Ready to be dazzled by Shane's new sparklers

It's part two of the Whites' Christmas Concert Triple-Header tonight as, minus Mrs White (my good friend John McIlroy is coming with me), I head off to see The Pogues play in Leeds.

This will be about the tenth time I've seen the band live since 1990 when I saw them during my freshers' week in Newcastle.

In that period, they've kicked out their legendary front man Shane MacGowan for drinking too much (it's like turfing out the Pope for praying), replaced him with the now late Joe Strummer and then brought him back (Shane, not Joe - they're musicians, not doctors. Or mediums).

And a very good thing too. To my mind, The Pogues without Shane MacGowan is like an ice cream cone without any ice cream. A bit pointless, really.

And there's been another major development in Pogueland in recent times; Shane has bought some new teeth.

Aside from his drinking, his dodgy teeth were obviously what Shane MacGowan was best known for. But even he must've got fed up with the predictable jokes and got them upgraded. He's still no George Michael, though, you have to say.

Should be another good night.

A quiet night in

Another weekend, another game of pass the parcel (which wasn't fixed in Jamie's favour this time, so he didn't win).

With the Whites heading to Norn Iron for Christmas, we had a pre-holiday period get together with most of Vanessa's immediate family (and mine too for that matter, given we're married).

Jamie's cousin Jack scared the bejesus out of him using face paint.

His cousin Holly tried to do the same by posing as a donkey. But sadly donkeys aren't scary.

Cousin Oliver ate dinner with him.

And Cousin Alexander simply charmed him.

On the downside, his father almost did him an injury by, after changing his nappy, mistakenly putting both legs into one half of his trousers - and not realising for almost a minute.

And his mother embarrassed not only him, but everyone present, by hosting the gig dressed as a cleaner.

Not sure what we're up to next weekend.

A Christmas compromise

A rather weary Jamie emerged from his pit this morning to find something incredibly exciting sitting proudly in our front room: the 2009 White Family Christmas Tree.

Yes, Mummy's sh*t "tree" from the pound shop has been replaced by a much more impressive and three times more expensive specimen from Asda.

And whilst, at three feet, it might not be anywhere near as big as Daddy would like, he has been forced to accept that compromise is the name of the game this Christmas if Jamie isn't to wreck everything. (The desk top nature of the tree is crucial in this aspect).

So the question now is, how long will the new tree last.

Mummy's guess? "It'll be fine, we'll just have to watch him - we're not getting another one."

Daddy's guess? "Not long - perhaps we'd better get another couple in, just to have."

Christmas Time will tell.

John Kettleeeeeeey.....(Is A Weatherman)

Yesterday, I had an unexpected and, I have to say, surreal blast of sunshine into my otherwise overcast Thursday morning.

I received a Christmas card from John Kettley (Is A Weatherman).

I had the privilege of sitting beside the great man at a cricket lunch at Headingley last year. And he was excellent company.

We talked about cricket (as one tends to do at cricket lunches), football (he's a die hard Burnley fan) and that famous hit single by A Tribe Of Toffs which, if you've never heard it and haven't noticed the visual clue above, is called John Kettley (Is a Weatherman). In fact, you can even watch the video if you want: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Db6WHtNV5-I&feature=related

John - he let me address him as that, rather than his full title of John Kettley (Is A Weatherman) - was excellent company, let me into one or two of his trades secrets (such as the fact that he often looks out the window and checks the sky before doing a live weather report) and then swapped business cards with me.

And I remember feeling a little embarrassed about swapping cards because, well, why would he possibly want to get back in contact with me?

To be fair, the final comment on his Christmas card may have given the game away i.e. he has a new book out and clearly wants me to buy it (as I might well do).

But surely he can't have written to that many people to ask them to buy his book. I mean, at what point does the potential increase in profits become outweighed by the cost of cards, stamps and ink?

However, whatever his reasons for sending it, the card made my morning.

Merry Christmas John Kettley (Is A Weatherman)!

Stuart Andrew: Robocouncillor

Ladies and gentlemen, please meet Cllr Stuart Andrew, the next Conservative Member of Parliament for Pudsey (if I have anything to do with it).

If you read my post first thing this morning, you will know that the Whites and our neighbours were about to spend the next four days and three nights without gas and, therefore, proper cooking facilities, central heating and hot water. And neither I nor any of my fellow Bradford Road residents (especially Barrington at No. 33) were very happy about it.

But then we got Stuart involved.

I've known Stuart for three and half years after he came along to personally assist my own ill-fated efforts to become a Pudsey councillor in May 2006.

Stuart's one of life's good chaps. He works hard, he's bright and wants to help people solve their problems - such as those faced by us lot preparing for the production of A Nightmare on Bradford Road.

And as of mid-afternoon today, that was what we were still facing.

But then Stuart called the lovely Laura at United Utilities (Tel: 07778 048008).

Following their conversation, I received a text from him. Laura claimed that she had always said it was going to be Monday before our gas was switched back on (a lie because she originally said Sunday) and that no-one had complained to her about the situation (another lie because both Barrington and Vanessa did so). So I pointed this out to Stuart who got immediately back on the case.

My phone beeped again. It was Stuart to report that the contractors now intended to work on Sunday rather than have it off on holiday and that the site manager would be calling him tomorrow.

But that wasn't enough for our hero who was having a blinder. So much so that, with the wind now blowing in his sails, he decided to lace the gloves back on and return to the ring.

A few minutes later, my phone beeped again. Another text from Stuart:

"Just missed call - message says works not happening this weekend now due to 'site problems.'"

('Site problems' - aye, right).

"Have rung back and left message to call me."

And ten minutes after that, yet another text from Stuart:

"Cutting off Monday am, back on Tuesday pm."

So, instead of an entire long weekend of four days and three nights with no gas, we are now to be inconvenienced for little more than 24 hours - and we'll be at work for much of that time anyway.

I call that a massive result - and a massive result that would simply not have been achieved without the intervention of Robocouncillor (my term, but he's very welcome to use it).

I work in politics but, in the wake of the expenses scandal, I've become just as disillusioned with politicians as everyone else.

But Stuart's actions have graphically underlined that there are people out there - in all parties - who enter politics for the right reason i.e. they want to make a positive difference to people's lives. And, crucially, are prepared to get stuck in when malevolent forces (such as gas firms and cowboy contractors) try to throw their weight around and trample over others (like the residents of Bradford Road).

Stuart has long had my full moral support for his campaign to become the new Pudsey MP at the coming General Election.

But after what he's done for my neighbours, Vanessa, Jamie and I today, I'll have to have a think about what else I can do to help him out between now and Thursday 6 May 2010.

If you do live in Pudsey, I would ask that you put a large cross beside his name when you get that chance. We'd be very lucky to have him.

And if you don't live in Pudsey, just send him cash! http://stuartandrew.com/donate.php

Here we go again

Jamie began today by doing a Morris dance using two (clean) nappies. His 50% English heritage is really beginning to worry me. (Thankfully, his Christmas visit to Northern Ireland is getting closer by the day and, hopefully, we can get him straightened out then).

Talking of days, we were told last night that we are about to be without gas for four of them - beginning tomorrow. So this means no gas cooker, no central heating and no hot water. Excellent.

The picture above is the current view from outside our front door. We were informed some time ago that the latest bunch of cowboys to park their horses on our road would have to turn off our gas supply for a brief period to replace the mains pipe. Not good, but these things happen (to us).

We then received another letter yesterday to say that any time the gas was turned off, it was "always" turned back on again within 24 hours. But then customer services bint Laura got in touch.

She first explained to Vanessa that, because we lived on a main road, the "always" part of the letter didn't apply to us. (I've "always" thought that the word "always" was as categoric as you could get. But it appears I've "always" been wrong - thanks for putting me right Laura).

She then said that our gas would be turned off after lunch tomorrow and would not come back on until some point on Sunday. Again, we weren't happy but, over recent months, we've got kind of used to being treated like animals.

But, on the way home last night, I called in to see my large-forearmed and top man neighbour Barrington to see what he made of the whole affair. And Barrington had a very interesting new piece of information. Laura had spoken to him to say that our mains supply would not now be turned back on until Monday afternoon, rather than Sunday. And why, pray tell?

Because the contractors had decided to take Sunday off.

Vanessa's due to speak to Laura again around about now to ask why she lied to her yesterday. Meanwhile, I have placed the matter in the hands of local councillor and Conservative Parliamentary Candidate for Pudsey Stuart Andrew who, I know, will do what he can for us. But it promises to be a really "fun" weekend. (I've decided to employ Laura's rules on the use of the English language - i.e. if "always" doesn't always mean "always," then "fun" doesn't "always" mean "fun." If you're confused by that, then feel free to give Laura a call on 07778 048008 and I'm sure she'll be very happy to offer an explanation).

By the way, I've just seen the weather forecast and it's due to freeze in Yorkshire on Saturday night/Sunday morning. But at least the contractors (and Laura) will be nice and warm.

Elation and deflation

Unsurprisingly, Madness were terrific last night.

Lead singer Suggs, resplendent in a pink suit, belted his way through all the classics in front of an aging but crazed 2,000-strong Leeds audience. Indeed, so vocal were the crowd that he ended the evening by apologising for the fact that the band hadn't played in the city for 30 years.

To be fair, he and his fellow Nutty Boys had been left scarred by what had happened after the last gig at Tiffany's nightclub in 1979 - the good folk of Leeds had smashed all the windows of the Madness minibus. Still, everyone has now hopefully moved on.

My feelings of elation were tempered ever so slightly by the sight of a deflation when I went to collect Jamie from nursery. For yes, folks, with 16 days still to go before Christmas Day, our son managed to bring Yuletide shame upon our family. He burst Santa.

Apparently he had been kissing the blow-up Father Christmas, got a little bit carried away and, when I walked into get him shortly before 6pm, the two nice nursery ladies were creased up on the floor as Santa slowly sunk to the floor - I had only missed the incident by a few seconds.

I've just dropped Jamie off again and one of the girls said she'd brought a puncture repair kit in to attempt a repair job. But you can easily guess what I'll be trying to find when I hit the shops at lunchtime today.

All set for a Nutty night

We've just had our green bin emptied for the first time since August. Who needs Sting when we've got those hard-working Leeds refuse collectors to ensure we're doing our bit to save the planet?

On other matters, tonight marks the start of the Whites' Christmas Concert Triple-Header. (I made that up whilst brushing my teeth a few minutes ago. I hope you like it).

Next Monday, I'm off to see The Pogues with my friend John McIlroy (Vanessa's been excused this year and is very pleased about it). And the following Sunday, she and me are heading to Manchester for a shifty at the Pet Shop Boys - I've always wanted to see them.

But tonight its Madness at the O2 Academy in Leeds.

We've been fortunate enough to see Suggs and his fellow nutsters a couple of times before. The first occasion was six or seven years ago in the very grandiose setting of the Royal Albert Hall. But, sadly, it wasn't very good. It was a one-off gig for the Teenage Cancer Trust, the band clearly hadn't played together for ages, and it showed.

However, the second concert was a much more jolly affair. It was about three years ago and they played Dalby Forest in North Yorkshire one grey, rainy, August Friday night. And it was magnificent. It was one of those gigs where the band comes out, they're clearly in the mood and you just know it's going to be great - and it proved to be just that. Indeed, it was so good that I even did a bit of a pogo dancing. As a dyed-in-the-wool Ulsterman, I never, ever dance. But, for as brief few seconds, I lost my composure and gave it a go - before stopping for health and safety reasons. (With all those trees around, I could have easily started a fire).

Hopefully tonight will be just as dramatic.

A win is a win

I had the chance to exorcise a ghost from birthdays past yesterday, albeit through my son.

We were at Jamie's beautiful little cousin Holly's sixth birthday party (that's her ladyship above), and had a very nice time.

Towards the end of the afternoon, the moment came to play pass the parcel. Cue my painful memory.

I was a similar age to Holly and, like her, it was my own party I was attending. We were also playing pass the parcel, in my case, under the guidance of my sisters. And, to cut a long story short, I was fortunate enough (or so I thought) to get to take the last piece of wrapping paper off the prize which, I remember very clearly, was a Mars bar. However, one of my sisters swiftly ruled that, as the birthday boy, I was ineligible to win - and made me hand my booty to wee Sammy Connor sitting beside me. I ran off downstairs in tears and, in truth, part of me has been crying ever since.

So back to yesterday. I've never seen Jamie play pass the parcel before. And, if he has played it before, he'd clearly forgotten the rules as he began by looking a bit on the destitute side.

Eventually, the parcel came his way - thereby raising his interest levels - before being quickly nipped back off him and passed to his right by his mum. He was cool with that.

Truncating this story too (I'll bet you wish I did this more often), it went round five or six times, all kiddies present had the chance to take off one sheet of paper and win some chocolate, before it came to the final round featuring some very exciting blue wrapping paper.

And, yes, you've guessed the rest. The prize - a Thomas The Tank Engine - was Jamie's.

Given that the other two male participants were already proud owners of a Thomas the Tank Engine and Holly didn't want one, you might think that the outcome of this particular game of pass the parcel had been fixed.

But no more so than that fateful afternoon more than 30 years ago when wee Sammy Connor nicked my Mars bar.

So, on behalf of my son, I'm both relaxed and very, very happy with the result.

A fast route to sporting stardom?

I've said several times before that I'd like Jamie to try as many different sports as he can when he's older before, hopefully, finding one he particularly enjoys and sticks at.

And we found a new possibility this morning, although I'm not sure how practical it is for him to excel at it here in Yorkshire.

Bobsleighing.

It was my turn to get up early, give him his breakfast and let him watch a bit of telly. But there only are so many episodes of Peppa Pig, Numberjacks and Chuggington a 37-year-old man can take in one sitting before going mad. So I had a flick around to see if I could find something else which might hold his attention - and make me less bored. And the first round of the World Cup bobsleighing on Eurosport 2 provided the key to the lock.

We did the "GO! GO! GO(es)!" together as each team began their run down the hill, and then the "YEA(s)!" as they crossed the line.

Whilst the Germans and the Swiss and Russians drove their sleds like slick Ferraris, the two British crews - somewhat predictably - drove theirs like clapped-out Morris Minors and came nowhere.

However, I did notice that one of the GB "pushers" (I'm sure there's a more technical term than that) came from down the road in Sheffield, so maybe Jamie could take his place in the years ahead. Or maybe not.

PS One of the good German drivers appeared to called Chris Shit, which was quite fun - and a touch ironic.

Why I (still) hate ticket touts

My diatribe against ticket touts last month led someone to accuse me of only being annoyed because I'd missed out on the chance to see to Peter Kay. And, clearly, that did have something to do with it.

However, yesterday, after securing tickets to one of Peter Kay's Sheffield shows, I was approached and offered tickets to the very same gig - at inflated prices.

The individual concerned wasn't a fan of Peter Kay, had no intention of going themselves and had purchased tickets with the sole intention of stealing my or someone else's money.

Because that is what it is - thieving.

Ironically, I read a newspaper article this morning in which the boss of one of these so-called "secondary ticket" websites tried to defend his dirty, low down practices.

To quote him: "Are there people who still say we are a medium for touts? Of course there are."

Yes, I'm one of them and that's because it's true.

He continues: "It's about what consumers want or don't want."

No it's not - it's about you and people who sell tickets on your site stealing other people's money. You ****.

To illustrate, tickets for the Ashes cricket this summer, with a face value of between £60 and £90, were sold on this cowboy's site for between £129.99 and £324.99. Why should they be allowed to do that?

The England and Wales Cricket Board has long argued that such practices should be outlawed, and quite right too.

But the tout site I'm speaking of regularly advertises its "services" at Premier League football grounds around the country and even works in partnership with some of the clubs. So why do these clubs allow these parasites to steal money from their own loyal fans? I just don't get it.

According to the article (and don't worry, I'm almost finished), Labour Ministers are about to conclude a consultation on ways to combat ticket touts. But the piece adds: "The Government's conclusions are expected in the coming weeks but are unlikely to include proposals for any changes to the law."

Why the **** not?!!

I do hope the Tories, if they get in, take their responsibilities to protect British citizens from common theft a little more seriously.

Is this the way to...er...Sheffield?

Despite my bitter ramblings on the subject a couple of weeks ago after not getting tickets for one of his Manchester shows, my enthusiasm for Peter Kay has been fully restored:

I'VE JUST BOUGHT TICKETS TO SEE HIM IN SHEFFIELD!!!!

Sometimes I can be so fickle.

Vanessa cancels Christmas

I'm something of a traditionalist when it comes to Christmas. And, for me, having a decent Christmas tree in your house is an absolute must.

I don't think I'm particularly outlandish in holding this view. Indeed, I would imagine that you too, dear reader, might be planning to stick something green and sparkly up in your front room between now and the arrival of the big guy with the beard on Christmas Eve.

However, this year, we have a problem in our house. Because Vanessa thinks the "tree" (above) is sufficient to see us through the coming festive season. But, I mean, look at it.

Actually, look at it from a slightly more distant angle.

Seriously - that's not a Christmas tree. It's, well, shit.

To be fair, there is some method in Mrs W's ever-growing madness. Her fear is that, if we put up our big tree as normal, Jamie will simply pull it down each and every time he gets the chance. And, I have to concede, this is a legitimate point to make. But, if we do have to have a smaller tree this year, surely we can get one that doesn't require a search party to find it.

So I've dug my heels in. And I've committed to finding us a sensibly-sized, practical but visible tree. A tree that, when we walk into our living room, will quickly remind us that it is, in fact, Christmas - and we're supposed to be having fun.

I'll keep you informed.

Jamie "Air" White

Since the retirement of Michael Jordan (left) in April 2003, basketball has been waiting for the arrival of a new global superstar.

But I think I may have found him - and he lives in Pudsey.

In recent days, Jamie has taken to practising his hook shots, alley-oops and slam dunks from the comfort of his bathroom. Well, bath.

Still a bit too small to make a full-size basketball go any real distance in the rarefied Yorkshire atmosphere, he's been using bath toys.

And rather than have a hoop as his target, he's been using something other people place their hoops on: the toilet.

I am delighted to report that, on Monday evening, he scored his first three-point shot with a rubber duck (circled in red).

And, like any sporting icon in waiting, he already knows how to celebrate. (I hope you like my fig leaf).

Sadly, he is still going to be just a little too young to make the British basketball team for the 2012 London Olympics (I think you have to be at least five). But after that, who knows?

The future certainly looks bright for Jamie "Air" White.

Senior moment

Earlier today, I was forwarded the text of what is apparently a genuine letter sent to the principal of Lions Bay School in Vancouver after the school had sponsored a lunch for senior citizens.

A lady at the event was given a new radio as a prize and, afterwards, decided to write to say thank you.

I hope you laugh as much as I did when I read it.

**********

Dear Lions Bay School

God bless you for the beautiful radio I won at your recent Senior Citizens luncheon.

I am 84 years old and live at the West Vancouver Home for the Aged. All of my family has passed away. I am all alone and I want to thank you for the kindness shown to a forgotten old lady.

My roommate is 95 and has always had her own radio; but before I received one, she would never let me listen to hers, even when she was napping.

The other day her radio fell off the nightstand and broke into a lot of pieces. It was awful and she was in tears.

She asked if she could listen to mine, and I told her to fuck off.

Thank you for that opportunity.

Sincerely,

Edna

The Advent of December

Still recovering from his latest little joust with illness, Jamie didn't eat much breakfast this morning. But - surprise, surprise - he did manage to scoff the first chocolate from his Advent calendar.

I first showed him the calendar a couple of weeks ago and he was clearly excited by the sight of Peppa Pig and George on the front. So much so that he through it all around the room.

But that level of hysteria was nothing when compared to this morning's feelings of simple satisfaction once he realised that chocolate was also involved.

I had to help him find the right door and get through the foil.

But then the inbuilt chocoholic instinct, which comes with being a White, simply took over.

And, to be fair to him, he didn't complain too much when he realised he wasn't getting to open any more doors today - even giving me the baby equivalent of a thumbs up.

Only 23 more barriers to break through between now and Christmas Eve.

Abstract balls

I've slagged off ex-England cricket captain Michael Vaughan a couple of times on this blog, most recently a couple of weekends ago, for taking himself just a little bit too seriously.

And today I managed to stumble across further damning evidence that the Manchester-born "Yorkshireman" has now officially moved to a new permanent residence - up his own bum.

Here's the text of an article currently on the BBC website:

He bowled over cricket fans during his time as England captain and now Michael Vaughan is hoping his batting skills will hit Cardiff art lovers for six.

The retired batsman may have left the field but he has hung on to his bat and ball - and has used them to create his own collection of abstract art.

Using a technique he calls "artballing" he has batted balls painted with symbolic colours at a blank canvas.

The colourful results are on display at Castle Galleries, Cardiff Bay

Vaughan, who led the England squad to a long-awaited Ashes victory in 2005, said his love of art was cemented in the first part of this decade when cricketing team mate Ashley Giles took him to the art galleries in Shoreditch, during rained off matches in London.

This fuelled his passion for abstract expressionist art and sparked the idea for combining the two art forms of cricket with art.

Escaping to a warehouse in Yorkshire, Vaughan created the art at over 100mph, which he said also provided a therapeutic tonic to his emotional retirement from international cricket.

He said: "It is a very rare thing to be able to follow a career path that you love and the opportunity to combine my two greatest passions - art and cricket - has been a sublime moment in an extraordinary life of highs and low, dreams and sometimes nightmares.

"Artballing captures the drama, speed and excitement of cricket in one precious, dynamic visual moment that, unlike the perfect six, lasts a lifetime."

The former Yorkshire player used his favoured cover drives, square cuts and pull shots to create his art collection.

The From Crease to Canvas pieces include the Day/Night image, where he used white and red balls against a black backdrop and Yes, No, Maybe? featuring red, orange and green to symbolise the universally recognised symbols of stop, go and indecision.

Vaughan's style follows in the footsteps of a long line of artists who practised abstract expressionism or action painting between the 1940s and 60s.

So that, my friends, is "artballing."

And with it, Your Honour, I rest my case for the prosecution.

Muck, duck and an absence of luck

"You don't get owt for nowt," is a saying I've heard several times since moving to Yorkshire six years ago.

But, as the sign above clearly shows, there are exceptions which prove the rule.

I took the picture in Horsforth this morning as we Whites were travelling back from a very pleasant overnight stay with our friends Layla and Simon, who live not far from Otley.

Simon (nearest the camera) whipped up a veritable storm in the kitchen. In fact, his roast duck was genuinely the best I've ever tasted (but please don't tell Jamie his mummy and daddy had little duckies for tea). Also around the table were obviously Layla (furthest away), plus our mutual mates Ewen and Gillian. You already know Vanessa.

And, after dinner, the plates were cleared away and replaced by playing cards and chips.

Poker was the game and, perhaps predictably, I was the first player out. In fact, my chips couldn't have disappeared any quicker if they'd been of the potato variety and served to Vanessa Feltz with salt and vinegar.

Meanwhile, Jamie spent most of the evening sound asleep upstairs in his travel cot. But, as a special treat before bedtime, he was allowed to stroke Layla's pussy.

She's called Pino.

Pudsey oppression

This was the road which runs pretty much along the side of our house earlier today. (The scene actually looked slightly different a few seconds beforehand - until I removed the traffic cones from the pavements to allow prams and wheelchairs to get past.)

This is what the main road at the front of our house currently looks like.

A little further down, you'll find this.

And, if you want to turn right up the hill, this is what you'll see.

But what you'll not spot in any of the pictures is any workmen. Because they, my friends, have been given the weekend off.

I can't quite work that one out.

Hot (and bother)

Is there anything easy about parenthood? I'd say no.

As I mentioned yesterday, Jamie's been a bit on the ill side again this week and his temperature's been high. But we only know his temperature's been high because his brow's been hot and, rather more scientifically, the nursery managed to get a reading.

Not that we haven't tried ourselves. Until yesterday, we were a "two thermometer household." (We'd prefer to be a "two-car household" but, until I get my test, that could be regarded as an unnecessary luxury). But neither of them have been very effective thus far. And the reason is simple. It's called Jamie.

Our first thermometer was one of those forehead jobs that you place (you may already have worked this out) on his forehead (did you get it right?) But he doesn't like anything being placed on his forehead and reacts by wriggling like a snake with legs, making it nigh on impossible to get a reading.

Thermometer number two was bought for him very kindly by my mum and is essentially a very whizzy dummy with a thermometer built in. But, ever one to be helpful, he insists on spitting that out before it has a chance to go beep.

So, yesterday, I bought thermometer number three (above) which is more of a traditional variety, save for the fact that it has a little digital display and doesn't have any mercury in it. (To be fair, it's possible that thermometers haven't had mercury in them for 20-odd years - i.e. the last time I had my temperature taken - but it's really not that important).

There was obviously no way he was going to let me put this thing in his mouth, leaving his armpit as the only viable option.

Somewhat ironically, he didn't seem to be as hot last night when I attempted to do the deed. But I'd paid £8 for this thing and he was going to have his temperature taken come what may.

To cut the story of a three-minute ordeal very short, I held him down, he fought like blazes, I continued to pin him down, he continued to kick and scream, the thermometer went beep, and I got a reading of 38.2C - a bit on the high side.

But given the fact that his face was purple and thick with sweat as result of his efforts to avoid having his temperature taken, this was hardly a surprise.

However, I think I've made my point: there truly is nothing easy about parenthood.

Dog tired

I've been a bit under the weather for the past couple of days (hence no update to this pish since Wednesday), principally because Jamie has been very much under the weather.

He's teething yet again (seriously, this boy is going to end up with more teeth than Jaws - but not Alan Carr) which, in addition to the pain in his gums, means he has a heavy cold, a bad cough and isn't sleeping.

And he didn't sleep last night in a very big way. I don't think either Vanessa or me got much more than about three hours downtime and, despite it being a Friday, it means a bit of an old struggle between now and Guinness / home time.

But, you know, one must put a brave face on these things.

So in an attempt to cheer myself up and hopefully amuse you even a little bit, here's a picture I took this morning of my favourite Bradford shop sign.

Sadly the outlet is long since closed, which is a real shame on many different levels.

Laters.

Michaela's the one on the right

It's not many mornings when you can say you've learnt something before even getting out of bed (don't be mucky!) But today I can.

Michaela Strachan is now very much part of my daily routine - a situation I used to dream of as a tragic teenager.

Indeed, such was the size of my thing for Michaela Strachan (come on!) that I even decided to make a public demonstration of my love by putting a huge poster of her on my bedroom wall. But then she drifted out of my life (or, to be more accurate, they cancelled The Hit Man And Her) and I hadn't seen hide nor hair of her for years.

But now she's back as presenter of Animal Families on Five (which I hope Jamie enjoys but, if he doesn't, then tough).

Today Michaela taught the two of us all about animal families that swim - including mongooses.

And here's the thing. For 37 years (minus perhaps the first three or four when I was wee), I've thought the plural of mongoose was mongeese.

But thanks to Michaela, I've been corrected.

Clearly I'm eternally grateful to her for putting me right, it remains very nice to have her back in my life and long may she continue to reign (again).

Booked into my own bedroom

I've been sent to my room for the first time in, I would imagine, 30 years. On the plus side, I do have my supper with me (pictured above).

It's Vanessa's book club's turn to meet at our house tonight and non-members aren't permitted to attend (even if the meeting's taking place in their own living room).

I'm also not allowed in because I happen to be a man or, more specifically, a daddy.

Vanessa's book club is actually an off-shoot of her mothers and toddlers group which she and White Jnr go along to every Monday morning. And it appears that not all members (which doesn't include the toddlers who are also barred) are actually into books.

In fact, at a recent meeting (and you do realise Vanessa will kill me for telling you this), the host began the evening by announcing she hadn't read that month's book and then proceeded to get tetchy when others attempted to kick-off a discussion on it. (It's when I hear things like this that I'm reminded how relieved I am to be male).

You'll note in the picture of my dinner (Vanessa calls it "lasagne") that I've been given a glass of wine. I didn't ask for a glass of wine (only because I was about to go and get myself one) and the fact that Vanessa offered me one means she's sucking up. And she's sucking up because Jamie's got a bit of a cough, has been stirring in his sleep for the past couple of nights and she knows that I'll be the one having to deal with him until the "bookworms" leave.

I am quite happy to do this, I wouldn't have it any other way but I'm not going to tell her that on the off-chance that she might bring me up some more wine.

Finally, I'll leave you with a picture of Vanessa's "spread."

Absolute sh*te, isn't it?

Peter Kay Live - don't make me laugh

I felt all smug late on Friday night when, upon arrival in Cardiff, I saw the new Peter Kay Children In Need video for the first time.

Featuring more than 100 animated children's television stars from down the years, it is indeed a work of art. In fact it's brilliant.

But the reason for my smugness was that, 18 months ago, I would probably have known no more than half the characters in it - and most of them were from my own childhood. However, I now know them all and regard them as my friends or, at least, it feels that way.

Barely a morning nor evening goes past for me these days without Peppa Pig snorting, Thomas the Tank Engine tooting or Roary the Racing Car screeching at me from the TV in the corner of our living room - accompanied by howls of delight from Jamie bouncing up and down about two inches from the screen.

The Children In Need video was a great idea from the genius that is Peter Kay and I would encourage you to buy it. But having said all of that, I must say, I have gone off him a bit since Friday night.

You may or may not know that, also on Friday, he announced plans to do four live shows in Manchester next spring - his first in seven years. Tickets were due to go on sale at 11am on Saturday.

So, at 11am on Saturday, I was sat at Wee John's PC in Cardiff all set to buy some tickets. I went on to the Ticketmaster site and my preference was the first night, the Tuesday. Unfortunately the website crashed.

So I tried again - the same thing happened. So I tried for the Thursday. Same thing happened. So, what about the Friday? Same thing happened.

Ticketmaster then put up an announcement to say he'd added another 16 dates to his run. Great stuff.

So I tried each date in turn, several more than once. Each time, the website crashed.

75 minutes later, I was no further forward and gave up.

Later in the day, I logged on again to find that all tickets were gone and, indeed, had gone within an hour of going on sale i.e. more than a quarter of an hour before I'd stopped trying.

But - and here's the thing - eBay, together with the now very large number of spiv sites that sell "spare" tickets, was teeming with literally thousands of them, all priced at a minimum of three times their face value.

I've since spoken to a number of friends who also tried to get tickets legitimately and found that not one of them was successful. But, clearly, a lot of touts and plain greedy bastards anxious to make a quick buck had a great morning.

Surely Peter Kay, as the star of the piece, had the ability to ensure that so-called "ordinary" fans were given every opportunity to see his show without having to pay some greasy-palmed thief for the privilege.

And I give one example.

Those individuals fortunate enough not to have their computers crash whilst trying to access the Ticketmaster site were allowed to buy up to eight tickets per purchase.

But unless you're a teacher or a scout leader (or a tout), when was the last time you bought eight tickets for a show? I certainly never have and a limit of four would have been given a lot more of yer man's genuine (and not rich) fans the chance to see him do his thing.

So I'm very disappointed and, as you may have noticed, more than a little bitter.

As a result, Peter Kay will need to be incredibly funny if my face is to crack next time I see him on our telly (assuming Jamie allows me to turn over). And he probably will be - which makes it even harder to take.

GRRRRR!!!!!!