Me still no adore le camping

Yonder is the pitiful sight of our tent early this morning; collapsed, soaked and desperate to get back in the car for another year.  We had much in common.

As I have written here many times before, I'm not a natural camper.  Going back to the 1970s when my oldest friend Drew (aka DJ Steady) and I spent many an evening in a tent in my back garden with Tinker the Cat our only form of protection, I have tried.  But it has always defeated me.

This year we returned to Runswick Bay in North Yorkshire with a gaggle of good friends around us.

And, on Friday evening, it started very, very well.

    

The kids went to bed early, leaving the parents to get on with doing what most parents do given half a chance.

And after bravely fighting off frostbite overnight, I awoke to find the sun shining.  Someone even claimed to have spotted a half-smile upon my bake.  Before it was off to the beach.

Charlotte had a splash.

Jamie had a paddle (thanks Hayden).

And we ended up at a pub with a view.

What's not to like?

Indeed, as the evening's entertainment got under way, my half-smile became a whole smile.

So much fun was I having that I chose to mark the occasion by taking a photo of Jamie with a big cock on his head.

As the clock ticked past nine o'clock and with the kids beginning to tire, Vanessa and I took them back to our tent to suggest that bed, er, sleeping bag might be an option for them.

But no more than a minute later, I heard raindrops on our tent.  No way.  It was gloomyish outside, but there was genuinely no hint of rain which - according to man with a dog I spoke to - wasn't due until the following afternoon.

A handful more minutes later and one of the most intense thunder and lightning storms I have experienced arrived overhead.  And over the next hour or so, it proceeded to deposit the entire contents of its pants on our tent.  Both Jamie and Charlotte were in tears, and I'm almost certain that I heard Vanessa sniffle at one point.

The downpour continued off and on until this morning, enabling Jamie to go for his second paddle of the weekend.

At this point, the rain itself had stopped and, after breakfast, it seemed that we could all get our tents down with little further trouble.

I therefore proceeded to spend the next half hour drying the outside of our tent with towels. Other camp mates, deeply impressed by my natural intuition, followed suit.

It was only with our half-collapsed and dry-as-a-bone tent about to come fully down that the storm returned - leaving us Whites with no option but to run into Hayden's family's tent, me trying desperately to muffle some particularly imaginative swearing. Further showers followed before we finally got the job done.  The tent was sopping and is currently sunbathing in our garden.

When things were going well on Friday evening, Vanessa suggested that we might choose to go camping for an extended period next summer in France.

I'm sorry, but the answer is non. C'est merde.

Strike that

Jamie was named "Star of the Week" in Yellow Class last Friday, the fourth time he's lifted the crown this academic year. 

Vanessa has no idea how this has happened; I suspect it's got something to do with a Far East betting scam. 

As many parents will know, the prize these days for winning such an accolade is generally to take a special teddy home for a week and keep a diary. Enter Barnaby Bear. (You've met a previous incarnation of Barnaby before, although Vanessa wouldn't let me show you the really good pictures).  

The challenge is then to try to do stuff that makes the winner's family look all windswept and interesting by the time the diary is handed back. That's the unspoken law, at least.

Fortunately the Tour de France was in the neighbourhood last weekend, which was handy to fill a page. But we needed something else. Enter - or rather exit - striking teachers.

Jamie has already been deprived of one day at school this year (and his parents of a wedge of childcare costs) by one of his teachers walking out. And she was off on her travels again today. I hope she went somewhere nice. (I should add that only three classes in Jamie's school have been affected - again. When it was suggested to the head that some arrangement was made to cater for those left without schooling, she is reported to have replied: "We're not here to provide a childcare facility.")

Meanwhile, Vanessa and I had to find some way of keeping her pupil occupied whilst trying to earn money to pay for his holiday in peak season as we're not allowed to take him out of school. Imagine him having to miss a day so vital to his education, perish the thought.

As luck would have it, Vanessa stumbled across an emergency sports camp which had been set up locally to help out the parents of kids banned from entering their place of education. 

Therefore tonight, before going to bed, Jamie is about to complete Barnaby's diary. The title of the entry will be "What Barnaby and I did on Strike Day."

Let's hope tomorrow's not a training day so he gets to hand it in.

No more horse play

Not all readers may be aware of the biggest story in Ireland right now (just after a baker's refusal to produce a gay wedding cake featuring Bert and Ernie from Sesame Street).

I am, of course, talking about the cancellation of five Garth Brooks concerts which were due to held on consecutive nights at Croke Park in Dublin. 

As a result of a handful of residents objecting because they might not hear Coronation Street, an incredible 400,000 excited concert goers will now miss out seeing their big-hatred country music hero sing both of his hits. 

And whilst I kind of jest, I do feel genuinely sorry for those affected. I know many good people who had based their summers around the trip. They'll be out of pocket and broken-hearted and there's nothing funny about that.

So much so that I have been forced to ditch my own summer project. 

One Saturday morning in March when I was feeling a bit bored, I set up a Twitter account for Garth Brooks' horse.

The hype surrounding his master's trip to the Emerald Isle was reaching fever pitch and I figured there were jokes to be delivered as we got closer to the occasion. Unfortunately it's not to be. 

Therefore, out of respect to my Garth Brooks-adoring friends, the horse is going to get it later tonight.

It could've been beautiful.

Sun scream

Meet Kris (again), Head Coach of Jamie's Aireborough Lions Under 6s rugby group, and all round good guy.

Sickenly, Kris is yet to hit the 30 mark and is able to wear vests in public. (Being built like a bottle, it is an option that was never open to me).

He and wife Kate are currently on a mini-tour of Europe where the sun has been shining very brightly. 

And with the sun shining very brightly, Kris chose to slip one of his vests on. 

The problem was, it seems he was reluctant to risk staining it by covering himself in sun cream.

Here is the result.

Funniest thing I've seen in years. 

Kris and Mrs Brook are due back on Wednesday. I already can't wait to slap him on the back in celebration of their return. And maybe also on his neck. And both arms. 

Headline news from Yorkshire - and St Louis

Unless you live on the Moon (or maybe Lancashire), you will hopefully know that this was Yorkshire's weekend in the global spotlight as the Tour de France rolled into towns and villages across the county.  

We Whites pitched up in nearby Burley in Wharfedale to watch the Lyra-clad warriors whizz past.

Thankfully this included Mark Cavendish (below centre) who, you might also have heard, crashed spectacularly just metres from the finish of yesterday's stage in Harrogate, putting him out of the entire Tour.

Sadly, the kids enthusiasm levels at seeing the riders was eclipsed by the earlier sight of a two huge bags of flying chips...

and a giant four pack of speeding Fruit Shoots.

The afternoon finished with ice cream and thoughts of a dip.

But this wasn't the height of the weekend's excitement.  Oh no.  

You'll hopefully have read last Tuesday's post about little Oliver Dickey who was about to undergo the first of two operations in America.

I'm thrilled to report that the first procedure went incredibly well, and the wee man is due out of hospital later today to begin a period of outpatient physio.  All good, but it gets better.

Yesterday morning I woke up to a text from Charlene, Oliver's dynamo of a mum.  She was reporting the news that Oliver was now able to wiggle his toes.  Oliver (below left with little brother Max) has never wiggled his toes before.  I mean, wow.  That is all.    

Two fingers to the two Barrys

I came home last night with a bagful of new books for the kids. They made a nice change from 10-packs of Guinness and £10 wine for a fiver, which they normally hand back to me for "safe-keeping." 

There was a range of varied and exciting titles in there including Squeak the Lion, Charlie and the Cheesemonster and In A Minute, Mum. 

Charlotte having had a look - before scarpering off to her lair with two girlie books about princesses and fairies - Jamie undertook his initial assessment, making noises as he leafed.

Having finished his sift, he pulled one book out and held it up. It was called Barry the Fish with Fingers and the Hairy Scary Monster.

"Why did you buy this one?" he asked.

Before I had the chance to answer, Charlotte arrived back in the room. "We've got that one at nursery!" she enthused.  Good girl.

"Why did you buy it?" Jamie persisted, unmoved by his sister's interjection.

"Well, it's a follow-up to one of your other books," I whimpered, sensing he was a touch underwhelmed.

"Yes, he continued. "Barry the Fish with Fingers." 

"That's the one!" I beamed.

"Daddy?" 

"Yes, Jamie." 

"You bought this book because it's got Barry in the title, didn't you?"

"Er, well, yes. I did. Yes."

"That's what I thought."

"Shall we read it now?!"

"No. I want to read this one," he declared, holding up a book about diggers and dinosaurs.  "Maybe I can read the Barry book to you tomorrow night."

I never realised six was such a difficult age.

Pancaked

Vanessa tried to teach Charlotte some manners at breakfast time, but it didn't go well.

After being bombarded with a series of demands prefaced with the words "I want," Mummy decided to take Little Missy back to basics.

Here's how the conversation went.

V: "What do you want?"

C: "A pancake."

V: "Say please."

C: "Please."

V: "No, say please can I have a pancake."

C: "Please."

V: "No. Please."

C: "Please."

V: "Please can I."

C: "Please can I."

V: "Please can I have."

C: "A pancake."  

We'll try again tomorrow.

Cometh the hour, walketh the Wee Man

Six months ago today - on 1 January - little Oliver Dickey's mum Charlene launched an online appeal to do something remarkable for her boy.  

You'll almost certainly be very familiar with the story by now and, if not, where have you been?  But just in case, 5-year-old Oliver from Coleraine was diagnosed with the spastic diplegia form of cerebral palsy at just 18 months and needs an operation to help him walk.

The stumbling block was that St Louis Children's Hospital in Missouri was his best option and the operation had a £60,000 price tag attached to it.  

But, you know, we Coleraine folk are nothing if not determined, so getting the cash was merely a minor challenge. And a mere two months later, the target had been reached.  With much of Oliver's aftercare still to be covered, the money the continued to flow in and more than £110,000 has now been raised at the last count.  Easy.      

Now the hard bit.

The Dickey family arrived in the United States over the weekend and, at 4.45pm today, the wee man goes in for his big op.

But there is already good news to report.

24 hours ago, Oliver went to see the legendary Dr Park (pictured above) for his assessment.  Throughout the past six months, Charlene has always made clear that the procedure was only ever expected to give Oliver the ability to get himself around in a protected environment - to visit the toilet, pick up a toy, that sort of thing.  

But yesterday Dr Park had a new take on things.  After examining our little hero, he told the Dickey family that he now expects Oliver to gain the ability to walk indoors and outdoors.  And, what's more, there is no reason to think that, with intensive physio, this will not happen within 12 months.   

The very best of fortune and fortitude to everyone involved in the coming hours.

Bent but not broken

Until last night I wasn't fully aware that I had a pelvic floor.  I just thought it was something ladies had swept before giving birth.  But no longer.

No, as part of my incessant climb towards the summit of modern manhood, yesterday I attended my first ever male group Pilates class.  That's me in action above.  And this morning I hurt like billio.  

I normally head off for a little run when I wake up - sorry, when Jamie and/or Charlotte wake me up - on a Saturday.  But my back, legs and core - get me - are just too painful.  And I can't even begin to describe the state my coccyx has been left in.  (Plus it's a bit grey outside and I might get wet).

However, no pain, no point in paying is what I say.  And my new Pilates pals and I certainly had that from teacher extraordinaire Jill who possesses that rare ability to achieve the perfect blend of lady sympathy and female cruelty in order to get results.

We'll all be back in our little shorts again next Friday at 6pm for more suffering, but only after we've done our homework.  

Yes, if you're passing by the Whites' front window over the coming week, you might spot me doing my twice-daily mash-up of sways, clams, pelvic tilts and something else, the name of which I've forgotten because I can't read my own scribble.  I will then crawl off either to work or to bed, almost certainly in tears.  And I've got to do them otherwise Jill will find out and most likely hit me with her "Pilates pole" (broom handle).  

The other challenge between now and then will be to try to explain to Jamie and Charlotte that I'm not really going to pirates class without them.

Rice for lunch

Another year has gone by and today it was time for the annual 364 Club cricket lunch at Headingley.  Above you can see me with my main men, Colin Slater, the voice of BBC Radio Nottingham, and John Kettley (Is A Weatherman).

As in previous years, John was given a hero's welcome...

...which he acknowledged...

...in his usual...

...low key...

...manner.

But John would acknowledge that an even bigger name was in the room.

Yup, that's Sir Tim Rice that is.  He's done stuff. And the great man even gave me his autograph afterwards although, if truth be old, I suspect I was more excited at meeting him than he was at attempting to understand what I was spouting at him.  I know that look.

Anyway, best go.  Charlotte needs her bum wiped.  

A good birthday party? Cosmic

This was the calm before the storm of Jamie's sixth birthday party last Sunday (despite him not actually reaching the milestone until the following day).

Hosted by none other than Cosmo the Cosmic Magician (yes, the very one)...

...the show seemed to be enjoyed by everyone involved. Especially Cosmo (aka Darren from Leeds). Just look at his little face.  (Still talking about Cosmo).

My personal highlight was when the great man whipped his big one out....

...before turning it into a rabbit.

Or at least that's what he said.

And then the kids ate.

And ate.

Whilst their parents, well, you know.

Hic.

Happy birthday son.

Yeah baby they've (still) got it

No, dear friends, your eyes do not deceive you. That is indeed Bananarama you see before you, although there's only two of them now after one left.  A Banana split, if you will.

And they were great, despite Keren - on the left and my personal favourite for more than 30 years - coming across as a touch snooty.  Perhaps her and hubby Andrew Ridgeley had a pre-show fallout.

The show I refer to was yesterday's Let's Rock Leeds one-day 80s festival.   What a laugh.

In between appearances by a string of household names such as The Real Thing and Then Jerico (what?!) there were little stunts such as mass participation karaoke.

 
And little *unts such as Chris Moyles prancing on and using swear words in front of children.

This little girl must've been forewarned.

And not all the most memorable sights and sounds were on the stage.  These ladies seemed to have a fun time on the blanket next to us.

And I met this gentleman in the toilet.

For me, though, one act stood head and shoulders above the rest.  I'm talking about Howard Jones.

I've wanted to see the Prince of Syth play live for as long as I can remember, and he didn't disappoint.

That said, whether he should be wearing a suit like that at his age is possibly an issue for debate.   I would say yes Howard, you go for it.  (It even matches his guitar keyboard thingy, which I suggest is not an accident).

Just desserts

Well "that" wasn't embarrassing.  Actually, it was incredibly embarrassing and I think I'd better share the incident with you as I feel the need for emotional support.  

In the wake of yesterday's "launch" of my Great North Run fundraising effort (thank you to Anne Gault and my old school chum Darren Shaw for being the first very kind people to put their hands in their pockets), I went for a little training jaunt this morning dressed in smaller shorts than is usually my wont.  The reason for my non-normal attire was because they have a little money pocket and I was planning to finish up at Morrisons to pick up a couple of bits. Fascinating stuff.

Anyway, lap of honour around the Kingdom of Guiseley complete, I popped into said supermarket.  But then I got a bit carried away.  Lemon chicken on offer?!  I'll have some of that!  Orange juice bumper family pack for £2.50?  Wow - yes please!  Ooooo, coffee cake!   I haven't had coffee cake in years.  Into the basket with you, sir!

After chucking a copy of the Wharfedale Observer and a loaf (all I went for in the first place) in with everything else, I was about to make my way to the self-service tills.  Then I spotted three Dairy Milk Chunks desserts in the "Was-Now" section.  I mean, it would be rude not no.  One for Jamie, one for Charlotte and one for me.  Mummy could lick my spoon (STOP IT!)  So in they went and off I went to pay.

Beep, beep, beep.  All was going well.  Until, that is, I reached the desserts.  With all three yet to go through the scanner, my bill total stood at £8.94.  However, with each dessert priced at 39p, a quick bit of mental maths told me that the final amount required would be £10.11.  The problem was, I had only stuffed a tenner into my little shorts pocket.  I could therefore only afford two desserts.  Charlotte would have to go without.

I put the first one through...beep!  £9.33.

Then the second....beep!  £10.11.  Bugger.

It had charged me full price.  So I called the nice lady over.  

"Excuse me," I said.  "It's charged me the wrong amount.  Would you mind doing your thang?"

"No problem love," she replied, as I stood in my little shorts sweating like a pig and smelling like a horse.

She then spotted my third dessert which was still in my basket.  My cunning plan had been to hide it behind the till since it was beyond my budget.

"Tell you what, give me that one and I'll put it through too," she instructed.

"Er, you can't," I whimpered, my pink face now turning a much deeper colour.

"Why?!"

"Because I haven't got enough money.  I only have this tenner, you see.  I do have another 11p at home but, er, it just wouldn't fit in my shorts."  By this time a crowd was building up.

"Don't worry love, just you stay there."  I could begin to sense smirks.

The lady returned with a bag of coppers.

"This is the change the kids leave behind when they come in to buy their school lunches.  I'm sure they wouldn't mind.  How much do you need?"

"11p."

She put 11p into the little slot.

"There you go love.  Don't forget to drop it back in next time you're passing." And with a wink and a smile, she was off.

I don't expect to be passing for a considerable period of time.