Fishing for a friend

Following the excitement of a few weeks ago when Jamie met a big chicken, today he had an altogether different experience. He met a big fish.

We were at Tropical World in Leeds and, as you can see above, our boy made the initial running as the big fish tried to play it a bit cool.

But eventually, the big fish cracked and made his (or her) way down to see him.

And, by the end, they seemed equally fascinated with each other. Either that or the big fish was simply trying to stare him out.

Whatever the truth, Vanessa and I were later happy to offer Jamie an assurance that he was better looking than the big fish. Just.

A brief encounter with Asda man

There was a very touching little cameo moment in our local Asda this morning.

I was pushing Jamie around in his pram, basket balanced on its hood, as I gathered up a few bits for tonight's tea.

He was having a whale of a time, smiling at all and sundry and offering high fives to anyone who appeared remotely interested in him.

We got as far as the vegetable aisle and I parked him up to go in search of one of those "medleys" that save you so much trouble when you can't be arsed. When I came back, a 60-plus-year-old grey-haired shelf-stacker was standing over him with Jamie grinning back manically.

"Do you want to swap places with me?" asked Asda man in a nicely spoken Southern Irish accent. Jamie continued to grin.

"Do you want to swap places with me?" enquired Asda man again. Jamie kept grinning.

"Do you want to swap places with me?" came the question for a third and final time.

Jamie, looking him right in the eye, smiled once again before letting out a ear-splitting yelp and sticking both arms in the air.

"No, son," replied the man with a tinge of sadness in his voice. "I wouldn't if I was you." And then he wandered off, pushing a huge stack of crates crammed with vegetables.

Given the chance, I'll bet he could tell a story or two.

GGRRRRRRRRR!!!

It's difficult to know how to properly punish a 10-month-old little boy for keeping his mummy and daddy up for most of the night by refusing to go to sleep.

But then it came to us - put an embarrassing picture of him dressed as Tigger up on a website for all to see.

I hope it teaches him a lesson.

In fact, just to make sure - have another one.

Let's see him try to explain these to his wife and children (or "partner and pets" - who knows what lies ahead) in years to come.

Meet Mr Party

We've had another new addition to the family and his name is Mr Party.

Although he may sound like a clown, a naff magician or a mobile disco DJ, he is actually a chair - or a "booster seat," to give him his proper title. And as his name suggests, he's foreign made (probably by an "amusing" Belgian).

Although we have a high chair here at home for Jamie and his Grandma Judy has one for when he's visiting her and his Grandad Mike, there are still times when it's useful to have something to plunk him into when we're out and about and he needs to eat (especially now that his bum has outgrown his Bumbo - which I think is a little ironic).

So I went looking for a booster seat this lunchtime. And after brief stops at Argos and Mothercare, I found Mr Party in TK Maxx for the tidy sum of two tenners - £15 less than the Recommended Retail Price (I'm a sucker for things like that).

I'm also a bit gullible when it comes to the blurb on the boxes of potential purchases, but who could fail to be impressed by the remarkable capabilities of Mr Party as outlined on his packaging?

For example, he has not one but two "adjustable straps" which can be "easily and safely fixed to the chair." Good stuff.

Mr Party is "adjustable to three different positions to the follow the child's growth." Forward-thinking - I like it.

He has a "practical, adjustable and removable tray." An altogether flexible new friend, I'm sure you'll agree.

He comes with his very own "attractive food container" - brilliant - which is "dishwasher and microwave safe" AND "can be slotted into the back of the seat for easy storage." Seriously, could Mr Party be any more exciting? I'm delighted to tell you the answer is a resounding yes.

For he also has a "three-point safety belt to provide extra safety" and an "adjustable shoulder strap" which "makes it easy" for us to carry Mr Party around.

But I've left the best till last - you'll love this.

Mr Party's "bear shape and lively colours" make him both "fun and attractive." And so says all of me.

Sadly, because I was in a bit of a rush tonight, I haven't yet had the chance to introduce Jamie to Mr Party. But I'm sure he will be pleased.

And hopefully so will I - when I actually get round to opening the box.

Pies and fries

One of the most important responsibilities parents have is to ensure their sprog or sprogs "eat properly."

At the beginning, it's easy - get as much milk down them as you can because, as all the books insist, "baby will tell you when he's had enough" (or, to be more specific, vomit on you).

But, as they get older and move on to solids, the challenge gets more difficult. For, not only do you have to try to get the right amount down them, but you also have to get the right sort of food down them. That, in modern parlance, means "healthy food."

Vanessa has been very good at this. Indeed, sometimes I come home and half expect a vegetable rather than a son to be sitting in the high chair having his tea.

However, babies - like the rest of us - are obviously temperamental and sometimes fancy something a little different from the norm. This morning provided a fine example of this.

Vanessa was doing her best to shovel Weetabix down Master White's gullet but he just wasn't in the mood. The first reaction - at least from me - was to think, "he's off his food, he can't be well, shall we call the doctor?" But then I noticed Jamie's eagle eye locked on to the pancake I was holding in my hand. Hmmm.

So I gave him a bit. And a pancake and a half later, I sped off for my train as he called out for more.

Do you know how healthy pancakes are? Not as healthy as Weetabix, I would have thought, but what do you do? Surely it was better to give him some pancake than leave him with an empty tum.

I tell you all of this because, on Friday, I was reminded of one of the dangers that Yorkshire poses for Jamie in the years ahead. The picture above was taken in a pub in Leeds as Wee John and I waited for a train to Sheffield. Yes, it was an impressive menu but with a definite theme - and even I know that pies aren't generally regarded as "healthy food."

Not that I would wish to stereotype Yorkshire folk or owt (see what I did there?), but pies are popular in Yorkshire. In fact, they're very popular. As is gravy. Oh, and chips.

That being the case, we're going to have to continue to teach our little man some food discipline. And as this morning showed, it isn't necessarily going to be easy - particularly as he gets more headstrong.

But, there again, matters could be even worse. And I sum this up in two short words.

Ulster Fry.

Like father, oh mother

Thankfully for him, Jamie has inherited none of my looks. But on the flip side, he appears to have picked up my restlessness.

An old school friend once labelled me "Bee-In-The-Bum-Barry" and most people could see what she meant for I'm not very good at doing cool, calm and collected.

And tonight provided a perfect illustration of why I fear Master White is made out of at least some of the same highly-strung material. His bedtime routine was as normal and I put him down in his cot, ready to watch him drift off. But he had other ideas.

He pulled himself on to his feet, dangled his arms over the side of the cot and smiled manically. I put him down again. He reached up for a high five. I carried him over to a chair to nurse him to sleep. He lay and cackled at me. I took him downstairs to see if a bit of Champions' League football would do the trick. He battered me round the face with both fists, stopping every so often for a celebratory high five. His mother had a go at settling him down. He laughed and high-fived her too.

Eventually, she dragged him off to bed and, an hour and a quarter after his normal bedtime, he went to sleep. Dear oh dear.

But whilst I do feel somewhat guilty and certainly sympathetic for my contamination of Jamie's otherwise hugely impressive genetic make-up, it hasn't exactly been easy for me either.

My mum retired not that long ago after a lifetime as a nurse. Since then, she's done a number of things of note including getting a new mad dog called Boris and becoming an IT whizz.

The following is an extract of an e-mail I received from her on Friday morning:

"Boris has been dragging his bum on the carpet and so I went on the Internet and discovered it was engorged anal glands, this is why they sniff bums. It said you could go to the vet or do it yourself so I thought why not.

"Unfortunately it was raining and so I did it in the house with great results - only thing is the house stinks. Still Boris is happy and I saved money - maybe I could advertise and do it for other folk's dogs. I'll try anything.

"Love Mum."

Hopefully you see my point.

Scooby Who?

It's not every day you get to meet a cartoon legend in your local supermarket but yesterday Jamie had that chance. And I'm still not entirely sure what he made of it.

Scooby Doo was making a personal appearance in Asda so I parked Jamie up in front of him to see what happened. And, well, nothing really did happen.

Jamie just stared at him with the blankest expression he could muster. The more he stared, the more the big old dog "Scooby-Dooby-Dooed" at him. But Jamie refused to break his stare. Some woman with Scooby (it must've been his agent) then planted a Scooby sticker on young White. But he decided against blinking in acknowledgement. So I just wheeled him away. Perhaps a Scooby Snack would have been prompted greater enthusiasm.

Following this little encounter, Uncle Wee John and I took Jamie to the park to spend time with some divorcees.

Sunday is access day for many estranged husbands in Pudsey and I allowed Uncle Wee John to play the role of dad.

First he took Jamie on the swings, beating his way past several studded and tattooed specimens to bag one. (Some of the dads also had tattoos).

Then he put Jamie on the roundabout.

And when it was all over, he handed the little boy over to another adult - in this case me - to be taken home for his tea. As I say, it was a common scene.

Boys' time coming up

Louise has just departed Chez White, bound for Australia via Skipton, Bristol, some place in Wales with a frankly stupid name and Manchester. Surely there's a quicker route. But I think she had fun whilst here.

Yesterday, after Wee John squeaked a narrow victory over me at golf (which was a rather poor effort, given how crap I am with a golf stick), Louise, Vanessa and Jamie joined us for a posh lunch in a country pub. And, at night, I cooked (I know).

The menu of Sticky Honey Ribs Barry followed by Gaelic Steaks Barry seemed to go down well and so far everyone has lived to tell the tale. Wee John's wine purchases also went down well - and a hell of a lot went down.

Following a few days of poorliness, Jamie slept through till six o'clock this morning - only about the third time ever he's done it - so he, Uncle Wee John and I are now ready for some male bonding.

There's certainly at least two pubs in Pudsey that let kids in.

Barry'll Fix It

One of the nice the things about becoming a dad is having the chance to make a little boy's dreams come true.

My dad, for example, took me to see my first football international in Belfast. Sadly, his powers didn't extend to arranging the result and England beat Northern Ireland 1-0 with a Mark Hateley strike.

But I still clearly remember the thrill of travelling to the big city, standing in a noisy bar before the event, getting to the venue, hearing the cheer of the crowd as the players came out and enjoying the atmosphere of what was a huge sporting occasion.

Sadly, Jamie can't yet talk so it's therefore quite difficult - some might say impossible - to work out what particular dream he wants me to turn into reality. So I thought I'd practice on the other little man in my life, Uncle Wee John.

I went to the World Snooker Championships in Sheffield for the first time last year and loved every second of it. It also made Uncle Wee John very jealous which, needless to say, made the experience even more special for me.

But thanks to the kindness of my friend Dan (below left) - who I went to the rugby with last Friday - three tickets were secured for last night's semi-final between two-time World Champion John Higgins and Northern Ireland's Mark Allen who dumped out the reigning champion Ronnie O'Sullivan earlier in the tournament.

And it was terrific. Mark Allen was 13-3 down in frames before last night's session began and, with only four frames required for Higgins to win, we didn't think we'd be there for long. But thankfully the Antrim man rallied, won six out of the eight frames scheduled and gave us full value for money.

A great night out and Uncle Wee John still hasn't stopped smiling. Bless his teeny tiny cotton socks.

Hopefully today we'll give our other weekend house guest, Auntie Curly Lou, something to remember from her stay (other than Jamie's projectile vomiting).

Balls

When it comes to buying toys for Jamie, I've decided to adopt the same policy I've always used when choosing gifts for my two nephews back home - get him what I would want. A simple, selfless yet, I'm sure you'll agree, brilliant concept.

In recent months he's received an extra-large Ulster rugby shirt, a flatscreen TV and a motorbike.

OK, so I made that last bit up, but one can never predict what the future might bring.

Anyway, he's been getting a bit bored of late so I've been racking my brains trying to decide what might help. And then it came to me. Balls. Lots and lots of balls.

Every time I go to one of those Wacky Warehouse type bars where they have ball pools for the kids to jump into, I get so jealous. I mean, how could anyone get bored playing in a big pool of balls? It would keep me occupied for years.

So I went to the Early Learning Centre in Bradford on Wednesday to pick up a ballbag (you know what I mean). And I came out with three. Each containing 100 balls. This was not the plan, but they had a three for two offer on, three giggly women behind the counter and I'm a soft touch.

I've since dumped them all into his travel cot and, to be fair, he seems to be having a ball (honestly, sometimes I don't know WHERE I get them from).

I'd better go now as I have several hours work to do before the arrival of Nanny McPhee and Uncle Fester. And then it's off to The Crucible for the snooker - more on that tomorrow.

You really couldn't make it up

You may or may not have been following the ongoing row in the House of Commons over MPs' expenses. I'd respect you more if you haven't.

However, the reason our Parliamentarians are suddenly in such a rush to appear to be cleaning up their act is because, in July of this year, literally millions of receipts covering their expense claims since 2004 will be published.

Rumour has it that there will be lots of very embarrassing stuff buried in the detail, resulting in the sudden and messy end of several "promising" political careers.

But I, for one, didn't realise the situation had got quite so bad.

If you want a laugh in these desperate and dark times we're all now supposed to be living in, do yourself a favour and read the following short extract from today's Daily Mail. It's the funniest thing I've read in ages (and I assume it's not supposed to be):

Love cheat MPs on 'suicide watch' as expense claims threaten to expose affairs

"Three Labour MPs are said to be terrified that the release of their expenses claims will expose them as adulterers and financial cheats.

"Four ministers are also understood to have warned party whips they might have to resign for abusing the system, when MPs' receipts are published before the summer recess in July.

"The three unnamed backbenchers are said to have been placed on 'suicide watch' by Labour whips, who fear they might break down when the details of their excesses come out.

"Two are understood to have had extra-marital affairs with other Members of Parliament.

"Not only are they believed to have shared hotel rooms during annual conference get-togethers and party away days but also to have double-claimed for the rooms on their expenses.

"If both MPs have claimed for the bill they will be branded frauds as well as love cheats when journalists and freedom of information campaigners sift through their receipts.

"The third backbencher is said to have made 'grotesque' financial claims.

"A Commons source told the Mail: 'The whips have three Labour MPs on suicide watch. That's how serious this scandal is. The whips believe they might kill themselves.'"

OK, I'll say it in case you're too polite. GOOD!

You can't leave him hanging

Sometimes when you’re a father, you simply have to hold your hand up and concede that your 10-month-old has outsmarted you – particularly when he held his hand up first.

I’ve been teaching Jamie how to do high fives in recent days and he’s coming on well, even progressing to the stage of doing high tens in a café on Sunday afternoon.

However, four o’clock in the morning is not the optimum time to show off your new trick. Or so you might think.

Once again last night, he was up at around 2am, shouting the place down. Vanessa dealt with him and he was back down again about half an hour later.

However, as in previous nights for as long as I can now remember, he began to shout for a second time at 4am. Both Vanessa and I went in, administered teething granules, Bonjela (the baby one which hasn’t been banned) and Calpol before I gave him some water and attempted to put him back in his cot. But he wasn’t having that.

So I held him for a few more minutes hoping that he would drift back off. He began to smile manically at me. I tried to ignore him. He began to gurgle. I ignored him. He stuck his arm in the air, looking for me to lay some skin on him. Man.

I explained that I would give him one high five and no more. He smiled. I gave him a high five. He stuck his arm back in the air. I gave him two more and drew the line. I then tried to put him down. However, rather than immediately shriek and wriggle as has been the norm, he lay there motionless for a few seconds. Brilliant. For the first time in ages, I thought I was winning and sat down on the floor next to his cot ready to watch him go to sleep.

But as soon as I was comfortable, he began to move. He rolled a bit, grabbed hold of the side of the cot, pulled a bit, grunted a lot, pulled a bit more. And slowly but very determinedly, he began to rise – still in his sleeping bag. A few seconds later, he was standing.

As I wrote a couple of days ago, he has been doing this in his cot for a little while but I’d only previously seen him once he was on his feet – not actually going through the process of getting there. But here’s the thing.

Just as he reached his full height, his left arm came up, his hand opened and he smiled at me triumphantly, demanding a high five for his remarkable achievement.

A more responsible father might, at this point, have put him straight back down and told him to go to sleep. But, come on – what a trick. And what a cheeky finale. I loved it, couldn’t help but laugh and quickly surrendered – giving him a huge high five.

Two minutes later, he was out of his sleeping bag and in the spare bed with me. Five minutes after that, he was fast asleep until a little before 7am.

I might have caused even greater problems for Vanessa and myself tonight but, when all is said and done, you don’t leave your little boy hanging.

Preparing to greet Fluffy and Dwarfy

Whilst Vanessa and I continue to feel just a little bit sorry for ourselves (another noisy one again last night), there is thankfully plenty for us - and Jamie - to look forward to in the coming weeks and months.

First up is this Friday when our good friends Louise and Wee John arrive to stay for two and three nights respectively.

Louise (captured above) went to university with Vanessa in Newcastle and, a couple of years later, they shared a flat in London.

On the downside, she's Welsh, has crazy dark hair which gets everywhere and is unbelievably dippy.

But, more positively, she has a heart the size of Australia where she now lives. Coincidentally, her tummy and bum will soon be just as large as yesterday she phoned to say she is expecting her first child.

Whilst this is obviously terrific news for Louise and her partner Tim, it is an untimely development with regard to the weekend ahead as the sight of Louise falling over after three glasses of wine remains one of nature's greatest sights. Indeed, I've always been surprised Sir David Attenborough has never bothered to film it.

Purely by chance, Wee John (pictured right) who has featured on this blog several times before, is also travelling up from Wales. But fortunately he is a Coleraine man and will definitely be on the drink.

Everyone calls him "Wee" John but, in truth, he's much smaller than that. He's tiny, minuscule, barely visible and is sadly destined to just fade away as the years tick by.

They'll both be very welcome and, as I say, it should be a fun few days.

Difficult to stand

A new problem has arisen which has made it even more difficult for us to get Jamie back to sleep when he wakes in the middle of the night: he's started standing up in his cot.

And what's more, he even manages to do it when he's still in his sleeping bag.

It is cute, I'll give him that. But it's also very draining.

Previously, we at least had the option of shoving his dummy in, rolling him over and hoping he'll go straight back down.

However, now, we obviously have to lay him prone first - and you can imagine how pleased he is when this indignity is inflicted upon him.

I genuinely can't remember the last time either Vanessa or I had a proper night's sleep - never mind both of us. And it really is beginning to take its toll.

But, as experienced parents keep reminding us (and fair play to them for doing so), all "phases" eventually come to an end.

Alarmingly, the end of Jamie's current phase looks anything but nigh.

You have to laugh

I can't remember the last time I was out two nights in a row but I just have been.

Thanks to the generosity of Auntie Vicky who gave up her Saturday evening to babysit for us, Vanessa and I had the pleasure of going round the corner to have a meal with our good friends (from left to right) Layla, Gillian, Ewen and Simon.

The evening started off maturely enough. But then, somewhat inevitably, the wheels came off.

First Ewen did his "hide my ear in my ear" trick.

Then Gillian and Layla showed off their spoon balancing skills.

And then everyone just drunk too much.

But it was a terrific night and much fun was had.

Meanwhile, I have a challenge for you. Can you guess which fat bastard had two whole Weetabix for breakfast this morning?

You guessed right.

Freebie fun

Not a bad view, all things considered.

The launch of Yorkshire Man was an absolute treat. Good food, plenty of drink, excellent seats and brilliant company (from left to right - Dan, John and Paul).

Indeed, the only slight disappointment was the Leeds Rhinos themselves who were, well, hornless. They went down with little more than a whimper to Harlequins who rode out winners by 21 points to four. Very poor.

Of course, the actual game is only a minor distraction when you're in corporate hospitality - especially when neither yourself nor any of your party are huge rugby league fans.

But at least we watched the game. I remember working behind the bar at the British Grand Prix at Silverstone when I was student. The marquee we were in was on one of the fastest bends on the track and seeing Ayrton Senna, Michael Schumacher, Nigel Mansell and Damon Hill weave their way through was a real thrill.

I had arranged with some of the girls I was working with to do the early "shift" and then they would cover me so I could watch the race itself, and I loved every second. There were a number of TVs in the marquee and, when I left for the start of the race, they were - unsurprisingly - all tuned into the live coverage of the Grand Prix.

However, when I nipped back mid-race to check everything was OK, the TV nearest the bar had been switched over to EastEnders and all the girls were huddled around it. They had even pumped up the volume so as to drown out the noise of the Formula One cars passing by just a few metres away. I've always thought there was just something a little bit wrong about that - but maybe it's just a bloke thing.

Respect to Yorkshire Man

You can only imagine my surprise (and amusement) a few weeks ago when I received an e-mail from my friend Dan inviting me to attend tonight's official launch of "Yorkshire Man."

What could it be?

A Yorkshire-themed Mr Universe competition (although perhaps a little less camp than the real thing)?

Was it a doll which looked like Fred Trueman?

Maybe a cartoon character with a flat cap and a sheep under each arm?

Or was a new movement being set up to support and protect local men from that other equally scary species which roams the moors, the dales and the nightclubs in this part of the world - "Yorkshire Woman."

Sadly in many ways, I was wrong on all counts. Instead, "Yorkshire Man" is, according to the invitation, "a straightforward, straight-talking guide on men’s health, which reflects men’s views about what sort of information they want and how it should be presented." So there. And I'm sure it's a very good idea.

However, even more excitingly, tonight's launch is being held at Headingley Carnegie Stadium, drinks and a three-course meal will be provided and, following no doubt a couple of speeches, all guests will then be ushered to the posh seats to watch the Leeds Rhinos take on Harlequins in Super League XIV.

Yorkshire Man - I salute you!

St George's Day

It may come as something of a surprise to some, but the picture above was taken this morning in Bradford Centenary Square following the Council-organised St George's Day parade. And it was quite a spectacle.

As one might expect, St George himself was there accompanied by his traditional dragon prey (straddled by either the Mona Lisa or a clothed Lady Godiva, not sure which).

We had some extras from Blackadder II.

And we had many of the great and the good of Bradford district following along behind.

Sadly, Jamie wasn't able to make it along to celebrate a very important part of his heritage but I still made sure he had a flag to wave to mark the special day.

In the top right hand corner of the picture you can just about make out the card he and I clubbed together to buy for his mother. From her "two favourite Ulstermen."

Telly wars

One of the things you're repeatedly told as a new parent is not to allow your kid to watch too much TV. But equally, what many experienced parents tell new parents is, "you'll quickly get to the stage where you'll do almost anything to keep them quiet for half an hour."

I think both pieces of advice are valid.

In common with Vanessa, I certainly don't intend to allow Jamie to become a little boy who cares more about computer games and television programmes than he does about running around and being healthy. But, when he's jumping on your head at 7 o'clock in the morning and is bored of things to rattle, I don't see anything wrong with distracting him for half an hour by sticking the telly on.

And there is another element of my television strategy which I have been slowly bringing into play, namely trying to get him used to sport being on telly. Yes, I would rather he was playing it himself than watching it in an armchair. But by watching high quality sport on television, according to my thinking, surely he'll pick up some tips (ahem). And, OK, there's also the small fact that if I can get him used to it at an early stage, then maybe when he gets older he'll not insist on turning over the channel to see his own programme.

However, in recent days a major crack has appeared in my devious plan - Jamie already appears to have mastered the art of using a remote control. For example, last weekend I was watching my beloved Boston Red Sox take on the Baltimore Oriels on ESPN America. He grabbed the control. I took it off him. He cried. I gave it back. He turned the telly off. I took the remote control off him. He cried. I gave it back. He changed the channel. I took the remote control off him. He cried. I gave it back. He turned the telly off again.

It was really was bizarre and I wasn't annoyed - just impressed by the skills of my boy.

Vanessa and I have since tried to palm him off with an old stereo remote control that doesn't work but, I'm afraid, it didn't take long before he saw right through our scam and demanded the real control back.

We'll have to see what the next few days and weeks bring but, somewhat sooner than expected, the White house telly wars have begun.

Following an impossible act

Today the British and Irish Lions rugby squad to tour South Africa this summer was announced.

Coincidentally, 20 years ago this month, I was a member of the Coleraine Inst 1st XV squad on tour in Japan, the first Irish school to play rugby in that country. Our captain was Paul McBride, son of the legendary Willie John McBride (left), arguably the greatest of Lions skipper them all.

As such, it wasn't easy for Paul or "Plug" as he was universally known to his teammates. There was media interest in his progress from an early age and, whilst he did go on to follow in his father's footsteps by playing senior league rugby for Ballymena, he didn't quite reach the lofty heights scaled by his dad - which was hardly surprising.

Meanwhile, last night, whilst I was waiting for Vanessa to arrive home from her baby group drinking session, I managed a very special achievement of my own.

It's taken me 18 months but I finally did it. Yes folks, I successfully changed the fused light bulb in our fridge.

Like poor Paul McBride, Jamie White will have to go some to live up to the feats of his father too.