Feeling blue

I'm going to get my hair cut tomorrow; not because it's particularly long, but because it's particularly blue.

You see, I'm not one of those people who spends a large part of the day looking in the mirror. So it appears I was the last to notice how grey my hair has turned recently.  Indeed, over the past few weeks, I've lost count of the number of folk who have taken such delight in pointing it out.

Initially I filed their comments in my "mistaken" folder.  However, a couple of days ago, I was flicking through some holiday snaps and made a horrible discovery.

No, my hair is not going grey, not one little bit.  It's actually going blue.

If this made me look more like Superman, I might be content. But I'm not sure this is the case.  And how bad might things get?

What if I end up resembling Katy Perry?

OK, not likely - I could never get my eyebrows to look like hers. 

Mrs Slocombe from Are You Being Served?  That could happen.

Sonic the Hedgehog?

Or, given my fondness for biscuits, maybe even the Cookie Monster?

My mum has tried to convince me to consider using some kind of "product" on my hair, but that's not really me.  So, when I visit the barber, I might just have it all off.  Although I might not.

Spot the difference

Jamie was sent to tidy his room for the first time ever today after a friend came to play. 

A mere 10 minutes later, he bounded back downstairs all pleased with his efforts. 

I'm not entirely sure why.

A big up for the wee country

The picture of Jamie and Charlotte you can see above was not taken in Menorca, where we were a few weeks ago, but in Portrush on the North Coast of Northern Ireland last Friday morning.

Earlier that day, we woke up in nearby Portstewart to be greeted by this sight.

The night before, this was the view I had as I belted down the town's Promenade in search of my next pint.

And on Saturday, I excitedly followed the well-worn path to my favourite sporting venue bar none, the Coleraine Showgrounds, to see my beloved Bannsiders stuff the current all-Ireland cup holders, Crusaders, in the opening game of the Irish Premiership season.

If you haven't been to the North Coast of my wee country, perhaps you should get yourself over there very soon indeed.  You'll not be disappointed.

The dental magicians

Meet Robert and Rhonda, the Paul Daniels and Debbie McGee of Northern Ireland dentistry (although they are married to other people, and neither are married to Paul Daniels or Debbie McGee).

These fine individuals began looking after my teeth when I was in my early teens.  I'm not a normal patient, you see (I like to think of myself as "special"). A blood problem diagnosed whilst I was still in the womb led to the administration of a drug which, my mother was warned, would mean dental problems in later years.  And the prophecy came true.

An avalanche of abscesses (poetic pus, if you will) led to the weakening of my gums, countless root fillings, lots of crowns and, in time, some extractions.  And Robert, ably assisted by dental nurse Rhonda, was responsible for almost all of the heavy lifting. 

Indeed, I understand that I retain the record for the most number of appointments in Robert's surgery in a single calendar year - 26.  In time I might even be worthy of a blue plaque.

After leaving university, I moved to Belfast, then London and finally Leeds and had to seek treatment at other practices.  But the quality of care was nothing close to what I had in Coleraine.  It was conveyor belt dentistry, but I put up with it, constantly reminded by others that I was lucky to have an NHS dentist at all (don't get me started).

However, just over three months ago, the game changed.  I was told by my dentist in Leeds that the root of my front left tooth had fractured and the whole lot would have to come out to be replaced by a denture.  The consequences of this were not explained in any way, and no alternatives were offered.  So, after having impressions done, I turned up, had my front tooth yanked - and the dentist presented me with this.

Lovely, isn't it? 

If you haven't seen one of these - and I hadn't - you will note the pink piece of material.  That was to sit on the roof of my mouth.  And therein lay the problem.

I am the first to acknowledge that I can sometimes be difficult to understand, particularly when I'm off on one.  And the insertion of a lump of plastic was not going to help matters. 

I left the surgery in shock and arrived home in tatters.  A mixture of sorrow, anger and panic.  The next couple of weeks did not improve my mood, nor my ability to talk.  And then I went back to Northern Ireland for the North West 200 motorbike races. 

Shortly after arriving home, my mum advised that my stepdad Derek had spoken to Rhonda - who lives across the road - and Robert would be very happy to see me the following day. A quick fire glance enabled both he and Rhonda to advise that a bridge - at a very reasonable cost - was the solution and the denture could go, although I would have to wait three months for the wound to heal. I was sent off to make two appointments in August.  

The new bridge was cemented in on Monday afternoon and, at 5pm, my former denture hosted its own farewell party in the Railway Arms.   

To say I am grateful to Robert and Rhonda is a huge understatement, but I'll say it anyway.  I also look forward to travelling back to Coleraine for more treatment in the months ahead.  

I love it when a story has a happy ending - and I'm not too embarrassed to raise a smile.      

Home is where the oarsmen are

We Whites returned from our trip across the water last night, but today my thoughts remained firmly focused on Coleraine.

And it wasn't just because I wanted to be back in the Railways Arms with some of the "characters" you can see above.

No, today was the day the town's three medal-winning Olympians returned home to show off their rewards.

They turned up in their thousands in the Diamond.

And how do I know?  Because it was on tonight's BBC Six O'Clock News - that's how.

You don't believe me?  Well, that's just silly.

I was particularly thrilled to see the images of Alan Campbell with his wonderful parents, Jenny and William, all looking equally proud.  But I already knew Jenny was still riding high as she was drinking champagne with my sister Jacquie in Wetherspoons just the other day. As you do.

Did I tell you I was at Eton Dorney for Alan's final?  I did? 

OK.  I'll not mention it again. For at least another week. 

Robbery at dawn

Welcome to Northern Ireland - and I'm not happy.

The blame for my disturbed state of mind can be placed squarely at the doors of two institutions: Jet2 and Leeds Bradford Airport.

I arrived at said airport at 7.30 this morning, a clear hour before my flight to Belfast was due to be delayed, sorry, take off.  I then had to pay the obligatory £2 'drop off' charge for the privilege of spending 30 seconds in the car park - thank you airport high achievers for that.

Then I went to check in.

"Have you checked in online?" asked the lady.

"No," I replied - having already paid the £12.50 'check-in fee' when I made the booking.

 "There is a charge if you haven't checked in online."

"Oh right."

"That'll be another £17.50, sir."

B*stards.

But it gets better.  I joined the queue to go through security, which was very, very long.

I still had 50 minutes before my flight was due to leave, giving me 20 minutes until it was time to board.

In 15 minutes I moved all of two feet.

I asked the man in front of me when his flight was due to take off - it was 40 minutes after me.  He could immediately see the worry in my eyes.  But he offered a suggestion.

"You can join the 'Fast Track' if you pay the robbing f*ckers more," he said, and I was left with little option.

Another £3 to the coffers of Leeds Bradford Airport then.

Excellent.

Since arriving on the North Coast, I have already checked in for my return trip next Tuesday. 

Unfortunately, the online check in facility is not available to Vanessa, who is due to come across with the kids on Thursday, 'for operational and safety reasons' (i.e. because of Charlotte).  However, the Jet2 website generously points out that there will be 'no additional charges' for printing out three pieces of paper. How nice.

After I get back, I hope I never have to use Jet2 ever again  - I'm normally a Flybe type of guy - and I have a highly unoriginal thought for highlighting Leeds Bradford Airport's latest money-making scam.  Watch this space.

You can stick your 100m up your chuff

Tonight, around half a dozen "ordinary" members of the public will join 80,000 members of the Royal family, BBC employees, media types, celebrities, politicians, socialites and general hangers-on for the Olympic men's 100 metres final.

But I would not swap a seat in the stadium tonight for my grandstand ticket which allowed me into Eton Dorney on Thursday past.  It was, without hesitation, the best live sporting experience I have had and I expect never to top it.

If you haven't heard (and you must've heard), Alan Campbell won bronze for Team GB(&NI) in the men's single sculls, taking Coleraine to 33rd in the overall medals table after the Chambers brothers' success the previous day.

And he was magnificent.

It was clear from shortly after halfway that gold and silver were beyond him.  And, as he passed us with around 250 metres to go, Alan (closest to the camera below) was involved in a colossal battle with the Swede for bronze. 

   

But, as the line got closer (below, far left), he dug incredibly deep to secure his hard-earned place in Olympic history.  

And if you want to know just what it took out of him and what it meant, click here to see some remarkably raw footage of him being helped by Mr Olympics himself, Sir Steve Redgrave.

Afterwards, medal around his neck, Alan rowed back to the stands to thank the crowd for driving him over the line.

  

Even Jamie was impressed.

I'm heading back to Coleraine tomorrow for just over a week and I expect the success of our three medal-winning rowers to still be the talk of the town.  The good patrons of the Railway Arms, where I expect to spend a significant amount of my time, will never believe me when I tell them where I was on Thursday.  

Best take my camera with me.

Let's talk about Alan

The Prime Minister was in Coleraine today to learn what it takes to become a winner.

His destination was the Bann Rowing Club, where the town's three 2012 Olympic rowing finalists once learnt how to power a boat to glory. 

Tomorrow, brothers Richard and Peter Chambers will form 50% of the Team GB(&NI) men's lightweight four who are now favourites to grab gold.

And on Friday, Alan Campbell lines up in the men's single sculls with victory the only thing on his mind. And Vanessa, Wee John, Jamie and I will be there to witness his big moment.

Us three Whites set sail (in a car) for London first tomorrow morning. And, after a few hours tasting the atmosphere in the city and a little bit of sleep, we'll then head to Eton Dorney at around 5.30am on Friday for an experience none of us expect ever to forget.

Needless to say, I hope the Chambers boys can lead the way for town and country.  

As for Alan, I don't think I've ever wanted anybody to win anything more.

Please have your TV on and everything crossed for him at 12.30pm on Friday.  

A quick break, for God's sake

After watching a mere 15 continuous hours of Olympic coverage yesterday, I thought it might be appropriate to leave the house today.

And, as good fortune dictated, we had been invited to deepest North Yorkshire to attend the christening of our friends Sarah and Tim's lovely little boy Joseph James. 

A fine occasion it was too.  Jamie particularly enjoyed the chips in the village hall afterwards.

As did Charlotte. 

But now I'm back home, I can already feel the Olympic pressure rebuilding. 

Is it to be archery, handball, beach volleyball, football, swimming or tennis first?

And, once I've made my choice, what will I watch next?

Thank goodness there's only two weeks of this stress left.  

An Olympic experience

Taking the little boy to the Olympics is something I've looked forward to for months now, and there's no doubt that Wee John enjoyed his big night out at Old Trafford on Thursday (he's the one in the foreground wearing the dung-coloured tee shirt).

And so did I.  Indeed, it was as fun as it was surreal. 

Hearing the chants of "GB" took a bit of getting used to but, as time went on, it did feel like a proper football match (it had a real referee, corner flags - everything).

And beach balls, which are always a bonus. 

And at the end, the many ladies in the sell-out crowd had the chance for a close look at serial shagger/Team GB(&NI) skipper Ryan Giggs (who presumably was speaking in Welsh following his refusal to sing the national anthem).

  

John and I then found a Chinese restaurant which which was still serving food and drink at 2am - you can't rush these things.  

 

Yes, I could definitely get used to having the Olympics on my doorstep.  Shame it will never happen again.

Inside, he's (maybe) buzzing with Olympic excitement

Jamie tried on his special Olympic hat this morning and wasn't especially impressed. 

And his reaction to the news that our trip to that London is a mere seven sleeps away can best be described as "Northern."

And I quote: "I've seen London on TV and don't like it so I'm NOT GOING!"

To borrow a phrase from Twenty Twelve, that's all good.

Meanwhile, and unlike curmudgeonly BBC news reporters across the land, my Olympic enthusiasm cup is almost brimming over.

Later today Wee John and I are due to head across the Pennines to Old Trafford to watch Great Britain (& Northern Ireland)'s men take on Senegal in the Olympic football tournament.  And we're staying over afterwards, just to make sure we don't miss anything - such as the extended pub opening hours.

A full report and pictures will miraculously appear here tomorrow.  Alternatively, you can watch the match live on BBC1 or buy a newspaper first thing in the morning.  It's entirely up to you.

Going there - bought the tee shirts

Even the most avid Olympics hater will probably be aware that the first competitive action of the 2012 Games gets underway today with the women's football.

This is followed, tomorrow, by the men's football when Team GB (&NI) take their bow against Senegal at Old Trafford.

And Wee John and I will be there.  More on that next time.  

However, the Olympic highlight for us Whites (and honorary White Wee John, obviously) will come on Friday week when all but Charlotte (who is even smaller than Wee John and therefore "too wee") attend a day of the rowing finals at Eton Dorney. And, of course, you have to get into the spirit of these things.

So, people, above you can see the official Team GB (&NI) attire which will adorn the persons of Jamie and I when we arrive in that London.

And my personal commitment to our heroes in red, white and blue does not end there.  Hell no. 

Because I decided to go a step further.  

Ladies and gentlemen, just for you, I present my official Team GB (&NI) man pyjamas which I shall wear of an evening throughout the Games (occasionally washing on those days when it's windy enough to dry them before bedtime).      

Rule Britannia (and Northern Ireland).

A sign of the times

I appreciate that we're living in an age of extreme weather and seemingly endless natural disasters, but a landslide in Guiseley? 

That's just silly - and a teeny bit inconvenient. 

Does anyone know when this year's Yorkshire tornado season gets underway? 

I'm a White, get me out of here

The good news is that I - and everyone else - managed to survive yet another camping weekend.  The bad news is that everyone else wants to go back again next year.

To be fair, the weather was good, the company was very good and new camp chef "Pistol" Pete Mallott was very, very good.

But, when all is said and done, I still had to sleep on the freezing ground in a sleeping bag - despite the fact that we own a house.

On the upside, I did have Jamie for company in the boys' side of the tent...

...and we definitely had more fun than those dull girlies. 

Jamie also got to try out his new metrosexual wetsuit for the first time...

...and was a much easier sight on the eye than Dagenham Dave who looked way more camp than the large row of tents behind him.

Meanwhile, Charlotte had a go at digging to Australia...

...before retiring to the pub to recuperate with a pint (of milk) and a large bag of Quavers.

That was her/my favourite bit of the weekend.

Finally, big thanks to Pete and Mike for taking our tent down.  Oh, and for putting it up. 

There's no substitute for experience.  

Duck in Hell

Today is the day I dread above all others in the calendar year (other than the first day back after the Christmas holidays). That's right, it's time for the annual camping weekend.

Of course it is - it's been raining for weeks, it's still raining, the ground is sodden, it's breezy, it's cold for July and the forecast is uncertain. 

It's therefore absolutely the obvious "choice" to leave my nice, warm home and big TV behind and spend the next two nights sleeping in a big, stupid tent in the arse end of nowhere.  Brilliant.  I just can't wait.

This year I have packed my
duck radio.  This is for two specific reasons: 

1. To remind me that the big, wide world out there still exists, and
2. To attempt to drown out the endless witters of Dagenham Dave who will inevitably be talking bollocks.

So, whatever you're planning to do this weekend, please think of me.  You might even want to say a little prayer.  And if you are talking to God, please ask Him why the **** he invented camping.  

Out and about in Guiseley

I was on my way home from work tonight when Vanessa called to suggest that I pick up a copy of Yorkshire Life.

This was not something I'd done before, on the grounds that Yorkshire Life is just like Ulster Tatler ("Northern Ireland's No.1 Social Magazine"). 

You may note that this month's Yorkshire Life front cover (pictured above) trails a feature on Menston and Guiseley.  So let's quickly flick to page 81.

Hmmm.  Some of those people look familiar.  Let's have a closer look.

Oh right, it's them.

And who are they?

Ah yes, them. 

I didn't know "James" (dressed by Primark) was into flowers.

Film 2012 with Barry White

With Jonathan Ross dumped by the BBC, his Film 2012 replacement Claudia Winkleman physically unable to see the screen because of her stupid fringe, and Mark Kermode continuing to vie with Robert Peston for the title of Most Irritating Man in Britain, I have decided to launch a new career as a movie critic.

Well, OK, not strictly true - but I have had a go. 

My old friend Stuart Barrow, founder of recently-launched theatre company Politiker Productions, got in touch with me a couple of days ago asking if I would write a review of a new political mockumentary entitled "I Am A Great Man" which has just been released for download on t'Internet.

I watched the film last night - well worth a fiver of anyone's money - and you can read my thoughts here.

And if you feel so inclined, you can access the movie yourself by clicking here.    

(Unpaid) advert over.