Tie, tie and tie again

Jamie and I have just finished watching the first qualifying session of the new Formula One season.

I think he enjoyed it although he kept asking where Roary the Racing car was. I suggested the Number One Star might be on the grid for the race proper tomorrow, giving me just under 24 hours to think of a reason why he's not. I might say he's ill.

On other matters, yesterday I bought some new ties - six new ties, to be precise.

You might think that six is a lot of new ties to buy in one fell swoop, particularly as there are only five days in the working week.

However, Moss Bros had a sale on and I couldn't resist: six ties, 20 pounds, job's a good 'un. And at least two of them are just about wearable.

Monday can't come soon enough (my a*se).

Paying for their children - and grandchildren

Yesterday – the day when three particularly greedy and cocky MPs appeared in court accused of nicking more than £60,000 of our money in false expense claims – I discovered more evidence that a significant number of honourable and right honourable Members still believe they don’t breathe the same air as the rest of us.

To explain, the painting above – I couldn’t find a photograph – shows the building known as One Parliament Street (I’ll leave you to work out why that might be). Inside you can find the Westminster offices of probably a hundred or so MPs, as well as a couple of restaurants and, most relevantly for the purposes of what I’m about to tell you, Bellamy’s Bar.

I have very fond memories of Bellamy’s Bar. For example, I encountered the only real person I’ve ever met called Elvis in there, he was Welsh. And I have some bad ones – it was in Bellamy’s where I watched Ryan Giggs’ extra-time wonder goal sink Arsenal in that famous 1999 FA Cup semi-final replay.

One of the principal reasons I liked Bellamy’s was, essentially, because it was the researchers’ bar. MPs themselves were rarely seen there and journalists were actually banned from going in. So it was “our place” where we could talk freely amongst ourselves without either bosses or hungry newshounds getting in the way.

I think it had become a bit rundown in recent years and, a little while ago, I read it had been refurbished at a cost of £400,000. You could very easily argue that this amount was more than a little over-the-top – it certainly sounded that way to me – but there you are.

However, what have our moralistic, whiter-than-white, not-in-the-least-bit-greedy-or-self-serving MPs now decided to do with Bellamy’s?

Get this – they plan to spend another £400,000 of our money turning it into a nursery for their children and other assorted relatives.

To quote Labour MP Joan Walley:

“The important thing is that we treat the House of Commons as the workplace of parliamentary democracy.

“After 22 years of my being here, there may be a workplace nursery for my grandchildren.”

Whatever you think dear – and dear, you and many of your friends certainly are to the rest of us.

Not to mention grasping b*stards.

Is he in the right job?

I had another bizarre experience on my way home from work tonight.

Last Christmas, my mum very kindly gave me a gift card for a well known chain store (it's got an "M" in its title) which I deliberately refrained from using until deciding what it was I really needed.

And after 10 weeks of intensive consideration, today I finally plumped for a new bag for work - you might call it a "man bag" - given that my current off the shoulder number has seen better days in the decade it's been hanging off me.

So I called into this particular shop (there's also an "S" in there), chose a suitable bag - i.e. as close as possible to the one I have - before making my way to the pay point.

But en route, I noticed some reasonably-priced lightweight jackets which I thought might do me nicely in my quest not to die of hypothermia at Headingley during the upcoming cricket season. I tried three on, chose one and then went to settle up. All was going well.

I gave my intended purchases to the assistant and announced how satisfied I felt with what I'd found and how glad I was that I'd waited to use my gift card (sometimes I really am the dullest man on the planet).

But then things got complicated, and even a little weird.

"I shouldn't be telling you this," whispered the assistant, "but I've heard rumours that we are having a sale starting next Tuesday. I don't know whether or not these items are in the sale, but it would be terrible if you paid the full price now and then found they were cheaper next week."

He was obviously right - not to mention incredibly kind - but there were two problems:

1. Clearly my items might not be in the sale, and


2. It had already taken me 10 weeks to get round to walking into the shop. Would I really be bothered to go back next week on the off-chance of saving £3?

I hummed and hawed for a bit before suggesting I would just go ahead and buy my new bag and jacket while I could.

But my sales friend would hear none of it.

The eventual outcome was that my desired items have now been reserved for me until next Wednesday so that I can go back the day before and see if they did end up in the sale.

How odd and, again, fair play to my new pal.

But for his sake, I do hope he's not working on commission.

Big Head Vanessa

Eagle-eyed ITV Yorkshire viewers may have spotted Vanessa on last night's Calendar (she did her bit just before the female Elvis impersonator who was forced to retire after giving up fags and losing her husky voice).

She was making her annual appearance on the sofa beside Christine and Duncan to promote the launch of the Big Lottery Fund's "People's Millions" competition.

Vanessa has worked for the organisation for many years and has now risen to the dizzy heights of "Head of the Yorkshire and Humber Region." She even has her own desk and computer and everything.

But here's the thing.

The Big Lottery Fund has done a bit of rebranding in recent times and, where possible, has shortened its name simply to Big.

I was quite amused by this when I first heard and have since waited patiently for what I believed was about to happen to actually come to pass. And, in yesterday morning's papers, it did - to my huge delight.

Big (tee hee) had put out a press release to coincide with the People's Millions launch. And, when I picked up my copy of the Bradford Telegraph & Argus, I saw the headline:

"Do you fancy a slice of £250,000?"

The article then proceeded to outline details of the competition and finished with a quote as follows:

"Big and ITV are calling on people to come forward with their brilliant ideas to improve their communities. I would urge you to seize this opportunity to get funding for something special that you know will make a real difference to the people around you."

And who was the quote from?

"Vanessa White, Big Head of the Yorkshire and Humber Region."

You couldn't make it up.

PS A bit like the female Elvis impersonator

You might say it was good

"I ****ing loved it!"

That's the kind of uncouth and, quite frankly, gutter response you might expect from a scummy and unsophisticated individual after they'd been asked what they thought of their first live performance of Riverdance.

And my own verdict of last night's show in Bradford? Easy.

"I ****ing loved it!"

I reckon it was the second best show I've seen on stage - just behind The Lion King (but I'll not embarrass myself further by getting into that).

I'm not one of life's dancers, see - that fact quickly becomes stark when you see my moves. And, despite coming from Norn Iron, I know next to nothing about Irish dancing (there wasn't a great call for it in Macosquin where I spent my early years).

But I do know when I'm impressed by something and, last night, I was simply blown away. The pace, the sounds, the beauty, the effortlessness of the dancers and their obvious enjoyment as they performed was close to overwhelming.

In fact, the only downside was that our seats were so high up - the picture above was taken from my perch - that I kept hitting my head on the roof every time I tried to get involved in a standing ovation. (OK, slight exaggeration, but you get my point).

And I reckon Vanessa must have cracked her head off something during the first half of the show too, because here is word for word the very brief conversation we had during the interval.

Vanessa: "That's brilliant! I love Irish dancing! Do you fancy signing up for some classes?"

Barry: "No."

As if.

But anyway, Riverdance - wonderful, wonderful, wonderful. Please go and see it if you get a sniff of a chance.

You'll ****ing love it!

Finally taking the leap

Jamie's constipated (sorry, too early for you?)

I only raise this because, being Tuesday, I've just dumped him at nursery and I have slight concerns he'll not last the day.

I've written several times in the past about their controversial "three shites and you're out" policy (although, only a fortnight ago, they ejected him after a single but searing "home run" which left his jeans in a very bad way).

So conversely, one must wonder if they also adopt a stance of "no poo won't do." The next few hours will inevitably provide the answer.

Aside from all this excitement, here's a thing: Vanessa and I are off to see Riverdance tonight. Yes, get us - I'm even toying with the idea of putting on a pair of floaty trousers.

2010 marks yet another farewell tour for the show that simply refuses to die. And so it's time for me to finally accept the inevitable and go to see it.

The Bradford Alhambra is the venue and Vanessa's mum Judy and stepdad Mike make up our party of four.

Like most people, I only know the one "tune" in the entire show - yes "that one." In fact, I've even got it on CD. But hopefully I'll be humming along to some of the others before the night is out.

I'll offer my serious and considered thoughts on the production tomorrow.

How they grow

Yesterday, we Whites headed off on our first trip of the new season to Harewood House, a stately home and grounds just outside Leeds.

It's a journey we have made many times in the last couple of years, principally because Vanessa has a card which gets us in free, she's from Yorkshire, is therefore as tight as a duck's wotsit and, well, you get the picture.

But whilst there, I thought I'd pass the time by doing something I thought might be interesting - you can make up your own mind whether it is or not.

The photo above of Jamie was taken yesterday. But below you can see the same shot placed alongside one snapped exactly 51 weeks ago when we went on our first Harewood trip of the 2009 season.

Where does the time go? Goodness knows, although at least I can be certain where Jamie's food went.

As an aside, our man had something of a surprise when, at one point, he decided to go off in search of small animals.

Because he only bumped into his Uncle Wee John.

Now there's someone who, despite his advancing years, just never seems to get any bigger.

Calling the Class of '83!

The picture above was taken circa 1989 in The White Pheasant bar in Portrush.

On the right you can see Mr Jonny Lennox, frontman of legendary schoolboy band (in my world, at least) The Fix. Just in the corner of shot is bass player, Mr Paul Beattie. And hidden from view is drummer Mr Shaun Giffin.

The rest of the picture is made up of schoolboys and girls from The Triangle area (I'm the gormless-looking one in middle holding the pint glass). There is only one individual in the photo who I can say for certain was 18 at the time.

Ladies and gentlemen, those were indeed the days.

Jonny put this picture up on Facebook only a few days ago, and his timing could not have been better. Because all three band members were in my year at Coleraine Inst. And, for the past few weeks, a handful of us had been talking about trying to put together a reunion. Sight of this picture convinced me immediately that we had to have a go and, on Wednesday, I sent out e-mails to Facebook friends from the Class of '83 to establish interest.

The response to those e-mails plus some phone calls, texts and the efforts of others - particularly hairless, clueless copper Sean Fitzpatrick - has meant that we are now going ahead and Sean has even booked the venue (owned by another ex-classmate).

The event will take place on Saturday 19 June in The Playhouse, Portrush - almost (and possibly even exactly) 20 years to the day since the last of us walked out of the school gates for the final time after finishing our 'A' Levels.

The exclusive news is that, since Wednesday, two of the three members of The Fix have agreed to reform for one night only in what will be their first performance since 1993. And Shaun - who now lives in the United States - has not ruled out making it back to complete the line-up.

As you might imagine, it should be quite a night.

(NB: If you are from the Class of '83 and haven't yet been contacted about this, please get in touch with me ASAP. It'll be a laugh, I promise).

Surf Boy

They say "you can never start too young" and, in some of aspects of life, this is undoubtedly true.

Golf is one activity that springs to mind. And using computers is most definitely another. (In contrast, going to work, worrying about bills and trying to work out what the hell goes on in women's minds are matters best left until you absolutely have to - as I stress to Jamie every, single day).

As you can see above, Mini-White has already taken an active interest in our PC which I'm currently staring at here in our spare room.

No matter what's on the screen, he wants to have a look. And I can immediately forget about typing anything the second he appears at my hip.

But his early fascination with technology presents advantages for me in later years too.

For example, in an ideal world, I would love to be the proud owner of a Nintendo Wii and my upcoming birthday would seem to present an obvious opportunity to make this happen. But I already know I wouldn't understand how to work it.

But by next year, when Jamie's talking his progressed a bit more, he'll be able to tell me all I need to know to get started.

Yes, 2011 it is then.

Or I could be really sneaky and try to persuade him to ask Santa for one...(WHAT?!!)

Mouse in the House

I'm delighted to report that I feel much better today, although still a fair bit from being back to my normal self (and no, that's not a good thing - thanks very much).

But I am back to work and have been trying to catch up on what's been going on. Did you know that the House of Lords now has its own mouse helpline?

No? You missed it too?

My stretch based in Parliament afforded me the privilege of doing a lot of work in their Lordships' House and, by the time I left, I had developed a deep affection for the place and many of the individuals who sit there.

The reasons for this are many, but one in particular stands out - a significant number of peers are mad, pure and simple. If you don't believe me, read this genuine report which I received by e-mail this morning:

Peer admits Parliament has 'mouse helpline'

Peers called for more to be done to tackle the problem of mice on the parliamentary estate yesterday afternoon, and revealed the existence of a so called 'mouse helpline'.

During a debate in the House of Lords, Baroness Finlay of Llandaff, vice chair of the parliamentary allergy group, called for the introduction of "hypoallergenic cats" to deal with the problem of mice in the Palace of Westminster."

Miss Wilson, when she was a resident superintendent in this Palace, had a cat that apparently caught up to 60 mice a night," she told peers.

"The corpses were then swept up in the morning."

And she warned that the rodents posed a fire safety threat as they chewed through cables.

"It would be a tragedy for this beautiful Palace to burn down for lack of a cat," she said.

The cross bench peer also wanted to know how many calls there had been to the "mouse helpline" – presumably used by people to report sightings, rather than by mice experiencing emotional issues.

Speaking for the parliamentary authorities, Lord Brabazon of Tara said he was not able to give the number of calls made to the helpline.

"I suspect that it would not be a good use of resources to count them up," he said.

But he said there were a "number of reasons" why it was not a good idea to have cat.

"First, they would ingest mouse poison when eating poisoned mice, which would not be very nice for them, and there would be nothing to keep them where they are needed or stop them walking around the House on desks in offices or on tables in restaurants and bars—and maybe even in the Chamber itself.

"Therefore, we have ruled out at this stage the possibility of acquiring a cat, or cats," he said.

But he assured the Lords that he was conscious of the problem.

"I am well aware that there are still mice around," he said.

"I saw one in the Bishops' Bar only yesterday evening. I do not know whether it was the same one that I saw the day before or a different one; it is always difficult to tell the difference between the various mice that one sees."

He added: "As I speak here this afternoon, the Bishops' Bar and the Guest Room are being hoovered, so we can get rid of the food scraps from lunch. If you were a mouse, you would rather eat the crumbs of a smoked salmon sandwich than the bait. Therefore, we want to remove the crumbs as quickly as possible."

But Baroness Symons of Vernham Dean said she was not even aware there was a helpline for mice.

"I was in total ignorance that there was anything of the nature of a mouse helpline until this question time," she said.

"Can the chairman of committees [Lord Brabazon] tell us what helplines there are for members of the House on other issues that we do not know about?"

Lord Brabazon said he had tried to keep the existence of the helpline under wraps, although it had been advertised some time ago.

"I invited Members of the House to telephone when they saw mice," he said.

"The trouble is that when the person at the other end of the helpline goes to check this out, very often the mouse has gone elsewhere."

Don't you just love them?!

Desperate times mean desperate measures

It's been a rough 24 hours.

Shortly after writing yesterday's daily dose of trash, I began to develop very painful cramps in my stomach. I obviously hoped they would go away as quickly as they arrived. But that turned out not to be the case.

What lay ahead was an evening, a full night, a morning and an early afternoon of aching pain which all manner of drugs was unable to shift. Thankfully, the last 90 minutes or so have heralded a bit of respite, although my headache - which started around lunchtime - still refuses to go away. Fun, fun, fun.

But, as ever in life, you can find a laugh if you're determined enough to keep looking. And, this morning, I uncovered a gem.

I was lying in bed, staring at my mobile phone with one eye open and trying to find an answer to the question of how to get rid of stomach cramps (desperate times and all that).

I was led to a site called wikiHow which, appropriately enough, had a whole section entitled "Cure Stomach Cramps." Excellent.

It listed all manner of suggested solutions, but one paragraph in particular caught my eye. It read as follows:

"Allow yourself to pass gas, even if you are in polite company. It may be somewhat embarrassing, but you do not want to allow yourself to become bloated or let the cramps become more serious and painful."

The words "pass gas" were linked to another section of wisdom, which I promptly clicked onto.

And here is where it took me:

"How to Pass Gas Unnoticed in the Office

This article is a brief guide for those who struggle to get relief from pent up gas without anyone noticing. Typical office cubicle layouts usually consist of four or more cubicles per cluster. You won't be able to perform this completely unnoticed, but hopefully in such a way that the finger won't point to you in person.


Steps

1 Move your chair forward as far as possible, until your stomach touches the desk.

2 Now slide down, keeping your legs straight until you're sitting right on the edge of your chair.

3 Grab the sides of your chair, and pull yourself down as hard as possible. This will eliminate the possibility of a noise, seeing as the soft seat will muffle the sound.

4 While maintaining downward pressure, relax your stomach muscles just enough to let go at an even, medium flow.

5 Bounce up and down a few times just to empty the smell which may still be caught in the seat, then return to upright position and continue your work.

6 If done correctly, the smell should rise in the middle of the cubicle cluster, making it impossible to determine who it was.


Tips

Prying your cheeks apart is also a very effective manner of avoiding the noise associated with passing gas.

Try getting out of your seat to walk to the other side of the room. If it smells and others are in the room, look around in slight disgust to pretend it wasn't you."

Well, at least it cheered me up.

In it to win it

After yesterday's mistaken-gender-identity incident on the train, the last thing Vanessa and I really needed was the following message in Jamie's nursery's March newsletter, which we received earlier today:

"Our annual Easter Bonnet Parade will be held on Wednesday 24 March at 10.30am.

"There will be a prize for the best bonnet and all children who participate will receive a small prize.

"We look forward to seeing your wonderful creations."

Clearly there's no way we can cut his hair before then.

The Great Betrayal

I've literally just crawled out of bed after a day of my face jammed into a pillow (George Michael, eat your heart out).

Unfortunately, the recovery from illness I had hoped for yesterday didn't materialise, and last night into this morning I felt worse than ever.

I can now best describe my condition as "numb," although that might have more to do with the almost three hours listening to Steve Wright reading out "great show, Steve" e-mails from sad and misguided fans. What a twonk.

Much more amusingly, Vanessa and Jamie have just returned from a day out at the National Media Museum in Bradford - and Vanessa's feeling a bit guilty.

They apparently had a fun time but, on the way home, an elderly Scottish couple took more than a passing interest in White Jnr (pictured above) who they thought was very cute. For a girl.

Vanessa overheard them talking about "her" and how pretty "she" was. They initially offered "her" some toffees, which Vanessa politely declined on the "girl" Jamie's behalf, so they very kindly gave "her" a drink instead.

By this stage, according to Vanessa who had made no comment clarifying Jamie's gender one way or the other, she was going to point out that Jamie was male rather than female.

But then came the killer question from Mrs Elderly Scottish Person.

"So, what age is she?"

Vanessa paused. And then she bottled it.

"She's 20 months."

Rest assured, this is a story that will be relayed to Jamie many times in the years ahead.

Is there anybody out there?

I'm beginning to go a bit loopy.

Following Jamie's and my Saturday lunchtime shopping trip to Marks & Spencer and not long before the Ireland rugby team ran out at Twickenham, I began to feel a little under the weather. And I haven't left the house since.

It appears the dreaded lurgy, which so bedevilled White Jnr's little frame last week, has managed to penetrate my somewhat larger outer shell, and it's not been fun.

Whilst I haven't been barfing up my inner self in the way he unfortunately did, I have been forced to divide my time between lying down and sitting down - and a large proportion of the sitting down hasn't been in front of the telly.

However, I have been working today - and got a fair bit done - grateful in the knowledge that my desk at home is a lot closer to the "washroom" than my desk in Bradford City Hall.

Anyway, tomorrow is another day which will hopefully bring a return to normality (whatever that is).

But I really don't like this "cooped-up" lark. Remind me never to go to prison. Or Butlins.

Now then, where did I put Jamie's Dioralyte?

Shopping's not for everyone

I took Jamie with me to our local Marks & Spencer yesterday morning whilst I picked up something for tea.

I'm not sure why I say this, but I kind of got the impression he was a little bored.

Something you don't see every day

A couple of years ago, there was a bit of kerfuffle surrounding the local elections in Bradford which ultimately led to the trial of an independent candidate who had stood in the Manningham ward.

The case came to court last spring and its outcome was reported on the front page of the Bradford Telegraph & Argus under the headline:

"A PARANOID, DISTURBED, CRAZED AND VIOLENT OLD MAN."

The story read as follows:

A senior judge has branded an 83-year-old Bradford man who attempted to overturn the election result in Manningham a “persistent minor public irritant” who shouted “anything, however offensive, insulting, threatening, racist, homophobic, sexist, or downright barmy”.

Richard Mawrey QC told Norman Scarth (pictured above), a candidate in May’s local election for his own Anti-Crime Party, he was a “crazed old man” who subjected voters as well as primary school children and their parents to “manic abuse” on the day of the election in May last year.

Mr Scarth had persisted with an election petition to the High Court in a bid to declare the results void after polling just 66 votes, while the winning candidate, Councillor Mohammad Amin, gained 2,319.

A special court session was held at Bradford’s City Hall and on the morning of the second day, election Judge Mawrey dismissed the petition describing it as “wholly misconceived”.

Mr Scarth left the chamber mid-judgment declaring the judge a “liar”.

The legal costs, which Mr Scarth must now pay, are expected to run into thousands of pounds, and Mr Scarth himself admitted it was likely to bankrupt him.

Judge Mawrey described Mr Scarth as a man convinced he was the victim of a conspiracy, which was tested further upon conviction of wounding in 2001 and served four years in prison, followed by two years in a psychiatric hospital.

He said: “In Mr Scarth’s universe he is the noble fighter for justice and the rule of law who, despite appalling levels of official persecution, has refused to be silenced and continues the struggle, bloody but unbowed.

“In the real world, inhabited by the rest of us, Mr Scarth is a disturbed, clearly paranoid and occasionally violent old man who is a persistent minor public irritant.”

Mr Scarth’s version of events was dismissed by the judge, who chose to believe evidence from a number of witnesses, including three police officers and Green Lane Primary School head teacher Kevin Holland instead.

The police were called to the school after complaints that Mr Scarth was causing a disturbance as he attempted to campaign outside the polling station using a loudhailer. He shouted abuse at Mr Holland when he tried to move Mr Scarth on and more insults were flung at the police as they tried to arrest him for a breach of the peace.

His petition claimed he was unlawfully arrested and that he was again intimidated and threatened with arrest on the day of the count.

Judge Mawrey concluded: “Far from being the victim of a governmental conspiracy to silence him and to prevent his election as a councillor by wrongfully arresting him and detaining him on polling day, he has been shown to be a sordid public nuisance whose disgraceful and demeaning behaviour in the public streets of Bradford on May 1, 2008 inevitably led to his arrest for a short period of detention.

“In my judgement he was very fortunate not to be charged with public order offences which shows that the officers concerned, far from being the sinister Gestapo of Mr Scarth’s imagination acting on the orders of central government, with good Yorkshire common sense and humanity displayed considerable tolerance of Mr Scarth’s disreputable antics and let him go without charge once his potential for disrupting the election had passed.

“In my judgement West Yorkshire police were not, as Mr Scarth believes, attempting to subvert democracy in the interest of a police state but were upholding democracy in trying to ensure that citizens of Bradford exercising their lawful right to vote were not subjected to manic abuse by a crazed old man.”

Clearly, Mr Scarth's day in court could have gone better for him and, as such, you could be forgiven for thinking he might decide to put it behind him.

What you would perhaps not have expected him to do was have a copy of the Telegraph & Argus front page laminated and mounted on his trolley dolly.

But that was exactly what he did, and this was the bizarre sight that awaited me when I went to catch my train home from Bradford Interchange on Thursday evening.

I can't comment on the "violent," but "paranoid, disturbed and crazed?"

Yep, I reckon Judge Mawrey got that one just about right.

A wee pint and a game of darts

At the risk of building up my part, I'm now going to wait until tomorrow before telling you about the bizarre sight I stumbled across last night (not that I obviously expect you to care that much).

The reason is I have to do a little research about my subject first and haven't enough time between now and the kick-off of Wales v France in the Six Nations. And I'm certainly not doing it after the match as I intend to calm my in-game nerves with a few Guinnei (plural of Guinness and, yes, I have just made that up) and might write something I regret.

But before I go - and remaining on the subject of strong drink - I was in stitches watching the darts from Belfast on Sky last night, principally because of some of the signs being held up by the rowdy but happy locals.

Personal favourites included:

• (Referring to Dutch legend Raymond van Barneveld) "BARNEY LOVES WEE ULSTER"


• "FINE! YOURSELF?"


• And the best one (which included an arrow pointing at another man standing beside the sign) "BIG SPENCE IS ON THE DLA."

Norn Iron humour at its unique best and it made me very proud.

I've since read a Belfast Telegraph report of the frivolities which revealed that, "around 35,000 pints of beer were consumed by the crowd during the raucous three-hour tournament."

Given that there were only 7,500 people in the room, that really is some kind of drinking.

And, whilst it might not reflect well on me, I now feel even prouder.

On hold

Vanessa's out tonight so, after getting Jamie down and before my man steak, monster bottle of wine and Premier League Darts live from Belfast on Sky Sports 1, I was planning to tell you about a particularly bizarre sight I encountered on the way home from work tonight.

But there's been a change of plan.

Its is now 9.28pm and I've just got Jamie off to sleep - after two hours of trying.

Up the upside, it's nice to know he wants to stay up to have fun with me.

On the downside, I hate him.

The upshot of this unexpected turn of events is that my man steak is still in the fridge, my monster bottle of wine is still on the rack and the darts is on live pause.

And as much as I want to tell you about the bizarre sight, I am not prepared to wait any longer for my man pleasures. Indeed, I don't think you'd respect me if I was and, quite frankly, I think I'd lose all respect for myself.

So please come back tomorrow.

PS The sight is really bizarre, trust me.

Another sickly adventure

Another draining but educational 24 hours on the good ship Fatherhood.

When we last "spoke," I mentioned Jamie had been sick on me. However, that little incident has since proven to be a mere hors d'oeuvre.

Because he's barfed on me twice more since then. And I don't just mean little smears on my shoulder, I mean proper BARF!!!(s). Great fun in the wee small hours, I'm sure you appreciate.

He obviously has a bug and, when you have a bug, the advice you're always given is to drink as much as you can get down you. (Coincidentally, I adopt a similar approach myself most weekends, even when I'm well).

But the problem for Jamie is that he's been unable to keep the fluids down - even water.

He was sick a total of five times during the course of last night and, by the time he regurgitated his latest cup of water, Vanessa and I were getting more than a little concerned.

Vanessa contacted NHS Direct just after 7am, phoned the doctor at 8 - she makes all the calls in our house, on account of my "silly" accent - and, by 10.30, Jamie and I were sitting in the waiting room waiting to be seen.

The doctor poked him a bit, he complained a bit, she prescribed some Dioralyte to tackle the dehydration and home we went.

And, having not been able to keep food down since Monday, he suddenly decided he wanted a banana.

The doctor had advised me to keep offering him food and drink, even if they kept reappearing all over my jumper, because he was likely to absorb at least something into his body. So a banana it was.

And, against the odds, he managed to keep it down, together with a few fluid ounces of Dioralyte and two yogurts. Oh, and two chocolate digestives.

The spiral since then has been very definitely upward and hopefully within the next two or three days, he'll be back to his shouty worst... er, best.

Between now and the weekend, I think it might be quite important for Vanessa and I to get some sleep - assuming he decides to have some too.

But can someone please tell me: when does the easy part of being a parent start? It must be sometime soon.

Mustn't it?

It’s enough to make you swear

Sorry for getting all serious and political on you last night, but I just don’t like it when people push other people around – even when Jamie does it at nursery.

On a much lighter note, you’ll be delighted to know that, shortly after I wrote that post, Jamie was sick all over on me.

But it gets worse.

Not sure what to do next, I called for urgent assistance from Vanessa, who burst into the spare room to be greeted by the sight of me covered from neck to waist in vomit whilst holding my son out at arms length in front of me.

Jamie took one look at her, another look at me and a little smile broke out across his face.

And then he uttered two words I’ll not forget, ever:

“Oh shit.”

I was absolutely mortified. I mean, how could he say such a thing? Had I taught him nothing?

Because I was covered, not in shit, but in sick. And, whilst the two words might sound similar to the inexperienced ear, they really are two completely different substances.

He really will have to learn.

And I really will have to stop swearing in front of him.