Turning back the Calendar

Vanessa and I try to keep Jamie and Charlotte informed whenever anything of major historical importance may be happening.   And yesterday was one such occasion.

 

That's right, Grandad Geoff was back on the telly.

 



Yorkshire folk of a certain vintage will well remember Geoff's 25-year stint as anchor man of the region's ITV nightly news programme, Calendar. 

 

A regular part of the job was to interview the prime minister of the day, including Margaret Thatcher.  And following the death of the Iron Lady yesterday morning, Geoff was invited back onto the sofa to reminisce about his encounters with her.

 

Such as this one.    

 

For those not from these parts, yes that is Richard "Twice Nightly" Whiteley on the left.

Jamie and Charlotte were most impressed at the sight of their grandad, who had taken them out to play only hours before.

He's still got (most of) the hair but, the question is, has he still got that jacket?

Black and white magic

Dear reader, I owe you an apology for I have told a lie.

In my last post, I stated that I had never been cheered by a big crowd.  But a coincidental flick through an old scrap book has since proven me wrong (not that I'm desperate or anything).

Let me quote from an article that appeared in the Coleraine Times on 28 February 1990:

"Right-wing Barry White also gave the large home crowd something to cheer about with some crunching tackling."

And here it is black and white (Jamie thinks all things were in black and white in 1990).

Of course, what you can also see is that we were hammered.  And my Coleraine Inst teammates and I were reduced to running around trying to catch the opposition because we rarely had the ball.

Indeed, here is proof of that too - that's Malcolm Beck (wearing the headband), me and Matthew Dobson trying to grab hold of Methody and Irish Schools' international scrum-half Alan Martin. Without success.

And whilst I have your partial attention, here is a picture of our 21-man match day squad taken shortly before kick-off.

Didn't we look mean?  Or maybe just terrified.

In the middle row, second from the left, is Jonny "Dinger" Bell who I mentioned in my April Fool post earlier in the week.  Dinger went on to be capped by Ireland before being appointed Assistant Coach for the Ulster senior side. 

And, tomorrow, he will be in the coaching box at Twickenham as Ulster take on Saracens in the Heineken Cup Quarter Final.  Many of the others featured in the pic will undoubtedly be in the stands with me, getting hammered once again - albeit in a very different way from 23 years ago.  

Ah, what might've been...

Happy birthday to me

First things first - sadly, I won't be making my Ulster rugby debut at Twickenham on Saturday evening. 

I know of three people who fell for what I thought was a pretty lame attempt at an April Fool, one of them being my mum.  I felt ever so slightly crushed when I had to advise her that I remained a washed-up 41-year-old with no prospect of ever being cheered by a big crowd.  Still, I will be at the game, and much more on that in the coming days.

So, back to my birthday on Easter Sunday when many people were very good to me.   

I received the first of two great cakes on Saturday evening, thanks to Vanessa.  Her mum Judy made the other for presentation on my birthday itself, which was incredibly kind. 

I woke up to a sea of presents.

 
And after doing the Guiseley Gallop 10k trail run (I wanted to feel like I had earned the right to make a mouth of myself later), look who turned up. 

 
That's right, it's the Coleraine Chuckle Brothers, Wee John and Wee Charlie Fulton who were actually due up on the Saturday - before John got hammered and couldn't drive.  (In truth, he's not much of a driver when he's sober).

Fellow Ulsterman John McIlroy then joined us to sample my overcooked beef and lamb.

And the night ended in the pub with the rugby dads.

Actually, technically the next morning also began with the rugby dads as we were just starting our final pint when the clock struck 12.

Before you say it, yes I am getting too old for this - and just about everything else.  But it doesn't stop it being fun.

Ready to stand up with the Ulstermen

 

This is my ticket for Ulster's Heineken Cup Quarter Final tie with Saracens at Twickenham this coming Saturday.  Or rather was.

Because in a bizarre twist of fate, last night I received a phone call from my old school first fifteen teammate Jonathan "Dinger" Bell, now Ulster's defence coach.  And, on Saturday, I won't now be sitting in the stands.  I'll be playing.

A series of injuries suffered by Ulster's wingers has left them desperately short.  British and Irish Lions legend Tommy Bowe is already out and, two days ago, he was joined on the sidelines by Ireland international Andrew Trimble.

Trimble, like Dinger and me, is a Coleraine Inst Old Boy.  And when he called last night, Dinger said he believed I was the obvious like for like replacement.  Quite a compliment, I have to say.

I explained that I had been out of the game for quite a while now, and suggested that perhaps one of Ulster's young turks should be given a chance instead.  But he was having none of it.  Class is permanent, he said, and I could not help but agree.

So tonight, I fly from Leeds Bradford to Belfast to join the squad. After three days of intensive preparations at Ulster's New Forge training base, we will travel across to London.  And on Saturday at shortly before 6.30pm, I will run out at Twickenham to do battle with Chris Ashton, Owen Farrell and Saracens' other big name stars.

I can only do my best. But I cannot and will not let my Province down.

Doyouthinktheysaurus?

Days off work have changed since the arrival of the kids, and tend not to be relaxing.  But they can still be great fun.

Yesterday was one such occasion when my pal John drove his boy Harvey, my boy Jamie and my terrified self to Sheffield to see the elaborately but appropriately entitled Walking With Dinosaurs - The Arena Spectacular.

And I must say, I was mightily impressed.

In the midst of lots of other big rows, we had an Allosaurus (bottom left) having a big row with a Brachiosaurus.

A couple of Torosauruses had their own big row (can you tell I bought a programme?)  

And then everyone's favourite land carnivore, the Tyrannosaurus Rex, arrived to have a big row with one of them.

Thankfully he didn't eat the bloke playing the part of the paleontologist, who I suspect he probably goes drinking with on his night off.

Anyway, a fine trip out and yes, I did have nightmares.

Curtain up on Gingerbread Squirrel

Today, Jamie and Charlotte premiered their first ever, self-scripted, self-performed Easter Show. 

It's called The Gingerbread Squirrel.

I hope you enjoy it.

 

Peeping Charlie

Don't be fooled by Charlotte's angelic look.  Behind those smiling eyes, the reality is very different.

To explain, this morning I went for a shower.  I walked into the bathroom closing the door behind me.  I took my bits off (thereby getting my bits out), switched the shower on and climbed in.

Approximately three minutes later, I switched the shower off and turned to open the shower doors to grab my towel.

But someone had been there before me.

More precisely, Charlotte had somehow managed to get into the bathroom, open the shower doors - and was standing laughing, pointing at my willy.

I've never felt so small.  If you know what I mean.

Anyway, she's evil, that's what she is. Evil!

Farm fed Jamie

Jamie's off on a school trip to the farm tomorrow. And, with Vanessa in London, I've been put in sole charge of preparing his packed lunch.

My brief is to ensure I achieve the correct balance between healthy (i.e. boring) food and arguably less healthy scran. 

As you can see, there is an apple in there (BLEUGH!!!) so, for me, I've done my job.



Handbagged

I am used to strange sights on my journey home from work, but few stranger than this one last night.

Yes, that is a lady's handbag around that gentleman's neck. 

Seconds after my sneaky snap was taken, he stood up, got off the train and went on his merry way, appendage swinging. 

So there you are.

Beware the butter burglar

Some ******* nicked my kievs!

I suppose I'd better explain.

For months now, I've been making a family Sunday roast and forcing the kids to "enjoy" it. But not altogether successfully.

Yesterday I went for a change of tack. To demonstrate what a wonderful daddy and all round great guy I am, I decided to make them breaded chicken and chips. As I say, what a guy.

For Vanessa and myself, I chose to improvise and rustle up a couple of chicken kievs. Now, other than the Ukrainian title, this dish was not entirely foreign to me. In fact, I made it twice over Christmas - with varying results.

The first time, it went OK. Wasn't great, but no-one died.

But the second time, I made an error by cutting too deeply into the chicken and allowing all the butter to drain out into the baking tray. It was a pool of kiev and I wasn't happy. And I was left determined not to do it again, hell no.

So yesterday, I was ultra-careful with my knife. I stuffed the butter/garlic/parsley into the respective chickens' holes (as delicate a procedure as it sounds). Before doing the old egg-flour-egg-breadcrumbs routine and whacking the now fully-fledged chicken kievs into the oven for 50 minutes. Bosh!

Both emerged crisp and golden with no sign of seepage. I checked the baking tray for added piece of mind. Nope, clean as a butter-free whistle.

Five minutes later, wine poured, chicken kievs in front of us both, I sat down to savour something of a rarity; credit from the wife.

One, two, three bites in - she seemed mildly pleased. I doesn't get better than that. Verging on smug, I stuck a knife into my portion and waited for the butter to ooze out. There was no oozing. None at all. Not even a little dribble.

By now a stunned mixture of bemusement and panic, I asked Vanessa how hers was. And, by the way, was there any sign of the kiev element of the dish? She said it was very nice, but butter, garlic and parsley - there were none.

I checked the baking tray once again. There was definitely no trace of one or other of the missing kievs.

There could only be one conclusion. At some point during the 50-minute oven stage, when my back was turned - or perhaps when I was having a wee - some nasty, nasty man crept into our kitchen. He opened our oven. And he stole my ******* kievs.

What a thieving ****!

Battle of words

With each and every passing day, Jamie is meeting his match.  And she answers to the name of Charlotte.  At times she has him exhausted.

To illustrate, yesterday Jamie was on a one-infant mission to teach his sister how to say the word "baby" properly i.e. without a thick Leeds accent. 

Proper English = "bay-bee."

Leeds way = "bay-bay."

Every time she said the word to her Norwich-born mother (a little known fact), she said "bay-bee."  But every time she said it to her big bro, it was a very insistent yet smirky "bay-bay."  Credit to the boy for trying but, in the end, he sacked his crusade in favour of a lie down. 

That said, don't think that my son is adverse to using others' pronunciation of the Queen's first language as a mocking tool himself.  Like me, for example.

Shortly after his little sleep, I told him I was going to make (i.e. warm) some soup.

"Daddy, it's soup - not sup," he sneered.  "You say sup because you're from Northern Ireland.  But it's soup.  Not sup, which is just silly." And then he flounced off.

Actually, upon reflection, good work Charlotte!

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.