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.

Let's hope it Will not be necessary (for a while)

Vanessa went into the solicitor's today to agree the finer points of our Will, should either or both of us die horribly anytime soon.

She's due to return, with me in tow, in the next couple of weeks to sign on the dotted line.

That's cheery!

I've seen the future

I was on my way to work this morning when I noticed the above sign in the window of a local pub.

Much cheaper than childcare, and so much more fun (I would guess).

BREAKING NEWS: Charlotte can crawl!

And here's the evidence.

OK, maybe not as dramatic as Colonel Gaddafi being lynched, but exciting nonetheless.

Any old iron?

Contrary to London-centric media opinion, I'm not of the view that the North of England is trailing behind the Southerners, hell no. 

To illustrate, I was walking through Keighley, West Yorkshire at lunchtime today and what did I see but a rag and bone man.

BBC2/Whatever UK Gold Is Called These Days would have you believe that chirpy, cheeky cockneys Albert and Harold Steptoe had this particular market all to themsleves.

But it's not true.

Because Steptoe and Son aren't even real.

In fact, they're not even alive.

Onwards and upwards, that's what I say.

Farmer Jamie

Vanessa received a text at 4.30pm yesterday advising that today was "Harvest Day" in Jamie's nursery and he should arrive dressed as a farmer. 

Given the short notice, her options were a little limited but, thanks largely to Jamie's kindly cousin Jack, I think the objective was achieved. 

What impact his new persona will have on him clearly remains to be seen. 

Will he return this evening with a confrontational attitude, wool in his teeth and a belief that the world owes him a living? 

Let's hope not.

By the way, I don't mind admitting that the observation made by one of the nursery ladies - who claimed "he looks like Oliver Twist" - was treated with the disdain it deserved. 

"All he's missing is his wellies, which you have," I said. "Put them on him and he'll be transformed." 

Cheeky bitch.

Are you looking at them?

Northern Ireland doesn't have a reputation for spawning violent individuals...OK, maybe we'll put that comment in the box marked "debatable."

However, we've moved on a bit in recent years which makes violence and violent people all the more shocking wherever and whenever they appear.

Above you can see my mate Andy, the former Mayor of Larne.  Beside him is Fiona, sister of my mate Big Sean.

They look perfectly respectable, don't they?  

But both of them are in fact savages.

In the name of charity, the pair have recently surrendered to the new phenomenon of "White Collar Boxing" in which two seemingly balanced and well-bred individuals climb into a public ring and fight each other until one starts to cry.

Andy was first between the ropes last month when, in aid of a gorgeous little girl requiring specialist medical treatment, he somehow managed to overpower a big bloke from Tesco in Newtownabbey . 

Here's the evidence.

And next month Fiona is taking on some other mad woman in support of Mencap.

Her training is now going so well that she's even taking on male bouncers in the gym.

But there's still no room for complacency.

Fiona is very much open to sponsorship - here's a link to her JustGiving site.

And after her fight, I suggest both she and Andy might wish to make themselves open to some form of counselling.

Meet the Cottons

We Whites were very privileged to be invited over to Manchester at the weekend to stay with our long-time friends Jane and Ed.

And not just them, but also their beautiful children (from left) Mimi, Charlie...

...and, the most recent addition to the clan, Rosie.

The highlight? For Jamie, it was undoubtedly Jane's bedtime story.

 

It is a treat, after all, to have a bedtime story read to you by someone who doesn't talk funny.

Like what I do, hi.