Barry Balboa

I had a special, private, "boy" experience yesterday afternoon which, whilst underlining what I thoroughly sad individual I have become in my middle years, will still make me the secret envy of many other boys I know.

Picture the scene.

I'm in a gym on my own - one I'd never previously been to - and bored (as I always am when I'm in any gym).

There is only about half an hour to go until the gym closes, so it's unlikely that anyone else will join me. 

I look around to see if there's anything which might make my visit a little more fun. 

And there, in a dark corner, hanging from the roof, I spot it.

A punch bag.  A proper one, like you see on the telly.  My mind begins to race. 

I wander over for a closer look.  I give it a little push.  It swings back. 

I then notice a big wooden box a few feet away, full of boxing equipment.  There were full body guards, punching pads, head guards - and big, brand new 12oz gloves with Velcro fastenings (meaning I could put them on myself). 

Hmmmm.

I have my iPod on and know the Best of Rocky soundtrack is on there (shut up!)

I stand for another few seconds, before concluding  - why not!

And a couple of minutes later, well, you can guess the rest.

I have my gloves on, the Rocky theme blasting in my ears, and I'm snarling away as I pound the punchbag. (I would've slipped on a head guard, and perhaps even nipped home for my old rugby gum shield if I could be sure no-one would come in).

The Rocky theme ends, and Eye Of The Tiger comes on.

I quicken the pace, sweat blinding me.

Next up is the tune from Rocky II when Adrian wakes up and Rocky catches the chicken (I'm sure it has a name). And on I go.

However, by the time There's No Easy Way Out comes on, I decide there is, and go out - through the front door of the gym and home.

But what fun!

And what did I learn?

Only that I don't think I'm a very good boxer

But, for a quarter of an hour, a "boxer" I was.

The question is, what similarly pitiful experiences can I squeeze in before I reach 40?

Snow idea

Sorry for being useless at updating this rubbish over the last week.

What was that?  You "hadn't noticed?" 

Oh. My updates "are always useless."  Well, if you want to be rude.

Anyway, on with the show and, last night, Paul Hudson, BBC Yorkshire's self-styled "wacky" weatherman, said there wouldn't be any overnight snow in these parts. 

And true to form this morning, our outside world had disappeared under a thick, white blanket.  What a pro. 

If you were a two-and-a-half-year-old boy, this was very positive news.  Even if you were a little embarrassed at your father's attempt to build a snowman. 

But ignore him, and treat yourself to a closer look. 

Pure art. 

Meanwhile, if you were a two-month-old little girl, you would probably have decided to stay indoors to practice your developing array of new expressions. 

I'm not sure what Paul has predicted for tomorrow's weather - hopefully more snow.  Then I can get my shorts and sunglasses out.        

Ready...aim...fire - OW!



I didn't report yesterday on my night at the theatre as, regrettably, I had to watch the show through one eye after my latest sinusitis attack, which began just an hour before curtain up.

I had hoped my searing headache would have gone before bedtime, but it didn't, leaving Tuesday night as sleepless and yesterday as a very long day.

However, matters improved.

As luck would have it, Charlotte was booked in with Dr Shit at 9.30am yesterday for her eight-week check-up.  So, after doing my doting daddy stuff, I cheekily demanded some anti-biotics for myself - and was prescribed some £7.20 nasal spray.

Excellent.

Habitually dubious about Dr Shit's credentials - based solely on my experiences of her over the years - I  then bravely raised the possibility that a nasal spray might not be enough to solve my problem and asked that she suggest something additional to ease my sinus traumas.

And, to my astonishment, she did.

A "nasal douche," which didn't cost me £7.20.

No, it cost me £15.

And last night I had my first go.

Without going into too much detail, essentially what you do is blow half of a bottle of fluid up one snooter hole, and wait for it to come out the other.  Or your mouth.  Truly scrumptious, it really is.  But, after a single effort last night, I can say that it might even work. 

Treatment number two is due in the next few minutes. 

And, after that, I'll only have 58 doses (or douches) left.

Rather me than you, eh? 

Yes, daahhling...



Ever eager for a little spot of culture, tonight my pal Dan and I are off to the Grand Theatre in Leeds.

OK, so it's not as cultural as it sounds, as we're actually going to see the stage version of Yes, Prime Minister.

But I will be wearing a tie (if only because I didn't know Dan was going home first to put his jeans on).

Still, I intend to stick my nose in the air and tell anyone who wants to know that I've met the last four Prime Ministers (five, if you include Alistair Campbell) and once saw Mrs Thatcher going into the ladies in the House of Lords.

I'll tell you tomorrow if it was any good. And whether I managed to avoid dropping my half-time ice cream on my good trousers.

Do you wanna buy our house?

Because we didn't think we had quite enough on our plate at present, Vanessa and I thought now would be the perfect time to put our house on the market.

The "For Sale" sign was screwed on to our front wall yesterday afternoon (we're already taking bets on how it will be before a "witty" chav pulls it down).  

The reason for our big decision is simple; it won't be too long until Charlotte moves into the nursery, meaning we'll have to evict Jamie and put him in what is currently the spare room. 

And we need a spare room, otherwise Wee John and other assorted visiting Ulster folk will have nowhere nice to sleep.  

How long it will be before it's sold is anyone's guess.  Plus, we obviously have to locate a new home of our own. 

But, as they say, a change is as good as a rest (and a rest would be really, really good).     

Brown and White



Jamie's latest breakfast of choice - and there have been many -  is Bran Flakes, or "brown cornflakes" as he calls them.

On the face of it, this is a very healthy development.  

But I'm not thinking about his face, I'm thinking about his nappies.

Any volunteers?

I got an e-mail...

CONGRATULATIONS BARRY WHITE

Your application to take part in the 2011 Bupa Great North Run via the general ballot has been successful. The entry fee has now been deducted from your account.

We will keep in touch with you by email in the build-up to the event. Roughly four weeks before the Bupa Great North Run you will receive all the information you require, including your race number.

Good luck with your training. 

Erm.......F***!!!

PS Wee John got in too.  At least I'll beat him. 

Charlotte is an Ulsterwoman



Charlotte faced a true test of national identity last night and, I'm delighted to report, she passed with flying colours...green and white.

Vanessa was putting Jamie to bed so Miss White and I decided we would watch a bit of footy on the box.

We started with the England game in Denmark on ITV1, which kicked off first.  But, as you can see above, she was far from impressed at the sight of Fabio Capello's men.

So, come 7.45pm, I flicked over to Sky Sports 1 where Northern Ireland were playing Scotland.

And her mood quickly improved...



...reaching a peak when Northern Ireland's all-time leading goalscorer David Healy got off the bench to warm up.

Just think how euphoric she would have been had her newest heroes not been stuffed 3-0. 

A special instruction manual

Despite his many funny/cute moments, Jamie is still a two-and-a-half-year-old boy with a tendency for occasional tantrums. 

When this happens, we generally know how to handle him i.e. ignore the little bugger.

But this doesn't always work.  Or, by the time it does, there's very little of our house still standing. 

However, after Vanessa's visit to Pudsey Library yesterday afternoon, help suddenly appears to be at hand.

Let's hope it does exactly what it says on the cover.

V B-Day

As I mentioned in my last pointless ramble, yesterday was Vanessa's birthday - making her officially yet another year older than Kelly Brook.

The highlight of our, at times, quite surreal day was a family trip to the bowling alley (her choice, not mine - I swear).

We got one of those ramp things for Jamie.

And guess what?

You guessed right - he won.

The humiliation of it. 

After that, it was off to an American theme bar nearby (yes, my type of thing but STILL her idea).

Mummy and daughter put on their most sophisticated faces.

Whilst the men of the family didn't bother.

But, needless to say, we hope Mrs W had fun.

It's my turn next...

No strait jacket required



It's Vanessa's birthday today (more of that next time), hence, I'm off on leave. 

What more opportune moment might there be, therefore, to send Jamie back to the dentist. 

He had been once before, six months ago, and refused to open his mouth (a bit like the dentist herself, who isn't one of life's great talkers)

But this time, our son became the world's most relaxed junior patient. 

And why might that be, I hear you cry?

Well, let me put it this way.

As a two-and-a-half-year-old, Jamie's treatment is obviously free - to him.

But his minute-long spell in the big chair today cost his mother and me a small fortune in "incentives."

Let's hope he never has to have a filling.

Smokey fish



Every state visit, by definition, must include a state dinner. 

So, last night, I attempted to make plaice, sauteed potatoes and vegetables for my mother. 

And I burnt everything. 

OK, so maybe I'm exaggerating ever-so-slightly; I didn't burn the water I cooked the vegetables in, but the vegetables were certainly over-cooked.

Meanwhile, I left the potatoes for too long whilst having a chat in the living room, leaving them brown on one side and white on the other by the time I returned . 

And I incinerated the lime zest/juice in olive oil and butter marinade-type arrangement.    

But there were two particularly unexpected casualties in the carnage.

First, whilst "warming" the plates, I inadvertently let one fall on to the naked flames in the oven for several minutes, effectively rendering the plate unusable.

And, get this.

I really don't know how this happened, but some way, somehow...I managed to knock the digital kitchen timer thingy land on to a fully lit ring on the cooker.  Again, it took me a while to notice. 

By the time I did, the timer had melted. 

I don't plan to do any cooking tonight. 

Rainy days don't have to get you down



Yesterday was Day 2 of Granny White's state visit to the People's Republic of Pudsey and, given the blue skies and blinding sunshine, Jamie's obvious activities of choice were a bowl of ice cream followed by an afternoon on the beach.

OK, not quite true.  It chucked it down and, whilst the ice cream was real enough, the "beach" was in a barn...

...which also included a walk-in (and out) trampoline.



And Charlotte didn't miss out, opting to spend some quality time indoors with a couple of goats and a big white pig.



Later, I thought it might be nice to for her to have her first taste of life from Daddy's perspective.

But, in truth, I don't think she was that arsed.

Pleased to meet you, Granny



Charlotte got the chance to meet her Granny White today, and even managed to crack a smile - the first time such a momentous event has been captured on camera. 

And she will now have a proper chance to get to know her since mother-of-me is here till Monday. 

Jamie was most pleased to see his granny too. 

Even better, Charlotte was pleased to see that Jamie was pleased.

So, in short, we're all pleased.

Forget Egypt, the real crisis has been in my tummy



Sorry I've been away for a few days.  And, believe me, I AM sorry. 

I've had the flu; horrible, terrible, restless, shivery, achy, vomity, shitey, flu.  

Yes, you can tick all of the above (You did ask. OK, you didn't ask, but I thought I'd tell you anyway).

One of the consequences of my five days in bed is that I have next to nothing to report.

Apart from news of Egyptian President and all-round man-of-the-moment Hosni Mubarak's doppelganger.

I was doing a spot of one-eyed Sunday Times reading and the paper happened to be open at the cartoon.  Can you guess who the cartoon featured?

You'll never get it - it was Egyptian President and all-round man-of-the-moment Hosni Mubarak.  (Sorry, perhaps I should give you more credit).

Anyway, Jamie saw the picture and excitedly pointed a finger in its direction. 

"Mr Bean!" he cried. 

A mighty fine observation, young sir.

Did Jamie smash it? Of course he did



In common with most two and a half year old boys, Jamie has a well-established reputation for smashing things.

Above you can see his Buzz Lightyear bubble bath holder. 

He only got it on Tuesday, but already he's snapped off poor Buzz's left foot and jammed his helmet (rather Buzz than me). 

Forget infinity, a couple more days of punishment and it'll be the wheelie bin and beyond for him.   

But surely even Jamie couldn't smash his new Buzz and Woody Squashy Washy Bath Sponges, which arrived in the post this morning. 



Could he?

White Skype



Technology and me aren't the best of friends and, as a result, we tend to avoid each other wherever possible.

But there are occasions when we have to agree to differ and try to get along - normally for the sake of the children.

And, earlier this evening, we did just that.

After a gap of probably two years, I set up a Skype video call between my Mum, partner Derek, Boris the Dog and us Whites.

It was a memorable event for two key reasons:

1. Charlotte has never Skyped anyone before, and
2. It worked.

So we'll have to do it again soon.

And, who knows, maybe next time Charlotte will stay awake.

March of the Yetis

It's been the bizarre day of the disappearing hairy men.

Sky Sports presenter Richard Keys (above left) resigned his job in the wake of in the infamous "sexist row" which had previously claimed the sizable head of Andy Gray for declaring he didn't want to shag a linesman.

And also today, bearded terrorist (there's a novelty) Gerry Adams (above right) stepped down as a proud British Member of Parliament following his appointment by Her Majesty's Treasury as Crown Steward and Baron of the Manor of Northstead

Let's hope, prior to their respective departures, both men hoovered their fluffy office floors.

Too much too young

Charlotte's been a remarkably healthy Baby White in her five and a half weeks of life thus far.

However, over the last few days, she's developed something of a habit of vomiting all over Mummy.   

Initially, we weren't too concerned.  But yesterday, Vanessa gave the midwife a ring to explain what's been happening and ask if there may be a problem.

And there is a problem  - a drink problem. 

In fact, the greedy mare can't get enough of it. 

Rather than take enough milk to do her, it appears she simply keeps going until she pops/barfs/wretches/hueys/spews.

Or, to put it another way, she's a binge drinker. 

I can't describe the family shame. 

The Stig UNMASKED (again)



I'm not a Top Gear watcher, but even I was aware that, last night, the (new) Stig was due to make his debut.

And how did I know?

Well, he told me himself.

Because I am his father.

PS Please don't tell anyone else.

I give you the double pumper



Parenthood is a never-ending educational experience.

And that includes having to keep up to speed with the evolution of baby equipment (as much it is knowing whether some crank is now advising that sleep is bad for babies, or something similar).

Take breast pumps. 

Above you can see the style of breast pump Vanessa uses to ensure she can continue to have a life/bottle of wine in one sitting.

It is a somewhat crude piece of kit, yes, but it does the job efficiently and with a minimum of mess. 

Now, when I last had a stab at being the father of a newborn baby (that was to Jamie, in case you think I'm a philanderer), I was aware of the existence of electric breast pumps (Vanessa's is a self-milker). 

But I had no idea that they made double pumpers. 

And all I can say is, well, look (if you have the stomach for these things).



The last place I saw a contraption like this was on a farm.

The camera frequently lies



Look at the idyllic scene above.  And I was in charge.

Vanessa was off getting her hair dyed....er....coloured....er...."styled" so I was handed responsibility for both our children for a whole three hours - the longest period I've had the "honour" yet.

Armed only with a bottle of freshly squeezed breast milk, a loaf, a tin of baked beans and a ginormous bag of nappies, I set about my task. 

And I didn't do that well, to be honest. 

Vanessa had filled Charlotte's tank to over-flowing prior to departure, so at least she stayed quiet for a whole quarter of an hour.  But other than a few minutes here and there - including when I took the picture - she didn't settle at all.

Meanwhile, Jamie didn't like the film I lovingly looked out for him, threw his beans on toast around the house and then refused to sleep - before tiredness finally got him.

But, hey, I didn't break either of them and, if you'd asked me first thing this morning, I'd have settled for that.   

Those (practical) Russians



Sorry if this post is a bit random, but I hope you find the reason for it as amusing as I did when I read the "punchline" last night.

I'm currently reading a book called "The Tourist" by Dom Joly (he of Trigger Happy TV, I'm A Celebrity etc) in which he spends his time in less than obvious holiday hot spots including Camobodia, Chernobyl and Iran.  

However, it was during his trip to America that he came out with this particular gem:

"When the first missions were underway, NASA realized that their pens didn't work in space because the lack of gravity prevented the ink from flowing normally.

"They spent millions developing a special pen that did write successfully in space; the Russians just used pencils." 

Too good.

Daddy bear and "mummy" bear



A long day today but, thankfully, I was laughing within a minute of walking through our living room door.

I bought Vanessa a pack of trashy mags the other day, including OK! - the one with Elton John, David Furniture and their sprog on the front. 

As I entered the room, Jamie was expressing his admiration for baby Zachary - so I quickly took the pic above on my camera phone. 

And then White Jnr spoke (and I promise I'm not making this up).

"Mummy?" he said, as he pointed at the Elt and Dave pic.

"Which one is the mummy?"

"Erm...he is," replied Vanessa, index finger resting on David Furniture's head.

"But he's not a lady!" said Jamie.

Educating our boy about the modern world should be fun in the years ahead.

A new window on the world

Well, it's official; the Whites are now an HD family.

Our Sky+HD box arrived today for self-installation.  But, as is common when I'm involved, an immediate problem presented itself - there were no instructions to explain how to actually do it.

So I phoned the Sky man and could barely believe what he told me.

Because multi-billion pound, clear-everything-in-its-path-and-bugger-the-customer BSkyB had run out of self-installation guides and had instead decided to allow punters to have a blind stab at it, just to see how they got on.

Anyway, two hours later (even though it's only supposed to take 15 minutes), and the job was done.  And above, you can see what tonight's ITV News at Ten looked like in glorious HD.

The big question is (and I know you're dying to ask it), does the world look so much different / better in a High Definition?

Er...well...not really, if truth be told.

But the box is nice

Low point of my year thus far



Last night I referred to my supposedly "dodgy" taste in music. 

But that was only a mere preface to telling you about a particularly embarrassing incident last Friday, at the end of which the Sad Man Police should surely have arrested me. 

My new office is in a shared building and my work colleagues and our neighbours are still getting to know each other. 

As part of this process, I was talking to a lady in the corridor and - for a reason that escapes me - she asked me what music I listened to.  

And, not for the first time, I was thrown. 

I hate this question, you see.  Because I instantly think of those who mock me, and I get paranoid. 

So, over the years, I've developed a bit of a trick. What I do is list the bands or singers I'm planning to see in concert in the months ahead.  And, because the acts are touring, it normally means they're relatively current and I don't look too much of a twonk in front of whoever it is I'm talking to.  That's the theory, anyhow. 

So, back to last Friday, and this lady asking me THAT question. 

"Er, well, I'm going to see Take That in June!" I replied enthusiastically, before panicking after playing what I'd just said (and how I'd just said it) back in my head. 

"Er...I haven't got any other concerts planned as yet...I've seen them before....er....I saw Robbie Williams live once too....er....have nice day then." 

And I hope she did. 

Mine never recovered.