Thumbs up for 10 years

This is what's happening just a few feet away from me as Jamie (hiding behind his piece of paper) and Charlotte join other kiddiewinks in making Vinnie the Fox figures on our last full day here in deepest Northumberland.

Things are a lot different now than 10 years ago.

Because this time precisely a decade ago, I was under a little bit of pressure, struggling to eat my breakfast.

It was our wedding day, you see.  And I was a touch on the nervous side.  This was not helped by best man Wee John and groomsman Rodney doing all they could to wind me up further.  (Some of their language even made me blush).

Over subsequent hours, a drop or two of whiskey was taken in our hotel.  Then we bagged a taxi across to another pub closer to the scene where the crime was about to be committed i.e. the church.  And so it went on.

As for today, once the Vinnies are completed, we Whites will heading off to a little seaside village to, I dunno, loiter.  But there will be champagne later and perhaps quizzical thoughts of where 10 years have really gone.

Hopefully there will be a few more of the same still to come.

  

Don't tell my ma

Some are born great, some have greatness thrust upon them and others just go out and grab it when the opportunity presents itself, if only to amuse their children.

I fell into the latter category last night when I took the Best Party Dancer Award (Sad Parents Section) on night two of our short caravan holiday here in Northumberland.  (Our hosts thought it would be funny to call me "Keith," Barry White not being amusing enough).

In truth, there was great pressure on me to perform as a means of restoring family honour.

Charlotte had earlier been eliminated from her quest to retain her crown from Monday evening.

Then Jamie lost an arm-wrestling contest to a girlie.

The shame of it.  So it was all down to me.

To be fair, the organisers did seek to give me an advantage by choosing "I'll Tell My Ma" as the all-important party tune.  However, whilst I clearly remember learning to sing that particular Irish classic as a pupil at Macosquin Primary School, Mrs Thompson refrained from teaching us any accompanying moves.

It was therefore improvisation all the way.

 
And I nailed it.

Hopefully it will be Vanessa's turn this evening.

Foxy lady

Last month we Whites packed up the car and headed north for a few nights in a caravan in Northumberland.  It was great and we vowed to return.

And lo and behold, we have returned.  Already.

It wasn't really the plan - we should really be too busy to justify coming back quite so quickly - but they offered Vanessa a "whopping" 10% discount if she agreed to book before thinking through the practical consequences.

So I'm now sitting here in shorts and tee shirt writing this guff and trying to build up the fortitude to go outside and pretend it's warm.

A brief conversation with Vanessa earlier informed me that Holy Island is the star attraction on today's agenda, although I confess it remains unclear to me whether said Holy Island is actually an island at all.

I'll let you know.

Last night, our trip got off to a worthy start at Vinnie the Fox's disco where Charlotte was crowned "Best Action Party Dancer," winning a certificate and a free Mini-Vinnie.

Jamie's promised to outdo her this evening.  Or it might be down to me.

Puff Daddy

I hurt my back carrying Charlotte around Ilkley a couple of weeks ago and have been unable to do any meaningful exercise since.

I was complaining about this at teatime yesterday, expressing fears that my forced period of inactivity was adversely affecting my svelte features.

"Hmmm," pondered Jamie.  "How do fat people puff themselves down?"

I've invited him to join me at the gym in the coming days to find out.

North West 200 races? THEY'RE GREEEEEAAAAAAT!

I'm just back from the annual North West 200 motorbike races, held in my native Triangle of Coleraine, Portrush and Portstewart.  And, as has become an annoying habit in recent years, the weather was "changeable" but somehow I still ended up with a burnt and stripey face.  Honestly, I look like a cross between a Swan Vesta and Tony the Tiger.  This is not an image I crave.

The highlight for me was a second and third place for someone who should be Guiseley's most celebrated resident - if only you'd heard of him.

I'm referring to eight-time Isle of Man TT winner Ian Hutchinson (pictured leading a race yesterday) who, in 2010, shattered his leg in a particularly horrific racing accident.  He has since undergone more than 30 operations to fix it and yesterday got his reward with two North West podium finishes.  

Below, arm in the air, you can see him acknowledging the well-deserved big cheers.
 

He was on the same Leeds-bound flight as me after last year's races, when he didn't do very well.  So I left him alone.

This year I was all set to make a fool of myself by telling him how great he was and that I lived in Guiseley too and that he should probably come over for tea and maybe play football with me in the back garden afterwards.  But he wasn't on my flight so none of that happened.  Maybe I'll see him in Morrisons.

Away from the racing, there was a vibrant North Coast social scene to take advantage of, including firewater on tap.

Personally, I prefer to drink it rather than spit it out and was fortunate to spend a fair bit of time with others of like mind.

This included my Scottish pal Sandy who flew over from London especially for the occasion.

And after a few on Friday evening, he even got his jugs out.

I hope we'll all be back for more in 2016.        

A toast to the coast

Welcome to Leeds Bradford International Airport.

See, I wouldn't lie to you. 

Well, I say that. I'm actually on the plane now but a plane is a plane. And I could take a picture on a plane on any plane. Anywhere. So I didn't bother.

Moving on (as I eventually hope to do, just as soon as the big air hostess closes the doors) it's time for the annual pilgrimage to the North West 200 motorbike races.

If you're not aware, the event involves a group of mad people in helmets careering round the (closed) public roads of Portstewart, Portrush and Coleraine at speeds in excess of 200mph.

And when they're having a rest, everyone goes to the pub.

What's not to like?

My very Scottish pal Sandy is meeting me in Belfast later after flying over from London. We're rendezvousing in the pub. 

Before then I'm meeting my old university comrade Paul, who I haven't seen for ages, in the same pub (TBA). 

Then Sandy and I shall head north to The Shrine, otherwise known as The Railway Arms in Coleraine where we'll hook up with my biking stepdad-in-law Mike who's ridden (and ferried) over from Yorkshire this morning.

I haven't had a long weekend of such high brow culture since this time last year.

I hear I enjoyed it.

Ode to the fallen

So, how did the General Election go for you?

I don't do party politics on here and am not about to start. Suffice to say that Thursday was a very long night.

In fact, it was around 8 o'clockish on Friday morning when my man Kris Hopkins was returned to Parliament as the MP for Keighley and Ilkley.  The screen shot you can see above - taken from the BBC pictures - confirms that I'm yet to master the art of "cool."   But I was very pleased and hope I can be forgiven, particularly as I hadn't been to bed for more than 26 hours at that point.

The problem with supposedly being at the centre of the "action" on these occasions is that, in truth, you're really not.  We only knew for sure that Kris had won a few minutes before the result was announced.  And, with no Wifi and no TV, it was difficult to know what the picture was elsewhere in the country.

I watched a lot of the coverage back yesterday (I didn't have much else on, alright?!) and it left me feeling rather downbeat

Before the polls closed on Thursday, I wrote on the VANBAR associates website that standing for election, whatever your policy platform, is often a particularly thankless task.  And the sense of devastation felt by those who lose can often be very deep indeed.

A number of long-time friends of mine -  from Northern Ireland, England, Scotland and Wales, and from across the major political parties - got their hides soundly spanked and will have woken up yesterday not quite knowing what to do with themselves.  A number are now unemployed.

After almost 20 years of political involvement of one form or another, I remain in real admiration of the vast majority of people who put themselves forward (George Galloway being a dishonourable exception).

Many like to call them nasty names and think they know better, but few have the courage to put their own names on a ballot paper.   Thank goodness some do.

Have you heard the one about the two Charlottes?

Well, I mean, I did say.

Yes, the speculation was right and Princess Charlotte (Elizabeth Diana) it is.

I thought our Charlotte would be more pleased.

Perhaps she's feeling overwhelmed.

The exciting news flashed up on my phone as I was waiting to pay in Morrisons (I go there a lot).  I had to tell someone, so manically waved the words at my checkout lady.   She then leant over to tell the checkout lady behind her, who told the checkout lady behind her and so on.  And each one of them cooed as they found out.

As I left, my checkout lady told me I'd always be remembered in Guiseley Morrisons as the man who broke the news.

I liked that.  Unfortunately my new status didn't come with any discount coupons, which was certainly a disappointment.

Earlier, the Whites had a family trip to the Ilkley Carnival where the local town crier stopped and invited Jamie to try on his outfit.

He then drove off in a golden car.

It's been a very odd few days.

Making a fool of my selfie

Another terrific weekend to live in God's Own County as the inaugural Tour de Yorkshire sped along streets both close and familiar to most of us.  

After being dragged along to last year's spectacularly successful Tour de France, which spent three days here, today Jamie and Charlotte wheeled along to the new event; Jamie pedalling himself, Charlotte perched on a "lady chair" on the back of my bike.

And thankfully, enthusiasm did kick in when we got to our vantage point only a mile or so from our house.  

The reason?  We told them that a famous, real-life knight was riding in the race.

Cue Wiggo.

Yup, father-of-two Sir Bradley was debuting for his very own Team Wiggins, which really is quite cool. 

Meanwhile, Charlotte's dad continues to struggle in the cool stakes.

I tried to take a selfie of our shared cycling adventure for posterity.

And I missed.

  

I've promised to try again tomorrow

It's a BABY!!!

Unless you've been hiding under a stone since sunrise (and, to be fair, I have woken up under a stone on an occasional Saturday morning), you'll know that a new princess is now amongst us.

And I can't tell you how pleased I am that it shot out so quickly.

I like a bit of living history as much as the next sad man, but there's only so much Nicholas 'Bloody' Witchell and Kay 'Look At Me' Burley I can take - preferably none at all.

All us mere subjects know so far is that it's a girl and it's something pounds and so many ounces.  Good work Kate.

Now all we need is the name and we can get back to the washing-up.

Needless to say I was hoping for a Prince Barry.  We've never had a Prince Barry before and, in this age of equality and speaking on behalf of Barrys everywhere, I felt it was our turn.

Failing that, Alan.  Prince Alan, anyone?  No?  Maybe next time.

But it's a girl so it's girls' names we have to think about.  And here's the thing.

When I last looked, the current bookies' favourite was Princess Charlotte at 2/1, surging ahead of long-time front-runner Alice at 5/2.  Elizabeth is next at 6-1, with Victoria further back at 10/1.

Unless Prince Harry got pissed again and told a mate (something we can't rule out), the reason for Charlotte being the popular choice is that it's apparently "a feminine form of Charles."  Hmmm.  (I still remember someone once telling me that the name Jack was "short for John" so I'd believe anything).

I can obviously think of another Princess Charlotte who'd be thrilled if this rumour became a truth.

But given that she's just asked if the new Royal arrival can come to our house for tea tonight, I daren't risk another disappointment.

Our only crime was fashion

Who are those intrepid men of mystery you can see before you?  (I hear you cry. Surely).

Any idea?  Nope?  OK, two clues.

Clue one.  The little people are all proud members of the Aireborough Lions Under 7s rugby squad.

Clue two.  The bigger person on the left is Kris, their head coach.

Still none the wiser?

Well, meet Kris's trusty assistants Iron Man, Spider Man and Robin - aka Dylan, Ollie and me. (Kris has a Batman suit but didn't get the message).

We held our last squad get together of the season yesterday and, as fun is the name of our game, we oldies thought we'd get the Lycra out.

Charlotte even tagged along dressed as a princess.

It's been a genuine privilege to work with such a charming and entertaining group of young men.

We regroup in September as Aireborough Lions Under 8s.      

Jocks trapped?

I watched proudly today as Jamie marched through the streets of Horsforth with his fellow Beavers.

Marking St George's Day, the annual parade was led by a pipe band playing Scotland the Brave.

I'll never hear another Irish joke ever again (meh!)

How many birthdays does it take to calm a screaming daughter?

Some serious panic in Charlotte World first thing this morning over the crucially important issue of birthdays.

We've had several young and "not so young" (ahem) family members over from Coleraine in recent days and, before leaving on Tuesday, had the chance to celebrate my eldest sister Jacquie's XXth birthday (she'd kill me).

Afterwards, I explained to Charlotte that 21 April was a special date because not only was it Jacquie's birthday but also the Queen's.

But (and this was where I went wrong) I also pointed out that the Queen had something of an advantage over Auntie Jacquie as Her Maj had a second "official" birthday in June.

Charlotte didn't say much more at the time but at breakfast time today it all kicked off when she too demanded another birthday.

"I'm afraid the rest of us don't get another birthday," I comforted.

"Why not?"

"Because we're not the Queen."

"I want another birthday!"

"Sorry. But anyway, your birthday's still to come.  Mummy and me have had ours.  Jamie's is coming up.  Then it's your turn."

"I want another one!" (stomp, bawl, stomp).  You get the idea.

And the wailing went on for some time before I bravely chose to leave it/her to Vanessa whilst I had a shower.

When I re-emerged, all was suddenly calm.

"How did you manage that?!" I enquired of Mrs W.

"I told her she'd have another birthday next year.  She thought she was only having one."

Oh.

Slashed and burned

This is our garden hedge.  It's about 10 feet high and I tend to cut it about twice a year, each trim taking not very long at all.  It should probably take longer, but I get bored.

In an attempt to make the task a little more exciting, I bought myself an electric hedge trimmer.  There was no real need for me to do this, but I came over all caveman and thought it would be a wild and dangerous thing to do.  Living on the edge, it's where I like to be.  Grrrrr.  

Last Thursday I decided it was high time to get my big chopper out for the first cut of spring.  And off I went,  No real plan, just a bit of random slashing, three steps back to have a look, and a bit more random slashing.  All good.  Until everything went quiet as my trimmer came to a shuddering halt.

Why was a mystery for a moment or two. Until the penny dropped.

Have a close look at my weapon.  Can you see the problem?  OK, have another look - at the lead.

Yup, mind the gap.  I managed to saw my way right through it.  Knackered.

I went inside to break the bad news to Mrs White.  Who laughed in my face.

But then the situation got even worse.

I'd plugged my now defunct boy toy into an extension lead which was plugged into a socket in our garage.  So, as I dug out some old hand clippers to finish the job, I thought I'd plug the radio into the extension lead to cheer myself up.  It didn't work.

I'd "obviously" blown the fuse in the lead.  So I spent 10 minutes replacing it, before plugging the radio back in.  It didn't work.  Balls.

I checked the fuse box in the garage.

Here it is.  The trip switch had been, er, tripped.  So I untripped it.  Still no power.

So I swore at it.  Made no difference.

Meanwhile, the ice cream in our fridge/freezer in the garage was beginning to melt.  Great.  I was eventually forced to defrost the whole thing once the electrician said he couldn't come until today.

Today came.  So did the electrician.

"Do you have a fuse box inside your house?" he smirked.

"Yes."

"Can I have a look?"

"Yes."

He had a look.  And untripped the switch which had "GARAGE" written above it.

He only charged me a tenner because he felt sorry for me.

But not as much as I felt sorry for myself.  

Up, up and WAHEY!

Well, that was fun.

We Whites are just back from three nights in a caravan.  I don't care much for tents, but caravans - with their roofs, windows, sofas, cookers, I could go on - will do for me.  And the kids like them too, which is kind of relevant in the spirit of a family holiday.

Even more of a bonus was that our caravan was in Northumberland.  I was privileged to play rugby for Northumberland Colts when I was a student in Newcastle.  (25 years ago, so almost yesterday).  And before home County Championship games, we used to stay in Tynemouth and toss a rugby ball about on the beach on the morning of a match.

This beach, in fact.

      
It was very good to be back.

Having got our caravan keys, it was time for Vinny's Disco.

Vinny was late but got his tail and his permasmile into gear eventually.

Before the bingo got under way. 

Whilst Charlotte gave interviews.

Next day, it was off to Alnwick Castle.

Where Jamie was knighted.

Before marching off to war.

But the highlight was yet to come.

Flying on a broomstick.

I'll try that again.  Flying on a broomstick.

Dreams do come true.

A ginger tale/tail

I might not be very good at it, but I do like to write.

And now Jamie is beginning to show signs of a similar tendency.  Better than that, it's already clear he's a more accomplished scribbler than me.

Tonight, with the Easter holidays officially under way, be brought home his latest epic.

It's called "The Gingerbread Man."  I hope you like it.    

"The fox throws everyone into the water except the Gingerbread Man.  

"The fox makes friends with the Gingerbread Man and they build a boat together and sail to a paradise in South America.

"The fox went on a diet and never ate a Gingerbread Man again.  

"The End - Jamie White."

Expect the screenplay to be available on Netflix sometime next year.

News: Man reads news

The General Election campaign gets formally under way tomorrow.  And with so many different parties to chose from these days, the sight of politicians - both in the flesh and in the media - is something I'm afraid you're going to have to get used to between now and Thursday 7 May.  

I mention the media because competing for journalistic attention will be a key element of the each of the parties' overall strategies.  But in an era of decreasing budgets and shrinking staff numbers, it's not always easy for news outlets to cope with demand at election time.

So sometimes you have to innovate.

I was thinking about all of this yesterday (you wouldn't want to be in my head, not even for a second) when I was reminded of the Bradford Conservatives local election campaign launch in 2007, fronted by former party leader William Hague.

As one of the most high profile Yorkshiremen still breathing air, you might think that getting the Yorkshire Post to cover his appearance at the event would be relatively straightforward.  But when I spoke to the paper, I was told that they wouldn't be able to have a photographer present.

"If I send you a picture, will it get in?" I asked.

"It depends if it's good enough," replied the man from the Yorkshire Post.

I do like a challenge.

So, a little later when Mr Hague arrived, I outlined the situation to him and explained I'd had a little idea.

"Would you be up for it?" I asked..

"Of course," he enthused back, "no problem."

This is the photo I took.  

It got in.

Balls to bullies

With Charlotte at a party and Vanessa accompanying her for health and safety/free lunch reasons, the boy and I are home alone.

We should be doing something outside, of course.  But the sky looks a bit grey and this chair is very comfy.  So I've told him he can play on his Wii. (It's exercise, isn't it?)

To be fair to Jamie and, more importantly, me, he did do a quiz earlier.  The photo even confirms it (in case his mother asks).

Those of you with that rare ability to read sideways will note that it's entitled "Transport Teaser." And you'll obviously want to know more.

In short, you have to put yourself into the mindset of a Jedi knight.  And with that head on, you've got to answer some questions to enable the Jedi Order to decide what mode of transport should be assigned to you.  Got that?  Good, I am glad.

So Jamie answered his six multiple choice questions and, in five out of six, he chose 'A.'  The transport prescription for knights answering in that way was a "Republic cruiser."  I'll defer to his Star Wars Activity Annual to explain why:

This starship was built for the purpose of carrying ambassadors on diplomatic missions. It has no weapons, and it is the perfect vehicle for a Jedi who favours peace and diplomacy above battles and danger.  You are wise and kind, and your gentleness is very valuable.

A lover not a fighter, good man.

But I still wanted to know why he answered one question with a 'B' rather than an 'A.'  So I had a read of the relevant teaser, as follows:

Q: You are playing football in the park when someone takes your football, what is your response?

A: You try to reason with them and persuade them to return the ball.

B: You attack them and force them to return the ball. 

As someone who tries to be a responsible father, I did point out that violence is bad and he should really have gone for 'A.'

Then I slipped outside and punched the air.  

Sunshine in Guiseley shocker

So, how did the eclipse go for you?

16 years ago, when the last eclipse was alleged to have taken place here, I was living in London. And I watched the "once in the lifetime" event (clearly untrue 'cos I'm still here) via the medium of a puddle on the roof of the House of Commons.  

I don't recall seeing anything of interest in there. Maybe it was a dirty puddle.

Fast forward to this morning and, yes, I can report to having had a solar experience.

In fact, have a look at precisely what my peepers feasted on from platform 2 of Guiseley train station.

You may note that not much of the Sun is in view. 

The bloke standing beside me said that this was because the Moon was in the way. 

The things you learn.

Help Wee Oliver WIN

The list of "good things" achieved by this blog are limited to say the least.

But something I am proud of is having had the opportunity to bring the plight faced by Wee Oliver Dickey to many people's attention.

And most of the words which appeared in that post published on 2 January 2014 weren't even mine.

Instead, they were the words of Charlene, Oliver's mum, who told his very harrowing tale.

Confined to a wheelchair with a form of celebral palsy and told by doctors he'd have to stay there, Charlene and hubby Neil decided to act.  They were aware of specialist surgery available in the United States which, with a bit of good fortune, might give 5-year-old Oliver the gift of limited movement.  The ability to take himself to the toilet or pick up a toy, that's all that was expected.  But something was better than nothing, so it was worth a try.

The major stumbling block was the £60,000 price tag which came with the procedure.

Cue the people of Coleraine and far beyond, who put their hands in their pockets in kindly donations or to sponsor good folk to do often mad things for a peerless cause.  

I would suggest that this video, put together by Neil Moore, didn't do any harm.

Gets me every time.

The fundraising target was hit within two months and was eventually achieved twice over, enabling Oliver to access the aftercare which is so essential for him to reach his ultimate physical potential.

But here's the thing.  Whilst Dr Park - the genius who operated on Oliver - worked his magic to perfection, it was left to Oliver, supported by his family, to do the really hard work.

He'd not used his legs before, so what lay ahead was a physio and fitness regime that even Rocky Balboa would've baulked at.

And has it all been worth it?

Well, click onto this link to see for yourself.

Just as I required Charlene's words to describe her son's predicament more than 15 months ago, the determination, grit and belief that he now demonstrates day after day is also far beyond my descriptive abilities.

Oliver has long since made the journey to becoming an inspiration, but I would argue that we should make it official.

This brings me neatly on to the Spirit of Northern Ireland Awards, for which public nominations have now opened.

There are three categories: recognising unsung heroes, those who have overcome adversity, and special achievements by young people.  And at the end of the evening, someone will be named the overall Spirit of Northern Ireland winner.

The nomination process is very straightforward and involves putting together 50-100 words on why you believe someone is worthy of recognition.

My nomination is already in and it is for Oliver Dickey.

Should you wish to do the same, you can click here and follow the simple instructions.

Let's help Wee Oliver WIN.