Pancake Wednesday

We Whites made our pancakes a day late this year - last night, to be precise - because, well, we couldn't be bothered on Tuesday.

Unfortunately, I wasn't totally satisfied with how things went.

I dolloped the £1-from-Asda mix in the frying pan with a very high degree of skill. So definitely a good start.

And then I burnt them.

But, you know, the proof of the pancake is in the eating, as someone somewhere is bound to have said (and if not, I just have).

And Jamie seemed happy enough with his fayre (although he would eat absolutely anything).

Maybe next year they'll be better still - and we might even have them on the right day.

I'm gonna fight...fight...fight for this love...

I know you should never be competitive with your other half for the love of your son but, bugger that, I am!

I had been proudly/smuggly "ahead" in my mind over recent months after Jamie started to talk and say "Daddy" a lot. Marvellous.

And it certainly irritated Vanessa. Even better.

But, in the last 10 days or so, the reason why he said "Daddy" and basically never said "Mummy" became apparent - he couldn't actually say "Mummy."

However, he's now spectacularly over that hurdle, it's "Mummy" pretty much all the way and I barely get a look in.

There are one or two exceptions, such as at 6.10 this morning when he woke up and wanted collecting. He bellowed "Daddy!" for a handful of minutes until I could be arsed to get out of bed and drag him out of his cot.

But as soon as he was safely in my arms, the record promptly changed to "MUMMY!"

Quite frankly, I felt used.

But the battle goes on - and it might get dirty.

Snot responsible behaviour

I'm so embarrassed.

I dropped Jamie off at nursery about 20 minutes ago and, just a few yards from the front door of our destination, Jamie sneezed.

Without thinking, I did what all parents instinctively do when their kid sneezes - I checked his face for snot. Thankfully, we had an all-clear.

But just as I was physically pushing the door open, he did it again. And this time we were not so lucky.

He looked like he'd been caught in the cross-fire of a slime fight.

I held the door open with my knee whilst trying to pull a tissue out of my trouser pocket.

But there was no tissue.

I had committed the cardinal schoolboy error when your sprog has a cold - I forgot to tissue-up.

So what to do?

Parents and staff were coming in and out and I was going to look like a smeggy parent (plus Jamie wasn't exactly looking at his best either).

I quickly pulled his hood up to cover his face and bolted through the door towards a dark corner near the stairs.

I then wiped his face as best I could with my bare hand, and got rid of most of the snot.

The only problem was, I now had a one white hand and one green one.

I would normally have wiped it on my own clothes (self-sacrifice has become a new aspect of my character over the last year and a half) but I'm off to work in a minute and am wearing a suit. And I couldn't wipe it on my son - that would just be wrong.

And whatever I did decide to do, I had to do it soon because I could hear more parents coming up the drive.

So, in the end, there was only one option open to me.

I wiped it on the carpet - before stripping his coat off, dumping him in "Toddler Two" and making a break for freedom.

Please don't tell anyone.

Bloody lobster doesn’t rock

Red is obviously the colour everyone associates with Valentine’s Day. So it was strangely fitting that, yesterday, I bled all over a lobster.

It was my own fault, really. I was trying to be posh and it just didn’t work.

Like last year (I tend not to be very original), I offered to make Vanessa a flash meal and, for 2010, chose lobster and venison as my weapons of choice.

I actually bought the lobsters from Asda weeks ago when they had an offer on (yes, every expense spared). But it was only yesterday that I realised I had absolutely no idea how to open them to get the meat for my lobster and noodle surprise. And when I downloaded some pictures from t’Internet to show me how to do it, I quickly realised that you’re supposed to use a nutcracker - and we don’t have one.

I therefore had little option but to improvise by way of the butt of a kitchen knife and my hands – and promptly lacerated my right thumb in two places. (You’ll be impressed / relieved to learn that, being an old-fashioned gent, I did wash my blood off the few bits of fish I managed to dig out before feeding them to the wife).

So I’ll not be buying lobster again.

And neither shall I be purchasing any more venison.

Why? Because it just tastes like liver. Maybe it was my untrained palate or, just possibly, it was because I overcooked it. But I wasn’t impressed. So no more deer for me, dear.

I hope your Valentine’s Day activities were more successful than mine.

Speaking truth to a liar

It's Valentine's Day and, ever the romantic, I've just been for a nine-mile run and am currently sitting here dripping in sweat and smelling like an old sack. Sometimes I think Vanessa truly is the luckiest woman in the world.

Before I go for a scrub, some food and another scrub, a quick jogging-related tale from an individual I don't normally have a lot of time for - Tony Blair's former spin-weasel Alastair Campbell. He told it at a conference I worked with him at a few years ago and, to be fair, it made me laugh.

As you'll know, Mr Campbell - who specialises in making situations and people seem something very different from the reality - has a bit of an image problem himself.

Amongst the negative impacts of his unpopularity is that he occasionally finds himself on the receiving end of abuse from (perceptive) members of the great British public. And to illustrate, he relayed a story about one dark night when he was out for a jog on Hampstead Heath and stumbled across a man who was lying injured on the ground, having just been mugged.

Campbell, to his credit, stopped and asked the man if he was alright.

The individual, who was understandably in shock and more than a little dazed, said he was OK.

So Campbell, who lived nearby, offered to take him back to his house to get cleaned up, have some refreshment and call the police.

But suddenly, the man's expression changed.

"Hold on," he said, in a serious tone. "Aren't you that Alastair Campbell?"

"Yes, I am, yes. Look, are you going to come with me?" replied the spin-weasel.

The man sat up, looked Campbell straight in the eye and uttered the killer line:

"But I ****ing hate you!"

I loved that.

Twisted

Several people who read this blog have at times accused me of making my son look silly purely for reasons of self-amusement, to which I tend to reply, "PAH!!!!" (Or, translated into English, "please go and sit over there").

However, last night, Vanessa plunged depths much lower than any I have previously explored.

Because I'm sorry to confirm that the picture above is not deceptive; Vanessa is actually plaiting Jamie's hair.

I think it might just have been because she was a little bored, or perhaps she was still bitter at his brattish behaviour over recent days.

But, whatever the reason, the fact remains - Vanessa is actually plaiting Jamie's hair.

And this, of course, means war in the White household because I will not be outdone.

I must now think of something even worse to do to him.

PS Please be assured that she did take his plaits out before he went to bed. I think.

Torture Tot

You’ve probably read this week about the kerfuffle surrounding yer man Binyam Mohamed, the British terrorist suspect alleged to have been tortured by some nice Americans at Guantanamo Bay.

I’m not going to get into the details of his case here – except for one which is very close to home. Or, more precisely, happens in our home.

Because one of the forms of torture apparently used on this individual was, to quote the official document the British Government wanted to cover up, “continuous sleep deprivation.”

And this, of course, is the principal form of punishment Jamie has been practising on Vanessa and me for getting on to 20 months. (To illustrate, he was up at just after 5am today and refused to go back down).

I’ve done a little research and, in addition to the obvious negative effects such as yawning, headaches and irritability, other impacts of sleep deprivation include aching muscles, dizziness/nausea, hand tremors, increased blood pressure, increased risk for diabetes/fibromyalgia (whatever that is), memory loss, rapid involuntary rhythmic eye movement (my personal favourite) and obesity (i.e. another excuse for fatties to claim it’s not the pies).

Clearly none of these are good news and Vanessa and I would obviously like it if Jamie refrained from practising his evil brand of cruelty on us, particularly as my research has also revealed that it is in breach of the European Convention of Human Rights.

Should he choose not to do so, I fear I may have no option but to inform the United Nations itself with a request that the Security Council meets to pass a resolution threatening to use the traditional “all available means” to make him stop.

Should he choose not to do so, we could begin by cutting his chocolate rations and after that, well, air strikes would not be ruled out.

At least he couldn't claim he hadn't been warned.

PS A quick footnote for those of you who are still awake. Thai Ngoc, a Vietnamese gentleman born in 1942, claims the record for having gone the longest without sleep. In 2006, he said he had been awake for 33 years or a total of 11,700 nights. But I’ll bet he still doesn’t look any rougher than Judy Finnigan first thing in the morning.

If you want something done…

I went to see my “self-service” doctor yesterday in an attempt to sort out the sinusitis problem which has been giving me headaches for the last few days.

I say “self-service” because she’s not very good – hence why it’s not difficult to get an appointment at short-notice – and, through experience, I’ve found the best way to get anything done is to use self-diagnosis and self-prescription. She certainly never examines you (or me, for that matter) and I genuinely doubt if she even owns a stethoscope.

To illustrate, yesterday’s visit went something like this.

Barry: “Good afternoon doctor, and how are you?”

Doctor: “I’m fine, and how are you?”

Barry: “Well doctor, I’ve got sinusitis. In fact, I’ve been to see you twice about this previously. I think a course of amoxicillin should do the trick – five days, not seven, as things normally begin to improve after about 36 hours. However, given that I have had this problem before, I think it might be sensible for you to refer me. I was actually referred by another GP 10 years ago when I lived in London, and was sent for surgery. But when I went along for the operation – I had my slippers and pyjamas and everything with me in my little bag – the consultant decided against it. I never found it why. So perhaps it’s time for someone else to have a look. Entirely up to you, of course, doctor.”

Doctor: “OK, here’s your prescription for a five-day course of amoxicillin. And, after retrieving the notes from your previous GP, I’ll refer you. You won’t have to come back here – you’ll just get a phone call.”

Barry: “Thank you doctor, much appreciated.”

Doctor: “Next!”

My mum always wanted me to be a doctor.

Is it a bird? Is it a plane?

I read with interest earlier today that the Ministry of Defence has been criticised by the RSPCA for using more than 100 pigs in explosive tests in Wiltshire.

And for all these years I've believed that pigs can't fly.

Pics in the Parcs

The headache I was banging on about yesterday (OW!) appears not to have been purely as a result of over-Guinnessing after all.

Because, for what feels like the millionth time in my life, I've developed a case/dose/bout (delete where applicable) of sinusitis. Not happy.

And the result is a headache now well into its second day.

But you know me (possibly), not one for complaining (ahem), so we march on - albeit briefly (did I mention I had a headache?)

Now then, where were we? Oh yes, the CenterParcs weekend just gone.

Well, Wee John bored me whilst watching the rugby...

...but later he and Vanessa beat Vicky and me at Question of Sport...

...her and her helped Jamie with his reading...

...Wee John did a wee bit of shopping with his wee shopping trolley...

...Jamie had a couple of early morning visitors...

...before trying out his new wee chair bought for him (predictably enough) by Wee John...

...then Auntie Vicky rightly reminded us it was actually someone else's weekend...

...so, having mistakenly left Vanessa's original cake in my wardrobe in Pudsey (which I was clearly delighted about), I managed to requisition another one...

... before finally, with Wee John's wee back turned, Jamie helped himself to an advance on his Godson pocket money from Wee John's wee wallet.

So, CenterParcs Sherwood Forest was indeed great and I hope it won't be another year before we return.

I also hope my headache will have gone by then.

Something wrong in the head

We've been back from CenterParcs about three hours now and my headache still won't go away.

The past four days have been terrific, so no surprise there.

However, there wasn't as much "sporting activity" involving Wee John and myself as originally envisaged.

In fact, other than me joining Vicky, Vanessa and Jamie on the water slides this morning, watching three rugby matches and three football matches on the Sports Cafe big screen, and playing three games of pool and two games of the Question of Sport board game were as "active" as either of us got.

And each element was accompanied by copious amounts of Guinness - hence the piercing headache.

Despite me leaving her cake in Pudsey, Vanessa's birthday seemed to work out well enough.

But I'll tell you more about that and everything else over the next couple of days, because I really do need to lie down.

"Holidays" - tch!

Off down the Forest

It's time for the Whites' Annual February Break! (not that we're sad creatures of habit or anything, of course not, hell no).

The long and the short of it is that it's Vanessa's birthday on Sunday - she turns 35, making her a whole five years older than Kelly Brook - and so we're making a long weekend of it.

In recent years, we've sat in a big wooden hut in North Yorkshire. But, for 2010, we're doing things a little differently - we're going to sit in a big wooden hut in Nottinghamshire instead.

Actually, it's a bit more exciting than it sounds (not that sitting in a random hut in Nottinghamshire would be in any way dull). Because we're off to CenterParcs in Sherwood Forest.

And yes, I am incredibly excited.

We've been to CentreParcs in the Lake District once previously, in 2004 BJ (Before Jamie). And it was terrific. But because it was in the BJ years and we weren't kidded up, it was an entirely different experience than we're expecting over the next four days.

As well as our son, we're also bringing our pet - Wee John - and Jamie's Auntie Vickie is coming too.

Add the backdrop of the first weekend of Six Nations rugby to the mix and, well, it could be fun. And who knows, Jamie might even enjoy it too.

There or may not be Internet access down there but, to be honest, you probably need a break from reading this guff as much as I need a break from vomiting it up.

So I'll be back online on Monday when we return, by which time I hope to have been crowned the Whites' Annual February Break Adventure Golf Champion.

Have a nice few days.

PS Any burglars out there, don't even think about it. Our large-forearmed neighbour Barrington is watching, he's got a gun and he's not trained to use it - making him even more dangerous, should you choose to cross our threshold. You have been warned....BANG!!!

It's (almost) enough to put you off drink

Early last year before Jamie could walk, some doom-mongering Ulsterwoman said to me that every step he eventually took would be a step away from Vanessa and me.

My response to this observation was along the lines of:

"What do you know, you crumbly old b******?! F*** off, mind your own business and, actually, f*** off again!"

Thankfully, I said this inwardly rather than out loud so, unless she reads this, she'll never know.

However, the reason for relaying this brief incident is because you may have read that a new shatter-proof pint glass is being launched today in an effort to do something about a reported 87,000 glass attacks in British pubs each year.

We've all obviously heard that glass attacks happen in pubs although I, thankfully, have never witnessed one (and I have been in a few pubs in my time). But I had no idea they were so common. Scary stuff to say the least.

Which brings me back to Jamie and his endless march away from Vanessa and me.

Perhaps that depressing old bint had a point after all. Perhaps it's bad for him that he now walks. And, more to the point, what might happen when he gets older and wants to walk into a pub?

No, on reflection, she was right, the walking must stop - it's not safe.

As soon as he comes back from his Grandma Judy and Grandad Mike's later today, he's grounded. And he's not going out ever, ever again.

I'm sure, given a couple or three decades, he'll get used to the idea.

PS You don't think I'm over-reacting, do you?

Rocky moments

Parents/guardians amongst you will not need to be reminded that the looks of our children can frequently deceive.

Just have a look at Angel Boy above.

Butter wouldn't melt etc etc.

Ermm....balls!

Yesterday at nursery, Angel Boy became Devil Boy when, twice, he had a swipe at other mini-people who were doing him no harm.

He didn't do it in anger, according to the nice ladies in Toddler Two, and just thought he was playing a game. But, clearly, he'll have to think again on that one - if he doesn't want to sleep on our roof for the next couple of nights.

It was Vanessa who picked him up last night before telling me what he had done.

And I was annoyed.

But he then did something which kids often do when they know you're not too pleased with them; he did something incredibly cute.

For the first time that I, certainly, have seen or heard, he strung three words together.

And what did he say in arguably his first proper sentence, just as he was heading off to bed?

"Night, night, daddy." And then he kissed me.

Forget the butter - I just melted in front of him, although I tried not to let him see since I was still "angry."

It was one of those moments I'll not forget. And it was a perfect illustration of the swings and roundabouts that come with being a parent.

But let's hope the Rocky impressions stop soon (although, strictly speaking, he does look more like Ivan Drago).

Windy has a stiff one

I've never been described as being "up with the kids," but I would like to think of myself as being "down with the babies."

I base this belief purely and simply on my knowledge of modern day baby telly.

Because there's not a babies' TV show on Cbeebies, Nick Jnr or Channel 5 that I'm not an expert in. And, I have to say, that makes me very proud (although I should again remind you that I don't get out much these days).

But I've had to work at it and, I have to admit, Jamie's arrival has played a small part in my knowledge development.

To illustrate, in the early days, I used to make him watch shows like Scooby Doo, Top Cat and Hong Kong Phooey. But he didn't like them very much and either cried or tried to crawl off somewhere. So I did some research, discovered that they now make lots of new shows which cater for little scraps like he then was, and both of us set about becoming connoisseurs.

Thomas The Tank Engine, Roary The Racing Car and Peppa Pig are all shining examples of "modern greats." But they're also incredibly "responsible"/politically correct - which brings me to my point.

Last night, Vanessa and I were wrecked and decided to head off to bed early (don't be mucky). And I did what I always do when I walk into our room - I turned the telly on (ever the romantic).

It was still tuned into Nick Jnr 2, which Jamie had been watching before he went to bed, and they were showing an episode of Camberwick Green as part of their "Nickelodeon Classics" feature for sad parents who don't want to grow up. Like me.

So, as you would, I sat down to find out what was going on. And, essentially, Windy Miller had a mate over. I couldn't quite work out who he was or the nature of his relationship with Windy, but they were clearly very close.

However, at the end of their long day together, Windy did something which almost short-circuited my 2010 modern daddy brain (shut up).

He produced a huge barrel of cider and a glass each for himself and his pal.

And they began to drink heavily.

It was possibly the highlight of my year so far.

And it's true, they really don't make them like they use to - tragically.

Brief reflections on Mo

Last night's Channel 4 "drama-documentary" on the latter life and times of former Northern Ireland Secretary Mo Mowlam was, unquestionably, a fine piece of television.

And the details of the story were largely accurate (unlike Braveheart and all those American war films that forget that Britain played a part too).

However, a couple of quick observations.

As someone who worked for the Ulster Unionists throughout Mo's tenure as Secretary of State, I was irritated, but not in the least bit surprised, at the portrayal of my former boss David Trimble as something akin to a big bad wolf.

There seems to be an unwritten rule that any Unionist politician appearing in any drama of any kind must come across as cold, humourless and angry. It's unfair and it's untrue but I suppose it excuses both writers and viewers from the task of having to think for themselves.

Some of the castings also were a little on the lax side, a couple hilariously so.

For example, Peter Kilfoyle, whilst a Scouser, is neither tall nor dark. And Adam Ingram isn't a bald geriatric.

On the upside, whoever decided to cast Mini Me as loyalist godfather Johnny "Mad Dog" Adair and a short-arsed bulimic as Gerry Adams deserves some kind of reward. I almost wet myself.

As for Mo, clearly Julie Walters was an inspired choice - have you ever seen her in anything bad?

And I thought she got very close to the real Mo, who I had the privilege of meeting on several occasions.

People can argue about how pivotal Mo was in delivering so-called "peace" in Northern Ireland.

But her love for the place and its people was certainly beyond reproach. And for this, she should not and will not be forgotten.

Happy Andy stays in the locker

Whilst I did want Andy Murray to win his Aussie Open Final against Roger Federer this morning, I can sense genuine relief on his part that he didn't triumph.

Because the pressure is now off.

He doesn't have to smile after all.

PS Doesn't his mother Judy look like Julie Walters?

PPS Well, I think she does - alright!

A dark moment for the Whites

Jamie went to the beach yesterday, as you can see.

Actually, that's a complete lie, he didn't; he just spent a bit of the afternoon playing in the sandpit at a local play barn (that's him on the left, below).

And all was going well - until he suddenly began hurling huge handfuls of sand at the sole black child present.

I don't think I've ever felt so embarrassed.

Model parents

I write this blog for several reasons, one of which is to provide a record of what was going on in the world during Jamie's first few months (and now years) of life.

And today, I'm going to briefly discuss the subject of model parents.

So, Jamie, the current holder of the "Dad of the Year" title is a man called John Terry. John is the captain of the England football team and someone little boys like you are supposed to look up to.

However, everyone has just found out that John has been a very naughty boy. Because John has been caught kissing his best friend Wayne's girlfriend behind Wayne's back. Bad John!

And not only has John been a very bad best friend to Wayne, he's also been a very bad husband to Mrs Terry and a very bad daddy to his three-year-old twins.

John is a very rich man and is paid £170,000 a week. And because John has lots of money, the newspapers say that John gave some of his money to Wayne's girlfriend so she wouldn't tell anyone else they had been kissing. However, that didn't work because the newspapers found out and told everyone anyway.

Chelsea, the football team that John plays for, have said that they will support John and whatever he does is alright by them. That is because Chelsea is run by slags. And that's why John plays for Chelsea, because John is also a slag.

OK, Jamie, so that's the "Dad of the Year."

Now it's the turn of the mummies and, for a change, we'll go back to 2007 when the "Mum of the Year" was called Katie Price, although she sometimes calls herself Jordan. She is mummy to two little boys and a little girl. Katie is also a slag.

Katie will do absolutely anything to get money or get her picture in newspapers and magazines. She has kissed lots and lots of boys and then she tells the newspapers and magazines so they give her more money and take more pictures of her.

Katie's got a boyfriend and he's called Alex. A few weeks ago, Katie told Alex that she didn't want to be his girlfriend any more. However, she didn't tell Alex to his face. She announced it on TV in front of lots and lots of other people so she could get more money and get her picture in more newspapers and magazines. Bad Katie!

Then Katie found out that Alex was going to be in another TV programme that lots and lots of people also watch. So Katie became Alex's girlfriend again because she thought it might help her to get even more money and get her picture in even more newspapers and magazines.

Last night, Alex was voted as the most popular person in the TV programme and everybody cheered for him. Katie is very happy about that because for the next few weeks she's going to make lots and lots more money and get her picture in lots and lots more newspapers and magazines.

But as soon as she thinks she has made as much money and got her picture in as many magazines and newspapers as she can, Katie will tell Alex she doesn't want to be his girlfriend any more and she wants to kiss other boys instead. And then she will tell the newspapers and magazines and they will give her more money and take more pictures of her.

So, Jamie, when you eventually read this, I hope you're not too disappointed to learn that your mummy and daddy weren't model parents.

Having another dart at my new hobby

It's the weekend - hallelujah for that.

And I'm planning to spend a significant chunk of it playing darts.

You may mock, and with very good reason. But let me explain.

I bought a dartboard on New Year's Eve 2008 because I'd been watching the world championship on TV and fancied having a go myself.

However, after screwing the board to the wall and firing my first few arrows at it, I quickly discovered that it wasn't as easy as those fat blokes on the telly make it appear. In fact, at times I did well to hit the board at all.

And the problem with missing the board was that I then hit the wall - and Vanessa hit me. So I gave up.

But last Saturday I was bored and, in a flight of unplanned fancy, went on t'Internet and spent £20 on a dartboard wall protector which was delivered yesterday (it's the black thing in the picture above). And last night I had a go at trying not to hit it.

The good news is that I only missed the board three times during my 30 minutes of firing, and even achieved a highest score of 101 - which you can also see in the photo.

But, to be honest, that total is a little deceiving. I did hit a treble 20 with my first dart which was great. But the double 20 with my second was not intentional and neither, obviously enough, was the single one which I scored with dart three.

However, at least I appear to have made a little progress in the year and a bit since I bought my board. The next challenge is to continue to get better.

And after that, it's to get a life. That might be the really hard bit.