new iPhone application that gives you something to do - while you poo! iPoo is a social community that brings together pooers from around the world. Write messages, draw graffiti, earn points and badges, see what others are posting."

Right.  So there we are.

Only a few hours in and what many of friends said was true; the iPhone has already had a significant impact on my life. Because I now feel ill. 

Once a Muppet (fan), always a Muppet (fan)

I am wrecked (again).

Charlotte's been unwell for the past few days.  Meanwhile, her brother Jamie's been a wee sh*t for approaching four years.

However, that did not stop me from devoting chunks of my weekend to the task of redecorating his bedroom.  This process is now on hold until next weekend when - subject to my commitment to watching every second  of the Six Nations Championship - I intend to finish the painting bits.

At least he seems prepared to do his bit to help.

To be fair, I kind of owed him one as yesterday morning he took me to see The Muppets.

If you're a thirty or fortysomething, trust me, you've really got to go.

I was instantly transported back to Sunday nights in the late 70s although, given I was in a public place, I was relieved not still to be wearing my Paddington pyjamas.

Such was the film's impact on me that, arriving home, I felt compelled to listen to Sounds of The 70s on Radio 2.  And, at night, I insisted on watching Quadrophenia  - which I'd never actually seen before.

An episode of The Dukes of Hazzard would have made my day complete. 

I'm due to turn 40 next month.  How the f*** did that happen?!

A bread and butter argument

It was a conversation that had to happen given the Anglo-Ulster nature of Jamie's parentage, and today it did.

Scone or scone?

Coming from God's Own Country (i.e. Northern Ireland, not Yorkshire which is not a country), I KNOW that this traditional and wholly enjoyable bread-based snack (best made on my side of the Irish Sea) is pronounced "skawn."

But Vanessa, emanating from the land of HM The Queen, Selina Scott and Barbara Woodhouse, (wrongly) believes this joyous bite to be a "skooooooone."

It's not.

Mummy v Daddy skawn-skooooooone ping-pong resulted in a confused and troubled Jamie, unsure where his loyalties should lie.  And the battle continues, because neither his mother not I are prepared to give in.

But I shall be victorious, be sure of that.  Because I am right.

If only it was all a dream

Look at Charlotte.  All lovely and girlie and sweet and innocent and harmless.  Yes? 

NO! 

This picture was taken shortly after 7.30 this morning, just before I crawled out of our house to get on with my day.  In the previous 12 hours, our "angelic" little daughter had allowed Vanessa and me around three hours of sleep each (not that we went to bed at 7.30pm - the darts were on for a start - but that's when we put her down). 

There were drugs being shoved into her from all directions, extra milk, you name it.  (Actually,  it was only drugs and milk - I'm getting carried away). 

But the little b**** was not for sleeping and, if she wasn't for sleeping, then neither were we. 

Until it was time for us to get up, that is.  Obviously.  And then you couldn't raise her from her gentle slumber.  

And people often wonder why we're not - that's NOT - having a third addition to the family. 

Honestly, I'd rather have a dog.  At least you can kick it.

I might write a letter

Walking through Guiseley this morning, I genuinely had no idea there was such a thing as a mobile Post Office. 

But of all the places to set one up, outside our (open) local permanent Post Office would not have been the obvious choice.

=

Parents' breakfast morning

A much-anticipated occasion for me today when I attended the "Parents' Breakfast Morning" with Charlotte and all her little pals in the Foxgloves Room at nursery. 

The idea was for each child to bring either their mummy or daddy along to dine with them. Each parent was asked to choose in advance from a menu including bacon sandwiches, eggs on toast and cereal.  I ticked the bacon sandwich box earlier in the week and turned up at 8am sharp ready to party.

Sadly, by 8.30, I was still partying alone (other than the six toddlers staring at me and the four bored-looking members of staff coming and going and probably wondering why I was still there).

You've got to picture the scene (which I was too embarrassed to ask someone to capture for me). My six mini-pals and I were seated around a table no more than a foot in height; the kiddies on little wooden chairs with big arms, and me on a slightly larger plastic chair meant for a four-year-old.  And whilst I munched on my bacon sandwich, the junior guys and gals took it in turns to throw their toast on the floor, at each other or at me.

I felt like a special guest on The Muppet Show.

Thankfully, just before 8.35am, a mummy turned up and another kindergarten chair was found for her.  She didn't say much, but she seemed to enjoy her eggs on toast.  A couple of minutes later, and mummy number two shuffled through the door.  She too went for the eggs on toast, which arrived as mummy number one was making her exit. 

Just as she was putting the first forkful in her mouth, Charlotte pooed her pants.  And it was a bad one.

I didn't know what to do. 

Should I inform a member of staff?  No, I decided, on the grounds that whoever I told would probably have felt obliged to change her, making me feel bad. Should I subtly apologise to mummy number two for my daughter's number two?  Too humiliating, I concluded.

No, I had to go for the third /cowardly option; it was time to get out of there.  And three minutes later I was haring up the road.

I had a look on the nursery's website tonight and found the following genuine statement, dated today, in the news section:  

"The parents enjoyed having breakfast with their child and stated it was a lovely experience." 

An experience, it certainly was.

Mussel man

Happy Valentine's Day and all that.

In common with many other "modern men" (WHAT?!), tonight I shall be putting the pan on. And possibly even an apron.

I'll not bore you with the entirety of my chosen menu, which isn't desperately exciting in truth.  But it's the mussels starter which has me ill at ease. Let me explain.

As I write this, the little creatures in question are chilling happily in their bag on the fish counter at Morrisons in Guiseley, unaware of their fate.  And they'll remain unaware until around teatime when I pick them up and put them in another bag. 

Another 90 minutes later, and they'll suddenly lose the ability to be aware of anything ever again - as I boil them to death in water, white wine, some butter and a few sprigs of parsley.

Aside from their actual execution, the bit that makes me most queasy it is the "debearding."  For the uninitiated, this is the process by which you have to pull the bits of seaweed (which the mussel is presumably munching on - or maybe they use it as a comfort blanket) out of the shell, sometimes ripping the little fishy to pieces in the process.   Before you lay each one gently in the pan / death chamber.

Anyway, bon appetit to you and yours.

A tenuous attempt at sharing a tale

I was travelling to work this morning whilst listening to Chris Evans on't radio (as they say in Yorkshire).  

Regular listeners will know he has a feature called "Top Tenuous" in which people text in their associations with a celebrity in the news that day; the looser the connection, the more chance the listener has of getting a mention on air. 

Today's (albeit dead) celeb was Benny Hill on account of him being name-checked by a silent Frenchman at last night's BAFTAs.

I tell you all of this because it reminded me of the best random personal fact I've ever heard. 

It was 12 years ago and I was on one of those team building days that never achieve anything unless there's free drink at the end (and you get to achieve the feeling of being pissed).  As an "ice breaker," each of us was asked to reveal a simple piece of information about ourselves that no-one else present would be likely to know.

One by one, we went round the room and rhymed off the normal old rubbish people come out with on these pointless occasions.

"I can do the splits," was one I recall (in truth, this was hardly a surprise given the reputation of the girl in question).  

"I'm a twin," was another (prompting a collective silent response of, "gosh, there's really someone out there who's just as dull as you?")

"I've failed my driving test three times," was yet another (ironically not from me as I didn't manage to fail my driving test three times until 2006).  

I genuinely can't remember what guff I came out with, although I really hope I made it up.

Anyway, the seemingly endless journey finally came to an end with my line manager who, whilst a decent sort, was very strait-laced and not expected (certainly by me) to come out with something of this quality.

"My grandfather was the little bald bloke who used to have his head slapped every week on the Benny Hill Show."  

An absolute show stopper in my book.  It's magnificent, it's wonderful, it's hilarious. 

Indeed, for me, it's unbeatable.  

I do hope you agree.  If not, I apologise for stealing a whole minute of your life whilst you read this far. You'll never get that back, you know.

A new generation of evil

After his initial underwhelming response to the phenomenon that is Star Wars, I decided to adopt a new approach to persuade Jamie that it is, in fact, great. 

I told him he could join the Dark Side.

Unsurprisingly, this was a career opportunity he liked the sound of. 

But it may have been suggestion that I - and perhaps the entire Universe - might live to regret.

He didn't feel The Force

One of my earliest memories is of being carried in tears from the Palladium cinema in Coleraine after falling asleep during Star Wars.

The year was 1977 and I had looked forward to it for weeks. I even had a Star Wars ruler - exactly like the one on the left (now worth £19 on eBay).   

But it was past my bedtime and I nodded off early in proceedings.  I'm not even sure I made it through the support programme. 

In those days, as I seem to recall, there was some sort of rule which meant that big screen productions could not be shown on British television for five years after their release.  I might be wrong, but that's what someone told me.  I think.

However, I didn't see Star Wars in 1982, or even 1983.  No, I saw it in 2010. I was just busy. 

Determined that Jamie would not have such a huge Star Wars-sized hole in his life for as long as I had to endure, I made him watch it this morning. 

He wasn't that arsed.

Poleaxed

I've been witness to some very strange sights since moving to Yorkshire almost nine years ago, but few more bizarre than on our street first thing this morning.

What you must understand is that almost all of the snow - which was a few inches deep earlier in the week - had gone.  And it wasn't even particularly cold.

Which was why I was a little taken aback to see a (probably 50-year-old) woman stumble out of her house across the road from us wearing a woolly hat, ear muffs, a huge scarf, a massive coat, leg warmers, big gloves - and begin helping herself down her garden path with the aid of ski poles. 

That's right, ski poles. 

I stopped dead in my tracks. 

The lady looked up and could see I was a little taken aback.

"Go on, say it!" she shouted with a smile.

"Say what?" I replied.

"Ask me where my skis are!" the lady shouted back, as she inched her way down her snow free path.

I stood, fixed to the spot, feeling I could go nowhere until she at least completed the full journey of approximately six whole metres.

But then, just as she reached the end and was thinking about making a left turn - on to the snow free footpath - a car pulled up and the driver rolled down down her window to speak to her.

I held my position.

A few seconds later, the driver got out, took the ski poles off the lady and put them in the boot - whilst the lady herself began the process of squeezing herself and her estimated 27 layers of clothes into the passenger seat. 

And when she finally managed it, they drove off together into the distance.

Where they were going, goodness only knows.   But I hope it was warm, I hope it was close - and I really hope it wasn't slippy.

Cake Watch

His mother's birthday cake wasn't the first cake Jamie has sampled in recent days. Hell no.

Above you can see him at his cousin Jack's birthday tea last Sunday. 

Just look at the concentration.

Even the arrival of Jack's flaming proper cake didn't manage to divert Jamie's gaze from his original cakey prey.

And, as ever, he got what he wanted in the end.

At least the wait appeared not to be a source of regret.