Talking boobies

I was watching a random music channel with Charlotte on Sunday evening when Cerys Matthews and Tom Jones appeared on screen singing their big(gish) hit, "Baby, It's Cold Outside."

Given that it was released a little before her era, Charlotte asked me to tell her who the heck these Welshies were. 

"The scary-looking lady with the big teeth, she's called Cerys," I said. "And the thrusting gentleman with the silly beard who's staring at her chest, he's called Tom." 

"Oh. Does Cerys have boobies?" asked Charlotte, whilst simultaneously lifting up her pyjama top to see if she had any yet.

"She does, yes," I replied. "Tom could've told you that." 

"Oh. Does Tom have boobies too?" Charlotte continued. 

"He's a 73-year-old man," I explained, "of course he does."

And here's the proof.

Little Lord Blowhard

Somebody gave Jamie a whistle at micro rugby yesterday, a development I was unaware of. 

That was until around 6.30 this morning when he arrived in our bedroom to deliver a brief statement, as follows: 

"I've got a whistle.  When I blow my whistle, that means I want something."

Sometimes, as a parent, you question whether you've got everything right. 

This morning, at around 6.30, Vanessa and I questioned whether we'd got everything right.

Running Van

Who in the name of Paula Radcliffe is that, I hear you cry?!

Well, believe or believe not, it's Vanessa hurtling her way towards the Leeds Abbey Dash finish line early this morning.  Yes, Mrs W has been bitten by that nasty running bug too and this was her virgin 10k race.

And, get this, she actually won her category!  Really.  She was indeed the first Vanessa White over the line which, in a race of 12,000, is quite some achievement - particularly when there were no other Vanessa Whites in the field to drive her on. 

I'm genuinely very proud and, as the first (and also only) Barry White home, we are just about to kick off a double family celebration. 

Not that our offspring are that arsed (although they will be when they find out we have chocolate cake)

In the midst of all this happiness, there was one unfortunate aspect of today.  Jamie and Charlotte's Auntie Vicky - who was the driving force for us to enter - was sadly unable to compete herself, after rupturing her calf muscle early last week.

But, Vicky being Vicky, she still made it along to cheer us all home.

And that "us" included Vicky's sister Sam, who's one of those "proper" runners.  Sam set off with a stated aim of breaking the 45 minute barrier, which is quite some goal.  But, to her immense credit,  she did it with seconds to spare.

Naturally, she was incredibly thrilled and extremely excited. 

In fact, so much so, that she managed to wet herself as she crossed the line.

Well done Sam, and thanks to Vicky for giving me family permission to take the p*ss out of her big sister (not that could be any left, according to some people in the crowd).    

Forgetting the bleeding obvious

I haven't had a shower today (although, for the record, I have changed my pants).

Yes, I'm a smellbag and it's all my fault. 

Last night, with winter closing in, I decided the time had come to bleed our radiators.

So I got my little key out and, as they say in dearest Coleraine, I footered.

I'm such a powerhouse that I couldn't actually manage to turn the little nut thing in all of the radiators downstairs.  But the ones I did manage to crank open seemed OK to my layman's eye.  Well done me. 

Then I went upstairs and had a bash at the bathroom radiator.  Now, as I understand it, you're supposed to let any air out until you get a little spit of water, and then you stop.  The radiators downstairs let little or no air out.  But the bathroom radiator seemed to have enough puff in it to fill a hot air balloon.

I didn't feel overly concerned by this unexpected development, particularly as some water did finally present itself. 

Next was Jamie's room and, again, it seemed to have much more air in it than warmth.  A bit like Victoria Beckham, you might say. 

In fact, a good two minutes later, the gas was still shooting out.  And then it stopped - but no water followed.  Nothing, nada, nuke.

This did concern me a little more, so I bravely chose to give up and watch some telly instead.  That was much more fun. (Did you see the blonde one from Abba singing with Gary Barlow?  And Barry Manilow.  Yes folks, you can be called Barry and still be a bit cool, although not much).

Anyway, some hours later, with radiators long forgotten and just as I was considering hitting the pit, Vanessa arrived to inform me that there was no hot water.  A quick inspection (followed by several expletives) revealed that this was because the boiler wasn't working.  Oh joy. 

My first reaction was to think, "I can fix this!"  And then it dawned on me. 

We'd been here before.  I'd had a go at bleeding our radiators last year.  And guess what happened?  Yup, I knacked the boiler. 

Then I had a crack at fixing it.  And guess what happened?  That's right, I failed dismally and had to call the plumber. 

And what did the plumber tell me?  You've got it: "Don't ever touch the boiler again, Barry."

If you don't believe me, have a look at THIS.  

I had genuinely forgotten about the entire episode - and I haven't even had therapy. What a loon. 

Mark (aka Mr Water) was therefore called back this morning (after I'd gone to work, hence no shower) to, once more, fix the boiler and bleed the radiators.  Perhaps I should read this blog more often.

Tomorrow morning, first thing, I'm due to launch an attempt at wallpapering.  Really.

Happy weekend.

Up, up - and away with you

It was parents' evening at Jamie's school yesterday, and the feedback we received was positive.  Good for him.

However, one comment made took me back a couple of weeks to the somewhat underwhelming Doctor Who exhibition in Bradford. 

One of Jamie's teachers said last night that she was impressed by his enthusiasm, including his wont to raise his hand in class to answer questions. 

This reminded me that he'd stuck his waver up at the Doctor Who exhibition when a guide asked if anyone knew how Daleks got upstairs.

"They fly!" Jamie barked with an accompanying skip, causing me to smile subtly with fatherly pride.

 

"No, they use CGI," replied the guide.

 

What?!

 

"Does anyone know what CGI stands for?"

 

Some geek mumbled the answer.

 

"That's right, its computer generated imagery," our hostess continued. "They're not really flying at all!"

 

It must be great fun round her house on Christmas Eve.  

Midnight reception

I was in London last night and got to my hotel very late, principally because I couldn't find it. (It was dark).

When I finally made it through the front door (which itself was difficult to locate), I was greeted by the sight of a manically smiling male receptionist.

"Ah, Mr White!" he enthused, like a beaming Bond villain.

"Er, yes, hello," I replied in a startled manner. "How did you know it was me?"

"You're the last one!" 

Fair play to the boy. It was good of him to wait up.

Dozy Dad

 

Jamie had a fine day today.

First, he received a star from his teacher for his best ever reading. 

And then, after school, he was praised by his swimming instructor for having his best ever lesson. 

All good stuff. 

Walking home from swimming class under a pitch black sky, he looked up and enquired where the sun had gone.

"It's asleep," I said, briefly forgetting he's no longer four weeks old.

"No it's not," he retorted.  "It's in another country."

I got what I deserved.   In a weak attempt to move on, I attempted flattery.

"You know everything, son," I grovelled.

"No I don't," Jamie shot back.  "I don't know who made God.  No-one does."  

Maybe I'll get him to help me with my homework tonight, just as soon as he's finished his own.  

Civil Saturday

Vanessa and I are off to North Yorkshire in the morning to attend a civil partnership ceremony and shindig.  

I've been on many all-day drinking sessions over the years (a major contributor to the fact that I now look knackered).  But the 14 hours of alcohol imbibing on offer tomorrow is a new one. 

That's right, it will be my first all-gayer.

I'll fill you in when we get back.

FLASH! BANG! (Is it over yet?)

It was Bonfire Night in England last night (if you live here, you'll probably have the cold to prove it). 

However, back in Northern Ireland, (remember, remember the) 5th November is not such a big deal.

One reason is that, in the latter, you can normally find a bonfire on any night of the week (other than 5th November)

Also, firework restrictions remain in place in the proud Province and sparklers can lose their appeal after the third packet.

 

But on this side of the water, dads of all levels of bravery/foolhardiness were being forced to put their physical features at risk for the amusement of their children.

That said, it was actually on Sunday evening (we'd seen the forecast for last night) that my mate Andy's distinguishing marks, together with my own, were laid on the line for our sprogs (and wives). 

 

And I am pleased, nay, proud to report that we managed to avoid grave disfiguration (with Jamie and Charlotte ordered to stay in the Royal Box until the end).

 

 

With those challenges successfully overcome, we can now begin to prepare for the really big show - a mere seven weeks from today. 

So before the supermarkets and TV music channels beat me to it, Season's Greetings to one and all.

Broken Barry

There must be something in my beer at the moment, because things keep going wrong with my temple-like body. 

In the wake of my recent hugely attractive bout of gastroenteritis, I developed traffic light finger - I mentioned at the weekend that there was a problem. 

I say traffic light finger because it started off red, went very yellow and - after catching it on the train on the way home tonight, causing seepage - it's now gone green.  I think that's probably a good sign.

Last week, I was forced to go to the doctor with what I suspect is a damaged stomach muscle, a remnant of my failed attempt to win the Great North Run. The doctor had a poke, told me he had absolutely no idea what was wrong and sent me home to die.  Possibly.

And before that, I had - and still have - an abscess on my tooth.  So I went to see my dentist, Miss Shitt.  She too had a poke, said the tooth would have to come out -  and also sent me home to die. 

A fun aside from my ongoing travails was when Miss Shitt noticed my new gnashers.  If you've read my pointless dribblings for an extended stretch, you may know that I've travelled back home to Coleraine several times over the past 18 months to see my pals Robert and Rhonda and get a lot of dental work done. 

Despite being in to see her several times over this period, I've managed to keep all of this secret from Miss Shitt.  But, when I saw her a fortnight ago, she noticed.  And she was shocked. So she asked where my new teeth came from. I told her they'd grown back.  She didn't believe me.  So I told her the truth.  She wasn't happy.  That might explain why she sent me home to die.

Despite all of the above, I hope to be around for a little while yet.      

A brush with the future

At the ripe old age of two years and 10 months, our Charlotte is showing signs of transforming into a little "minx." (This is a family blog so I'm being careful with my choice of words).

A particularly dramatic demonstration of this came on Saturday evening at teeth cleaning time.

As ever when "time for bed" is called (and the strops have ended), there is a mad dash upstairs to see who can be first to the bathroom sink. 

In normal race conditions, it tends to be Jamie. And so it was again on Saturday. But this time his little sister had a plan.

Perched atop of his little plastic stage, Jamie committed the cardinal error of being smug. And Charlotte wasn't having any of that nonsense. Hell no bro. Action was required. And action was duly taken. 

A split second later, with one swift yet clinical yank, Jamie's pyjama bottoms were instantly downgraded to a pair of ankle warmers. 

Cue two contrasting displays of emotion; Charlotte in barefaced triumph, Jamie in bare-arsed meltdown. 

Looking ahead, I now fear for the boy. In fact, I fear for every boy - which is kind of reassuring from a father's point of view. 

I would love to tell her how both amused and proud I was by what she did, but I can't. Because I might be next in her sights.

Have you heard the one about the Irish rugby league team?

You could be forgiven for not knowing that Ireland has its own rugby league team.   One reason for this would be that it doesn't really. 

In reality, rugby league is only played in parts of England, most of Australia, bits of New Zealand, and some of France - plus all of Papua New Guinea where it's the national sport.  (Stick with me and you'll learn stuff).

Absolutely nowhere, to my knowledge, is it played in Ireland.  In fact, despite being a rugby fan for all of my life, I have only ever encountered one Irish rugby league player - who then chose to play rugby union instead.

However, with a Rugby League World Cup to put on, it was vital to have some other teams for Papua New Guinea and co to play.  Step forward Ireland. 

So yesterday, my rugby dad mates Dublin Dan and Very Welsh Dylan went to Huddersfield to cheer on the boys in green against England.

(You've got to get into the spirit of these things).

England managed build up a narrow 30 point lead by half-time after 106 lucky bounces of the ball.

  
But Ireland rallied and managed to escape with a mere 42-0 deficit by the time the final whistle blew.

And a fun time was most certainly had by all, especially Grubber the Bear who appeared to have had more beer than the other 24,000 of us put together.

Commenting afterwards, Irish skipper Pat Richards said: "Strewth mate, I thought the result was fair dinkum against a bunch of bloody ripper Poms, cobber." 

 

Pat is due fly back home after Ireland's final group game next weekend.

 

I have no idea where that might be.

The finger of fate?

"Don't wee in your pants, wee on the potty."

Those were Charlotte's first words of the day, her eyes still half-shut.  Something for us all to think about there, I'd say.

Meanwhile, I'm now into day four of having a sore finger.

Having not bashed it to my knowledge - it's not even swollen up - I've had to take to Google in an attempt to diagnose what the problem might be.  And I've narrowed it down to three possibilities:

1. Frostbite
2. Scurvy
3. Leprosy

Now, it doesn't appear to me that all of these conditions of the finger are killers.  So I may have a chance.

But deep down, I kind of know that this could be the end.

Do please keep your fingers crossed for me, because I'm having great trouble crossing mine. 

Pleasant Valley Friday

We had a family day out at Lightwater Valley theme park in North Yorkshire today, my first ever visit although the other three clan members had been before (I'm such a victim). 

 

And it was proper fun.  Almost all of the time. 

 

The low point for me wasn't at this stage of Jamie's and my ascent up the Trauma Tower.

 

    

 No, it was around about now. 



I nearly soiled myself.

Meanwhile, the ladies adopted a much more gentile approach to proceedings.

The high points?  Two I'd say.

The first was when our "model children" (aye, right) were locked into a Ferris Wheel capsule.

If only they'd sold them in the souvenir shop.  I would've got one in the boot, on the roof - even carried it home.  But sadly they didn't have any in. 

The second high point was only a fantasy, in truth. 

We were in the newly-opened Angry Birds Activity Park.  And, well, the big catapult wasn't real.

Shame.

Doctor Poo Exhibition

I went out for a run tonight and witnessed some bizarre looking sights in and around Guiseley.  Nothing new there, despite it being Hallowe'en Night.

Needless to say, Jamie and Charlotte got in on the trick-or-treating act.

   
If only Miss White had kept her witch's hat on.

Earlier, and with Charlotte at nursery, Jamie and I had a boys' day out in Bradford.

After Despicable Me 2 at the cinema (brilliant) and lunch at McDonald's (you'll probably have been to one), we headed to the new Doctor Who exhibition at the National Media Museum.

Which promised much on screens in the foyer...

...and in cardboard.

But in terms of actual "exhibits," delivered a pitiful two Daleks - both of which looked like they'd been hiding out in someone's garage for the past 30 years.

   
And that was it. 

Still, as you know, I wouldn't be one for complaining (shut up).

Plus the shit Daleks might come and get me.

Hangin' with the stars

I mentioned here on Friday that DJ Gammy had popped by and I would explain more in due course.

I can now not-quite-exclusively reveal that Gammy is in fact my big nephew/Jamie and Charlotte's big cousin Nathan.

And the boy's doing good.

He was in Yorkshire over the weekend to play a gig in Sheffield which, even by his own modest account, went well. 

So much so that he's been booked to swim in a much bigger pool in that London just before Christmas. 

 
Yes, even I have heard of the Utah Saints ("U-U-U-UTAH SAINTS!!!!!" and repeat) and I was never "with it" at any stage of my development.

This gave us something to drink to on Sunday, which we did, liberally.
   

 

As luck would have it, Vanessa and I also managed a few cheeky snifters the night before at an especially glitzy bash.

 

 

Yes, our pal Layla - from the parish of BBC Radio Leeds - was celebrating her 50th birthday (or it may have been 40th, can't quite recall).

  

 

That's her sandwiched in the middle by Gillian (left) and Mrs W.

 

The other sandwiches were very tasty too.

 

 

And rounding off a weekend of unparalleled glamour, we even had a personal visit from Doctor Who.

 

 

More on him tomorrow.

Spanish Euan

It was International Day at Guiseley Infants School yesterday.

Last year, Jamie was tasked with manning (or is it boying?) the United Arab Emirates stall.  Proudly wearing his Muslim prayer cap, his principal role was advising patrons that neither wine nor pork products were on offer.  (He later had hot dogs for tea).

Yesterday, he was part of the Spanish delegation with a range of responsibilities including telling mummies and daddies how to make Sangria. As a parent, I was much more comfortable with this.

However, Jamie's best pal/personal entertainer Euan felt that the whole shebang needed to be Spanished-up a bit.  So he went off to see what he could find.

His first effort certainly made me feel more continental.

And his second?  Well.  I was suddenly transported back to my teens.

 

For me, they both look bonita.

DJ Gammy is in da (our) house

Ayeee.

More soon.

Like father, like f***

It's Jamie's half-term next week and we've been thinking about what to do with him.

One idea I had was for he and I to go on a boys' trip to the all-new Doctor Who exhibition in Bradford, which opens in the next few days. 

But, this afternoon, a concerned sounding Vanessa rang me at work.

"I don't think you should take Jamie to that exhibition on your own," she declared.

"Oh.  Do you want to come?"

"Not really."

"Do you think he'll be scared?"

"No.  It's just that I've been reading about that Roma family in Dublin."

"OK.  And what about them?"

"Well, their daughter has blonde hair and blue eyes and was taken away because she looked nothing like them."

"Right.  And?"

"Well, Jamie has blonde hair and blue eyes."

"Yes."

"And you don't."

Bitch.