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.

Hey piddly wee, squatting's not for me

This is our bathroom toilet.  Isn't she a beauty?  Well, not really.  

Three reasons. First, it's part of a "retro" suite which would not be out of place in an episode of George & Mildred. Second, it's a toilet. And third, it's currently topped off with a broken seat. 

How the seat ended up in its present state is open to speculation. Suffice to say that it wasn't me, meaning it was almost certainly Vanessa. But we can't be sure.

So, what to do? The obvious solution would be to fix it. And we would, but for the fact that it's what's technically referred to in the toilet trade as "f***ed." A sad end to a shitty existence, you might say.

The next best alternative would be to buy a replacement seat. However, we're hoping to get a new bathroom put in very soon - if Mark the Plumber would ever bloody well phone me back - so, leaving aside whatever else may be in there, we might as well flush our cash away. 

In the interim, the only option is therefore to "tread" carefully (if you know what I'm saying). 

It's OK for the ladies of the house, of course - or the "natural squatters" as Jamie and I like to refer to them. But for us men, well, it's much less convenient.

I've worked out that if you keep the seat down (after, crucially, remembering to lift the lid), the seat stays in place. But elevating our shattered friend to perform a stand-upper is certainly out of the question. 

And, worryingly, this delicate situation is not without its dangers.

Many years ago back in Coleraine, I remember our pet lady cat Tinker teaching our baby boy dog Roscoe how to wee like a girlie - and he never got out of the habit.

I do hope my son and I are not now at risk of falling into the same trap.

What a ripper

Having a ripped stomach is something I've always aspired to but never achieved. Until now, it would seem. And sadly in this case I'm not talking six pack.

In the lead-up to last year's Great North Run, I lamented on here about my poorly tummy (bless me) which, according to Dr Google, bore all the hallmarks of a "sports hernia." Still, it helped me pull in a bit more cash so the pain was worth it.

Unfortunately, several weeks later, it was no better so I went to see a real GP. Let's call him Dr Shitt. 

He had a quick poke before declaring he had absolutely no idea what it was, although adding that he didn't "think" it was serious. Then he sent me packing. Good for him.

10 weeks later, it was still no better. So I phoned the surgery seeking another appointment. The nice lady said I could see Dr Shitt again at 3pm. I politely declined and asked if I could see an alternative expert, perhaps one who was in doctor class the day they did sore stomachs. She said I could see Dr Shitt-Too the following Wednesday. I asked if Dr Goode was available instead. She said no. I said I looked forward to seeing Dr Shitt-Too the following Wednesday. 

The following Wednesday came along - last Wednesday, as it turns out. 

I arrived at the surgery. And, with minimal delay, Dr Shitt-Too emerged to lead me into his centre of excellence/room. Waiting to look at me in a rather bemused fashion, was Miss Bemused Student. I said hello. She looked back it me, a mixture of teeth braces and bemusement.

Dr Shitt-Too asked me to describe my problem. I described my problem. He asked to loosen my jeans so he could have a poke. He had a poke. Miss Bemused Student looked away. 

Safely re-packed and re-belted, I sat down eagerly awaiting the verdict. 

"I don't know what it is," said Dr Shitt-Too. 

"Right," I replied, probably looking more bemused than Miss Bemused Student although it was probably a close-run thing. 

"A sports hernia?" I suggested helpfully. "I got that from the Internet." 

"Could be," said Dr Shitt-Too, before turning to his in-house sidekick, Miss Bemused Student. 

"What do you think it is?" he asked.

She didn't know either. 

Dr Shitt-Too then ran through the options with his charge, seemingly unaware that I was still in the room.

"We could just send him away," he said.

"You've already done that," I interjected. 

"But we've already done that," he soldiered on, ignoring me. "So we could send him for a scan. What do you think?" 

"I think you should send me for a scan," I interjected again.

"I think we should send him for a scan," said Miss Bemused Student. 

They're sending for a scan. No idea when. 

Back in the black

I'm feeling mildly euphoric tonight.

I have a little rule, you see, by which I try not to pay more than £1 per can when buying a box of Guinness.

It's not that I'm tight (certainly in Yorkshire terms). It's just that I resent having to sometimes fork out a fiver more for 10 Guinness one day than I do on another. So when an offer's on, I leap. 

However, last weekend I was in a bit of a bind. I was down to my last two cans (I know) and there was no sign of any offers. I thought about it for a while and decided to break my rule and pay £17.99 for a box of 15. I wasn't happy, although I was very relieved to get them into the fridge.

But then, tonight, I was walking through Morrisons and thought it best to check what was happening on the Guinness aisle. There was a new offer on, and I could barely believe my eyes. 

£9 for 10 cans - plus a free glass. 

Let me say that again. That's £9 FOR 10 CANS PLUS A FREE GLASS!

You really have read that right. 

So, not only was my pound a can rule met with bells on, but I would also get a FREE GLASS!!!!! Quite magnificent. 

I bought two packs - that's 20 cans and TWO FREE GLASSES - and carried them on the 10 minute walk back home. I arrived at the back door with arms like Mr Tickle. 

But the pain was worth it. A good night's sleep tonight, and I might try to manage three packs tomorrow (including THREE FREE GLASSES).

Living the dream.

Despicable He

I was "Jamied" again yesterday, an all too frequent occurrence.

He, Charlotte and my lowly self were watching Despicable Me on DVD and laughing heartily.

Three of the main characters - Margo, Edith and Agnes - are orphans who get taken in by Gru, the film's eventual hero.

And in one scene, they're going to bed.  Three girls, three separate beds - and they stayed there all night.

Their behaviour is in stark contrast to Jamie and Charlotte who, whilst beginning each evening in their own beds, almost always wake up the following morning in the same scratcher as Vanessa and me.

This ongoing situation is doing nothing for our sleeping patterns - and it's killing my back.

I pointed out the impeccable bedtime manners of Margo, Edith and Agnes to Jamie as we watched the film.

Without taking a breath, he simply shook his head and shot back:

"But they don't have mummies or daddies."

Another round to him.

Thumbs up for the four-slicer

My mum was over visiting before Christmas and kindly presented us Whites a new four-slot toaster.  You can see it being modelled above, in the retro-style of The Price Is Right, by Wee John.

I'd go as far as saying that it's changed my life.

There are four Whites, you see, meaning a toast slot is simultaneously available to us all.

But there are other more subtle advantages that come with ownership of this revolutionary piece of kitchen kit.

Let me tell you about just one.

Charlotte and I often enjoy a Saturday morning bacon sandwich, as we did again today.  When you're a two-slice toaster family and two bacon sandwiches are required, one of you can have hot toast but the other is forced to have it cold if your bacon is all cooked at the same time. But those of us with access to a four-slicer have the luxury of being able to serve two bacon sandwiches at the same piping temperatures at the precise same time.

I honestly can't believe I've managed to reach this stage of my life devoid of a four-slot toaster.  For me, it's the future - my future (and occasionally Vanessa's when she can be arsed to walk to the bread bin) - and I would strongly encourage you to join me on the adventure.  It's quite literally pop-up joy for all.

FOOTNOTE: It's wet and windy outside and I'm bored.  I hope that wasn't immediately apparent as you read today's thoughts.        

White light

I'm sure I'm not alone in having received some particularly "interesting" Christmas presents - almost a month ago now (really).

Chief amongst them was my head torch. 

To be fair, there was some method in Vanessa's (deepening) madness in buying me one.

I have to walk down an alley ("ginnel" in Yorkshire parlance) to get to our house from Guiseley train station, and it's pitch black on the way home at this time of year. As a result, I have a tendency to wade through unseen muddy puddles/dog poo, forcing me to swear loudly when I finally get back to base and find the damage inflicted on my clobber.

Vanessa thought a head torch would help me to spot the trouble spots before I covered my feet (and subsequently her carpets) in their hidden contents. 

The only thing is, it could be argued that it might make me look a bit silly. 

I road-tested it on Jamie's napper as we walked back from his swimming class the other night. 

And whilst, yes, it was surprisingly effective as a guiding light, even he admitted to feeling a tad self conscious.

I've therefore come up with a compromise.

Until winter's end and the arrival of the longer evenings, I have decided that I will indeed wear my new head torch as I traverse along said dark alley. 

But my new look will be complemented by a big pair of sunglasses, just in case there's anyone around that I know. 

I think it's a great idea. Unless, of course, I've missed something. 

No gas, just guts

You join me in a reasonably ropy pub in central Leeds where I await the slow train back to Guiseley after an evening of racy chat.

When I say "racy" I mean in terms of tyres and petrol.  And I'm talking risky as opposed to risqué.

Yes, it was about motorbikes.

Growing up on the edge of the famous Portstewart-Coleraine-Portrush circuit which is the Vauxhall International North West 200, I've always had motorcycle road racing in my blood. But I'm very much an enthusiast as opposed to an expert.

This is in contrast to four-time World Superbike king Carl Fogarty and ex-British Superbike Champion James Whitham who were on stage tonight as part of their "Foggy & Whit Givin' It Gas" Tour 2014.

Yes, it sounds iffy, but it really wasn't.

They spent little time talking about the machinery (which I have no clue about) and instead concentrated on the men (and occasional women) who ride them. And it was great.

Cracked ribs? Not a problem. Shattered pelvis? Be back in a few weeks. Broken collar bone? A fortnight at most.

They didn't tell me anything I didn't already know in terms of how madly brave motorbike racers are. They just confirmed it. But it still made me admire them even more. 

Terrific night. Go see them if you can.

FU BT

Our house was a broadband-free zone over the weekend after something broke.  We hope to have it fixed by Thursday.

So we were forced to resort to less hi-tech activities to pass the time, separated on gender lines.

The ladies did some baking.

Meanwhile, the men (GRRRR!!!) unblocked the drain (another GRRRR!!!)

As for our loving service provider, let me share with you the content of the text I received after reporting the problem.

"Hello, BT here. Sorry about your fault.  We aim to fix it by the end of 23/01/2014. If the problem isn't with BT kit, you might need to pay £129.99.  Thanks."

Customer service as its best.  Or, like BT, perhaps I'm being insincere.

Help Wee Oliver Walk: The Movie

It's been a little while since my last update on the campaign to raise the funds to give little Oliver Dickey from Coleraine the chance to walk.

In short, we're now approaching £9,000 via JustGiving with other pots of money literally filling up by the hour, and new events being planned by the day.

Oliver's uncle, Neil Moore, has just completed a short video which tells Oliver's story much better than I could ever do.

Please have a watch via THIS LINK and give something if you can.

The man with none of the answers

I don't do politics on here, principally because politics tends not to be very funny.  But today is an exception.

The Traditional Unionist Voice (TUV) is a relatively new (and thankfully small) political entity in Northern Ireland, built around the messianic ego of its leader Jim Allister (pictured above) and the tiny brains of his three (or is it two?) disciples.

This afternoon Jim took to Twitter to invite non-believers to ask him questions using the hash tag #AskTUV.

I was tipped off by a friend about this and logged on to have a look.  Sadly, I only have the time to include (and you will no doubt only have the patience to read) a mere handful of the hundreds of posers that came Jim's regal way.

I hope you enjoy them as much as I would imagine Jim failed to:

How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?

If a man born blind is able to distinguish between a cube and a globe and could then see, could he tell the cube and the globe apart?

Is Lynx Africa really made in Africa?

How many fingers am I holding up? 

Who would win in a fight between a bear and a gorilla?

Which came first, the dinosaur or the egg?

If I put my beef casserole into the slow cooker on low at 9am, will it be cooked enough for dinner at 5pm? 

Why should we build castles in the sky?

Have you ever seen 21 mosquitoes flying in formation? If so, what was the first thought that went through your head? 

Have you ever sneezed so hard your big toe grew an inch? 

How soon after washing a kitchen floor is it safe to walk on it? 

How does the man who drives the snow plough get to work? 

If a train leaves Newry travelling at 40mph and another one leaves Antrim travelling at 60mph, why does everyone hate you so much? 

When you choke a Smurf, what colour does it turn? 

Are there Klingons on the starboard bow Jim? 

What happens when you put bark in the microwave? 

How do zombies work? 

Downy hair is appearing on my body and my voice is going up and down. Any ideas?  

Jim, should I get carpet or a nice wood effect lino for my living room? Style vs practicality

How many ping pong balls would fit in Belfast Lough? 

Did you ever mistakenly put your arm through the neck part of your vest? I have. 

Will there ever be a boy born who can swim faster than a shark? 

What do sheep count when they can't get to sleep? 

Which would you rather have: a hand made of ham, or an armpit that dispenses sun cream? 

Have you ever eaten a chicken omelette where the chicken and the eggs were related?

What do people in China call their good plates? 

If you were travelling in a spaceship at the speed of light and you turned your lights on, would they do anything? 

What is a male ladybird called?

What is the airspeed velocity of an unladen swallow?

If only two of each animal were allowed on the Ark, what did the carnivores eat on the trip? 

Are there greyhounds in Co. Louth that bark with an English accent?  

Jim, with the snooker being on at the minute, would you go for the tight brown or easy pink?

If you push your belly button, does your bum fall off? 

If a Siamese twin commits a murder and the other isn't involved, would you jail both or neither? 

What's the best way to get rid of all the slime on my bathroom tiles? I've tried everything.  

Hey, did you happen to see the most beautiful girl in the world? And if you did was she crying? 

Do you think it was right for Ross to cheat on Rachel even if they were on a break?

And finally:

Jim, will you ever do this again?

That really is the question.