Who's the daddy?

Above you can see one of the two home made cards I received from Charlotte this morning, Jamie handed over two more.  Most kind although, in Charlotte's case, I fear her admiration for me will inevitably decrease as she becomes less short.

Jamie designed one of his cards at his Beavers' "Lads and Dads Night" on Wednesday.

As part of the packed programme, we also had a mixed teams tug of war battle.

Followed by the dads being forced to run the wet sponge gauntlet.
 

Then, back in the hut, we took part in a quiz with our respective sprogs.

I did swimmingly well in answering my "Know Your Lad?" posers, only getting Jamie's favourite colour wrong.  (It had been blue until Wednesday morning, on Wednesday afternoon it became green. He didn't say).

Then it was his turn to answer questions about me in "Know Your Dad?"

Here's how it went:

Q1 What is his full name?
A. Barry Richard White (Correct)

Q2 What date is his birthday?
A. ??? (Gutted)  

Q3 What colour are his eyes?
A. Blue (I wish)

Q4 What's his job?
A. Paper man (Because he said I shuffled paper a lot.  In protest, I chose not to give him a point)

Q5 Who are his favourite football team?
A. Ireland (Northern - he could have that one)

Q6 Where was he born?
A. Ireland (As above)

Q7 What size shoes does he take?
A. Size 4 (Maybe he's seen me in the shower.  No point)

Q8 What is his favourite food?
A. Meat (That's my boy)

Q9 Does he like dogs or cats?
A. Cats (On a roll)

Q10 What sport does he play?
A. Rugby (Forced to retired because of injury in 1996, but close enough)  

Q11 What is his best friend's name?
A. John (Wee)

Q12 Is he romantic?
A. Sort of (For explanation see answers 5 and 6)

Eight points then. Expect to see us on Family Fortunes sometime soon.  

Meanwhile, the cafe's now open.  It's time for my special Fathers' Day lunch.

Moving pictures

Last week I promised to put up the link to the Spirit of Northern Ireland Awards, which was broadcast last night on Ulster Television.

And HERE it is.

If you don't have time to watch it all - and try if you can - go to 23 minutes and 40 seconds and there's a wee face I expect you'll recognise.

Enjoy.

Blood relatives unknown

Minus Mummy, last night I made the kids a homemade chicken and ham pie (first attempt, nobody died) and sought to indulge in proper cross-table conversation.

Predictably given Friday evening's never-to-be-forgotten goings on, Oliver Dickey came up.

"He won his prize," I announced, still feeling a tad emotional about the whole thing.

"Great!" shouted Jamie.

"Great!" shouted Charlotte.

Correct X2.

I then showed them some pictures from the awards ceremony.

And, as dedicated Britain's Got Talent fans, this one proved to be particularly impressive.

Yes, Oliver with "The Sword Girl" as Charlotte likes to call Jesse Jane McParland. (HI-YAH!)

Indeed, so impressed was Ms White that she insisted we interrupt our tea to take a picture to send on to Oliver and his little brother Max.

Back at the table, both were curious as to why Oliver had had to endure his ordeal in the first place.  Why was he not able to be born, get bigger and learn to walk "like everyone else"?

I explained that not all of us were so fortunate and, quite often, babies were born with little problems.

They couldn't really get their heads around this so I decided to offer an illustration.

"I had a problem with my blood when I was a little baby," I explained, "and had to have it changed a few times."

"What do you mean?" Jamie asked.

"A very kind person gave me some of their good blood to replace my bad blood," I battered on.

"Oh," said Jamie.  "Who was it?"

"I don't know."

"Andy Warhol?" ventured Jamie.  (No idea where that came from).

"Or a dog," said Charlotte.

"Shut up and eat your dinner."

Once a winner, forever a winner

Three months ago, I issued a little call to arms: Help Wee Oliver WIN.

If you don't know the remarkable story about Oliver Dickey by now, you must've been been living under something hard and stoney.  In short, the once wheelchair-bound little man is now positively scooting around the place (Meep! Meep!)

In the year and a half since the Help Wee Oliver Walk campaign got under way, Master Dickey's tale has moved many, many people far beyond the streets of Coleraine.  It has also served as a source of inspiration for countless more, not least other children in need of SDR surgery and their parents.

"Nothing is impossible," somebody we probably all heard of once said.  They might even have said it more than once.  But whoever it was, Oliver Dickey has proven that they were spot on.

Given the impact he has had, it seemed obvious that Oliver should be nominated for a Spirit of Northern Ireland Award.

And, as a result of so many of you answering the plea, he was short-listed in the Overcoming Adversity category.

The ceremony took place last night and, if you don't already know, you can probably guess the rest: OF COURSE he won!

The event was recorded by Ulster Television and an edited version goes out in Northern Ireland next Friday (I think).  I'll put a link up when available for those of us living elsewhere.

But I understand his little video was very good.

I mean, look.

No doubt you, like me, are thrilled for Oliver, his mum Charlene, dad Neil and brother Max - all of whom I know had a night they'll never forget (apart from the bits shandy-drinking Neil probably can't remember).

Rewinding back to January 2014, the Help Wee Oliver Walk appeal began with a drive to recruit some household names to give it a bit of profile.  And for their help, everyone involved will be forever grateful to a long list of public figures including Barry McGuigan, Joan Collins, Lord Sugar, Tanni Grey-Thompson, Zoe Ball and Peter Andre (to name a mere few).

In the intervening period, Oliver has become famous in his own right with fellow celebs falling over themselves to get their photo taken with him.    

Last night, for example, deposed X Factor judge Louis Walsh was first in the queue for a career-boosting shot.

He was closely followed by Britain's Got Talent ninja Jesse Jane McParland, who also demanded a date - a "request" best not refused.

Sadly Oliver's Granny Florrie has to make do with Snow Patrol frontman Gary Lightbody.

And Coronation Street bad boy Jim McDonald.

So she did.

That was all last night.  But this morning, the sun rose again and it was time for breakfast.

So why wouldn't Wee Oliver have his cornflakes with the Northern Ireland football team?

No reason whatsoever.

Good luck to the boys tonight in their crunch Euro 2016 qualifier against Romania.   

And well played Oliver

Terry triumphs in the thrill of The Chase

Last night I posed a question: would Terry from Portstewart be the man with all the answers?

And on tonight's episode of The Chase, he proved his credentials when the pressure was truly on.

Ignoring distractions such as host Bradley Walsh's famously innuendo-obsessed mind, plus team-mate Dave who loved to think he knew it all, Terry answered the crucial final "push-back" question to beat the Chaser and carry his team over the line to glory.

And his reward?  A third share of £45,000.

Not a bad night's work, and a fine hour of televisual entertainment into the bargain.

Top man, top job, thrilled for the boy.

Terry Knox: The man with all the answers?

I'm not a huge teatime quiz show watcher, but tomorrow I intend to break my non-habit.

This is because my mate Terry Knox is due to be on that ITV one that Bradley Walsh is also on - commonly known as The Chase - and it will certainly be worth a watch.

Here's Terry, flanked (from left to right) by Her Majesty the Queen and His Holiness the Pope.

I've seen The Chase a few times and, in truth, never fully understood what is going on.  In fact, my only consistent recollection is that the fat bloke who sits high up tends to do better than the confused member of the public perched several feet below.

But tomorrow I suspect Fat Bloke may meet his match.

I say this for two reasons.

First, having gone to school with Terry - who lives in Portstewart - I know how clever he is.

And second, I had a few drinks with him before Christmas and, towards the end of the night, the indications were that he'd done rather well. (The show was recorded months ago. Plus, Terry's a modest fellow).

So, dear friends, 5pm tomorrow, ITV, The Chase.

Tune in or set whatever recording device you have available.  Otherwise you'll not know how Terry got on, which would be a loss - especially if he did well and you meet him in a pub.  

Total victory for the Wee Country

Despite the best efforts of presidents and prime ministers all over the world, as of Sunday morning, Sepp Blatter was steadfastly refusing to go as FIFA boss.

And then these guys got on his case on Sunday afternoon.

Oh, and these guys too.

In Crewe for the Northern Ireland football team's friendly with Qatar, the fearless band of boys and girls chose to make a stand.

"BOO!" they shouted.

"HISS!" they, er, hissed.

"SEPP BLATTER, **** *** YOU *** ****!" they murmured  (some of their number being lawyers but not yet rich enough lawyers to be able to fork out substantial damages for defamation of character).

And then today, the *** **** did indeed **** ***.

Quite remarkable, and proving once again that wee countries are countries too.

For the record, Sunday's game finished Northern Ireland 1 Qatar 1 in front of a crowd of 3,022.

Thumbs up for 10 years

This is what's happening just a few feet away from me as Jamie (hiding behind his piece of paper) and Charlotte join other kiddiewinks in making Vinnie the Fox figures on our last full day here in deepest Northumberland.

Things are a lot different now than 10 years ago.

Because this time precisely a decade ago, I was under a little bit of pressure, struggling to eat my breakfast.

It was our wedding day, you see.  And I was a touch on the nervous side.  This was not helped by best man Wee John and groomsman Rodney doing all they could to wind me up further.  (Some of their language even made me blush).

Over subsequent hours, a drop or two of whiskey was taken in our hotel.  Then we bagged a taxi across to another pub closer to the scene where the crime was about to be committed i.e. the church.  And so it went on.

As for today, once the Vinnies are completed, we Whites will heading off to a little seaside village to, I dunno, loiter.  But there will be champagne later and perhaps quizzical thoughts of where 10 years have really gone.

Hopefully there will be a few more of the same still to come.

  

Don't tell my ma

Some are born great, some have greatness thrust upon them and others just go out and grab it when the opportunity presents itself, if only to amuse their children.

I fell into the latter category last night when I took the Best Party Dancer Award (Sad Parents Section) on night two of our short caravan holiday here in Northumberland.  (Our hosts thought it would be funny to call me "Keith," Barry White not being amusing enough).

In truth, there was great pressure on me to perform as a means of restoring family honour.

Charlotte had earlier been eliminated from her quest to retain her crown from Monday evening.

Then Jamie lost an arm-wrestling contest to a girlie.

The shame of it.  So it was all down to me.

To be fair, the organisers did seek to give me an advantage by choosing "I'll Tell My Ma" as the all-important party tune.  However, whilst I clearly remember learning to sing that particular Irish classic as a pupil at Macosquin Primary School, Mrs Thompson refrained from teaching us any accompanying moves.

It was therefore improvisation all the way.

 
And I nailed it.

Hopefully it will be Vanessa's turn this evening.

Foxy lady

Last month we Whites packed up the car and headed north for a few nights in a caravan in Northumberland.  It was great and we vowed to return.

And lo and behold, we have returned.  Already.

It wasn't really the plan - we should really be too busy to justify coming back quite so quickly - but they offered Vanessa a "whopping" 10% discount if she agreed to book before thinking through the practical consequences.

So I'm now sitting here in shorts and tee shirt writing this guff and trying to build up the fortitude to go outside and pretend it's warm.

A brief conversation with Vanessa earlier informed me that Holy Island is the star attraction on today's agenda, although I confess it remains unclear to me whether said Holy Island is actually an island at all.

I'll let you know.

Last night, our trip got off to a worthy start at Vinnie the Fox's disco where Charlotte was crowned "Best Action Party Dancer," winning a certificate and a free Mini-Vinnie.

Jamie's promised to outdo her this evening.  Or it might be down to me.

Puff Daddy

I hurt my back carrying Charlotte around Ilkley a couple of weeks ago and have been unable to do any meaningful exercise since.

I was complaining about this at teatime yesterday, expressing fears that my forced period of inactivity was adversely affecting my svelte features.

"Hmmm," pondered Jamie.  "How do fat people puff themselves down?"

I've invited him to join me at the gym in the coming days to find out.

North West 200 races? THEY'RE GREEEEEAAAAAAT!

I'm just back from the annual North West 200 motorbike races, held in my native Triangle of Coleraine, Portrush and Portstewart.  And, as has become an annoying habit in recent years, the weather was "changeable" but somehow I still ended up with a burnt and stripey face.  Honestly, I look like a cross between a Swan Vesta and Tony the Tiger.  This is not an image I crave.

The highlight for me was a second and third place for someone who should be Guiseley's most celebrated resident - if only you'd heard of him.

I'm referring to eight-time Isle of Man TT winner Ian Hutchinson (pictured leading a race yesterday) who, in 2010, shattered his leg in a particularly horrific racing accident.  He has since undergone more than 30 operations to fix it and yesterday got his reward with two North West podium finishes.  

Below, arm in the air, you can see him acknowledging the well-deserved big cheers.
 

He was on the same Leeds-bound flight as me after last year's races, when he didn't do very well.  So I left him alone.

This year I was all set to make a fool of myself by telling him how great he was and that I lived in Guiseley too and that he should probably come over for tea and maybe play football with me in the back garden afterwards.  But he wasn't on my flight so none of that happened.  Maybe I'll see him in Morrisons.

Away from the racing, there was a vibrant North Coast social scene to take advantage of, including firewater on tap.

Personally, I prefer to drink it rather than spit it out and was fortunate to spend a fair bit of time with others of like mind.

This included my Scottish pal Sandy who flew over from London especially for the occasion.

And after a few on Friday evening, he even got his jugs out.

I hope we'll all be back for more in 2016.        

A toast to the coast

Welcome to Leeds Bradford International Airport.

See, I wouldn't lie to you. 

Well, I say that. I'm actually on the plane now but a plane is a plane. And I could take a picture on a plane on any plane. Anywhere. So I didn't bother.

Moving on (as I eventually hope to do, just as soon as the big air hostess closes the doors) it's time for the annual pilgrimage to the North West 200 motorbike races.

If you're not aware, the event involves a group of mad people in helmets careering round the (closed) public roads of Portstewart, Portrush and Coleraine at speeds in excess of 200mph.

And when they're having a rest, everyone goes to the pub.

What's not to like?

My very Scottish pal Sandy is meeting me in Belfast later after flying over from London. We're rendezvousing in the pub. 

Before then I'm meeting my old university comrade Paul, who I haven't seen for ages, in the same pub (TBA). 

Then Sandy and I shall head north to The Shrine, otherwise known as The Railway Arms in Coleraine where we'll hook up with my biking stepdad-in-law Mike who's ridden (and ferried) over from Yorkshire this morning.

I haven't had a long weekend of such high brow culture since this time last year.

I hear I enjoyed it.

Ode to the fallen

So, how did the General Election go for you?

I don't do party politics on here and am not about to start. Suffice to say that Thursday was a very long night.

In fact, it was around 8 o'clockish on Friday morning when my man Kris Hopkins was returned to Parliament as the MP for Keighley and Ilkley.  The screen shot you can see above - taken from the BBC pictures - confirms that I'm yet to master the art of "cool."   But I was very pleased and hope I can be forgiven, particularly as I hadn't been to bed for more than 26 hours at that point.

The problem with supposedly being at the centre of the "action" on these occasions is that, in truth, you're really not.  We only knew for sure that Kris had won a few minutes before the result was announced.  And, with no Wifi and no TV, it was difficult to know what the picture was elsewhere in the country.

I watched a lot of the coverage back yesterday (I didn't have much else on, alright?!) and it left me feeling rather downbeat

Before the polls closed on Thursday, I wrote on the VANBAR associates website that standing for election, whatever your policy platform, is often a particularly thankless task.  And the sense of devastation felt by those who lose can often be very deep indeed.

A number of long-time friends of mine -  from Northern Ireland, England, Scotland and Wales, and from across the major political parties - got their hides soundly spanked and will have woken up yesterday not quite knowing what to do with themselves.  A number are now unemployed.

After almost 20 years of political involvement of one form or another, I remain in real admiration of the vast majority of people who put themselves forward (George Galloway being a dishonourable exception).

Many like to call them nasty names and think they know better, but few have the courage to put their own names on a ballot paper.   Thank goodness some do.

Have you heard the one about the two Charlottes?

Well, I mean, I did say.

Yes, the speculation was right and Princess Charlotte (Elizabeth Diana) it is.

I thought our Charlotte would be more pleased.

Perhaps she's feeling overwhelmed.

The exciting news flashed up on my phone as I was waiting to pay in Morrisons (I go there a lot).  I had to tell someone, so manically waved the words at my checkout lady.   She then leant over to tell the checkout lady behind her, who told the checkout lady behind her and so on.  And each one of them cooed as they found out.

As I left, my checkout lady told me I'd always be remembered in Guiseley Morrisons as the man who broke the news.

I liked that.  Unfortunately my new status didn't come with any discount coupons, which was certainly a disappointment.

Earlier, the Whites had a family trip to the Ilkley Carnival where the local town crier stopped and invited Jamie to try on his outfit.

He then drove off in a golden car.

It's been a very odd few days.

Making a fool of my selfie

Another terrific weekend to live in God's Own County as the inaugural Tour de Yorkshire sped along streets both close and familiar to most of us.  

After being dragged along to last year's spectacularly successful Tour de France, which spent three days here, today Jamie and Charlotte wheeled along to the new event; Jamie pedalling himself, Charlotte perched on a "lady chair" on the back of my bike.

And thankfully, enthusiasm did kick in when we got to our vantage point only a mile or so from our house.  

The reason?  We told them that a famous, real-life knight was riding in the race.

Cue Wiggo.

Yup, father-of-two Sir Bradley was debuting for his very own Team Wiggins, which really is quite cool. 

Meanwhile, Charlotte's dad continues to struggle in the cool stakes.

I tried to take a selfie of our shared cycling adventure for posterity.

And I missed.

  

I've promised to try again tomorrow

It's a BABY!!!

Unless you've been hiding under a stone since sunrise (and, to be fair, I have woken up under a stone on an occasional Saturday morning), you'll know that a new princess is now amongst us.

And I can't tell you how pleased I am that it shot out so quickly.

I like a bit of living history as much as the next sad man, but there's only so much Nicholas 'Bloody' Witchell and Kay 'Look At Me' Burley I can take - preferably none at all.

All us mere subjects know so far is that it's a girl and it's something pounds and so many ounces.  Good work Kate.

Now all we need is the name and we can get back to the washing-up.

Needless to say I was hoping for a Prince Barry.  We've never had a Prince Barry before and, in this age of equality and speaking on behalf of Barrys everywhere, I felt it was our turn.

Failing that, Alan.  Prince Alan, anyone?  No?  Maybe next time.

But it's a girl so it's girls' names we have to think about.  And here's the thing.

When I last looked, the current bookies' favourite was Princess Charlotte at 2/1, surging ahead of long-time front-runner Alice at 5/2.  Elizabeth is next at 6-1, with Victoria further back at 10/1.

Unless Prince Harry got pissed again and told a mate (something we can't rule out), the reason for Charlotte being the popular choice is that it's apparently "a feminine form of Charles."  Hmmm.  (I still remember someone once telling me that the name Jack was "short for John" so I'd believe anything).

I can obviously think of another Princess Charlotte who'd be thrilled if this rumour became a truth.

But given that she's just asked if the new Royal arrival can come to our house for tea tonight, I daren't risk another disappointment.

Our only crime was fashion

Who are those intrepid men of mystery you can see before you?  (I hear you cry. Surely).

Any idea?  Nope?  OK, two clues.

Clue one.  The little people are all proud members of the Aireborough Lions Under 7s rugby squad.

Clue two.  The bigger person on the left is Kris, their head coach.

Still none the wiser?

Well, meet Kris's trusty assistants Iron Man, Spider Man and Robin - aka Dylan, Ollie and me. (Kris has a Batman suit but didn't get the message).

We held our last squad get together of the season yesterday and, as fun is the name of our game, we oldies thought we'd get the Lycra out.

Charlotte even tagged along dressed as a princess.

It's been a genuine privilege to work with such a charming and entertaining group of young men.

We regroup in September as Aireborough Lions Under 8s.      

Jocks trapped?

I watched proudly today as Jamie marched through the streets of Horsforth with his fellow Beavers.

Marking St George's Day, the annual parade was led by a pipe band playing Scotland the Brave.

I'll never hear another Irish joke ever again (meh!)

How many birthdays does it take to calm a screaming daughter?

Some serious panic in Charlotte World first thing this morning over the crucially important issue of birthdays.

We've had several young and "not so young" (ahem) family members over from Coleraine in recent days and, before leaving on Tuesday, had the chance to celebrate my eldest sister Jacquie's XXth birthday (she'd kill me).

Afterwards, I explained to Charlotte that 21 April was a special date because not only was it Jacquie's birthday but also the Queen's.

But (and this was where I went wrong) I also pointed out that the Queen had something of an advantage over Auntie Jacquie as Her Maj had a second "official" birthday in June.

Charlotte didn't say much more at the time but at breakfast time today it all kicked off when she too demanded another birthday.

"I'm afraid the rest of us don't get another birthday," I comforted.

"Why not?"

"Because we're not the Queen."

"I want another birthday!"

"Sorry. But anyway, your birthday's still to come.  Mummy and me have had ours.  Jamie's is coming up.  Then it's your turn."

"I want another one!" (stomp, bawl, stomp).  You get the idea.

And the wailing went on for some time before I bravely chose to leave it/her to Vanessa whilst I had a shower.

When I re-emerged, all was suddenly calm.

"How did you manage that?!" I enquired of Mrs W.

"I told her she'd have another birthday next year.  She thought she was only having one."

Oh.

Slashed and burned

This is our garden hedge.  It's about 10 feet high and I tend to cut it about twice a year, each trim taking not very long at all.  It should probably take longer, but I get bored.

In an attempt to make the task a little more exciting, I bought myself an electric hedge trimmer.  There was no real need for me to do this, but I came over all caveman and thought it would be a wild and dangerous thing to do.  Living on the edge, it's where I like to be.  Grrrrr.  

Last Thursday I decided it was high time to get my big chopper out for the first cut of spring.  And off I went,  No real plan, just a bit of random slashing, three steps back to have a look, and a bit more random slashing.  All good.  Until everything went quiet as my trimmer came to a shuddering halt.

Why was a mystery for a moment or two. Until the penny dropped.

Have a close look at my weapon.  Can you see the problem?  OK, have another look - at the lead.

Yup, mind the gap.  I managed to saw my way right through it.  Knackered.

I went inside to break the bad news to Mrs White.  Who laughed in my face.

But then the situation got even worse.

I'd plugged my now defunct boy toy into an extension lead which was plugged into a socket in our garage.  So, as I dug out some old hand clippers to finish the job, I thought I'd plug the radio into the extension lead to cheer myself up.  It didn't work.

I'd "obviously" blown the fuse in the lead.  So I spent 10 minutes replacing it, before plugging the radio back in.  It didn't work.  Balls.

I checked the fuse box in the garage.

Here it is.  The trip switch had been, er, tripped.  So I untripped it.  Still no power.

So I swore at it.  Made no difference.

Meanwhile, the ice cream in our fridge/freezer in the garage was beginning to melt.  Great.  I was eventually forced to defrost the whole thing once the electrician said he couldn't come until today.

Today came.  So did the electrician.

"Do you have a fuse box inside your house?" he smirked.

"Yes."

"Can I have a look?"

"Yes."

He had a look.  And untripped the switch which had "GARAGE" written above it.

He only charged me a tenner because he felt sorry for me.

But not as much as I felt sorry for myself.