Learning the lingo, man

One of the most poignant aspects, for me, of Sunday's Great North Run is that it was Newcastle where Mags and I first met and became pals as students back in 1990.

I've only returned twice since graduation, most recently two years ago when Wee John and I teamed up for the original Running For Mags.

The plan this weekend is for the Whites to travel up en masse (i.e. all four of us) on Saturday for some playtime in Newcastle and an overnight stay in nearby Durham before the race to South Shields on Sunday morning.

As with any trip to a foreign land (in this case Geordieland) it's always useful to be able to speak the native tongue.

Therefore, with Vanessa in London, at 6am this morning I had a go at teaching Jamie and Charlotte how to speak Geordie.

Words and phrases covered included "why aye, man" (yes), "ha'way" (come on), "bairn" (child), "I'll punch yer fookin' lights oot!" (would you like to have a fight?) and "shite" (poo poo).

Given the early hour - yet impressed with the progress my "bairns" were making - I had a quick shifty on YouTube to see if any English-Geordie tutorial videos existed. (Jamie had a "shite" whilst I did so).

And I found this, which I certainly found to be educational.

Needless to say I remain desperate for donations as we inch ever closer to the magic £1,000 target (set by me, not the charity). You can help us get there by clicking HERE.

A hairy moment looms

As we enter Great North Run race week, I have two principal problems.

The first is the pain in my lower abdomen which, according to Google, may or may not be a "sports hernia."  Or I could be pregnant.  Either way, it can be diagnosed afterwards because I'm running on Sunday.

The second is made up of two identical concerns; namely, left armpit hair and right armpit hair.

Yes, my armpits have bizarrely taken on the appearance of Manchester United's recent panic signing Marouane Fellaini.  This is not a good look when I'm committed to wearing a gaping vest in the big event. I already had the embarrassment of my Ulsterman tee shirt tan to contend with.  Plus, I'm built like a bottle.

I see little option but to chop my pit foliage back a foot or two, but the whole idea of doing so makes me queasy. And what implement do I use for the task?  Kitchen scissors or garden shears? 

Alternatively, I could ask my lady barber to shave them when I get my head hair chopped later in the week.  But she's Eastern European so the concept might be foreign to her.

Whilst I ponder the best way forward and if you haven't already done so, perhaps you'd be kind enough to make a small donation to the all-important cause.  Or even just read about it.

You can get to my fundraising page by clicking HERE.    Thank you if you do.

Bear and the woods

Following yesterday's preview, my night in wooded Cheshire (I'm still not entirely sure where I was) could not have been more pleasant.

 

In terms of what was discussed, well, if you were in the Coleraine Inst Class of '83 and your name wasn't mentioned, you probably didn't exist. 

 



We'll do it all again soon.

Back in Guiseley, Barnaby the Bear was being shown the sights by the reigning Yellow Class Star of the Week (and his sister).

On Saturday afternoon they went biking.

This morning B the B called into rugby training.

And at some point in between, he didn't have his furry face painted.

Thankfully he gets handed back tomorrow.  Two demanding little sh*ts are more than enough. 

Meet Pete

Ladies, gentlemen, boys and girls - boys and girls, don't be scared - this is Pete "Happy" Wilson. He shall be my host for this evening.

It has been said many times before that my old school friend Pete has the perfect face for radio. Which is ironic, because that's exactly where he takes it - BBC Radio 5 Live in Salford to be precise - each work day.

Yes, if ever a face should be kept behind glass, it's Pete's - because other than when he reads the news, he's a producer by trade. And they sit behind glass, you see. Often staring, sometimes waving and always doing what they can to put the presenters off by talking rubbish to them through their headphones. It really is a very specialised job.

Pete, his top wife Michaela and Dylan, their charming little boy, live in deepest Cheshire and that's where I'm now headed (thanks to this train). Meanwhile, currently en route from Liverpool, is one of my very oldest chums, Tommy Millen.

Tom and I first met at Macosquin Primary School almost 37 years to the day. Then we met Pete at Coleraine Inst almost 30 years to the day. So yes, we all go back a long way.

And tonight is set to be very complex. Because we're planning to spend the entire evening in Pete's local pub talking utter shite until someone chooses to throw us out.

Then, tomorrow morning, quite early, we'll all get up and go our separate ways. 

If a better format for a night out has been invented, well, I've not heard of it.

I shall relay a version of events to you tomorrow.

They can be heroes - just for one day

Look, dear friends, it's Barnaby the Bear's book! 

"Very interesting, Barry," I hear you demand in sync. "But what the **** is Barnaby the Bear's book, and why should we care?"

Very fair question.  And here is the answer.

Barnaby the Bear's book is given to Guiseley Infant School's Yellow Class "Star of the Week" to take home for the weekend "to share adventures with."  So it is. 

And how do I know that, I hear you bellow? (I do wish you'd keep it down a bit, have you seen the time?)     

Here's a clue.

Yup, our Jamie picked up the prize (bear) in his very first week, which was a surprise to say the least.

And how did he manage that, Barry? (You really are very inquisitive tonight, but I'll answer). 

Two reasons (officially):

1. "Honesty"  (a load of classmates made a mess of the classroom, but only our Jamie said it was him); 
2. "Sitting nicely in his chair" (a talent you're either born with or never possess).

Well done him. 

And what do prizes make?  That's right - more prizes. 

As it happens, Carnivorous Charlotte ate up all her melon at nursery and thereby also qualified to share in the spoils.

So it was new dinosaur place mats all round.

I'm not sure how our family is going to cope with this sudden whiff of success.  We're not really used to it.

A fluid conversation

 

Bath time tonight. The bath is full of rubber ducks.

 

Jamie: "Mummy, isn't it funny that ducks swim in what they drink?"

 

Vanessa: "Yes."

 

Jamie: "It's like you swimming in a bath of wine."

 

I think I'm allowed another Guinness

Phantom photo

I was travelling home on the train this evening, and passing the time by revisiting photos taken in Northern Ireland two weeks ago.

One of the highlights was the Snow Patrol concert in Belfast...

..at which no shortage of drink was taken.

Vanessa and I met some "interesting" people that night, including a bloke dressed as an all-in wrestler and his pal.

But here's the thing.  Until I found the next photo in my camera a couple of hours ago, I had no recollection of it actually being taken.

In fact, I still don't.

I have absolutely no idea why that might be.

All little boys at heart (apart from her)

It was back to school for him on the right today.

But frustratingly and to her piercing disappointment, the one on the left still has two years to wait before she can climb into a pinafore.  I'd make the best of it if I were her. 

Meanwhile, last night was a good one to be in our house if you were a boy and it wasn't past your bedtime.

Because Coleraine were playing football live on Sky Sports.

And I had pies, chips and beers in.

There they are - from the bottom left in a clockwise direction  - Coleraine Paul (aka Merv), Dublin Daniel, Coach Kris and Other John. 

 

What's more, the mighty Bannsiders beat Irish League Champions Cliftonville by three goals to one, and we all cheered.

 

That's my kind of Monday.   



A brand new pride

Here they are, the Aireborough Lions combined micros/under 7s class of 2013-14 (thus far).

 

Yes, the end of summer can be a bit of a downer for some.  But for me, it means the start of a brand new rugby season - a situation I can easily cope with. 

 

And, of course, a brand new season means brand new kit and boots. 

 

Which impressed some more than others.

 

 

Some new coaches also took to the stage.

Most importantly Kris, the new micros head coach - the word "COACH" emblazoned on his back is the giveaway

He did great.

And this is Dublin Daniel.

If ever a man needed new kit, it's Dublin Daniel.  We'll see what we can do. 

As for me, well, tonight Jamie described my role as that of a "helper coach."  Which, whilst absolutely accurate, was ever so slightly wounding.

Let the games begin.

Seamus Heaney: An Apology

Seamus Heaney died today. 

If you went to school in Northern Ireland, he'll almost certainly need no introduction.  If you didn't, he was a poet.  If you went to school in Northern Ireland and weren't listening, he was a poet.        

Despite taking English Literature at 'A' level, I wasn't a big fan of the old poetry lark (and therefore Seamus Heaney).  I passed, but I think I was just a bit lucky.

I had two specific problems with the old poetry lark (and therefore Seamus Heaney). 

First, I found it boring and had a genuine tendency to nod off during lessons.  Spotting this weakness in my armoury, my teacher - Mr Quigg - used to single me out to answer questions. 

What happened next became almost ritualistic and went as follows:

1. Colin Andrews would nudge me to wake me up;
2. Colin Andrews would deliberately whisper me a made-up/incorrect answer; 
3. I would relay the made-up/incorrect answer to Mr Quigg;
4. Mr Quigg would gently humiliate me.

Second, when I was conscious and therefore capable of responding on my own behalf, Mr Quigg would pull out lines in Heaney's poems and ask me what I thought he meant.  I found this terribly irritating for one very simple reason, which I had a habit of pointing out. You see, Seamus Heaney didn't actually live that far away from our school.  So why didn't someone - Mr Quigg, for example - just go and ask him?  It would have saved so much time.

Anyway, that's how it went and, as I say, somehow I got though it.  That was in 1990.

Fast forward a couple of years to when I was a student in Newcastle, and a particular Sunday night in my room after Spitting Image had finished.  I was faffing around and the South Bank Show appeared on my portable telly.  It was a Seamus Heaney special.

My instant reaction was to turn it off (boring! boring! boring!) but, for whatever reason - perhaps it was fate - I didn't.  I wasn't initially listening to it, certainly not consciously, but as poems I was familiar with began to be rattled out, I found that I was. 

The next thing I knew, I was sitting on the end of my bed almost mouthing the words.  Well before the end of the programme, I even found myself "enjoying" what I was hearing, and Heaney's own explanations of what he had been banging on about for so long.

By the time the show ended, I felt a sense of guilt - verging on uncleanliness - for those lost years of failed appreciation.  Not just of Heaney's work, but of Mr Quigg's efforts in tempting me to like it.

There was only one thing for it; I had to apologise.

Without delay, that Sunday night, I got a pen and some paper out and scribbled a note to Mr Quigg - c/o Coleraine Inst - saying sorry for my failings and conceding that he was right all along.  I posted it first class the following morning.

Only days later, I received an immensely classy and witty response from Mr Quigg - he signed it off as Len - accepting my apology and making clear that he didn't hold any grudges.  I loved that.

So, on the day Seamus Heaney achieved full membership of the Dead Poets' Society, I feel it only proper that I make an unconditional public apology to him and his memory too. 

To quote him: "The end of art is peace.”    

I hope the great man has now found his.  

They'll see me from space

What do you think of these babies?!

They're my brand spanking new Nike Air Pegasus+ 29 running shoes - in turquoise (they were in sale) - plus some new Nike Dri-Fit cushioned running socks (also in the sale).  

Yes, this Great North Run is becoming an increasingly expensive caper, but the two pairs of shoes I've been training in are knacked so I had very little option.

And it was my choice to do this so it is my wallet that should take the pain. 

But talking of wallets, some particularly kindly friends have been very generous with theirs since my last fundraising update.

As a result, my new "running total" (ho! ho! - gets me every time) has now moved up to £346, before Gift Aid, which ain't bad with a little over two weeks to go until the big day. 

And you know what's coming next. 

Any chance of you chipping in (if you haven't already done so, of course)? 

If the answer is yes, you can do just that by clicking HERE.

Whilst you try to locate your credit card, I'm off out for a run...

What are you looking at, big head?

Natives of Ulster will not need to be advised that the man, sorry, potato Jamie and Charlotte are posing with is none other than Mr Tayto whom they met at Belfast City Airport last week.

 

Mr Tayto - who, of course, lives in Tayto Castle - has been the potato face of Tayto crisps since the 1950s, starring in many of his own global advertisements.

 

In short, he is a potato worthy of respect and the chance to meet him is normally one to savour.

 

Which Jamie and Charlotte did.  Initially.

 

 

And then, well, Mr Tayto must have spoken out of turn as the mood suddenly changed.

 

 

And matters escalated.

Eventually getting totally out of control.

 

As a result, we didn't take any Tayto crisps with us on the plane back to Yorkshire.

 

That will teach you Mr Tayto (although, if you're reading this, a box of Onion Rings wouldn't go amiss).    

Four Jongs - and soon they'll be gone

This is (from the left) Louise, Scarlett, Osian and Tim Jong.  They live in Wales.   But, sadly, only until next Monday when they head for Manchester and then Australia where they intend to put down permanent roots.

Louise and Vanessa first hooked up as students in Newcastle 20 years ago.  They hooked up again as London flatmates in time for the Millennium celebrations, when I initially encountered Her Curliness.

Fast forward a few more years, and Louise met Aussie Tim whilst travelling in Sydney where they chose to lay down roots together.  They married and Scarlett was born, before all three returned to Louise's native Wales in 2011.  Osian joined the party in 2012 and, as planned, it is now time to leave.

We went across at the weekend to say goodbye and, I have to say, it was emotional.

Particularly when Vanessa left the lights on and our car battery went flat.

But all good things eventually end in tears and, anyway, we've promised Jamie and Charlotte that their good pal Scarlett will be happy to talk to them on Skype.

And I'm sure it won't be long before Osian crawls into shot.

Bon voyage, dear friends; we look forward to seeing you all again soon. 

Sand in my sneakers

Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Portstewart Strand. 

Alongside the other taxing activities I involved myself in during the Whites' trip to Northern Ireland, I spent a significant amount of time running up, down and around what you see before you. 

There are many worse places for me to train for the Great North Run - now little more than three weeks away - as the sand is soft and my knee continues to be sore.  And the scenery isn't half bad either.

Thanks to a generous donation from Mags' wonderful parents Moira and Alasdair, my "running total" (do you see what I did there?) has reached £176 - which is great.

But I want to increase that amount significantly before the gun goes and I disappear off into the distance, leaving wee Mo Farah crying in my wake. 

I'll be out training again tonight, and am planning to tackle 10 miles on Sunday. 

You can access my fundraising page by clicking onto THIS LINK. 

It would be very kind of you if you did.

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).