AAARRRRGGGHHH to AAAWWWWWW!!!!!

Those kind people who took the time and trouble to check out this blog yesterday will have noticed the absence of a new post. This was not because of a lack of effort on my part.

I had this great idea, see. Following the success of Jamie's memorable scrap with Derek the Teddy the other day, I decided to set up and film a rematch (I'm 36 you know).

So, I got out Jamie's rubber ring, plunked him in it, added Derek to the mix and proceeded to film almost two minutes' worth of brutal combat. Excellent, all was going well.

I then wrote the text of the post and, last but most importantly, attempted to upload the fight footage. Unfortunately, after I'm sure well over four hours and probably 30 tries, I had to give up. Very annoying to say the least.

My mood wasn't raised by the All Blacks' early evening mauling of the Irish rugby team. Jamie hadn't yet seen the boys in green strut their stuff and I reckoned this game would provide an ideal opportunity for him to see them in action (which, coincidentally, meant I could watch too).

However, as the picture above shows, he quickly decided that he'd much rather look at me than at the telly.

But later, when I came to upload the photo on to my PC, I thought it would be interesting to flip it 180 degrees to see what he looked like the other way around.

The result - below - put the smile back on my face.

Yes, he was named after Pudsey

I've just been to our local supermarket in Pudsey. And who did I see? Yes, Pudsey Bear.

Being Children in Need night, this is hardly a surprise. Indeed, I would imagine there is a more than 50% chance that you too encountered Pudsey Bear at some point on your travels today (although maybe not in Pudsey).

The reason for telling you this is, whenever I tell someone from outside the North of England where I live, they very often say, "Pudsey Bear." That's it, just "Pudsey Bear." Almost Dalek-like, there's nothing else coming, they just have to say it. "Pudsey Bear."

It's very much like the many thousands of people I've met over the course of my life who, when I tell them my name, have to say, "Can you sing?" Then they laugh. Then I say, "only when I'm drunk," or "not as well as him," or "f**k off." It generally depends what kind of mood I'm in.

Anyway, back to Pudsey Bear. Occasionally when I meet someone a second time who (1) knows I live in Pudsey and (2) has said "Pudsey Bear" when I first told them, they then ask, "was he named after Pudsey?"

Well, tonight I can reveal - unless you already know in which case my revelation won't be that revealing - he was.

Pudsey Bear was created in 1985 by Joanna Ball and named after her home town of Pudsey where her grandfather was mayor.

A reproduction of Pudsey Bear - made of vegetation - stands in Pudsey Park, near the town centre, and you can see a picture of it below (and I'll bet you didn't know about that bit).

So there we go, that's the build up done. It's now time for Jamie's bath followed by seven hours of Sir Terry. Marvellous (and don't forget to donate).

Horrible thoughts

Like you no doubt, I watched on last night's television news and read in this morning's papers about the horrific life and death of 17-month-old Baby P.

And three things stick in my mind.

First - and this is a trivial point in comparison with the other two - I saw Prime Minister's Questions as it happened yesterday afternoon when Gordon Brown showed what a petty, small-minded, bitter and dark individual he really is.

All politicians as a rule seek to get in the headlines when they can, but I am certain that David Cameron had no intention of making this issue a party political scrap. Unfortunately Brown knows nothing else and picked a fight with the Conservative Leader. Like so many columnists in today's press, I felt sick as I watched his antics and I hope his shameful behaviour is remembered by voters when he finally decides to call a General Election.

Second, and much more importantly, the details of the suffering endured by Baby P has really touched a nerve inside me. Many parents told me prior to Jamie's birth that I would experience as yet unfelt emotions after his arrival. And I understand that better now than at any time over the last five months.

The idea of any individual or individuals abusing him fills me with unspeakable fear, rage and hatred. I'm sure I'm no different to any other ordinary parent, but the strength of my feelings has shocked - and scared - me nonetheless.

And finally, throughout my adult life, I've been opposed to capital punishment. Growing up in Northern Ireland in the early 1980s, I remember countless IRA atrocities being swiftly followed by ritual demands for hanging to be brought back. However, over the course of time, I began to believe that two wrongs didn't make a right and have pretty much settled on this view.

But as for those "people" responsible for the torture and murder of Baby P, well, my stance has altered somewhat.

In this instance, I'd happily pull the handle myself.

Get your gums around that

I did make it to the gym tonight (hooray!) although managed to hurt my leg in the process (boo!) But not to worry, it's nothing serious and I do feel much better for it (or maybe it's just the two thirds of a bottle of red wine I've necked).

Earlier in the day, I picked up something from Boots which I thought Jamie might find useful. It's called a Multi Soothe Teether and it's supposed to help him when he's, well, teething.

It's the "Multi" aspect of this little doofer which makes it so special (according to the packet). Or to put it another way, "the unique combination of textured cooling and chewing surfaces [which] offer double relief." Yep, pretty impressive stuff.

OK, I'll tell you the real reason I got it. According to said packet, the Multi Soothe Teether, "encourages the production of more and better saliva to protect against cavities." I mean, knowing that, could you have resisted?

From now on, should Jamie be in a room with another baby (or, indeed, any other person) who doesn't own a Multi Soothe Teether, I can say with confidence that my son will have better quality spit than them. That's what I call a proper claim to fame and maybe even his first genuine step towards greatness.

By the way, you'll see above that Jamie's Multi Soothe Teether is blue in colour. This may not surprise you given that he is indeed a boy. However, when I first stumbled across the Multi Soothe Teether shelf in Boots in central Bradford whilst on a bored lunchtime walk, the only colour I could find was pink. This did not please me, particularly as it clearly displayed on all the pink packets that blue versions were available.

I therefore spent the next 25 minutes visiting two other Boots outlets in Bradford in search of a blue one - and I appear to have snaffled the last available.

There are just so many things that Jamie will want to thank me for in years to come.

I shall overcome

Every so often, this parenting caper risks catching up with me and tonight is one such occasion.

I was feeling good on Saturday but, just as I went to bed, I began to feel my old sinusitis problem coming back and, sure enough, I didn't get to sleep until around 6.30am - a few minutes before Jamie decided that he'd enough down time for one night.

In the end, I got about an hour and a half before rising to write my Gordon Brown article.

The plan was then to go into Leeds to buy some clothes - I feel like a scruff at the moment - and on to the gym before finishing off my day of action with some work on my sitcom. But it was never realistic. With the wind and rain beating off the windows, I decided that Sunday papers, tracksuit bottoms, chocolate and family were much more attractive options.

And despite adopting the "do nothing" approach on Sunday, I got up on Monday morning feeling more exhausted than ever after Jamie began to yelp from just before 6.

As a result, I decided to once again bin the gym in favour of more relaxation last night. But this morning, Jamie thought fit to surface at 5am, guaranteeing no more sleep and another long day ahead pour moi. And, having had to work a bit later today followed by yet another delayed train home (have I told you how much I hate Northern Rail?) meant no gym again tonight.

So tomorrow, it's time to get back in the game!

Feeling ever so slightly at risk of being dragged down, I say now, tomorrow I shall go to the gym, I shall not lag and I shall achieve! Hopefully...

Let's get Teddy to rumble

Fully recovered from his bout of illness, Jamie is now literally fighting fit.

Vanessa bought a changing table the other day. (Never mind Baby, this is very good news for Daddy whose back is killing him after four months of bending over). And Jamie likes it. In fact, he gets very excited and flays his arms and legs about violently in all directions when he's placed there (which makes it very difficult for Daddy to actually get his nappy on and off, but that's another story).

Up until this point, Jamie hasn't taken a huge amount of interest in all the soft toys many people have been kind enough to buy him. But, a couple of nights ago after I got tired trying to wrestle him myself, I decided to give my tag team partner Derek the Teddy a go.

Derek was Jamie's very first soft toy and was sent over by Granny White all the way from Portstewart. Derek's quite a big boy. Indeed, he's almost identical in size to Jamie himself - which made me conclude it would be a fair fight.

And my prediction was right. I placed Derek on top of Jamie - lying on his changing tray - and rung the bell. Jamie immediately got Derek in a nasty arm lock. But the bold bear quickly fought back with a sharp right hook to Jamie's nose.

I left them too it for a couple of minutes to nip to the loo and, when I came back, the battle was still raging. It actually went on for another five minutes before I decided it was best to break the warriors up and resume hostilities another time.

I intend to enjoy this respite while it lasts for I fear it won't be long before Derek tags me back and it's my turn to take a share of the pain once again. Let's just hope Jamie doesn't have another growth spurt before then.

Meet Seanbo

It's a week today since we had our fancy dress party and, to mark the occasion, I decided to have a quick look back through some of the photos we took.

One particular picture caught my attention and gave me an idea.

Given he's now approaching 100, Sylvester Stallone has said that the recently released fifth Rambo film - the imaginatively titled John Rambo - will be his last in the role.

This clearly leaves a gap for someone else to fill and, as I believe my photo comparison clearly demonstrates, I think I have just the man for the job.

We've already had the first Irish James Bond in the form of Pierce Brosnan. Why not have the first Irish Rambo in the even more remarkable shape of my mate Detective Inspector Fitzpatrick?

I can see it now...he's big, he's mad and he hates baddies - he's Seanbo! Just a thought.

The passing of a giant

I try not to be anything other than happy and upbeat on this blog, but today I thought it wrong not to say something about the death of former RUC Chief Constable Sir John Hermon.

Jack died last night at a nursing home in Bangor, Co Down, aged 79.

For those who don’t know, Jack Hermon was the Chief Constable of the Royal Ulster Constabulary from 1980 to 1989.

His time at the top coincided with one of the most harrowing periods in Northern Ireland's history including the IRA hunger strikes in 1980 and 1981 and, in 1985, the single greatest loss of police lives in the Troubles when nine officers were murdered in an IRA mortar attack in Newry.

Almost twenty years after stepping down, he remained a target for terrorists and, last year, had to be moved from another nursing home because of a threat to his life.

Jack’s loving wife, Lady Sylvia Hermon, became an Ulster Unionist MP in 2001. I had known Sylvia a bit before she won her seat in North Down but, after her election, I spent more than two years working closely with her in the House of Commons.

In one of the classiest acts I have ever witnessed, both Jack and Sylvia – accompanied by tight but subtle Special Branch security - attended the funeral of my late stepmum Joan in Coleraine seven years ago. They didn’t say they were coming and they wanted no fuss – but they did want to be there. I’ll never forget it and neither, more importantly, will my dad.

And, that Christmas, Sylvia gave me a gift of Jack’s autobiography, Holding The Line, signed by both of them. Needless to say it is something I keep safe and will always treasure.

The phrase, “we’ll never see his like again,” is sometimes over-used.

But, in the case of Sir John Hermon OBE QPM, it is undoubtedly true.

Blue-blue blue suede shoes uh-uh-uh (and repeat)

I'm up late again tonight (well, it's morning now) to catch the result of the Glenrothes by-election. I appreciate that this admission once again confirms my status as a very sad man. Should anyone out there have a life going spare, I'd be grateful if you'd post it on to me.

But whilst I'm up, I might as well report that Jamie is now the owner of his very own blue suede shoes (uh-uh-uh).

I found them in a shop in Bradford earlier today (well, yesterday given that it's now officially tomorrow) and thought they'd look smart - handy for evening wedding receptions, that sort of thing. (To be fair, he will probably grow out of them in the next six weeks and we have no evening wedding receptions planned but you just never know).

In case you're wondering, Jamie's blue suede shoes (uh-uh-uh) are the ones on the right; the ones on the left apparently belonged to Elvis himself and are therefore bigger. And being dead, the King isn't actually wearing them. But I thought it might be interesting for you to see Elvis's blue suede shoes (uh-uh-uh) given that I managed to find a picture of them. Personally, I prefer Jamie's (although Elvis's probably retailed for more than £2.99).

I did hope our off-spring would exude a little more enthusiasm about his new blue suede shoes (uh-uh-uh) when I pulled them out of the bag. But he just fell asleep.

To my mind, that would suggest he ain't nothing but a hound dog.

Right, right, I get the message - I'm going to bed! (uh-uh-uh)

Sick

I don’t know about you but, when I was ill as a child, my mum used to make me up a bed up on the sofa.

However, as he’s still quite small, last night we decided to allow Jamie to continue his convalescence in a DIY bed on the floor. I think he looks happy enough.

I haven’t mentioned it here yet but our little lad has been quite ill over the last seven days or so.

About this time last week we noticed he was getting yet another cold – he’s had quite a few since his arrival in Pudsey.

Then, last Friday, his breathing started to become quite heavy, his cough a little on the violent side and he was going off his food.

He seemed a lot worse on Saturday morning and, after a particularly impressive vomit all over his new red sleepsuit, Vanessa phoned NHS Direct. 90 minutes later, we had him in with the emergency doctor who diagnosed a suspected chest infection.

We loaded him up with Calpol and antibiotics for the next couple of days and, tonight, the six-day course of penicillin will come to an end.

The most important thing is that he’s now just about back to himself. He’s eating almost like he was, he’s not coughing much and he’s smiling like he’s demented.

I’m sure there will be many more bouts of kiddie illness to come in the months and years ahead but – thankfully - baby, mummy and daddy appear to have passed their first sickie test.

A genuine bright new dawn

Well, I predicted I'd be wrong so that makes me right in my book! An Obama landslide it clearly was.

I turned off my light at around 4.50am, just a few minutes before the new President-Elect was due to speak - I simply had to get some sleep before work today. But I've just seen his full address on playback, with Jamie propped up alongside me onboard Vanessa's knee.

An absolutely unbelievable night and one that promises to bring great change to the United States and beyond, and also hopefully raise the bar with regard to the quality of political leadership we all currently endure.

This man appears to be sheer class and if he can achieve even 10% of his stated objectives over the next four years, the world will surely be a better for us all.

As for today, stand back and watch Gordon Brown seek to clamber on to the Obama bandwagon over the next few hours.

If I was Gordon, I would keep my distance if I didn't want to look even more pointless and irrelevant than I already do.

And it finished at 118 (or maybe a bit later)

Yes folks, as you can see, Saturday was indeed a classy evening at our house. Mrs and Detective Inspector Fitzpatrick (above) kept up their tradition of not disappointing on the big night.

Not-that-long-wed Mr and Mrs Lewis (Fran had taken some of her sexy policewoman gear off by the time this pic was taken) were as glamorous as ever.

Vicky (second from left), Mrs and Mrs Stevenson (next two along) and our new friend Tony (right) maintained the very high standard.

And His Holiness Pope Barry I and Mother Immaculate? Well, you make up your own minds.

Most importantly, it was fun. And will we do it all again next year? Absolutely!

Contrasting images

The above picture shows my mate John checking out Jamie, already in his outfit, before last night's annual fancy dress party at our house.

The photo below shows John in his own costume a little later on.

I'll say nothing else at this point other than to add that tomorrow I'll show you more of what went on.

In the meantime, I'm off for another night's sleep doomed to ruin by pumpkin-themed nightmares.

Sat on his Bum(bo)

"The Bumbo Baby Seat is a snug and cozy environment for your baby. This revolutionary infant chair is uniquely designed according to the baby’s posture. The Bumbo enables babies to sit upright all by themselves! Bumbo Baby Seats are suitable for babies from as soon as they can support their own heads unaided until they can get out of the seat on their own."

Have you ever heard of a Bumbo? I hadn't but Vanessa managed to stumble across this wondrous new invention and decided to buy one on eBay for our wee man.

As you can see, he isn't totally convinced about it as yet but hopefully he'll grow to love it whilst he can still fit in.

I say that as he was weighed again yesterday and tipped the scales at a somewhat humongous 17 pounds 11 ounces. Fat...erm...baby.

Anyway, Sean and Melanie arrive at our house later today for their annual weekend of Yorkshire debauchery so I might not get to write anything for a day or two.

Please stick with me until I do and I'll, well, tell you what happened - and I might even show you too.

Mr Floppy

I've been flicking through some pictures taken over the weekend and came across this one of Jamie with Big John Cottrell.

The Cottrells and Vanessa's family go back a long way after surviving a period living as yokels in a Norfolk village many years ago.

We all meet up a handful of times a year and John, his wife Sally and mum Sylvia were up on Saturday on Sunday to attend the wedding party I mentioned, followed by a get together the following day.

I spent a chunk of Sunday afternoon working on my sitcom script - up to seven scenes now - whilst everyone else went for a walk.

The big news of the weekend was that John and Sally are due to become parents in April and, as such, John wanted to get a bit of practice in.

Unbelievably, that's not a doll attached to John's person, it's our son who clearly felt very relaxed with his new carer.

It certainly looks like the dad-to-be will be a master of his craft.

By the way, the Yorkshire Post ran my letter today so that's three out of three. It'll still make no difference to the quality of service but at least I can now be fairly sure that someone, somewhere at Northern Rail must surely be getting it in the neck. Hopefully at least.

What a Warhol

“15 minutes of fame is an expression coined by the American artist Andy Warhol. It refers to the fleeting condition of celebrity that grabs onto an object of media attention, then passes to some new object as soon as people's attention spans are exhausted.”

So says Wikipedia and, today, I had my very own quarter of an hour after my angry man train letter was published in the Bradford Telegraph & Argus (above) and the Yorkshire Evening Post.

As I wrote here on Friday, my words are unlikely to have changed anything. Indeed, I wouldn’t be surprised if the letters pages of both newspapers weren’t placed in the bin more quickly in the Northern Rail head office today than in anywhere else in Yorkshire.

But the fact they were published must surely demonstrate that, on behalf of the thousands of Leeds-Bradford line users so long taken for granted and treated like animals by the Northern Rail big wigs who don’t care about their customers, I must have had a point.

I’ll sleep well tonight (Jamie permitting).

Jamie Somerville

I made another pleasant discovery last night: my son likes Jimmy Somerville.

This is helpful since I happen to be a massive fan of the potato-headed squealer fae Glesga. Indeed, he provides the lead vocal on my favourite ever song, Smalltown Boy by Bronski Beat, and I've seen him in concert many times although admittedly not for ages.

So how did I stumble across this incredibly uplifting fact? Well, the Whites were driving to a wedding party last night and all seemed well - until Jamie started crying in the back.

Normally he'll complain for a minute or two and then nod off, but not last night. So Vanessa stopped the car to let me jump in alongside him. With Mrs White on the decks - well, car CD player - we tried a bit of Bananarama's Cruel Summer. Nope, wrong season, wasn't happy.

Then a bit of the Fine Young Cannibals. Still no joy. Third time lucky hopes were pinned on some other obscure 80s band whose name escapes me (I bought a new compilation set the other day, can you tell?)

But then, Mummy struck gold with The Communards' Never Can Say Goodbye - lead singer, one Jimmy Somerville. I first saw him perform this song live in Belfast 22 years ago in a concert made unforgettable because of my sister Gwen's blond mohican. Perhaps more of that another time. For now, back to the plot.

So, yes, I hadn't heard this song for a while but at one time had about six different versions of it on vinyl. And, as luck would have it, the version on my wonderful new CD set was the best of them.

I asked MC Mum to pump up the volume and began to blast out the song - word perfect I might add, indeed, scarily so - with all my might. Jamie's frown changed to bemusement, then amusement and then, I'm sorry to admit, sympathy, as I got more and more carried away. Still, at least the tears had stopped.

This morning, whilst playing with him, I noticed that wee Jamie didn't look altogether unlike wee Jimmy. Once again, feel free to make your own mind up and also to ponder the question, is there anyone my son doesn't look like? Based on the ongoing evidence I continue to skilfully unearth, I'd say not.

Before I go, I feel it only right to report a crime. You might remember me talking previously about my divvy, irritating, frankly pointless brother-in-law Dagenham Dave Gates?

Well, in addition to all his other failings - and there are an infinite number - he has now turned out to be a criminal. Below I have uploaded a photo of the Southern Saddo force-feeding his helpless little son Oliver hard liquor at last night's party. It's a disgrace but not a surprise from a man -and I hesitate to use that word - not altogether suited for life on this planet and, I suspect, not originally descended from it.

Hopefully as a result of the damning evidence I provide, the authorities will act and send him down for life. But, if not, I'm sure I or one of the many others I know find him so annoying will be able to fit him up on something else. He's horrible.

Messy but warm

OK, so first a baby rice update (whether you want one or not).

Until last night, I hadn't actually seen our Jamie have a try of this wondrous substance although I had heard it was a bit messy.

Last night I had my chance and, as you can see, it is - and also very white.

But, working as a tag team, Vanessa and I were able to got more than half a portion down him.

First, Agent V would lull the target into a false sense of security by giving him a little milk. Then she'd quickly pull the bottle out to allow me to hit him with a spoonful of rice. And when he opened his mouth to eject it / complain, she's hit him again with a bit more milk, thereby washing it down. It was pure genius and a game we look forward to playing again in a few minutes.

Meanwhile, I don't know what the weather's doing where you are, but here in Pudsey it's cold and wet.

And what do babies need when it's cold and wet? Yes, folks - layers and lots of them.

We're hopeful that Jamie's attire will do the job intended.

Mr Angry of Pudsey

I don't particularly like busy bodies and, generally, people who have the time and inclination to write angry letters to newspapers fall into that category.

But, every so often, there comes a time when one must take up the pen in defence of one's beliefs and write a Letter to the Editor.

The attached text was fired off by me earlier today to not one but three Yorkshire newspaper editors because I've just about had enough. Clearly, my words will change the world as we know it.

Or perhaps they won't.

Sir

Tonight (24 October) will see the closure of Bradford Interchange for nine days and inevitable passenger disruption. However, judging by Northern Rail’s recent performance on the line to Leeds, I doubt regular commuters will feel any more inconvenienced than they already are.

Let me describe my personal experience of the last two days. Yesterday morning, I arrived to board the 0920 service from New Pudsey to Bradford before being greeted by an announcement that the train had been delayed by 10 minutes.

Then another announcement – it had been delayed indefinitely. Then another saying that the 0934 had been delayed. Then another, saying the 0949 had been delayed. Then the 0920 had been cancelled. The 0949 did eventually arrive, 12 minutes late but, when I tried to board, there was a sign saying that the door I was trying to get through was out of order. I moved along the platform to enter through another door, giving me enough time to hear the announcement that the 1001 had also been delayed.

Last night’s train home was delayed by only four minutes – early by Northern Rail’s standards – but this morning it was back to the old routine.

I arrived at New Pudsey for the 0901 train to Bradford. The announcement came – delayed by 11 minutes and, 13 minutes later, it turned up. We got on the train, it moved a bit and then it stopped. It moved again – then stopped. By the time we got to Bradford, the overall delay was a minute short of half an hour.

The ironic fact about each of the delays I refer to is that, according to the announcements, they were as a result of train failure which the planned works on the line will do nothing to improve.

The situation is a pantomime – sadly, without the laughs.

Yours etc.

Barry White
Pudsey

My protest will get me absolutely nowhere - a bit like the trains - and might not even make it onto the letters page of a single newspaper. But do you know what? Despite officially coming out as a sad man, I now feel a whole lot better - so there!

Baby rice and Brendon

Master White managed another two spoonfuls of baby rice yesterday afternoon and their effect seems to have been fairly significant.

We've got him into a reasonably consistent night feeding pattern in recent weeks with six or seven ounce bottles at 7pm, 11pm and 4am.

However, after his small quantities of baby rice on Monday and Tuesday, he only took four ounces in his 4am feeds a few hours later.

But then, last night, he didn't wake up at 4am as normal but well over an hour later and, when he did, he only took an ounce and a half.

The point of telling you all of this - and I appreciate it could rightly be interpreted as a bit dull - is that we may be getting just that little bit closer to the moment when our Jamie decides to sleep through the night.

I mean, can you imagine? No, thought not (it's OK, I'll change the subject very shortly). But, after more than four months of no sleep whatsoever, or so it seems, our lives might be about to take a turn for the better. Here's hoping anyway (and thanks for your patience in allowing me to indulge).

Now then, before this happens (or not, as the case may be), tonight Vanessa and I are off to see foul-mouthed Australian comedian Brendon Burns (above) in his show, "Brendon Burns: F**k You I'm Brendon F**king Burns (Again) Part VI."

Well, I did warn you he was Australian.

We first saw him in London about six or seven years ago and it was one of those shows where you really felt you shouldn't laugh but it was impossible not to. In fact, at one point, I was laughing so hard I was genuinely in floods of tears.

He's actually not that crude. Well, OK, he is quite crude. But, more specifically, he's extremely rude and offensive about anything, everything and everyone and particularly about groups and subjects which are normally taboo.

If you like South Park, you'd love Brendon Burns and, whilst I know it's often dangerous to build these things up, I really can't wait 'til 8pm.

Let's just hope we don't see anyone there we know because people who enjoy this stuff should really remain anonymous (which is obviously why I'm so relieved that no-one reads this rubbish).