All roads head North West

The small band of kindly individuals who have read my ramblings for the last five years (hello Mum) will know that it includes annual staging posts. And one of these is the North West 200 motorbike races, in which mad dog riders from across the world propel themselves at speeds in excess of 200mph around the streets of Coleraine, Portrush and Portstewart. 

As I tap these words into my phone, I'm on a train travelling much more sedately towards the famous Triangle circuit.  And I'm not afraid to admit that I'm embarrassingly excited.

After the second and final practice session, which is underway now, the roads will reopen briefly to enable the school kids to get home, before the barriers come back down for three races tonight.

And then we move on to Saturday for five more high-speed showdowns featuring the biggest names in this crazy sport.

You can watch all the action live on the BBC website or, alternatively, come back here and I'll tell you who wins.

Vroom, vroom, vroom (and repeat).

Football? Crazy

Despite being a lifelong football fan, I have been quite unashamed in my attempts to push our Jamie towards the noble sport of rugby union.

The reasons are straightforward.

Even with the dawn of the professional era, rugby remains a game based on respect for the laws and one's opponents, good sportsmanship and camaraderie. 

Meanwhile, modern day football now increasingly centres on the intimidation of officials, playacting and personal abuse.  And I don't necessarily want my son to be adding the words ****, ****, ****** and ******* to his vocabulary just yet. Or John Terry.

But, at his insistence, Vanessa has enrolled him on a six-week football course to see if he enjoys it.  And I've bought him shin pads because that's the rule. 

I can only hope he's as good at the game as I was (if you know what I'm saying).  

Sitting on a pot in the way

Charlotte has a new hobby, as demonstrated.

Unfortunately she hasn't yet worked out that occasionally you have to, well, wait for something to happen. 

And why should a young lady be expected to wait when she could be getting on with perfecting her monkey impression?

 

NB:  For the eagle-eyed amongst you, yes she does have a pink potty; a Minnie Mouse one to be precise.  But why defile your own property when you have the option to sh*t on something your brother still holds dearly? 

 

Again, no answer is required.

Brooks bash after the Brooks smash

Above you can see us Whites having an "indoor barbecue" (the rain clouds came in) with Kris, Kate, Euan and Lydia earlier today. 

This was a particularly special occasion because the Brooks were fortunate not to horribly mangled last night after being caught up in a serious car crash. 

They were all in A&E until the early hours of this morning, having been taken there by ambulance.  And it is feared that Gertie the Car will never ride again.

But they did make it to ours, which was excellent news for two important reasons.

Firstly because, over the past few months, all four of them have become good friends with all four of us.

And secondly, because we'd got a shed load of food in which would surely have gone to waste.

If you're reading this Mr and Mrs Brook, we're very glad that you, your children and all your working parts are still with us. 

Jamie White's Days Off

We're taking the kids away for their main holiday during the upcoming half-term break.  And we're going for ten days. YES!

The sole downside of this scenario is that we're having to take Jamie out of school for two days.  We assumed that at least one of the dates would be a teacher training day, as tends to be the case before or after school holidays.  But it's not.

Jamie's school, like all others in Leeds, has a policy of no "unauthorised absence."  It is a stance I agree with, although there is surely some scope for common sense.

So, rather than tell fibs, Vanessa and I decided to be totally up front with the school and tell them why Jamie wouldn't be at school. 

We were told they weren't pleased.  Fair enough.  We were told to fill in a form.  Fair enough.  The school sent it back, confirming they weren't pleased.  We knew that anyway. 

Yesterday, Jamie came home with a copy of this week's school newsletter.  It included an article headed "Absences in Term Time" which I'd like to share with you:

"Our school has a below average attendance record which we, and the governing body, are working towards improving. 

"If your child is to be absent from school due to a medical appointment, please bring a copy of the appointment letter to the school office.

"If you are requesting that your child be absent during term time for a holiday, please make an appointment to see Mrs Bell before returning the form.

"We have had a few instances recently of being told children are absent for appointments but the children have told us where they are going for the weekend!"

That's why we didn't fib.        

The Great Wee Run II

Sad folk who have read this drivel for a prolonged period (seriously, why?) might remember Wee John and me taking to our beaters in 2011 to tackle the Great North Run.

This was not a trick we intended to repeat. 

However, a set of unfortunate circumstances and a chance encounter in Jamie's school playground last Friday afternoon have convinced us to make mouths of ourselves one more time.  So, in just over four months, we will be heading back to the North-East for another go.  The reasons are powerful and the cause is incredibly worthy. 

I will tell you more in the coming weeks once the finer details are ironed out.  In the meantime, if anyone sees my hairy little pal around and about, can you ask him to give me a call?

Since he agreed to answer the call to arms, he has suddenly become very difficult to reach.  Imagine that.

He will do it, though.  Trust me.

My dad lollipop(man)

On the day Sir Alex Ferguson confirmed his intention to stand down as Manchester United manager, I can exclusively reveal some equally earth-shattering news on the old folks' jobs front.

In a shock move, my dad has been appointed to serve the nice children of Millburn Primary School in Coleraine as their lollipop man. 

He starts on Monday morning and will receive his big sign and luminous accessories by the weekend.

As luck would have it, I'm due to fly home for a few days next Thursday and plan to take some shots of him in action.  

You can look forward to seeing them here, accompanied by some brief, disparaging remarks. 

The mane man (without a mane)

It was the end of a mini-era on Sunday when the curtain came down on the Aireborough Lions 2012-13 micro rugby season. 

The group will most likely look a lot different next year when many of the older boys and girls move up to the Under 7s, and the majority of the coaches go with them. 

You can't see the medals above and, actually, you can't see them below either (e.g. Oliver on the right broke his). But every player got one, they were very impressive and a testament to a club that does things properly.

 
The undisputed king of the micro Lions pride is head coach Anthony. 

Yes, he really does look like that.

 
He came out with a select group of rugby dads (plus Wee John) later in the evening - before suddenly prowling back to his lair.

Judging by his gesture, I can only conclude it was a bald thing.

Daddy in the dark

I've been humiliated by a 4-year-old.  Again.

To explain, it's been a bright, warm, sunny day here in Yorkshire and, to make the most of such a rarity, we took the kids to Harewood House. 

As we walked through the masses, I looked at Jamie - who was swallowing an ice cream almost whole  - and thought he looked a little different.

"Your hair's getting darker," I announced.

"No it's not," snorted Junior, impertinently.

"Yes it is, it's definitely darker!" I insisted.

"Daddy?" said Jamie, in a much softer tone.

"Yes?" I replied.

"Take your sunglasses off."

I did.  Yep, still 100% blonde.      

A touch warm and a tad bothered

This, dear readers, is Platform 5 at Shipley railway station where I catch my connection to Keighley every weekday morning. And I did just that today - at the second attempt.

First time around, I climbed aboard after being vigorously waved on by an enthusiastic lady conductor. Sadly, what I assumed was the 0849 train to Skipton turned out to be the delayed 08somethingelse to Bradford. So I was forced to get off at the next stop and walk back to Shipley. (It was quicker than waiting for the next one not to turn up).

My mood was not greatly improved when I tripped over an uneven kerbstone as the station returned to view and landed horizontally.

As luck would have it, I picked a particularly inopportune time to go pavement diving as I currently appear to have one or more nerves trapped within my person, leaving me with a shooting pains in my left shoulder, a dull ache in my right leg and a sore arse.

This morning's minor disappointments came off the back of last night's sense of mild irritation when I discovered I'd lost my cash card for the second Wednesday out of three. I hadn't mislaid one/had one nicked for several years and suspect I may have left it in the self-service section in Morrisons. Twice. I suppose these things are to be expected when you hit your forties.

Still, I hope the last 24 hours have served your personal goals better than they have mine.

Plus the sun is shining (even in Yorkshire), the beers in the fridge are cold and there's a whole bank holiday weekend packed with further frustrations yet to come.

I wouldn't have it any other way.

See you Jamie

I've never been good at mastering accents.  Indeed, I've often struggled to get my tongue around my own. 

But it seems Jamie may be different.  Have a listen.

Next time, Mandarin Chinese. 

Stars on her eyes

Charlotte's bizarre transformation into Sir Elton John moved a step closer to completion last night, when she tried on some new specs.

Worrying.

Nessie Dorma

A sad moment yesterday, as Coach Anthony delivered his final team talk to the 2012-13 Aireborough Lions Under 6s.  Boo hoo!

End-of-season presentations will follow next Sunday, whilst the rugby dads get drunk. 

But thankfully I have more uplifting news on the rugby front.

I recently declared in our kitchen that, in two years' time, I wanted to go to Rome to watch Ireland play Italy in the Six Nations.  Vanessa mumbled something along the lines of "very interesting dear" in response.

And there has been a development after the fixtures for the 2015 Six Nations tournament were announced. 

It turns out that the date of the Italy v Ireland game is Saturday 7 February, with a 2.30pm kick-off. 

And what a stroke of fortune that is.  Because 7 February 2015 is the precise date when Mrs White reaches the somewhat alarming age of 40.

So, for her 40th birthday, I shall be taking her to the rugby and then around the pubs afterwards.  I might even buy her some novelty head gear.  A leprechaun hat, perhaps.

What a lucky (old) Mrs White she is. 

She could be the new Tracey Emin

This is how Vanessa and I would like to think others see us.  OK, so Brad's hair is a bit shorter than mine, and Jen's is a bit longer than Vanessa's.  But otherwise, it's uncanny.

It was therefore with an no little excitement that we greeted the news that Charlotte had drawn a picture of us both at nursery.

And here it is.

There can be little doubt that she has captured me with a degree of brilliance.  But I can't help but feel that her mother has been a tad short-changed.

There's them Whites

No-one I know has ever described us Whites as a model family.  I have no idea why that might be. 

 

But suddenly that has changed.  Because this morning I walked into Charlotte's nursery and found this on the wall.

 

 

Yes, get us.

 

Jamie mentioned it to me last week, but I forgot until he pointed it out today.  I assume Vanessa provided the pictures (unless one of the nursery staff broke into our house, which I wouldn't rule out) .

 

Although trying to appear "cool" (a look I have never managed to pull off), I was especially thrilled that we appeared to be one of only three families on display.  (I didn't have time to subtly confirm the identity of the others, but would guess at the Waltons and perhaps the Ingalls from Little House on the Prairie). 

 

Now that we're clearly on the road to collective stardom, the obvious next steps for me are to  negotiate a contract for Jamie to model chav clothes, buy Vanessa a big pair of sunglasses and insist she carries Charlotte everywhere she goes.  Meanwhile, I will rethink my hair, have a load of trashy tattoos plastered all over my body and sign-up for a basketful of highly paid and meaningless "ambassadorial" roles. 

 

I knew our time would come.  



Brown Monday

"Daddy, I've got a piece of turd on my finger."

Those were the words which shook me from my slumber at 5.30 this morning, as Jamie dangled the offending digit half an inch from my face.

I hope your Monday got off to a better start.

POLITE NOTICE: To whoever taught my son the "t word," can you please present yourself at the Headteacher's office, Guiseley Infant School at your earliest opportunity? I understand scary Mrs Bell would welcome a conversation.

He is heavy and her brother

While Charlotte's getting bigger, Jamie is now getting really big - which causes some problems and, at times, frustrations for the boy.

For example, whilst he's still not always too big to rock...

 

...he is often forced into a supporting role.

 

 

Or worse.

 



A trip to the supermarket is also no longer the attraction it once was...

...at all.

But at least he can stay up for longer than his little sister.

One assault deserves another

Football fans will already be well aware that, this afternoon, Liverpool striker Luis Suarez did a very manly thing by biting the arm of a Chelsea player during the big game at Anfield.  (If you didn't know, trust me, you'll soon be bored hearing about it).

It reminded me of an incident some years ago at Stormont, when I was playing rugby for the Northern Ireland Civil Service against the Royal Ulster Constabulary. And a fine, upstanding, heroic police officer attempted to gnaw my thumb off.

I responded by punching him as hard in the face as my disappointing frame could muster. (Hopefully he noticed, although I can't be sure). 

I would imagine most true sports fans would like the opportunity to do the same to Luiz Suarez this evening.   

Smiley cakehole

Only me.

To the four people who claimed to notice, I apologise for not updating this rubbish for a whole week.  But, quite frankly, I couldn't be arsed. 

Actually, I'm being a touch simplistic. 

You will probably have spotted that there's been little or no good news around for the past seven days and, at times, a paucity of basic human decency.  The joyous parties held to celebrate the death of an 87-year-old mother and widow with dementia particularly wound me up, even though I was no great fan of the woman.

On top of this, a succession of my friends have had various pieces of personal misfortune thrust upon them, which haven't helped me in my quest to get all happy. 

But we are where we are and, by continuing to churn out this guff, perhaps I can add an occasional smile to their faces.

And a smile was certainly writ large across my face last Sunday when our pals Fran and Matt brought Baby Freddie over to taste my meat. 

I'll rephrase that, "to sample one of my famous roast dinners."  Better?  Good.

But it wasn't the smell of my pork (sorry) that made me smile so much.  Hell no.  It was Fran's contribution to proceedings. 

She only went and baked a Guinness cake!

Now there's a fine example of human decency if ever I saw one. 

Unfortunately the Guinness cake itself can no longer be seen.  Because we ate it.  

     

Pride of Lions (and Lionesses)

Aside from Ulster losing, the other downside of last weekend's trip to Twickenham was that I wasn't there to see the Aireborough Lions Under 6s have their team photo taken.

But thankfully my pal John was. 

Obviously they will be facing the camera in the official version, which we'll have shortly.

But, with Lydia and Lucy adding a welcome touch of feminine glamour, I think the lads are looking mean.

Bugger rugger

Right, I can delay it no longer.  Let's talk about last weekend, when there were many high points - and one very deep low as Ulster lost 27-16 to Saracens at Twickenham.

But swiftly back to the highs.

Some pints were drunk before the game (once we found the correct hostelry - more on that another time).  That's Wee John's and my old schoolmate Ritchie Hunter on the right, now agent to a growing number of rugby stars.

Another old school friend, accompanied by new family, was encountered immediately afterwards - Pete "Happy" Wilson in the blue, with wife Michaela and son Dylan.  (Pete's a producer on BBC Radio 5 Live, don't you know).

Curry and beer were the last items on Saturday's agenda, as proposed by Daniel from Yorkshire.  He had no idea what was going on for most of the day.

After Saturday's excesses, it was time for some rehab on Sunday as we booked ourselves into The Priory - Dan's place taken by Wee John's brother Wee Charlie.

And alongside more beer and cocktails out of jam jars, darts were played.

Chess was played (yes, really).

And even some rude Scrabble.

Before the inevitable happened.

As for the parting mug-centred insult, it's not big and it's not clever.  Just like Wee John.

Say what you "c" Richard

At this precise moment 15 years ago, I was deep inside Castle Buildings at Stormont waiting for the finishing touches to be put on the Good Friday Agreement. 

Anyone who was there that day - or outside with Ian Paisley shouting abuse - will never forget it.  And despite the often bumpy ride that Northern Ireland has had since then, it's been a very good thing for the place I will always call home. 

One of the most challenging issues was decommissioning or, for the uninitiated, paramilitary groups giving up their weapons. 

Yesterday I mentioned the late, great Richard Whiteley whom I was fortunate to meet several times before his death in 2005.  I even got him to phone my mum once. 

I remember at a particular family gathering in 2000, he asked me how the Northern Ireland peace process was progressing post-Agreement.  I explained that IRA decommissioning, at that time, was the major stumbling block.

"So everything is being held up by these terrorists?" he asked.

"Yes," I replied.

Richard thought about this for a second before coming out with a line which, for me, makes him immortal: "What a bunch of c***s!"

Quite.