Home from home - for a rest

As I write, this was the scene at Boucher Road Playing Fields in Belfast at this exact moment last week (that's Snow Patrol in there somewhere).

And this was how wet Vanessa and I were as we watched.

What followed were five more days/nights of kiddie "entertainment" (not sure the Ghost Train was really for them).

Bizarre encounters.

More bizarre encounters.

And even more bizarre encounters.

Yes, dear friends, the remainder of our trip to Northern Ireland was "memorable" (or at least the bits I can remember were).

But we're back in Yorkshire now and, most importantly, the long bank holiday weekend starts tomorrow. 

I do hope you're as pleased about this as I am relieved.

Right, I'm going back to bed.

Coasting along in the Wee Country

Two days into our eight-day trip to Northern Ireland, and it's going almost perfectly.

Marshalled by their big cousin Katie, the kids are having a whale of a time (although sadly haven't seen one) and are even getting some exercise. Really. 

They spent a big chunk of this morning on Portstewart Strand and, after refuelling, this afternoon got muddy in Downhill Forest. We ended with an ice cream in Castlerock.

Yesterday - after I indulged in a spot of early morning dental tourism - it was playgrounds and kiddie rides all the way. Yes, who needs Las Vegas or Monaco or the Maldives when you come from Northern Ireland's Causeway Coast? (Don't answer that). 

So why has our time only been "almost" perfect I hear you yell?

Three reasons if I'm being picky:

1. It's not 30 degrees and sunny every minute of the day;
2. My temporary crown - stuck in yesterday morning - has already fallen out; and
3. I cannot get rid of this effing hangover (despite going for a three-mile beach run in an attempt to shift it. I'm afraid "hair of the dog" is my sole remaining option. Poor me).

Tonight it's a meal out in Portrush (golf capital of the world) and tomorrow Mrs White and me are off to Belfast to see a little local band called Snow Patrol. I hear they're quite good.

PS Something tells me Jamie's already a touch tired...

I'll give him Mobot

I don't know if you've heard, but Mo Farah has entered the Great North Run.  Sadly predictable in my book.

As I understand it, the newly crowned world 10,000m champion had no previous interest in taking on the famous Newcastle to South Shields course.  That was until one of his hangers on - probably Sir Richard Branson - advised him that I had thrown my hat into proverbial ring.  And the double Olympic champion wanted my scalp.  

But I'm nothing if not up for a challenge.  So the gauntlet is picked up and the game is on.

After hurting my knee playing for the dads' touch rugby team two weeks ago, I got back into training on Friday and this morning ran just over eight miles.  Very slowly. 

Meanwhile, Mo Farah's triumph in Moscow yesterday was over a distance of little more than six miles.  Pathetic.  I'm thinking ahead, see.  Eyes on the prize.   

My much shrewder approach will be intensified even further tomorrow when the family and I fly to Northern Ireland for a week of intensive cold, wet and windy weather training.  Meanwhile, Mo is off back to America to run in the sun.  What an idiot.  In my three years as a student on Tyneside, I never saw the sun once.  I am so far ahead of Mo's game it's untrue.

I'm also planning several sessions with amateur sports psychologists - street philosophers, if you will - in a range of hostelries around the Causeway Coast.

Of course, the one area where my great rival currently has the edge is in relation to sponsorship.   He has several multi-squillion dollar deals with the likes of Nike, Lucozade, Bupa and Virgin Media.  Meanwhile, I have so far raised £151 in support of children with cancer and their families (thank you so much to everyone who has donated thus far).

If you'd like to even up this imbalance, please click here and give me - or rather Candlelighters - what you can. 

I'll update you shortly from one of my designated training bases (most likely the Railway Arms).

Smurf Too



If you're looking for a good film to pass a couple of hours with the kids over the next few weeks, Charlotte heartily recommends Smurfs 2.  Because she's in it.

 

Well, she says she is.  The reality (yes, I know the Smurfs aren't real - sshhh!) is that Smurfette's in it, and Charlotte thinks she looks like Smurfette.  And so every time Smurfette appeared on screen on Monday when we Whites went to the cinema, Charlotte instantly stood up, pointed at her new heroine and shrieked: "It's me!  It's me!"

 

And she does have a point. 

 

Yes, separated at smurf, sorry, birth I'd say. 

With Jamie having had his fair share of goodies over the past couple of days whilst Charlotte was at nursery, I thought it only proper that his little sister didn't miss out. 

And so it was that Charlotte and Smurfette were properly united.

 



Plus, there wasn't much else in the shop. 

Half Dad Half Red Coat

Do you like my handiwork?  It's Jamie's UNIT soldier ID card which, according to the Doctor Who magazine it came with, enables him to "gain access to top security sites" (yet, I imagine, won't allow him to go to the bar and buy me a pint of Guinness.  The new Doctor's first assignment will hopefully be to sort that out).

His beret did remind me of another renowned urban warrior.  Uncanny, isn't it?

Yes, it's day three of me being in sole charge of the kids - albeit that Charlotte's been at nursery for two of them.

On Tuesday, I took Prince Him and Princess Her to nearby Tumble Town for some soft play, followed by an afternoon train ride to Ilkley...

and a go on the bouncy castle.

Yesterday, us boys headed to the Royal Armouries museum in Leeds, where Jamie became a true White Knight...

...and had a close look at what a real one used to climb into.

Later, he got to examine a lady boar's toilet equipment - which led me to delay our sandwich lunch.

He followed this with his first ever whole fish for tea, which he wolfed down like an Eskimo. 

And he has eaten well.

This morning, we went for a big boys' breakfast at Morrisons (there are more reasons to go there than somewhere nice, predominantly based around cost).

And after a lunch of fish fingers, Smiles and beans - which I'm just about to knock up - it's microwaved spaghetti bolognese for tea. 

In between, he and me are off to the swimming pool so I can make a mouth of myself on the inflatables.  

Yes, I just about remember when I had school holidays too.

Thankfully, Vanessa reclaims the captain's armband tomorrow.

There was even a cricket match on

And so it was last Friday that I headed off to Manchester with some familiar faces to sample the Ashes.

Here are those faces early on in proceedings...

...and here are Daniel, Wee John and Other John after play had ended.

Yes, they are holding each other up.

Other sights traditionally associated with a big day at the Test included a beer snake worthy of applause.. 

.....and the leader of the Barmy Army (previously known as Jimmy Savile, but I suggest he's now changed his nick name).

Less expected was the sound and vision of cheering Aussies.

To be fair, their team did much better in this game than in most recent encounters with the mother country - but still couldn't win.

One particular high point for Wee John and me was the chance to hook up with two very old school friends; that's Tom on the left and Andy in the middle.  

Tommy and I first met at primary school and went on to Coleraine Inst together - where we became mates with Andy, already a pal and neighbour of Wee John's.  Tommy and Andy's friendship has strongly endured in Liverpool where they made their lives after university.

Two fine men, plans are already in train to meet up next month. 

I suggest Wee John and I might be well-advised to drink for a slightly shorter stint than the 14 hours we braved on Friday.   

Fame is in the eye of the beholder

Wee John is due in our midst this evening in preparation for tomorrow when a gaggle of us head across to Manchester for the second day of the Third Ashes Test.

I told Jamie about this at breakfast, but explained that he'd probably not see our tiny guest until tomorrow morning as he was arriving late (and meeting me in the pub).

I also thought it prudent to point out that, whilst he and Charlotte would be able to spend all day Saturday and Sunday with Uncle John, we'd be at the cricket until past his bedtime on Friday. 

But, chucking him a bone, I added: "You might be able to see us on TV!"

Jamie's response was not what I hoped for: "I won't be able to see you on TV!"

"Oh? Why not?"

"Because they only show the players and famous people on TV. You're not a player and you're definitely not famous!"

Oh really.

Well he mustn't have been watching the Fourth Ashes Test at Headingley four years ago then.

Because he'd have quite clearly seen me in the crowd sitting alongside dopey Dagenham Dave.

That's me on the right.

So Jamie, my son, you know nothing.

Running for Mags II: The Launch

Today is pay day for most people, so I beg of you a small gesture of selfless financial indulgence.

A little while ago, I mentioned on here that Wee John and I were planning to re-tackle the Great North Run.  Regular readers will recall that he and me had our original go back in 2011 in support of Mags, who at that time was winning her fight with leukaemia, and we raised £2,000. 

But a lot has happened in the past few weeks, including Wee John pulling out of the race on grounds of diminished masculinity.

More notably, Mags has passed away. 

I told her of my plan to strap on the trainers once more to raise some cash for Candlelighters, a wonderful Yorkshire-based charity that supports children who have or have had cancer, and their families. And she liked that. 

The reason I chose Candlelighters was because a friend, whose little boy has been fighting his own battle with leukaemia and roundly kicking its arse, asked if I would do it with her. I was hardly going to say no.

I've paid for the place myself and will cover all other costs. In other words, any contribution you make to my fund will go directly to Candlelighters and not for me to have a nice time on Tyneside.

I've only promised the charity that I'll raise £250 but, given that Wee John and I scooped up £1,000 each last time, I've mirrored that figure in my personal target. Plus, it bloody hurts running a half-marathon and I'd like to make it worthwhile. 

Finally, I've titled my fundraising page Running for Mags II. Because Mags was Wee John's and my inspiration two years ago, and she will certainly be my motivator when I'm standing on the start line in Newcastle in six and a half weeks from now. 

This is the link to where you can sponsor me. I'd be embarrassingly grateful if you would click on it and give me what you can.

She would want 500 Milos

The pain and humiliation I experienced on the rugby field on Saturday was tempered significantly 24 hours later with the arrival of a very old friend.

Ironically, my pal Colin and I first met on the rugby field more than 30 years ago; Colin was the star player on Christie Memorial Primary School's crack mini-rugby team, and I wasn't the star player on Macosquin Primary's somewhat less well-drilled gather up. 

We lost that day, but my abiding memory of the game was of Colin snarling as the blood ran out of his nose. I wasn't me who hit him. 

We met again not long afterwards at Coleraine Inst where, for the next seven years, we played rugby together and went on various tours including to Japan in 1989. (It's the 25th anniversary of that trip next year and I have a plan which I hope to share with you in the coming weeks. Some of you might even like to get involved).

Colin - who is one of those weird arty types - has been based in Scotland for many years with his equally arty but thankfully not so weird better half Evie. And, 18 months ago, they were joined by Milo who, I discovered on Sunday, is possibly the smiliest little boy in Britain. 

And wasn't just me who was taken by him. No, Charlotte fell in love with him. 

Actually, it's a bit more disturbing than that. Having played with Milo and got to know him over several hours, my daughter chose to make an announcement.

"I want Milo in my bed!" 

Unsurprisingly, Milo was soon bundled into the car and driven back in the direction of Scotland at great haste. 

But the mental damage inflicted on me is done. I decided long ago that, once she reaches her teens, Charlotte will be forbidden from leaving the house. Following this alarming episode, I now see no alternative but to introduce an immediate ban on male guests.

Touch and go - to the bar

Look at us.  Fine figures of men, one and all.  We were happy, fresh-faced (kind of) and dead keen to impress our WAGs (and children who were hiding in the bushes through embarrassment).

Heck, we even did a bit of warm-up. 

And then, well, some other teams turned up and it all went downhill.

Yes, dear friends, I'm afraid "The Coaches" didn't win Aireborough rugby club's "touch and pass" tournament on Saturday afternoon - knocked out in the semi-finals by a bunch of kids wearing vests. 

 

And I wasn't much use to the cause by then in any case, having had to retire hurt in the very early stages of the third of our five games.  I had a sore hamstring, a sore groin, a sore knee, a sore calf, another sore hamstring and a sore thigh.  In short, I was f*****.  So, total respect to my team-mates who proved they had weathered the years much better than me. 

But I would like to think I more than held my own in the latter part of the afternoon.

Which, some might say, explains why my body is so now easily broken. 

All good fun, but I hereby announce that my rugby playing days are officially and irreversibly at an end.   

What's your name?

So now you know.

Dads' army prepares for battle

I recently bought a cheap pair of rugby boots, the first I've purchased since 1996 - the year I tore up my leg and was forced to give up the game.

I only did so to guard against falling over and landing on my face in front of a field full of 5-year-olds when my peripheral coaching role starts in September. 

But I'm now going to get to put them on a little sooner than that.

Because, for one afternoon only - and possibly only for a few minutes depending how my fellow dads and I get on - I am coming out of rugby retirement.

In a move which I would like to think more Rocky Balboa than Michael Jackson in terms of how it ends, the Aireborough Lions coaches have entered a team in tomorrow's six-a-side "Touch and Pass" tournament being held on our own pitches. 

Each game will comprise two six-minute halves, with rolling substitutions - which is why we have a ten-man squad. 

In our multi-shaped ranks (that's a few of us pictured above at our kit launch), we have Englishmen, we have Irishmen (North and South), we even have a Welshie. Better still, we have no Scots - removing any worry of someone not buying their round afterwards. 

Well, I say "afterwards." But, as it turns out, a pop up bar will be open at pitchside throughout the day. What a practical, nay, "forward-thinking" club Aireborough is.

To be strictly accurate, I have made one appearance on a rugby field in the last 17 years, almost precisely 13 years ago in London, when Wee John forced me to guest for Universal Studios' mixed touch rugby team. (I cannot stress to you enough how difficult it is to play mixed touch rugby without getting arrested, or at least a slap in the face). 

I must also admit that, on Tuesday evening whilst out for a very slow run, I took a short detour via the rugby pitches to see if I still had a bit of pace over 50 yards. I didn't. 

But, I mean, what's the worst that could happen?

Actually, don't answer that.

Words and pictures in a day or two.

Chocolate coach

 

Yes, get me.  I managed to complete an online "multiple choice self-check test" - i.e. I could keep changing the answers until I got the right ones - and am now officially "aware" of a rugby coaching course.

 

This comes off the back of my heroic efforts last Friday evening when I "passed" the practical element of the programme which, as far as I'm aware, no-one has ever failed. 

 

My mum will be proud and may send chocolate.

Field of nightmares

You may (or may not) have noticed that I only began to update this drivel again on Monday after more than a week of inertia. 

The reasons for this were several, including that last weekend was our now traditional family camping weekend - this year in Filey, North Yorkshire.

Needless to say it was cold, grey and occasionally wet.

Even more annoying is the fact that there are now less than 52 weeks to go until the next one 

A school year in the life

On the left is a picture of our Jamie before he left for his first day at Guiseley Infants in September.

And on the right, is how he looked as he headed off this morning for his final day in Red Class. 

He's definitely not as fat as he was. 

For that and so much else, Mrs Buckton and Mrs Spencer, we Whites salute you.

A future son-in-law is born

This morning, just minutes after hearing the news that Kate had placed her ankles into the straps, I knew that a future king was on his way.

All day the world waited to hear if the third-in-line to the Throne was to be a boy or a girl.

But I just knew.

And I how did you know Barry, I hear you cry?  Good question. And it is a question that I shall answer.

Because our future king is to be Charlotte's destiny. 

In order to keep my children informed, I attempted to impart to both the historic significance of what was going on.  Then I asked them if they wanted a boy Royal baby or a girl Royal baby.

"A boy," murmured Jamie half-heartedly, before wandering off for a dump.

"And what do you want Charlotte, a boy or a girl?"

"A boy!" was her reply, with a significantly greater level of enthusiasm.

I thought about why she didn't go for the stock answer for a two-year-old baby lady (i.e. girl).  And then it came to me.

Because Charlotte, yes, my daughter Charlotte, is going to marry him and one day will be our Queen.

Good for her. 

It just seems such a shame that I'll be dead by then.   
 

It's shut up to him & it's shut up to him

Britain is renowned for producing some of the best comedy double acts the world has ever known. 

Morecambe & Wise, the Two Ronnies, Ant & Dec, Little & Large, Cannon & Ball, Reeves & Mortimer, and Councillors Graham & Pat Latty are just some of the duos who have kept us amused over the years. 

And now we have a new partnership: Euan & Jamie.

  
They met in Red Class at Guiseley Infants in September and, other than when Jamie's thrown the occasional girlie strop, they've been best friends ever since. 

And they have range.  As well as their trademark slapstick routines, they are capable of taking on Ant & Dec-style talent show presenting roles.  Here they are preparing their next link as their sisters go head-to-head in a dance-off.

Their boy bond was underlined in their school reports, which came out on Friday. 

Mrs Buckton, their teacher, wrote in Jamie's:

"He has a good circle of friends and has made one special friendship."

And I understand from Euan's mum Kate that Mrs Buckton said something pretty much identical in his. 

Let's just hope that us parents can ruthlessly exploit them for our personal financial benefit in the years ahead.  

No arm done

I came back to a bit of after work drama in Guiseley yesterday afternoon, where Vanessa was doubled up in pain with a sore arm.

She went for a short notice conflab with the local doctor, who dispatched her directly to the Leeds General Infirmary for an emergency gig with the sore arm specialist.

And his diagnosis?  Vanessa has a sore arm.

She has no idea what caused her sore arm, but no lasting damage appears to have been done.

And she's not allowed to wave for a week.

Later, in sympathy and in tribute, Charlotte performed her Mummy-has-a-sore-arm impression.

Hands off our school!

I try to avoid doing anything akin to politics on this blog because it's supposed to be light hearted (I do hope you've noticed).  But I intend to suspend that rule tonight, as I've discovered two jokers who I thought you might appreciate hearing about.

Jamie's school - Guiseley Infants - is under a touch of misguided pressure at the moment as we near the end of a Leeds City Council consultation to expand it and nearby St Oswald's Junior school, converting them into separate primaries.

There is a growing problem with school places in Guiseley, and that problem will only worsen as more houses are built.  The obvious and most sensible long-term solution is a brand new school.

Failing that, yes, both Guiseley Infants and St Oswald's will have to consider how they might accommodate more pupils - at least in the short-term.  But so too - one might reasonably expect - should Tranmere Park, Guiseley's other school for primary age pupils.

The only problem is, Tranmere is located at the posher end of Guiseley and, when asked to take a very limited number of pupils in a recent consultation exercise, agreement could not be found.

The revised idea is therefore that Tranmere is protected from change, and Guiseley Infants loses its playing field, its quadrangle and gains 150 new young souls.  Great.

Since the enormity - not to mention the unfairness and impracticality - of this scenario became so stark over recent weeks, some very fine parents of Guiseley Infants' pupils got together to form the Guiseley Infant and Nursery (GINS) Action Group.  And the mummies and daddies have done good. 

Over 3000 leaflets have been hand-delivered to encourage concerned residents and parents to contribute to the council's consultation.  There has been coverage in the newspapers and on local TV.  And the key campaign messages has been powerfully conveyed to politicians.

Encouragingly, almost all of the politicians have indicated at least a willingness to listen.

And then there's Cllrs Graham and Pat Latty.

Entering the fray very much from stage right, they have given a masterclass of quite heroic proportions on how not to represent the interests of local people who, it would appear, seem little more than an irritation to them. 

In today's Wharfedale Observer, they jointly urged GINS group supporters to allow the consultation period (which ends tomorrow) to run its course "so that the views of as many people as possible could be assessed."  The more cynical observer might interpret this as "so we can encourage our posh supporters at the other end of town to respond saying that Guiseley Infants' playing field should indeed be concreted over, and Tranmere left alone."  But maybe that's just me (and almost everyone else). Cllr Mr Latty criticised GINS for being "vociferous."  And Cllr Mrs Latty criticised parents for "thinking of their own children - which is natural - but it is getting a bit out of hand."  I kid you not.

But Cllr Mr Latty wasn't finished there.  Hell no.

In correspondence addressed to "Concerned Parents" (i.e. GINS supporters), he said he found it  "decidedly irregular to be asked to account to a body that does not reveal the names of the people involved." OK, well now you know my name - there's a starter.  And Jamie's mum's called Vanessa.  I have little doubt that most if not all other supporters will also happily "reveal" themselves to you.  (It could be like a big Guiseley version of Blind Date).

Cllr Mr Latty added: "What I would remind you of is that there is an ongoing consultation on the proposals for Oxford Road and St Oswald's and that will take it’s (sic) course whatever we may say."  Yes folks, localism in action, Latty style i.e. "you're wasting your time and, much more importantly, you're wasting my and Cllr Mrs Latty's time."   

Concluding by saying that he and Cllr Mrs Latty would "do our best" to accommodate a meeting with some GINS members, he finished with this immortal sentence: "Please do not suggest a public meeting."

Well, I mean, he doesn't know where we've been.

Methinks Cllr Mr and Cllr Mrs Latty have made a massive Mr & Mrs political error of judgement, particularly given that Cllr Mrs Latty is up for re-election next year.  But then, what would I know about politics?

Bad milk's bad

I found this via Google earlier this evening:

"If you drink milk long past the expiration date, you run the risk of developing food poisoning from unhealthy bacteria that might have grown in the milk. Food poisoning can be so mild you might not even realise you have it, but it can be severe in some cases. You might develop stomach cramps, nausea, diarrhoea or a fever. It can last for hours or days, and you might start to feel the effects of the bad milk within a couple hours of drinking it."

And so it was yesterday, a couple of hours after putting milk past its expiration date in my tea, I began to feel unwell. Over the course of the afternoon and evening, I developed stomach cramps, nausea, diarrhoea (I'm nothing if not honest) and a fever.  Today has also been something of a "struggle" (if you know what I'm saying).

If only I had Googled 24 hours previously.  Or been arsed to go to the shop.