Eyebrow-raising stuff

This was the result of my part heroic, part half-arsed morning effort to clear our drive in preparation for Vanessa bringing it back from where we left it last night.

Only for her then to park it around the corner at her brother Jonathan's.  Obviously I was delighted when she appeared sans car. Marriage was never meant to be easy.

As for last night, it was a predictably fun evening with a less predictable twist in the tail.

Yes, it's him again, Coach/DJ Anthony, who together with his incredibly patient wife Helen and future gymnast gold medal-winning son Conor, hosted us and the Brooks at their house.

Don't forget, you saw Conor here first.

However, as the limbo dancing continued and the beer flowed on and on, Anthony let his guard slip.

In a first for a self-styled "Bradford man" (he was born in Leeds and lives in Leeds), Anthony revealed that he "does" his eyebrows.  In fact, here he is generously allowing future beauty queen Lydia Brook to admire them up close.   

As we all will do from this point on.

Farmer Jamie

As predicted, the snow has arrived in Yorkshire - forcing me to taxi Charlotte to nursery on a backpack.  Sure, a change is as good as a rest.

Following that, it was off to see Jamie perform with his classmates at school assembly. 

I wasn't allowed to photograph/video the performance itself.  I guess some kids these days must charge David Beckham-esque amounts for their image rights, although I may be wrong.

I was therefore forced to improvise and capture Jamie on his own afterwards. 

First, here he is displaying his gingerbread man.

Stunningly lifelike, I think you'll agree, in a gingerbread man type way. 

And then he reprised his solo line in the earlier countryside-themed command performance.

 

For those who aren't yet fully fluent in Jamie-ish, he said: "There are three types of farm; arable, livestock and dairy." So that must be true.

 

John Craven, eat your heart out.

Wee snow warning

This was the scene in Morrisons in Guiseley at 6pm tonight.  It's not normally like this on a Thursday. 

I only popped in for a bag of American hard gums, which they'd run out of (so I settled for two packets of cola bottles, a packet of milk chocolate buttons, a tub of ice cream and some cut-price underarm deodorant).  

The reason for the packed aisles and rapidly-emptying shelves, was that a snow warning has been issued for Yorkshire.

And not just any snow warning, hell no.

It's a yellow snow warning.

And there's nothing that panics Yorkshire folk more than the thought of waking up in yellow snow.

Who says Parliament is boring?

On the eve of the Budget, last night a couple of familiar sights appeared on our living room telly.  I even took a picture.

Above you can see Huddersfield MP Barry Sheerman.  And circled (by me) over his right shoulder is Barry's old House of Commons office.   

Here it is closer up - it's got a turret.

 

And why do I describe these sights as familiar, I hear you scream?

 

Because Barry is Vanessa's former boss, and Barry's old office is where the future Mrs White and I used to meet for our early dates (if you know what I'm saying).

 

The lights tended to be switched off then too.



Sniff patrol

Jamie has developed a bit of a habit of following Charlotte around the house to "check her bum" (if you know what I'm saying).  I suppose it's his way of feeling superior. 

What neither Vanessa nor I realised until tonight was that he's taken his one-man "sniff patrol" on tour.

We know this because we're not long back from his latest parents' evening.  That's Mrs Buckton (left) and Mrs Spencer above, his teacher and teaching assistant respectively. We like them.

At the end of our conversation about Jamie's academic progress - which seems to be on-track - we asked about his general behaviour.  Thankfully, there were no complaints about this either. 

But then his new little pastime was mentioned, amidst sniggers from all.

Essentially, it appears that any classroom back door activity - from simple trouser puffs to occasionally much, much worse - are duly noted and commented upon by Master White. 
    
Next week he's due to join his classmates on a visit to farm full of animals.  It could be a busy day for the boy.

Middle age is...

...receiving an oven glove from your wife as a belated Valentine's Day gift, and being thrilled to learn that it comes with a five-year guarantee.

Meanwhile, it's St Patrick's Day today.  To mark the occasion, here's a picture of Jamie doing a spot of Irish dancing in his new green coat.

Slainte.

Soon it was time for the final curtain

In what is becoming a season of firsts at Aireborough Lions RFC, a few hours ago the clubhouse played host to the inaugural Under 6s Friday Night Disco, including the debut public performance (to my knowledge) of DJ Anthony.

Look at him.  He's having the time of his life.

Once again, Jamie and Charlotte, whilst looking like their mother, proved that they share my genes - by refusing to dance for most of the evening.

But thankfully not all.

It was around 10.30pm before we got home - three hours later than their normal bedtime.  But it was well worth the limited effort required by all attendees who to a man, woman, boy and girl had a great night. 

Much more effort was required and delivered by DJ Anthony (due to morph back into Coach Anthony for training on Sunday morning) who single-handedly organised the whole shebang.     

Compliment out of the way, let's now insult our glorious leader.

Anthony took a bit of stick from me on these pages recently when he came over all stripey at a junior club committee meeting.

So there was a sense of deep anticipation as the night went on to find out what was lurking under his zipped-up leather DJ jacket.

And when that moment arrived, rugby dad/trainee coach Kris - dressed in his very own Action Man costume - came out with the line of the evening.  

And I quote: "It's not just that his shirt looks like it's made out of curtains, it looks like it's made out of shit curtains."    

And the same to you, sir.

Black magic

I'm a sucker for a "free" Guinness glass offer (with every full price 10-pack of Guinness at Morrisons - while stocks last).

Even more so when it comes in a box with the Six Nations Rugby fixtures and kick-off times printed across two sides.

And even more so multiplied by loads when, on another side, it describes - complete with rugby scrum engagement theme - "The Guinness Pouring Ritual." Classy.

So here goes.

Crouch

Plant your feet squarely in front of your fridge and place your Guinness onto the shelf. Leave for a minimum of three hours to achieve the perfect serving temperature.

Touch

Lift the can and pour it into a clean Guinness glass at a 45 degree angle to ensure the perfect head.

Set'tle'

Leave to settle, sit back and enjoy the match with your mates.

Got that?

Pure Genius (to coin a relevant phrase). I'm now off for a Touch.

Yes, he is wearing a funny hat

Tonight's historic election of Pope Francis was not a huge surprise for Jamie and Charlotte.  I say this because, as we arrived home, white smoke began pouring out of our heating system just seconds before it started billowing out of the Vatican's chimney.

But I made them watch His Holiness walk onto the balcony anyway. 

Charlotte seemed intrigued; Jamie appeared to be getting into the spirit of things by having a little pray.

Let's hope the three of them don't have nightmares.

Play your cards right

 

 

Above, dear friends, is a Nectar Card on which you can claim points for purchases at Sainsbury's and other selected retail outlets, not including Boots.

Meanwhile, below, you can see a Boots Advantage Card on which you can claim points for purchases at Boots.  And only Boots.

This means you cannot use a Boots Advantage Card to claim points on purchases at Sainbury's.

First thing this morning, I stopped off at Sainbury's to buy a packet of these.

Upon swiping them through the self-service check-out, I mistakenly tried to claim the points (not many points, considering the biscuits were on offer for £1) on my Boots Advantage Card. I was wearing a pair of these at the time and therefore not concentrating properly.

The fact that I was wearing these, with cheesy tunes blasting through them, made it impossible for me to hear the nice Sainbury's lady attempting to point out my error. Their presence in my ears also made me unaware of just how loudly I was swearing, thereby attracting her attention in the first place.

So, the moral of the story is, don't try to use your Boots Advantage Card to claim points for buying chocolate biscuits in Sainsbury's. Because you can't, even if you didn't mean to.

I hope that information is useful.

Ozzy the Night Owl

Jamie was named Star of the Week in school again last week, a proud moment for us all.

As part of his prize, he got to take Ozzy the Owl home to entertain for the weekend. 

Treats for Ozzy included a healthy breakfast on Saturday morning, and the opportunity to watch Jamie and his pals run around healthily at rugby training on Sunday.

Otherwise, Ozzy's couple of days weren't in the least bit healthy.

Firstly, at his insistence, we took him to Morrisons to get the beers in.

Before drinking a few of them whilst supporting Ireland in the Six Nations.

After Jamie went to bed, we invited our furry friend to join the adults for dinner and some wine.

Before he invited his own furry friend along for some furry fun.

Sadly, the night didn't end well for Ozzy.

Still, let's hope next weekend is equally action-packed for him, wherever that might be.

No wonder we were getting odd looks

Last time I warned that, in the months since we last saw him, Wee John had bizarrely morphed into Gerry Adams. 

As this picture graphically confirms, it wasn't a hoax.

He hasn't gone away, you know

Regular readers of this rubbish will be well-versed in the teeny tiny exploits of Wee John, someone we've not heard from for a while.

Well, I have some news about His Weeness, some good, some bad.

The good news is that he's not actually dead, so a good start.

More negatively, he's making his triumphant return to Guiseley this weekend.

The even worse news - nothing could possibly be worse than this - is that he's grown a classic Gerry Adams replica beard.

What inspired him to do such a thing is as yet unknown. But if he wants to look like a retro Gerry Adams, then I'll sure as hell treat him like a retro Gerry Adams.

So, for the 36 hours he's in our custody, Wee John will be subjected to regular intensive and sustained periods of questioning interspersed with random acts of ritual torture, until he explains what prompted him to go for the throwback Volunteer look.  Or until he shaves it off.

Let's hope he doesn't try to blow up my garden shed before he leaves.

We look like we're at a wedding

The Prime Minister flew into Keighley today to deliver a big speech on the economy.  It's dominated my world for the past seven days but, I'm relieved to say, it came and went without a hitch.

On such occasions, I like to stay behind the camera.

But that did not stop the ITV News crew pointing their own camera at me and my friends (from left to right) David, Rebecca and Naz.

 
At least my mum now knows I was there.

Thanks to my good pal Rachel for sending me the pic.

Life's a bitch for Boris the Dog

Meet Boris the Dog. He's a dog. (The clues are there).

But Boris is not just any dog. Hell no. He's my mum's dog. This has traditionally presented poor Boris with a number of special challenges. But never more so than in recent times when our joint mum bought him a new collar.

There was a reason for her purchase. She had been away for a few days, Boris had barked a lot in her absence and a nasty neighbour took offence. Something had to be done.

So my, sorry, our mum bought Boris/my half-brother a new collar; a new collar that gives him an electric shock every time he barks.

Boris doesn't bark a lot any more.

Poor Boris the Dog.

UPDATE 2237: Vanessa has just reminded me of Jamie's revamped Boris impression, developed during our recent trip back across the Irish Sea.

It goes like this: "Woof.....OW!!.....Woof.....OW!!"

Poor Boris the Dog.

It just shot out

Prior to Jamie starting school and learning to read, I had no idea what phonics was.  And six months later, I remain little the wiser (principally because Vanessa tends to lead on homework duties).

My very basic understanding is that the kiddywink, if stuck on a word, is encouraged to "spell" out each letter by using the sound each letter makes, before putting all the sounds together.  (Sorry if that doesn't make sense).

I tell you this because of a priceless little incident involving Jamie's super-cutie pal Euan, pictured above with his equally cute big sis Lydia.  (Thanks to mum Kate for giving me permission to share this with you).

The word in question was park.  And it seems Euan wasn't getting it in one go.

So it was time for phonics, and it's over to Euan:

"P.......a.......r.......k................WANK!"

We like Euan.

The bald truth?

Not long back from another very well attended and upbeat morning of micro rugby at Guiseley Lions.

Thankfully, Coach Anthony was forced to give up his now trademark stripey top - a version of Madonna famously wore in her 1986 Pappa Don't Preach video - in favour of a waterproof. (Although he could have had it on underneath). 

Anyway, on the way back, with a spring in my uplifted step - Jamie brought me crashing back to earth. 

It has been suggested to me by one or two individuals in recent times - beginning with my mother - that I might be at risk of losing a little bit of hair on top.  I have steadfastly refused to believe it, principally because I haven't seen the evidence.  And I'm certainly not going out of my way to look.

As Jamie and I walked home, I put him on my shoulders for the last stretch of the journey.  A minute or so later, he was in fits of laughter. 

"What is it?" I enquired.

"I can see your real head!"

 I'll make him an appointment with Specsavers first thing in the morning.

Back to the bar

OK, so I return you to the scene inside The Ings pub in Guiseley on Thursday evening where I attended my first ever Guiseley Lions RUFC junior committee meeting (junior in the sense that we were there to discuss the junior teams, rather than being a gathering for slow learners).

And it was quite a night.  Indeed, for what may have been the first time in the club's history, Guiseley Lions cleaned up. 

First we won the pub quiz (exciting only Anthony on the action shot evidence below).   

And then yours truly won what turned out to be a rather lucrative Play Your Cards Right jackpot.

All prize monies at our table were donated back to club funds, so not a bad excuse for yet another pint at last orders.

But I must end with an apology.  Yesterday on these pages, I compared stripey-shirted Anthony to weirdo Froggy mimer Marcel Marceau.  And that was ill-judged, silly and plain wrong of me to do so.

I actually meant to compare him to Monsieur Marceau's dressmaking countryman Jean Paul Gaultier.

  Sorry Anthony.

Parallel lines

Above you can see a portrait of legendary mime artist Marcel Marceau.

Below you can see a real life shot of Jamie's equally-stripey and equally bonkers rugby coach, Anthony, at last night's Aireborough Lions RFC junior committee meeting. 

Separated at birth?  I'd say so.