Hangin' with the stars

I mentioned here on Friday that DJ Gammy had popped by and I would explain more in due course.

I can now not-quite-exclusively reveal that Gammy is in fact my big nephew/Jamie and Charlotte's big cousin Nathan.

And the boy's doing good.

He was in Yorkshire over the weekend to play a gig in Sheffield which, even by his own modest account, went well. 

So much so that he's been booked to swim in a much bigger pool in that London just before Christmas. 

 
Yes, even I have heard of the Utah Saints ("U-U-U-UTAH SAINTS!!!!!" and repeat) and I was never "with it" at any stage of my development.

This gave us something to drink to on Sunday, which we did, liberally.
   

 

As luck would have it, Vanessa and I also managed a few cheeky snifters the night before at an especially glitzy bash.

 

 

Yes, our pal Layla - from the parish of BBC Radio Leeds - was celebrating her 50th birthday (or it may have been 40th, can't quite recall).

  

 

That's her sandwiched in the middle by Gillian (left) and Mrs W.

 

The other sandwiches were very tasty too.

 

 

And rounding off a weekend of unparalleled glamour, we even had a personal visit from Doctor Who.

 

 

More on him tomorrow.

Spanish Euan

It was International Day at Guiseley Infants School yesterday.

Last year, Jamie was tasked with manning (or is it boying?) the United Arab Emirates stall.  Proudly wearing his Muslim prayer cap, his principal role was advising patrons that neither wine nor pork products were on offer.  (He later had hot dogs for tea).

Yesterday, he was part of the Spanish delegation with a range of responsibilities including telling mummies and daddies how to make Sangria. As a parent, I was much more comfortable with this.

However, Jamie's best pal/personal entertainer Euan felt that the whole shebang needed to be Spanished-up a bit.  So he went off to see what he could find.

His first effort certainly made me feel more continental.

And his second?  Well.  I was suddenly transported back to my teens.

 

For me, they both look bonita.

DJ Gammy is in da (our) house

Ayeee.

More soon.

Like father, like f***

It's Jamie's half-term next week and we've been thinking about what to do with him.

One idea I had was for he and I to go on a boys' trip to the all-new Doctor Who exhibition in Bradford, which opens in the next few days. 

But, this afternoon, a concerned sounding Vanessa rang me at work.

"I don't think you should take Jamie to that exhibition on your own," she declared.

"Oh.  Do you want to come?"

"Not really."

"Do you think he'll be scared?"

"No.  It's just that I've been reading about that Roma family in Dublin."

"OK.  And what about them?"

"Well, their daughter has blonde hair and blue eyes and was taken away because she looked nothing like them."

"Right.  And?"

"Well, Jamie has blonde hair and blue eyes."

"Yes."

"And you don't."

Bitch.

Cashing up

I recently gathered up the outstanding offline pennies owed from my Great North Run shuffle and forwarded a cheque to Candlelighters. 

I have since received a letter of thanks, which I'd like to share given that it was you lot who kindly gave me so much of your hard-earned cash. 

*******************

Dear Barry

Thank you so very much for the kind donation of £184 in sponsorship for your Great North Run 2013 challenge in memory of Margaret Maciver.  Congratulations on raising such a fantastic amount!  I am pleased to confirm the total raised in online and offline sponsorship is £1,247.89.

Please pass on our thanks to everyone for the generous support.  The money will be put to really good use here at Candlelighters. 

The treatment of childhood cancer is very expensive and the unit is forced to rely quite heavily on charitable donations to support its work.  Every penny that is donated really does make a difference to the facilities we are able to provide for the families whose children are being treated here at the Regional Children and Adolescent Cancer Leukaemia Unit, and to the search to find a cure.

Once again, thank you for your support.  It really is appreciated by all our families across Yorkshire.

Yours sincerely

Eve Corry

Fundraising Assistant

******************

For my part, I remain incredibly grateful to all who donated. 

You never forget your first time

The date was 21 November 1985.  The place was Maysfield Leisure Centre in Belfast. 

 

And it was a big moment for me. I was a mere 13 years of age and arguably a bit young to be involving myself in such questionable activities. 

 

Suddenly, the lights were dimmed.  This was really going to happen. 

The first flash of long blonde hair confirmed that I was in the right place, followed closely by the sight of an even longer and equally familiar dark mane. 

 

And then the music started. We were off. 

 

Yes, it was really was Status Quo up on that stage - my first ever live gig - and they were magnificent. (My second ever live gig, just a few months later, was A-ha but they weren't as good). 

I always meant to see them play again but never quite got round to it. (Plus, someone might've found out).

But last Sunday evening I cracked. And, in precisely eight weeks from tonight, at the brand, spanking new First Direct Arena in Leeds, my great pal Paul "Merv" Gaile and I shall be there - all denimed-up - getting down (down, deeper and down) with The Quo.

It has been said - admittedly only by me - that the young Paul bore more than a passing resemblance to an early Rick Parfitt.

 

Ironically, he's since become Francis Rossi's double.

But that's by the by.

When the big night comes, I can predict that us two proud men of Coleraine will rock until either we or Rick and Francis drop. 

I understand the bookies are already refusing to take bets on who will go first.

Being bossed

Jamie and I were talking about bosses yesterday, when I turned a page of the Sunday Times and found a picture of mine.

I pointed it out to Jamie.

"Is that Kris?" he asked.

"Yes."

"I've met him, haven't I?"

"You have, yes."

"What does he do?"

"He's in charge of all the houses in England."

"Ohhhhh! All the houses in England?"

"That's right, yes."

"Including ours?"

"Er, yes."

"But I thought Mummy was in charge of our house."

Maybe one day I'll get to be a boss, but I doubt it.

Time for a White whine

There have been a number of highlights over the course of this weekend thus far, including being handed my first ever Aireborough Lions "Coach" jacket at Under 6s training this morning.  (I'm not worthy). 

Lemon chicken is also on the menu for tea, providing me with the perfect cover to drink too much white wine (Chef's privilege).

However, about half an hour ago, I endured a double lowlight.

The first was when I somehow managed to propel the contents of Charlotte's potty all over the living room and hall carpets, and glass door in between.

The second was when I carried the empty potty back to the toilet, failed to appreciate I had wee on the sole of my trainer, and slipped and fell on the tiled floor.
  

 

Actually, I might have that first glass of wine around about now.

He's from the Dark Side

After yesterday describing his two-year-old sister as "sexy" - a development which certainly risks impacting on my sleeping patterns - this morning Jamie came to wake me up at precisely 0305. 

"Daddy?"

"Yes, Jamie?"

"I'm bored sleeping.  I can't sleep when I get bored."

He remained bored until 0647 when I finally allowed him to get up.  Excellent.

But, I mean, you can't get bitter about these things and, as I type, he and Charlotte are having some Star Wars therapy. 

That said, I must resist my current overwhelming urge to use the Force on his little helmet.

Have a good Saturday.

Hair wee go

I spent a large part of this week working in that London.

But you can only put the toil in for so many hours in the day. And when it gets dark, you must make time to reflect.

In such circumstances, it's time to call for Wee Beardie John.

 

We were joined for a bit by Wee Beardie John's equally furry mate, Hairy Hippie John (average size).

 

And also by Wee Beardie John's dear wee brother, Wee Charlie (aka Uncle Pig), who seemed keen to point out his sideburn.

At least I think that's what his gesture meant.

Later in the evening, we retired to Wee Beardie John's wee flat to admire his all-white wee work shirt collection.

 

Wee Beardie John argues that he "shouldn't change a winning look." I would argue that, rather than his dubious claim to be "an accountant," he's either a wee waiter or Britain's smallest security guard. 

There's nothing wrong with that, but the truth must come out. Because no one likes a wee beardie fibber.

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.