Only in Yorkshire?

One over-riding parental ambition of mine is for my children to have experiences that I never had.   

And tonight, after his swimming class, Jamie made an announcement.

"I've got a new friend called Amos," he declared.

I've never had a friend called Amos.  In fact, I'm yet to actually meet anyone called Amos (although I do know a Granville).

A proud moment then and another tick in the box for my boy, who continues to outpace me. 

I need it to be Friday again

It's been a long weekend. so I'll be brief.

I went to watch some rugby yesterday, Aireborough first team. 

Before the game, I attended the ex-players' lunch and joined in on the "Stand  Up, Sit Down" game,

I've never played for Aireborough.

But the crowd was big...

...and colourful.  (I have no idea who this is).

And then the bar called, or certainly Steve, the club chairman, on the left,

This morning, my head was sore as I fulfilled my regular role as Coach Helper with Aireborough Lions Under 6s.

 

Hopefully I'll be more lively next Sunday. And if not, it doesn't really matter. 

Sad Man Friday

After Northern Ireland's humiliating World Cup football loss to the less than mighty Azerbaijan just now, I now await the arrival of Ulster's rugby players on Sky Sports 1. 

It's the Heineken (European) Cup and, for the next two hours, bedecked in the famous white shirt, I intend to drink Guinness, eat Guinness crisps and shout randomly at my telly.

And then, at 10.15pm, I shall change shirts and watch the British and Irish Lions' fly-on-the-wall documentary of their recent Australian tour.    

And what's Vanessa up to?  Well, she's out of course.

Do you think I'd get away with any of this if she wasn't?

Who's your daddy

Today's been the first day in almost two weeks that I've felt almost like myself.

Indeed, at times I've almost convinced myself that I know what's like to be Doctor Who after he's regenerated (although, in such circumstances, I'd be most disappointed to be lumbered with this body).  

Such was my rush of energy this morning that I decided to carry Charlotte all the way to nursery. 

It was only when I was halfway there did I remember that Little Miss appears to be the latest member of the White dynasty to show signs of the White dysentery (or close enough).

Thankfully my head, neck and shoulders arrived blemish free.

 

Sadly, I don't expect the newly revitalised me to last too long.  After my extended period of forced abstinence, this weekend I'm going to see if I can drink 100 pints of Guinness. 

The Comedians

Vanessa and I went to see Ardal O'Hanlon (aka Father Dougal McGuire) do stand up in Leeds tonight.  And he was predictably excellent.

But he wasn't the biggest joker on show today.

No, that tag goes to Arsenal and England footballer Jack Wilshere.

Speaking earlier, the 21-year-old midfield mastermind said, and I quote: "If you live in England for five years, it doesn't make you English." 

This will come as something of a shock to Jamie White, 5, from Leeds, England who has lived here all his life.

Still, at least this stunning revelation will add weight to my theory that, should my son become really good at rugby, he should choose to play for Ireland.

Kris Watch

So desperate was I to leave the house today that I've just come back from cutting our grass in the dark.  I now look forward to the morning to find out how I did.

But, despite being confined to barracks since Friday because of my not-yet-gone Gastroenteritis, I have continued to work.  What a trooper. 

I was therefore fully aware that my boss Kris, in his first full day in office as Minister for Housing, was in Northampton looking at houses (really) with his boss Dave.

And here's the proof courtesy of the BBC Six O'Clock News.

It'll be good to get out properly tomorrow.

Yes! Minister!

After feeling a bit under the weather in the early part last week, I was then hit with a bout of Gastroenteritis which I'm still struggling to shake - hence no blog updates.  (Indeed, shaking might lead to all sorts of unfortunate outcomes, so I'll refrain).

But I cannot possibly miss the opportunity to congratulate my boss, Kris Hopkins, on his ministerial appointment in today's Government reshuffle. 

He now holds the title of Parliamentary Under-Secretary of State in the Department for Communities and Local Government.

And, having worked for him for the past seven years, I could not be more proud.

Techy Twins

I walked through our kitchen last night to find what was, at first glance, an especially cute scene.

But closer inspection revealed that Jamie and Charlotte weren't necessarily revelling in each other's magnetic company. 

No, because Jamie had my iPhone in his hands and Charlotte had Vanessa's iPad in hers.  And they were playing games. The sofa was probably just the most comfortable place for them to indulge. 

Should Vanessa and I be proud that, at ages two and five, our sprogs are seemingly so computer literate? Or should we be ashamed?

I haven't quite decided.

White Cotton mix

It's been a few days since I last updated this guff because I've been feeling a touch ropey.

Our Saturday afternoon began well, with the arrival of the Cottons - Ed and Jane - and their three genuinely charming kids. 

Rosie, the youngest of the Cotton buds, proved a particular hit with Charlotte...

...who, in an ideal world, would've kept her.

But, as late afternoon approached, the wheels began to come off after I took Ed for some refreshment - Aireborough Rugby Club style.

Kris - Jamie's head coach with the Micros (whom I proudly serve as "coach helper") - was getting his 30ish birthday celebrations under way...

 

...and (nearest the camera) set the pint glass, sorry, bar high.

 

And then Ed, Jane, Vicky and us Whites continued the festivities - in Kris's honour - well into Sunday.

(I do have a much more dramatic picture on my phone which I'm not allowed to show you. But feel free to ask me if you see me).

So that's why I'm feeling my age and you haven't heard from me in a while.

Hopefully I'll feel (and look) younger tomorrow. 

A blast from the past

One of the realities of being a parent I often forget is that others have been before you.  And it's the same for kids - like you and me.

To explain, last night I arrived home to find Jamie curled up on the sofa clutching his tummy. Various examinations conducted by Nurse Mummy and me led us to the conclusion that our son had.......trapped wind.  Lovely.

So what to do?

The truth?  We had absolutely no idea, so I walked to Boot's to find out what they thought. 

I quickly discovered that the work experience boy didn't have any thoughts either, so I had a rummage through the shelves myself.   I emerged with a plastic container of Milk of Magnesia.   

A-HA!  Suddenly, I was transported back to the sofa and my mum assuring me that I would poo soon.  (Come on, we've all been there).

Whilst I was away, Vanessa had been on t'Wunderweb seeking tips on relieving trapped wind.  She came up with two:

1. Rub the patient's back, or 
2. Get him/her on all fours. 

Rubbing Jamie's back didn't work, and he didn't feel able to get on all fours.

So Charlotte came up with a compromise.

He didn't go for that either.  But, about an hour after I arrived back with my magic potion, he did "go" (if you know what I'm saying) and the job(bie) was done.

Moving on, and this morning it soon became clear that Jamie was back on form as he announced that he wanted to have a baby.

"Oh really?" either Vanessa or I answered back, I can't remember which (it was early).

"Yes."

"And what sort of baby would you like?" (me).

"I'd like one with a brown face."

"Right. And if you had another one, what type of baby would that be?" (still me).

"I'd like a ginger one."

As I say, we're back to normal.     

Andy Farrell and me

Before I close my British and Irish Lions diary, I have a last awkward tale to share.

Above you can see former Great Britain rugby league captain Andy Farrell who was at last week's Downing Street reception in his capacity as Lions defence coach. 

I spotted him early on amongst all the other famous faces but, as the two hours ticked by, didn't get to meet him.

With about 15 minutes to go, I decided the time had come for a visit to the little boys' room before saying goodbye to my new "pals."

The trip was deemed necessary on the grounds that I'd had about three beers and two glasses of wine by this stage, and didn't want to stain the Prime Minister's nice rug. 

The toilet I was directed to was a single unit operation, meaning I had to wait for whoever was in front of me to come out before I could go in. 

This resulted in a sense of excited anticipation as I paused to discover which Lions legend would emerge. 

A couple of minutes later, the cubicle door swung open and....it was some middle-aged bald bloke who was probably in charge of the kit. Frankly, I was disappointed. 

Anyway, I said a cheery hello, had my wee and was washing my hands when Andy Farrell appeared, shuffled past me towards the cubicle and locked the door. What a pro. 

My sense of child-like giddiness suddenly returned. Andy Farrell was in that toilet doing whatever it was Andy Farrell was doing - in THAT toilet!  Wow. 

As I was about to come out to return to the reception, I narrowly avoided walking straight into a different member of the Lions backroom team who also required use of the Number 10 single unit facility. 

I said another cheery hello, to which he responded with a half smile.

Pointing at the cubicle, he enquired: "Is anyone in there?"

"Yes!" I replied. "IT'S ANDY FARRELL!!!!" (all of two yards away). 

I didn't say a cheery hello to Andy Farrell in the end.

Sh*te Stuff

My name is Barry White and this blog is called White Stuff.  It's called White Stuff because my name is Barry White.

Precisely seven days ago on this blog - which I remind you is called White Stuff on the grounds that my name is Barry White - I wrote about my somewhat surreal trip to Downing Street to drink Beck's with the British and Irish Lions.

This was picked up by my local and generally wonderful newspaper back home, the Coleraine Chronicle, who asked if they could do a story.  Although a touch embarrassed, I said yes and provided some words and pics which appeared in tonight's paper.

Just one slight problem.  Despite them getting the story from White Stuff - my blog which is called after me, Barry White - the Chronicle have referred to me variously as "Barry Whyte," "Whyte" and "Barry Whiye." 

Still, could be worse.  They could've gone the full hog and called me "Barry Shite."      

Premier porker

Following our Great North Run visit to the North East, no more hotel trips are planned from our house until we attend our first gay wedding in November.  (I might get exclusive blog rights to the him and him pics, but don't get your hopes up).

So let me tell you my favourite hotel story from the summer of 2013. 

I was having breakfast in the pub attached to the Premier Inn near Ormskirk on the morning of Mags' funeral in July.  And for obvious reasons, wasn't at my most chirpy.

I also wasn't feeling particularly hungry, despite having gone for a run, but thought it best to fill my face as it might be a while before I'd scoff again.

The thing about a Premier Inn breakfast is that, whilst it is all-you-can-eat, it's not a buffet job and you have to place an order.

When the waiter appeared, I excused myself before asking if it might be acceptable for me to have three sausages.

"I wouldn't normally have three, I feel like a bit of a pig - not that pigs eat sausages.  Is that OK?" I bumbled, pathetically.

"Three sausages is nothing sir," came the polite reply.

"Really?" I bumbled on.

"Oh yes, sir.  Not long ago, a gentleman ordered 35 rashers of bacon." 

"Seriously?! You're joking?" I replied, now much more animated. 

"No sir, it's true.  I took the order myself."

"And what did you do?"

"We served them to him, on one big plate."

"My word.  And did he eat them all?"

"I have no idea, sir.  I couldn't bring myself to watch."

Had the bar been open, I would definitely have bought my new waiter friend a pint.

DIY Wilko style

Given that we no longer have a social life, a normal Saturday night in our house is for me to burn something from scratch in the kitchen and for Vanessa to pretend it's not as bad as it looks/tastes.

But last night I couldn't be arsed, and plumped for frozen pizzas. 

That didn't work out either.

But I digress. 

It's a week today since the Great North Run and my body is yet to recover.  Friends, family and strangers were wonderful and, if everyone pays up, we'll have raised a total of £1,230 for Candlelighters.  All good, with one exception - Wilkinson.

People in Britain will recognise Wilkinson as one of the country's largest retailers which makes tens of millions of pounds in profits each year.  Good for them.

In the final days leading up to race day, I tweeted that I couldn't find my trusty tub of Vaseline (stop it) and was planning to put Bonjela on my feet to guard against chafing. Candlelighters tweeted back to say that Wilkinson was the place to buy my supply.

I tweeted Wilkinson to ask if I did buy some from them, would they sponsor me?  They tweeted back to say that this seemed "reasonable" and management would be consulted.  But no cash was swiftly forthcoming and time was running out.

So, finding myself passing Wilkinson in Leeds, I popped in, bought some Vaseline and took this photo.

   
I then tweeted the pic accompanied by these words:

"I buy my Vaseline @LoveWilko - for all your last minute #GreatNorthRun needs."

Wilkinson responded with: "Good luck with the run :)"

No money was donated.  I didn't ask again.

Just thought you'd like to know.

Tour de Trance

With Jamie away on his first ever sleepover at best mate Euan's house, Vanessa and I attempted to be responsible parents this afternoon by extracting Charlotte from her fairy outfit and taking her out for a bike ride. 

As the plan was to pedal for more than 10 yards, we put her on a seat on the back of my wheels of steel.

And the journey started well.  Indeed, it must've been a mile and a half before the first signs of tiredness/boredom appeared.

But despite my attempts to be hugely entertaining and keep her awake - I failed.

Dismally.

Next time I'm going on the back.

Where's Wally, er, Barry?

A small handful of people told me after last Sunday's Great North Run that they tried to spot me on TV but couldn't.

So, last night, kids in bed  - Vanessa was out on the drink - and very, very bored, I decided to have a little peak myself. 

Now, I am not the type who gets a kick from looking at myself.  Indeed, it is one of several reasons why I hate shaving in the morning.  But, you know, I was curious.

And after spending a few brief moments on Sky+, I must respectfully ask those kindly folk who did try to find me, are you f****** blind?! 

For example, there I am above.

What do you mean you still can't see me?!

Hold on.......does this help?

Yes it IS me!  Hold on again..........is THAT better?!

 

In fact, there I go again! 

 

 

I think I'll leave it there in case Mo Farah gets jealous. 

Illusions of grandeur flushed away

After the glamour and excitement of the past few days, today I was brought swiftly back to earth with a bump. Well, dump. Actually, two dumps.

Yes, Jamie managed to leave little morning messages in both of our toilets - and neglected to flush. 

Thankfully, as a fully-trained ceramic technician from those heady days of active service with Coleraine Borough Council's elite Bog Squad, I was able to deal with each crime scene efficiently and professionally.

But harsh smell of reality has now returned to my world.

My name's Barry and I'm a sad man

This is the picture you may well have seen on last night's news or in this morning's newspapers, as Manu Tuilagi joined his fellow British and Irish Lions at a Downing Street reception in their honour, hosted by the Prime Minister.

But there are some other pictures I'd like to share with you from inside Number 10 itself.

For example, here is David Cameron addressing my heroes...

...watched by BIL the Lion.

Oh, and here's me with the great Rory Best, Ireland hooker and a proud man of Ulster.

Here's me with the also great Tommy Bowe, Ireland winger and another proud man of Ulster.

Here's me with my two newest Welsh friends - the great Jamie Roberts and the great Leigh Halfpenny, the Lions' Man of the Series.

Oh, almost forgot, here's me with the spectacularly great Brian O'Driscoll - the best player Ireland has ever produced.

Sorry, one more, here's me after they'd kicked me out holding the Tom Richards Trophy - the Lions' prize for their awe-inspiring 2-1 series victory in Australia.

 
Thinking back, I can't remember another Monday like it.

Mission accomplished

Well, the task is complete as I flopped over the Great North Run finish line earlier today in a time of one hour 47 minutes and 52 seconds.  I didn't win, but neither did my chief rival Mo Farah - so I call that even. 

I've only had one beer so far, but intend to be completely irresponsible as soon as I finish this little ramble. 

More than £1,200 is now with or pledged to Candlelighters as a result of your efforts over the past few weeks.  And I think Mags would have been pleased with that.

Thank you to everybody who gave cash or supported what we were trying to do in other ways.  You're all great.

Now it's time for that beer...

You've done your bit - it's over to me

A few weeks ago, I was on my train home from work.  I was due to go for a run, but didn't really fancy it. 

It was wet, I had a niggling leg injury, there was very little money in my fundraising pot and I quite liked the idea of spending some time with my kids.  Maybe I wouldn't bother going running that night.

Then my train stopped on the line and the conductor said we could be a while, so I got my phone out. Now, I'm not a techy and, whilst an iPhone owner, have no idea why. 

Totally by accident, I brought up a list of old voicemails.  I couldn't do this on any of any previous phones (I think), and didn't realise I could do it on my current one. So I scrolled down.  And I found two old voicemails from Mags. 

When we got to Guiseley, I sat down on the platform and listened to them.  They weren't important messages, but that didn't matter. It was Mags on the phone. And it was one of the most surreal experiences of my life.  After a little moment to myself, I shot off home and went for my run.

Since then (at the time of writing), you very nice people have raised £1,075 for a wonderful children's cancer charity.  And, with her family's strong support, it's all been done in Mags' name.

I'm immensely proud of that, and I'll take equal pride in wearing it on my back on Sunday.  

 

PS My running vest is being modelled by Mags' goddaughter Charlotte

 

PPS Donations continue to be welcome, if you'd like to click HERE and follow the instructions. 

Let's talk Candlelighters

My train was a little late this morning. This is not uncommon and often leads to a sense of "mild frustration" from passengers, me included. But not today.

The reason for the delay was that a group of local kids, each dragging heavy luggage, were clambering excitedly onboard at Shipley station to begin their school trip.  The platform was lined with doting parents waving at their smiling sproglets. 

As all of this was going on, I was leafing through the latest Candlelighters newsletter, which dropped through my letter box earlier in the week.

Each of the children who shot past me to find their seats looked wonderfully healthy, and their parents looked like they hadn't a care in the world (probably because they were about to get a few days off). 

But in my newsletter, the parents, kids and staff - whilst equally smiley - had more obvious challenges to deal with.

Formed more than 40 years ago, Candlelighters is run by parents of children who have - or have had - cancer, and the medical staff who treat them here in Yorkshire.  Every penny the charity receives goes towards enhancing the specialist ward in the Leeds General Infirmary, equipment, play therapies, clinic areas and funding research into childhood cancers. 

This year, spare monies have been spent on trips for parents and families to Center Parcs, seaside trips to the coast, extra bedside tables, chemo ducks for every child, a remembrance event and birthday presents.  Cash is also being set aside for a family Christmas party.  £10 will pay for a gift.

This is where all the cash so many kind people have donated to my Great North Run fund will go. 

As I write, it totals £848.  My target is £1,000 - simply because it has an extra nought in it. 

I'd love it if we could get there before the starting gun fires at 10.40 on Sunday morning.

Once again, here's the LINK.