Let's play (what) Simon says

Until about 20 minutes ago, I believed that American Pie by Don McLean was the number one record in this country on the day I was born.  

But I was mistaken. 

For I've just done some research and discovered that the actual chart topper on Friday 31 March 1972 was Without You by some hairy bloke by the name of Nilsson.

How disappointing. 

I tell you this because the next two nights will almost certainly determine what "hot tune" is number one when White Junior #2 emerges from the Mummy Cave.

Yes, it's X Factor finals weekend and whoever wins show two tomorrow (why do they have to drag it out for so long?  Oh yes, to make more cash) will almost certainly be catapulted to the top of what we used to call the "hit parade" (showing my age, I know) next Sunday - the day said sprogette is due to take a bow.  

I might be wrong, but I have a feeling that the act that sings the song in question is likely to be as familiar to Jamie in 38 years' time as Nilsson is to me.     

Thanks for that, Mr Cowell.

One to ponder

I've got a little poser for you. 

Who do you think was more rude?

The grumpy old goat who - after Vanessa stopped this morning for 1.5 seconds on a poorly marked crossing outside Pudsey Leisure Centre to let me hop out, Jamie screaming all the while from the back seat - proclaimed down the end of his nose:

"You've stopped right on the crossing!"

Or me, who told him to "grow up and f*** off!"

I hope you'll conclude it was me.  

Why doesn't someone really go in style?

The newspapers continue to rave about how excited the nation apparently is by the week-long 50th anniversary celebrations down Coronation Street way, during which several members of the cast are due to meet a gruesome end.  

Now, I like Corrie but, I have to say, I haven't been that impressed with the storyline thus far. 

For one, the £1 million tram-falling-off-the-viaduct stunt looked like something from the original Star Wars movie i.e. a plastic toy and a bit of clever camera work. 

Second, it took an eternity for the police and fire brigade to arrive  - I distinctly remember someone calling 999 on Monday and yet they only rocked up just after 7 o'clock this evening, which is Wednesday. 

And thirdly, it's all just a bit too drawn out for my liking.

However, tomorrow, events are primed to reach their dramatic conclusion with a special hour-long live episode. 

Which brings me to my evil genius point. (OK, scratch the genius).

Few of us in this world will ever have the opportunity to achieve legend status, but tomorrow one or more Coronation Street cast members will be presented with the chance to do just that. 

The theme of the week's episodes is "Four Funerals and a Wedding," meaning we can expect four characters to receive their P45s at some point before 9pm tomorrow night. 

And they're not all going to die instantly, oh no.  You can be absolutely certain that at least one of them is going to be lying under a bit of rock or something and someone will say to them all emotionally, "Are you alright?!"

And, according to the script, they will be expected to whimper back that they love their husband/wife/lover/kids or whoever - and then cark it. 

But what if - WHAT IF -  just for the fun of it, instead of doing their deathly duty, they instead reply "Yep, I'm fine thanks" before getting up and walking away with a big smile on their face? 

They're going to be sacked anyway.  So why not go with a bit of glory in front of 20 million people - and guarantee never having to buy their own drink in the outside world ever again?  It would be hilarious.

However, as I say, it's but a mere evil genius thought.             

Bye, bye Kevin

I lost weight today, although I'm not certain how much. 

How much does a huge molar weigh?

Yes, he's gone; that nasty, horrible, diseased, painful, b****** of a tooth which made the last 10 days of my life somewhat inconvenient.

And he's not given up the fight just yet (it was definitely a male tooth, by the way, probably called Kevin) as my jaw still aches like blazes.  But I suppose that's kind of inevitable when you've got a huge, gaping hole in it.

Plus, Miss Dentist gave me strict instructions not to have hot food or drink for 24 hours, consume alcohol for 48 hours or take up smoking until Thursday at the earliest.

So, thanks for all of that Kev.

On the plus side, Miss Dentist kindly offered me an unexpected three month break from further prodding, before a load more work gets underway next year.

Needless to say, I swiftly agreed - just as her male assistant was wiping the last drops of blood off my chin.

On other matters, Ben and I had a great night at Madness.

I forgot to mention yesterday that Ben actually went to the same school as the band (albeit around 20 years after their departure). 

But is this more impressive than going to the same school as Jimmy Nesbitt at the same time as Jimmy Nesbitt for a whole year?

It is?

OK, fair enough.

Accidents will happen (to me)



Yesterday, I told and even showed you the fun Jamie and I were having on his sledge. 

Well, today, I've only gone and arsed it - literally.  Yes, I put my arse right through his sledge.  Above you can see what was left behind by my behind.  

We must have hit a stone or something as we careered down a hill near Kirkstall Abbey.  To be fair, he did react to the turn of events a little better than I might have imagined, whilst making it crystal clear that I would be expected to get him a new one.  

And obviously I will, particularly given the number of his sweets I've stolen in recent days.  But therein probably lies the reason for what happened in the first place.  So it's back to the gym for me.  Sometime.  Soon.  Ish.  

Meanwhile, tonight marks my last planned hurrah prior to the arrival of White Junior Mark Two, who is due to wipe his or her feet on Vanessa's mat exactly two weeks from now.  

My very own Cockney rebel chum Ben (that's him on the right) and I are off to see Madness at the O2 Academy in Leeds, and it's guaranteed to be a gig that both of us will remember for one very good reason; I can't drink because of my anti-biotics and Ben's decided to drive.

Over to you Suggs et al.

    

    

The White boys hit the white stuff



Jamie's sledge came out this morning for its first proper run-out of the winter.

And we started off well.

So much so, that I thought I might try to catch a subsequent run on video using my phone.

As you can hear (as well as see), the first "take" went well.  

Sadly, the second didn't.   

Hopefully we'll do better tomorrow.

I too have a kidney bean head



My gnasher-themed week continued today with another visit to Miss Dentist.

Sadly, the anti-biotics she gave me on Monday to counter my abscess have proven to be about as useful as a packet of Smarties. 

And the consequences have been a heap of pain and a load more swelling - leaving me with a face shaped very similar to that of my old friend and I'm A Celebrity reject Lembit Opik. 

This morning she prescribed me with a box of tablets the size of Frisbees which she "thinks" might work better. What a pro.

Tragically - and I would be grateful for your deepest sympathy on this one, but appreciate that laughter is more likely -  I can't now drink for a week (I knew it!) and she's intending to pull the tooth on Monday in any case, rather than Thursday (the excitement was getting too much for me).   

I'll bet I get a cold next.  Or one of my ears might fall off. 

Anyway, as long as you're alright.  

Smile or scream?



During my impromptu visit to the dentist earlier in the week, I discovered something that was both fascinating and gruesome in equal measure. 

According to a sign in the surgery - and I checked this out with Miss Dentist later, and it is true - if your child has an 'adult' tooth knocked out, "all is not lost."

The sign went on: "Find the tooth — Hold the tooth by the crown (the part usually visible in the mouth) not by the root (the pointed end)."

And here's the thing: "If the tooth is clean — Hold it by the crown and gently push it back into it's socket, making sure that it is the right way round."

ARRRGGHHHH!!!!!!

Since reading that, I've hardly slept a wink.

Let it snow! (now that I've made it home)



Above is a memorable image of New Pudsey railway station about an hour ago.

Sadly, the scene on board on my train just a few minutes earlier wasn't quite so pretty after, let's say, an "elongated" journey from Keighley via Leeds.



But at least I could then walk home - unlike many of my fellow commuters who tend to drive their cars some distance before parking at New Pudsey. 



And this was our garden after I managed to trudge it back.



I might take Jamie out there later and use him for snowball target practice.

What will they think of next?

We work moved into a new, permanent office in work earlier today, which was kind of exciting.

And the clear highlight for me, perhaps surprisingly, came when I went for my first wee.

Because above you can see something I've never knowingly encountered anywhere before in my almost 39 years on Earth.

Yes folks, it's what can only be described as a "splash guard." 

You may have your own opinion but, for me, life doesn't get much classier than that.

You don't need teeth to smile

We went to see Peter Kay in Sheffield last night.  That was good.   

But I can normally expect my dentist to knock the smile off my face and, this morning, she didn't disappoint.

To be fair, it wasn't her who put the abscess on my tooth (probably).  But I thought she took a degree of sadistic pleasure when telling me what the next steps would have to be now that it was there. 

Essentially, the tooth is going to yanked violently from my contorted face first thing next Thursday morning.  However, before then, I have to take five days' worth of some peculiar anti-biotic I've never seen before.  And it has side effects.

She did mention (with a hint of glee) that it would make me feel sick.  But reading the little insert on the way home, I subsequently discovered that I am also liable to shit myself. 

And there's more.

As soon as my gaping wound heals sufficiently following next week's assault involving actual bodily harm, I'll have to decide what to fill it with, as I already have a gap in that part of my mouth.

"What are the options?" I asked.

"There are two," replied Miss Dentist.  "You could have an implant."

"And how much will that set me back?"

"About two and a half thousand pounds."

"Right.  Well, that's not going to happen.  What's the other option?"

"A denture," she said.

"And can I have that on the NHS?"

"Yes," said Miss Dentist, looking a little disheartened (and much less rich).

"I'll take it!"

And that was that.

As an aside, I also have to have some other work done, including two new crowns.   

But you know, shit happens.

Talking of which, I'd better go - I think my tablets are beginning to kick in...

Dips with everything

The term "think smart" is generally associated with huge corporate entities trying to pretend that what they do is complicated or beyond the power of the rest of us.  In my experience in any case.  

However, on Friday evening and possibly for the first time in the entirety of my parenting existence thus far, I "thought smart."

I'd just arrived in from work and Jamie wasn't eating his pasta.

Vanessa had tried everything but the little so and so had refused to give in. 

I then had a go at reasoning with him, prompting him to remove some pasta from his plate.  And throw at it me.

What to do?

Suddenly it came to me.

Jamie's gorgeous little cousin Katie, who you can see him hooking up with last weekend in the photo above, has taught him lots of things over the last two and a half years. 

But possibly his favourite is the art of dipping his chips in tomato ketchup.  He had never done it previously (mainly because Vanessa hardly ever lets him have chips), but Katie showed him the ropes and now he does it all the time (or, more accurately, about once a fortnight when Vanessa can't be arsed to make him something "healthy"). 

So, back to Friday and his pasta.

And in short, I "thought smart" and suggested that a tomato ketchup dip might serve as a perfect accompaniment to his cheese and ham tortellini (ahem).  He readily agreed and proceeded to finish almost the entire bowl.

Should you be a parent, you can have my piece of "blue sky thinking" for free.  (Or you can send me a cheque).

Two funnies

I read two one-liners in this week's papers that really made me laugh and, being the sharing kind of guy that I am, I wanted to pass them your way.

First, in Thursday's Super Soaraway Sun, was the story of Health Minister Simon Burns (the fat bloke I told you about a few weeks ago who was once rude to me in a lift) and House of Commons Speaker John Bercow.

These two have previous form in that Mr Burns was once picked up by a microphone referring to vertically challenged Mr Bercow as "a sanctimonious, stupid dwarf."      

As fate would have it, Mr Burns recently managed to reverse into Mr Bercow's limo in the Commons car park, prompting the Speaker to march up to the Health Minister's car to announce: "I'm not happy."

To which Mr Burns replied: "Well, which one are you then?" 

I loved that.

My second laugh-out-moment came when I was reading Metro, the free paper familiar to frustrated commuters up and down the country.

And a columnist's guide  - I can't remember his name - to surviving the Ashes.

For him, the key tools to help you stay awake for the all-night television coverage was strong coffee and a banana.

"The coffee to try to keep your brain alive, and a banana to poke yourself in the eye when you think you're about to drift off."

Magnificent.         

Dummy run



Vanessa and I have been trying for some time to persuade Jamie to give up his dummy - or "dodi," as he prefers to call it.

I had another go at explaining our reasoning on Tuesday night, prompting White Junior to scuttle out of the room.

He returned like this.



Honestly, kids have so little respect for their parents these days. 

My plans won't turn to Ashes



The Ashes are due to begin in just a few hours from now, and it's going to be a huge test of endurance. 

For me. 

Since Jamie was born almost two and a half years ago, I reckon Vanessa and I have had to get by on an average of six hours' sleep per night.

But over the next couple of months, my grand plan is to sleep for about four and a half hours, as follows: the cricket starts at midnight, lunch is at 2am, I hit the scratcher, and then rise again at no later than 6.30am to see the end of play.

Genius.

There is one complicating factor in the tiny form of baby number two, which is due to arrive in the middle of the Third Test. 

However, this game will be the only one of the five where play begins at 3am rather than midnight. 

My already brilliantly thought through solution for then will be to heroically volunteer to do the middle-of-the-night feed - I reckon 3am might be a good time for that - and then see how long mini-he/mini-she and I last in front of the telly.

Even more genius.

And clearly, each of my carefully formulated strategies will proceed without a single hitch between now and 6 January 2011 when the series is due to end.

No, really.

Harry - with two r's

 

With the possible exception of seeing a banana climb onto the Portrush via Portstewart bus on Friday evening, my favourite image of last weekend was that of my dad (below right) and his old sparring partner Harry McNeill jointly putting the world to rights in the wonderful place that is The Railway Arms.    

Harry and my dad have known each other for a very long time.

Harry refereed in the local leagues during the period when my father was chairman of Macosquin Football Club. 

And whilst my dad has never liked football referees, at that time he really, really didn't like football referees (until the whistle blew when, to be fair, he usually bought them a pint).   

But Harry and my father are now good friends and, during their conversation over more drink than any of us really needed, Harry's role at the centre of my favourite ever football story came up. 

He was refereeing a Balmer Cup match in Macosquin to which he had given one of the players a lift beforehand. 

That player was called John Platt (and still is) and, in his day, was something of a firebrand once he crossed the white line.  

During the match in question, Mr Platt took it upon himself to kick an opposing player into a hedge, prompting Harry to call him over. 

"Name?"  asked referee Harry.

"Platt - with two t's," spat Mr P. 

"Right," replied Harry calmly, "off - with two f's." 

Do they really make them like that any more? 

Daddies like to have fun too

As if I hadn't had enough to drink over the past few days, last night I had some more.

And what a civilised affair it turned out to be.

The occasion was a long-awaited get together of Vanessa's mother and toddler group - minus the toddlers but including the daddies (which was where I came in).

Aside from two ante-natal classes  during which I finally found out where babies come from, I haven't had contact with a collective of fathers in any kind of organised setting since Jamie was a bundle of cells.

And whilst I appreciate that a curry and a few pints of Foster's might appear a little on the disorganised side of organised, it certainly did the job for me.

I genuinely found everyone there - mummies as well as daddies - fun and interesting, with the conversation balance between trivia and babies pooing their pants nigh on perfect.

Hopefully there will be more of the same soon (and we may even forget to invite the mummies).

And we're back

Boys' trip over, it's now time to prepare for fatherhood experience number two - which is set to get underway in less than a month. 

Dear god.

As for the four days just gone by, Jamie behaved himself and enjoyed himself in equal measure.  I took the photo above on Portstewart Strand yesterday morning.

I, perhaps, did not adopt the same high standards of behaviour.  Or to put it another way, I doubt that Hannibal Lecter would be interested in tasting my liver in its current state with even the most expensive bottle of Chianti.

The social highlight was my dad's 74th birthday do which was terrific entertainment.

Hopefully I'll have recovered in good time for his 75th. 

Oh no, hold on - we've another baby on the way.

The recovery will have to wait. 

We intend to keep things simple

It's lunchtime and, less than 24 hours from now, Jamie and I will be in Northern Ireland on a boys' trip home. 

The reason is two-fold; first, it's my dad's 74th birthday on Friday and a small celebration is planned. 

And second, the two of us thought we deserved a break before the three-piece White family becomes a four-piece on or around the 19th of next month.

Jamie's quite relaxed about that prospect at the present time; as far he's concerned, he's getting a baby for Christmas and, well, that's about as complicated as it gets (so long as he also gets some chocolate).

And for me, it's a case of getting my "I'm About To Be A Daddy Again" head on - which basically involves preparing myself not to sleep for another couple of years.

The absence of her boys will also give Vanessa - who may have quite a pivotal role to play during the birth itself - a chance to put her feet up (and hopefully do a load of cleaning.  And washing.  Sadly, she doesn't do ironing).

As ever (and whether you want me to or not), I will tell and show you what my boy and I get up to between now and Sunday evening.

But, off the top of my head, my guess is that Jamie will do a lot of this...



...whilst his daddy will drink a lot of this.

 Slainte

Do you think her father will have to pay for it?

Only one story in town today with news of Prince William's engagement to Kate Middleton.  Congratulations to them both. 

Above you can see an example of the kind of "limited edition memorabilia" we'll all be invited to snap up between now and their big day.  Classy stuff, I'm sure you'll agree.

The sight of this reminded me of the Charles and Diana silver teaspoons my fellow Macosquin Primary School pupils and I were kindly given by the then headmaster, Mr Murdock, in the summer of 1981 to mark the Royalist wedding of them all.

I wonder how much mine would go for now? 

Do I have "bugger all" from the man at the back?