Old and older

Those of you with nothing better to do than read this pointless blog will be aware that Wee John's 40th birthday came and went the week before last. 

But we do like to drag these things out, particularly given the fact that my dad is due to celebrate his own very special landmark on 19 November when he turns 75.

So, on Sunday, we threw a joint party.

The kids ate first...

...then the adults...

....before we combined assembled forces...

...to gorge down...

....two cakes between us.

Next up were some fireworks and Chinese lantern lighting...

sparklers...

...paper burning...

...and beer for children. 

See, Sundays can be fun.

Old Game Face

Another heavy weekend has come and gone - just like my dad, Wee John and Other John who were at the heart of it all.

Yesterday was a particular highlight, and I'll tell you about that tomorrow. 

But first, Saturday and our trip to Ewood Park for Blackburn Rovers v Chelsea.

Despite supporting his beloved Blues for exactly 103 years and seeing them play many times before, my dad had never, ever seen Chelsea win a game.

Until Saturday, that was.

Not that you would have known it.

Sometimes you just have to get on with it

Now the dust of last weekend has finally settled - unlike my stomach and connected storage areas - my dad has arrived to knock some sense into me.

But he hasn't got long. 

Because Wee John arrives tomorrow night. 

Jamie and Charlotte can't believe their luck. 

And I can't believe I'm going to have to drink again. 

In fact, I'm writing this with a full glass of wine sitting beside me.

I trust I have your sympathy.

Night/morning after 3 - The Final Act

Saturday evening arrived and it was time to put the icing on the cake (OK, not true - the cake was already at the restaurant) by getting the ferry across to Lusty Beg Island in County Fermanagh for Wee John's 40th birthday banquet and dance-off.

It resembled a wartime experience as we landed like an invading force, which we kind of were.

John's sister Mary (number 51 of the 67) joined us for the finale along with husband Colin The Bear and son Stephen.  And they didn't take long to get into the action.

Dinner was first (steak all round)...

  

...followed by said cake which was the closest thing to a spongy fire hazard that I've seen.

After some brief "respite" in the bar...

 ...it was time to dance....

...to a band featuring a rather familiar guest lead singer.

 

Big Tony asked a local to get groovy...

...but the stranger turned him down in favour of Shane who was more his type.

Initially, comforted by Mary and The Bear, Big Tony took his rejection badly...

...but a few more drinks later...

...he was back in the game...



...just as Wee John got himself a bit of plastic action.

All that remained was for the birthday boy to sail us home..

...in preparation for the inevitable hangover which, four days on, he is yet to recover from.

Thanks for the memories wee man, it was great to be a part of it.

Night/morning after 2

Following our Ulster Fries and a final toilet visit - can you guess which of the above Wee John used? - it was time to head north for a bit of sightseeing.

Wee John was actually driving, but he's so small I kept thinking we were on autopilot.  (A prize for the first person to spot him).

I'm deliberately not going to show you the many wondrous attractions that lie on the Causeway Coast because, if you're not from Northern Ireland, I demand that you go there to see them for yourself.

So instead we fast forward to our night in Portrush (Major Golf Capital of the World) where, yes, we ate and we drank. As you do.

By this stage, Big Sean had left us as his wife Melanie wouldn't let him out.  But not to worry, because it was time for Big Tony (second from right) and his incredibly patient wife Fun Paula (one of John's 67 sisters) to join the fray.

I was then genuinely expecting a nice early night in preparation for Saturday.  But I had foolishly forgotten what Big Tony was like and, with teetotal Pav in the driving seat, I was effectively kidnapped and taken to Tony and Paula's house for some more oral lubrication.

John was pleased at the prospect...

...whilst I decided to put a brave face on it.

Really.  I wasn't enjoying myself at all.

And, when we got there, neither was anyone else.

As you can clearly see.

What followed were several hours of "high brow" chat accompanied by champagne (thanks Tony), brandy and Baileys (thanks again Tony) and, finally, brandy and milk after all the mixers ran out (f*** off Tony).

I am glad to report that I had actually left before the latter.  But Terence hadn't.  

And come Saturday morning, it was a matter of great regret to him.  Particularly after his third vomit. 

After all, it was a two-and-a-half hour drive from Coleraine to Fermanagh - and the main event.   

Night/morning after 1

Belfast is no stranger to gangs of disreputable men, although thankfully less so in recent years.

But the dodgyometer in Northern Ireland's capital city shot up once again last Thursday night with the arrival of some seriously shifty individuals.

Pictured above (from left to right), in front of Belfast City Hall, are Wee Pav, Wee Charlie, Big Sean, Wee John, Medium Shane and (front) Reasonably Large Terence. 

And, joined by Wee John's sister Madonna and hubby Graham, here is everyone filling their faces (with Guinness) in a local restaurant.

Although, as Shane demonstrates, some wine did come into play a little later in proceedings.

Over the course of what became a very long night, we had the rare spectacle of Pav and Sean taking part in a Baldy Battle.  Always worth a watch.

And, briefly moving forward to Friday morning, note how the smiles have disappeared as the gathering seeks to collectively recover with first aid Northern Ireland style.  Or, as the locals call it, an Ulster Fry.  

More tomorrow, when it all begins to get just a little bit messy. 

I think he looks ridiculous. U2?

No doubt you, like me, will have seen some very scary sights over the Halloween period.

Jamie and Charlotte's skeleton and witch costumes are certainly up there in terror-inducing terms.  

But Wee John, dressed as a Joshua Tree era Bono last Saturday night, wins my prize.

In case you're wondering, I have absolutely no idea of the identity of those two characters holding him up.  And neither does he.    

Don't laugh at him 'cos he's a fool

It's the evening after the evening after the three previous evenings, or Wee John's fortieth birthday weekend to be more specific.

Over the next 2-3 days, I'll try to give you a flavour of what went on - or what I remember of what went on, which sadly limits things significantly.  

But for some reason I'm still rather tired.  No idea why. 

Perhaps it was all that rest we had. Because, as you can see above, we were in bed early every single night.

I hope he's bringing ID

It's Wee John's 40th birthday today and I've got to dash off to Belfast shortly to begin a three-night tour of Northern Ireland hostelries whilst telling everyone that he's my friend.

He's not, though. He's more of a responsibility.

However, like other great men and women who have graced this planet down the centuries, I've taken the decision to do what is right and to help the little person.  Well, one little person.

And if that means putting up with what is bound to be a very long weekend of pointless banter interspersed with periods of awkward silence, then so be it.    

And...errr...well...Happy Birthday, Wee John.  I suppose.

PS You're buying.