Say AAARRGGHH

Vanessa went to see Dr Goode first thing this morning to request some antibiotics for an increasingly gruesome throat infection.

We already knew it was a throat infection because, on Monday, she went to visit Dr Shitt-Too. You've met this medical genius before.

Dr Shitt-Too had a big gawk down Vanessa's gullet and immediately reported the presence of a number of white spots.

"You've got a throat infection!" 

Well done him. So what to do?

"Nothing," he said. "It should be better in a couple of days."

This course of "action" had already been predicted by Vanessa's friend Jill whom I met whilst dropping Jamie off at school. 

"He'll just tell her to pull herself together," she said dryly. Jill has "had" Dr Shitt-Too er, too.

I wind the clock on two days to this morning, when all - OK, Vanessa - was meant to be well. Then she woke up with the neck of Herman Munster. This is not a good look.

Thankfully, sensing that Dr Shitt-Too might have missed another crucial day at doctor school (i.e. the day they did sore throats) Vanessa had already shrewdly booked an appointment with the ever-reliable (but rarely available) Dr Goode. 

Following a short chat and a couple of "say AAARRGGHH"s, Mrs W was dispatched with some penicillin and a throat spray. Who knows, she may even get better now. 

As for Dr Shitt-Too, well, like me, he's clearly a man who's never truly found his vocation. Maybe he'll become the next manager of Manchester United.

Paddy whacked

Greetings dear friends, and may I wish you a Happy St Patrick's Day?

In fact, hold on a moment......Charlotte wants to do it.

There you go.

I was hoping to have a semi-lively evening to celebrate the achievements of Ireland's patron saint, which included founding St Patrick's Church, Coleraine in the 5th century AD. (Well played Paddy). I was confirmed there shortly afterwards.

However, you may have heard that the Ireland rugby team won the Six Nations championship on Saturday evening.

This pleased me very much.

So much so that I stayed up for a while.

As a result, I'm not sure I can do the same this evening.

Still, experience teaches me that you should never say never.

Sláinte.

Goodbye Mr Benn

In the coming hours, many better people than me will share their memories of Tony Benn who sadly passed away today.  But, for the record, I have a couple to relay - because he once made me some cash.

As an unashamed republican, Mr Benn wasn't a fan of Northern Ireland Unionist politicians.  But that did not stop him, in 1998, sending a handwritten note to my boss, David Trimble, to congratulate him on his role in achieving the Good Friday Agreement.  I opened the envelope and was quite taken by the class and tone of his words.  And suddenly I was a Tony Benn fan.

So much so that, three years later, I made it my business to be in the Chamber to hear him deliver his final speech to the House of Commons. He explained that he was "leaving Parliament in order to spend more time on politics." I knew then - as I know now - that I was witnessing a historic moment and I will forever feel privileged to have been there.

But back to the cash.

One Thursday evening after work, I was walking through a courtyard in the Palace of Westminster towards the Tube station when I spotted Tony Benn standing with his arms across his chest facing towards the exit. A couple seconds later, a man appeared on a bike who, upon closer examination, I recognised as the Rt Hon. Hilary Benn MP.

(Here they are together supporting a Labour candidate, Emily Benn - Tony's granddaughter).

I stopped in my tracks to observe.  As I did, Hilary completed a couple of laps of the little courtyard, watched by his proud dad.  It was the kind of father and son scene that is common in parks across the country any Saturday morning.  The only difference was that Hilary would have been pushing 50 years of age at the time, was a Government Minister - and his dad was Tony Benn.

I mentioned all of this to a friend who edited the diary column on a popular Sunday newspaper.  The story appeared the next weekend.  And, the following day, a cheque for £50 landed on my doormat.

I spent it well and, as a result, will always hold Tony Benn in high affection.

Farewell to one of the greatest Parliamentarians of our time.  

Fat blokes in Leeds shocker

I'm fortunate enough to have attended quite a few big sporting events over the years. But this time next week I shall be in my seat (and occasionally jumping out if it) at a very different live sporting occasion. Yes, I'll be joining more than 11,000 loons at First Direct Arena in Leeds for round seven of the 2014 Premier League Darts.

I'm watching round six in Nottingham, live on Sky Sports, at this very moment it's shaping up to be almost as exciting as last week in Exeter. 

I've become a massive fan of what many ill-informed individuals regard as a "joke sport." But they're wrong.

The injection of huge amounts of TV and sponsorship money have made it a very lucrative - and hence competitive - past time over recent years. And on stage disagreements between the players are now increasingly common place.

In fact, this was 16-time world champion Phil "The Power" Taylor going at it with the current king of arrows, "Mighty" Michael van Gerwen,  in Glasgow recently.

Some friends have asked me if it's the free flowing beer, the players' cheesy walk-on music and the scantily clad ladies who wobble in unison with them as they roll towards the stage which are the true reasons why I want to go along. 

And I say: "No! Not really!"

It's the chance to see these incredibly hungry (and thirsty) warriors do battle. Their precision. Their ease of touch. Their collective mathematical genius. And their ability to land after a celebratory jump whilst everything above their belt line continues to travel upwards. 

The fact that I'll be so far away from the board that I'll not see an actual dart thrown is but a minor detail. 

It should be a laugh. I just hope I can remember enough to tell you something about it.

Small....far away....

I've reached an age where I'm beginning to have bizarre flashbacks more often than I would like.  And many of them are not pleasant.

Take tonight, when I was walking home from the train station and noticed that the Moon had made an early appearance in the still bright sky. I've helpfully pointed it out for you below.

And what memory instantly presented itself in my brain?

Since you ask, I'll tell you. It was of me, as a young boy, standing in the street firing a cap gun at it.  I kid you not.

It was (and is) wrong on so many levels.  And it reinforces the fact that I've never been the sharpest knife in the drawer.

Tomorrow evening, I'll look down to see what comes to mind.

More cheese please

Despite being born in the early 1970s, I regard myself as an '80s child and my "musical influences" (to quote any number of pretentious pop stars) reflect this.

So when I heard that this summer Leeds will be hosting its very own 80s music festival, I was excited.  I then had a look at the line-up, and can best describe it as "mixed."

Synthesiser king Howard Jones is playing, which is great.  I like Howard Jones.  

So too Bananarama (pictured) - yes - and Kim Wilde - absolutely.  (In both cases I may feel compelled to close my eyes and remember what used to be, but still).  I can rhyme off three of Nik Kershaw's hits, who's playing too.  I know two ABC songs (they're on), two from Nick Heyward (him too) and the same from Altered Images (I do hope they haven't sacked wee Clare Grogan).

But who else is on the list, I hear you scream?

Anyone for Alexander O'Neal?  Brother Beyond?  Jaki Graham?  The Real Thing (who even cheesy me hasn't heard of)?  Possibly not.

Other reasons to attend?

Well, for a mere £12 you can have unrestricted access to a "posh toilet." Hard to resist.

And for only £53.95 (inc. booking fee - admission ticket to the event also required) you can even get to meet "Mark Shaw from Then Jerico."  Sadly, each patron is restricted to a maximum of 10 tickets each for this once in a lifetime experience - I imagine tickets to meet Mark are a tout's dream.

As things stand, at best, Vanessa has not committed to going.  And at worst, is downright hostile to the idea. Meanwhile, I still quite fancy it.

However, if we wait too long and tickets sell out, I must just turn up at the gate and say I'm Mark Shaw from Then Jerico.

Jumping into the weekend

I'm not very good on the Wii.  But I kind of understand that you're supposed to wave your arms about a lot.

Meanwhile Jamie, showing his Irish roots, adopts an entirely different approach to killing Star Wars baddies.

Think Michael Flatley in desperate need of the toilet.

Have a look.

*The names have been changed to protect the innocent

With Vanessa out, it was my task this evening to collect Jamie from after-school club and Charlotte from nursery.

My "what did you do at school?" chat with Jamie reached its completion just as we arrived at our back door. 

As we were taking our coats off, I then asked Charlotte if anything exciting had happened at nursery. 

"*Mary and *Joseph were dogging," she replied.

"WHAT?!"

"Mary and Joseph were dogging." 

I didn't go to nursery. 

But had I done so, at least I would have been safe in the knowledge that dogging was yet to be invented.

Beware of me

This morning I went to see Dr Shitt-Too to receive the results of my recent abdominal scan. 

And Dr Shitt-Too didn't disappoint. That's right, he had no idea what's wrong with me. 

All he could be certain of was:

1. I don't have a hernia; and
2. I'm not pregnant. 

So that's all good. 

But then my day got even better.

Back in January I received an invitation to have my first old person's medical check. However, rather than rush into it, I decided to wait until Dr Shit-Too had confirmed his expected (by me) non-diagnosis before going ahead. 

As I was about to leave the surgery this morning, I thought I might as well book it in and asked the receptionist if she had a slot.

"Can you be here in 10 minutes?" she asked.

"I'm already here," I replied. 

"So you are," the receptionist continued, "see you in 10 minutes."

10 minutes later, I was standing in front of the nurse who, without being too judgemental, clearly seemed better qualified to conduct the examination than the mad receptionist.

And it began well.

My weight to height ratio was - and I quote - "perfect." So too, according to the nurse, was my waistline (which I know is not true, but still).

"Do you smoke?"

"No, never have."

I was on fire (spot the irony).

"Drink?"

"Yes please."

"No, do you drink alcohol?" 

"Yes. Please." 

"No, how much alcohol do you drink?"

"Ah."

She asked for a guesstimate. I offered one. Raising an eyebrow over her little glasses, she suggested that I might want to be a bit more honest. I was a bit more honest.

She pumped some figures into her computer, which responded by making a funny noise. 

She then took her glasses off and said: "According to NHS guidelines, you are officially classed as a 'hazardous drinker.'" (I hadn't heard that term before, and was certainly not aware that someone of that description lived in our house). 

I told her that, as it was the first day of Lent, today would be a good day to be less hazardous. But, as there were two weekends of Six Nations rugby still to go followed immediately by St Patrick's Day, the new me would have to wait until after then.

She raised both eyebrows, before stabbing me with a needle whilst mumbling something about a cholesterol test. 

I hope I get her again next time.

A (machine gun) blast from the past

Jamie is doing a project at school at the moment about "toys in the past." It will end in a few weeks' time with a visit to a local toy museum.

Yesterday as part of his learning, Jamie was required to interview me on the subject. In a White Stuff exclusive, here is a transcript of how it went:

Question 1

Did you have a favourite teddy? 

I found out

Daddy had a teddy bear called Ted which he loved.

Question 2

Did you play with toy cars?

I found out

Toy cars in the olden days were called Matchbox cars and were made out of metal.

Question 3

What was your favourite toy?

I found out

Daddy's favourite toy was a toy machine gun.  His daddy also liked it so took it apart with a screwdriver to see how it worked.  It never worked again, making Daddy cry. 

I've never gotten over it.

There's going to be a Wee wedding

No, dear friends, your eyes do not deceive you.

That is indeed an engagement ring on Rosie's finger as she looks upwards (I know) into the eyes of her betrothed - Wee John.  Really.

I've had a feeling for a little while that this moment may be coming soon (Wee John's sensible jumper is a bit of a giveaway) but I was no less taken aback when the pics arrived earlier today, followed by a phone call.    
Indeed, my sense of shock was matched only by Charlotte's state of confusion.  Delighted as she was to hear that Uncle John is getting married, she was also curious to know if Auntie Rosie was getting married too.  She is also mad keen to find out if Uncle John is planning to wear a dress.

All these questions and many others will be answered in the time ahead.

But for now, we Whites are thrilled to bits for them both.

And I feel a drink is very much in order.  Bloody hell.

PS Big thanks to John and Rosie for allowing me tell you all on here.

PPS Bloody hell again.

Thumbs up for a job well done

Less than two months ago, I introduced you to Wee Oliver Dickey.  

5-year-old Oliver from Coleraine (of course he is) was diagnosed with the spastic diplegia form of cerebral palsy when he was 18 months old and is confined to a wheelchair.  However, Selective Dorsal Rhizotomy (SDR) spinal surgery at St Louis Children’s Hospital in the United States should enable him to take his first steps.

But these things cost pounds.  Lots of pounds.  At least sixty thousand pounds, to be precise.  So Oliver's mum Charlene and dad Neil launched an appeal to raise the cash.  They had no idea how or if they could do it, or how long it would take.  But like the good parents they are - and supported by a strong family and many wonderful friends - they chose to have a go.

They raised a remarkable £1,000 in the first 24 hours.  And, in my post of 2 January, I wrote: "Another 59 days like this will do the job."

Well, guess what?  They've done the job.  

Earlier this week and with Oliver edging ever-closer to his target, Paralympic legend Tanni Grey-Thompson (pictured below) - who was one of the very first high profile public figures to support the Help Wee Oliver Walk campaign on Twitter - issued a personal rallying call for the remaining funds to be raised.

Baroness Tanni Grey-Thompson

Baroness Grey-Thompson, who won 11 Paralympic gold medals before being elevated to the House of Lords in 2010, said: “I am so impressed with what has been already achieved in Oliver’s name. And with a number of further events planned, I have little doubt that the people of Coleraine and across Northern Ireland will keep giving until the job is done.”  

The six-time London Marathon winner continued:  “I understand that Oliver has managed to create his own army, complete with matching tee shirts and buckets, which isn’t bad going for a 5-year-old.  £60,000 is a very big target, particularly in these difficult economic times.  But to get so close in such a short space of time is remarkable. I wish Oliver and his family every possible success with the rest of the campaign and, of course, in America." 

She added: “Like everyone else, I would be thrilled to see little Oliver walk.”              

And so say all of us.  

A cabaret evening at The Bull's Eye in Coleraine last night seems to have brought Oliver over the line.  Any remaining doubt will be removed by the time landlady extraordinaire Clare Johnston closes the doors of The Railway Arms following tonight's table quiz.  

A random Oliver Dickey fan

More long-planned fundraising events will rightly proceed in the coming days and weeks, which will greatly assist with Oliver's aftercare.  And any remaining monies will be passed on via the Tree of Hope charity to other kids requiring similar specialist treatment.  

Makes you proud, eh?

Well done and thanks to everyone who helped in any way.  

What a bummer

Last month I travelled home to attend my mum's "special birthday" meal.

And tonight, we Whites were there for Vanessa's mum's equivalent.

Being ladies, it would be wrong of me to divulge how old they are. (They were born in the same year).  But it rhymes with "beventy."  

And after cake and ice cream tonight, Charlotte still couldn't believe it.

But here's the thing.

The evening began with the customary exchange of gifts.  Before Vanessa and her mum had a conversation, during which Judy revealed that she'd bought herself a particularly personal present to "mark" this momentous occasion.

A tattoo.  On her bum.  That's right folks.  A tattoo.  On her bum. (There were even pictures floating around, but this is a family blog).

Between then and now, I don't mind admitting, I've had a few wines.

And I think it's time I had a few more.  Or I might not sleep.

No half-measures at half-term

Back yesterday afternoon after five nights in Northern Ireland.  And with the England v Ireland Six Nations rugby match now just hours away, I took the opportunity offered by one of the exhibits at Titanic Belfast to remind my children who they are supposed to be cheering on come Saturday at 4pm. More on that later.

First, we were delighted, on both Saturday and Sunday, to spend time with the Dickeys as Wee Oliver's fundraising total races towards its £60,000 target.  With just seven weeks gone - remarkably - it's now just £8,000 away.    

  

Jamie, Charlotte and cousin Katie even had the chance to eat cake in the little man's honour and pose for the Coleraine Chronicle - proving that fundraising can most definitely be fun.

Other pleasures included a visit to Portstewart Strand...

 ...which always looks that good, even when it's dark.

And Burger King where Granny felt compelled to restrict herself to a Kid's Meal.  

 As if.

Other forays included a number of visits by me to the Railway Arms, whose regular patrons include Starsky and Hutch.

Actually, the one of the left does look a bit like my dad.

And our half-term holiday finally came to an end at the £97 million Titanic Belfast centre, just across the road from where the ship itself was built (and left in perfect condition).

Look at the "Tit" below and you will hopefully spot Jamie.      

Yes, that was deliberate.

The prize for his pose was being allowed to go inside.

Such was his enthusiasm for the Titanic (which he is currently learning about in school) that later he even recreated its dramatic demise in the soft play area at Belfast City Airport with Mr Tayto playing the part of "Iceberg."  

Now I think we all need a rest.

Fun bags

We're all packed up and, crucially, we do have somewhere to go. Yes, it's almost time for the annual White family February half-term trip to the Causeway Coast of Northern Ireland.

This little jaunt always compares very favourably with, for example, our annual Yorkshire camping weekend every July in some random field. 

This is for two reasons:

(1)  It doesn't involve a field, and 

(2)  It doesn't involve camping.

Over the next few days, fun and games are lined up for the kids with cousin Katie fiercely in charge of operations. And for Vanessa and me, well, we may even have time for the odd snifter in The Railway Arms. And The Anchor. And The Ramore. And The York. And, well, you get the idea.

We will also grab the chance to do our little bit to support the Help Wee Oliver Walk campaign. 

Shorts and trainers are packed. If you can bring yours to the East Strand car park in Portrush before 9.30 on Saturday morning, together with a minimum £5 entry fee, you'll find out why. We can even have a coffee together afterwards.

But for now, it's sleeptime. We ride at dawn.

My mate Mike

A difficult day lies ahead tomorrow when I attend the funeral of my friend Councillor Michael Kelly.  He'd been ill for some time and very sadly passed away last week.

But I'll forever remember Mike with a smile on his face - and a glass in his hand.

A huge rugby union fan - thereby always giving us lots to talk about - Mike was very proud of his Irish heritage, and liked to drink to it whenever the chance presented itself.

I first got to know him in 2008 when I was working at Bradford Council and he became Executive Member for Children's Services and Education.

I hadn't encountered him much before then but, as his first big speech to full Council approached, we had a chat. Mike had asked the senior education officers to pull some background information together and send it on to me.  My job was to sort the useful bits from the less than useful bits and it on to him.  He then left to attend a meeting and I said I would see him the following day.

Shortly afterwards, the information come through to me, and I had a bit of a play.  And I kept playing, and playing, and playing and, maybe 90 minutes later, I had written a speech - which I emailed to Mike.

The next morning, he walked into my office looking a touch under the weather - but with a big smile on his face.

"Are you alright?" I asked.

"Bit of a sore head, but otherwise wonderful!" he barked.

"Was the speech OK?" I continued.

"Absolutely," said Mike, "that's why I've got a sore head!"

"Oh?  Do tell."

And he did.

"I was bit worried about my speech," he said, "and when I got home from my meeting, I poured myself a three-finger whiskey to give me the little boost I thought I would need to write it."

Mike had very big hands so, when he talked about a three-finger whiskey, I can assure you that it would've had a kick.

"Then I turned on my computer and discovered that you'd written me a whole speech," he continued. "So I poured another three-finger whiskey to enjoy as I was reading it.

"And when I'd read it, I didn't want to change a word.  So I poured myself another three-finger whiskey to celebrate!"

That was why Mike had a sore head.  And it was one of the many reasons why I loved him.

He'll be greatly missed.

Big step in Wee Oliver's quest to walk

The crusade to help little Oliver Dickey walk has taken a dramatic leap forward after a charitable trust in dear old Coleraine chucked a cheque for £15,000 into his bucket.  You read that right.

The breathtaking donation has taken the total amount collected by the Wee Oliver Walk Fund to almost £50,000 with money from a rolling programme of events keeping the total racing towards its £60,000 target. You read that right too.  

In case you've been in hiding since New Year's Day when 5-year-old Oliver's fundraising campaign was launched, the wee man was diagnosed with spastic diplegia, a form of cerebral palsy, when he was just 18 months old and is confined to a wheelchair. But a surgical procedure available at St Louis Children's Hospital in Missouri should offer him the chance to take his first ever steps - followed by many more.  

In a statement issued this morning, the trust said:  “The fundraising campaign has been a shining beacon of hope for Oliver and as a cross-denominational trust we felt compelled to support the family with this significant donation.

“Everyone in the community has been touched by Oliver’s story. We have been impressed by the humility of Oliver’s parents, Charlene and Neil, and their inspirational campaign. We hope our donation will encourage the community to support the family in their fundraising efforts and pray that Oliver’s surgery in America will be successful and allow him to walk and play like his classmates.”

Speaking on behalf of the Dickey family, mum Charlene paid tribute to the trustees for signing-off such a big cheque for their little man. “For the first time, we are starting to believe that Oliver will get access to the treatment he needs and have the chance to walk," she said.

“We still have some way to go before we reach our target, but no one will stop working until we get there. Thank you again to everyone who has donated so far and please keep giving what you can.”

You can do just that by clicking onto THIS LINK.     

Who said Mondays were depressing?

Charlene and Oliver Dickey

Weekend summary: Ireland 1 Wales didn't

Only me.

Sorry for not updating for a few days but I've had a lot on.  (So have you, no doubt, so let's call it quits).

We celebrated Vanessa's umpteenth birthday.

Rather you p-p-p-pick her up than me.

And yesterday we had Ireland's romping win over Wales in the Six Nations rugby.  Prompting this (not my doing).

Which my proud Welsh friend Dylan graciously insisted we re-enact.

 

Charlotte was equally pleased by the result.

And some other very good stuff has happened too, which I will tell you about but can't yet.

(Sorry if I'm coming across all Simon Cowell but, unlike him, in all cases I don't get the cash).  

Stick with me. Go on. 

My new book

I wasn't intending to update this rubbish tonight but I've changed my mind.

You join me in bed where, only a few short minutes ago, I started reading my new book. 

Bought for me by my "big" (although she is in reality very small) sister Jacquie as part of my Christmas present, it's called "Stuff Irish People Love." 

On the back cover, it summarises its 175 pages as: "A treasure trove of the loves, idiosyncrasies, quirky traditions and the peculiar passions of the Irish." 

I've only reached page 12 so far, but I already feel compelled to share one very brief extract with you. 

It appears under the headline, "Inserting swear words into the middle of other words." 

And I quote:

"Irish people swear a lot. If you're Irish, you're probably responding to that statement by saying something like 'So bleedin' wha'?' On the other hand, visitors to these shores are often taken aback at the casual way we use swear words in the most innocuous situations. Here's a simple example:

'Would you like a coffee, Fiona?'

'Thanks Mick. Are there any fuckin' digestives?'"

That has really tickled me, I must concede, so expect to hear more of this book again.

Goodnight. 

Tartan turncoat

There can be few greater pleasures in this world than watching Six Nations rugby in the pub.  And it is all the more enjoyable when a range of nationalities are represented.  Above you can see a Kiwi, two Irishmen, an Englishman, a Welshie and a Scot.  

In fact, here's Gareth the Scot close up.  Doesn't he look happy?

The thing is, despite being born in Scotland, Gareth grew up in Belfast and so, at heart, is really an Irishman.

And as Ireland piled the points on his native land yesterday afternoon, he could hold the dam back no longer.  

Gareth, welcome to the ranks.