It's shut up to him & it's shut up to him

Britain is renowned for producing some of the best comedy double acts the world has ever known. 

Morecambe & Wise, the Two Ronnies, Ant & Dec, Little & Large, Cannon & Ball, Reeves & Mortimer, and Councillors Graham & Pat Latty are just some of the duos who have kept us amused over the years. 

And now we have a new partnership: Euan & Jamie.

  
They met in Red Class at Guiseley Infants in September and, other than when Jamie's thrown the occasional girlie strop, they've been best friends ever since. 

And they have range.  As well as their trademark slapstick routines, they are capable of taking on Ant & Dec-style talent show presenting roles.  Here they are preparing their next link as their sisters go head-to-head in a dance-off.

Their boy bond was underlined in their school reports, which came out on Friday. 

Mrs Buckton, their teacher, wrote in Jamie's:

"He has a good circle of friends and has made one special friendship."

And I understand from Euan's mum Kate that Mrs Buckton said something pretty much identical in his. 

Let's just hope that us parents can ruthlessly exploit them for our personal financial benefit in the years ahead.  

No arm done

I came back to a bit of after work drama in Guiseley yesterday afternoon, where Vanessa was doubled up in pain with a sore arm.

She went for a short notice conflab with the local doctor, who dispatched her directly to the Leeds General Infirmary for an emergency gig with the sore arm specialist.

And his diagnosis?  Vanessa has a sore arm.

She has no idea what caused her sore arm, but no lasting damage appears to have been done.

And she's not allowed to wave for a week.

Later, in sympathy and in tribute, Charlotte performed her Mummy-has-a-sore-arm impression.

Hands off our school!

I try to avoid doing anything akin to politics on this blog because it's supposed to be light hearted (I do hope you've noticed).  But I intend to suspend that rule tonight, as I've discovered two jokers who I thought you might appreciate hearing about.

Jamie's school - Guiseley Infants - is under a touch of misguided pressure at the moment as we near the end of a Leeds City Council consultation to expand it and nearby St Oswald's Junior school, converting them into separate primaries.

There is a growing problem with school places in Guiseley, and that problem will only worsen as more houses are built.  The obvious and most sensible long-term solution is a brand new school.

Failing that, yes, both Guiseley Infants and St Oswald's will have to consider how they might accommodate more pupils - at least in the short-term.  But so too - one might reasonably expect - should Tranmere Park, Guiseley's other school for primary age pupils.

The only problem is, Tranmere is located at the posher end of Guiseley and, when asked to take a very limited number of pupils in a recent consultation exercise, agreement could not be found.

The revised idea is therefore that Tranmere is protected from change, and Guiseley Infants loses its playing field, its quadrangle and gains 150 new young souls.  Great.

Since the enormity - not to mention the unfairness and impracticality - of this scenario became so stark over recent weeks, some very fine parents of Guiseley Infants' pupils got together to form the Guiseley Infant and Nursery (GINS) Action Group.  And the mummies and daddies have done good. 

Over 3000 leaflets have been hand-delivered to encourage concerned residents and parents to contribute to the council's consultation.  There has been coverage in the newspapers and on local TV.  And the key campaign messages has been powerfully conveyed to politicians.

Encouragingly, almost all of the politicians have indicated at least a willingness to listen.

And then there's Cllrs Graham and Pat Latty.

Entering the fray very much from stage right, they have given a masterclass of quite heroic proportions on how not to represent the interests of local people who, it would appear, seem little more than an irritation to them. 

In today's Wharfedale Observer, they jointly urged GINS group supporters to allow the consultation period (which ends tomorrow) to run its course "so that the views of as many people as possible could be assessed."  The more cynical observer might interpret this as "so we can encourage our posh supporters at the other end of town to respond saying that Guiseley Infants' playing field should indeed be concreted over, and Tranmere left alone."  But maybe that's just me (and almost everyone else). Cllr Mr Latty criticised GINS for being "vociferous."  And Cllr Mrs Latty criticised parents for "thinking of their own children - which is natural - but it is getting a bit out of hand."  I kid you not.

But Cllr Mr Latty wasn't finished there.  Hell no.

In correspondence addressed to "Concerned Parents" (i.e. GINS supporters), he said he found it  "decidedly irregular to be asked to account to a body that does not reveal the names of the people involved." OK, well now you know my name - there's a starter.  And Jamie's mum's called Vanessa.  I have little doubt that most if not all other supporters will also happily "reveal" themselves to you.  (It could be like a big Guiseley version of Blind Date).

Cllr Mr Latty added: "What I would remind you of is that there is an ongoing consultation on the proposals for Oxford Road and St Oswald's and that will take it’s (sic) course whatever we may say."  Yes folks, localism in action, Latty style i.e. "you're wasting your time and, much more importantly, you're wasting my and Cllr Mrs Latty's time."   

Concluding by saying that he and Cllr Mrs Latty would "do our best" to accommodate a meeting with some GINS members, he finished with this immortal sentence: "Please do not suggest a public meeting."

Well, I mean, he doesn't know where we've been.

Methinks Cllr Mr and Cllr Mrs Latty have made a massive Mr & Mrs political error of judgement, particularly given that Cllr Mrs Latty is up for re-election next year.  But then, what would I know about politics?

Bad milk's bad

I found this via Google earlier this evening:

"If you drink milk long past the expiration date, you run the risk of developing food poisoning from unhealthy bacteria that might have grown in the milk. Food poisoning can be so mild you might not even realise you have it, but it can be severe in some cases. You might develop stomach cramps, nausea, diarrhoea or a fever. It can last for hours or days, and you might start to feel the effects of the bad milk within a couple hours of drinking it."

And so it was yesterday, a couple of hours after putting milk past its expiration date in my tea, I began to feel unwell. Over the course of the afternoon and evening, I developed stomach cramps, nausea, diarrhoea (I'm nothing if not honest) and a fever.  Today has also been something of a "struggle" (if you know what I'm saying).

If only I had Googled 24 hours previously.  Or been arsed to go to the shop. 

What a wee weekend

Andy Murray won Wimbledon today - you've probably heard - the first British man to win the singles title since my dad was born in 1936.

His incredible achievement came in the wake of the British and Irish Lions' rugby success in Australia yesterday, when they triumphed in a three-match series for the first time in 16 years.  Wonderful.

But back to Sir Andy. 

With Jamie and Vanessa at a party, Charlotte and I "chose" to share the moment together; in the exact same manner as my mum made me "choose" to watch Virginia Wade's historic victory in 1977.  And I still gratefully remember it.

 

Whether Charlotte will recall Andy's big moment, I sadly doubt as I was three years older than her when Ginny hoisted the trophy aloft.

 

But her immediate response to his win is something I shall certainly remember - and will share with her in years to come.

 

Yes, she did an extra large wee wee on the potty.

 

 

So congratulations to her - and big respect to our Andy.   



Slow coach

There's nothing quite like the sight of a load of young boys and girls running around in shorts to help put a smile back on your face (STOP IT!)

And so it was last night, as the first in a summer-long series of Wednesday fun-orientated micro rugby sessions got underway at Aireborough Lions RUFC.

Under the tutelage of Coach Anthony himself, friendships were quickly reforged and ball skills swiftly regained. 

The recently-arranged activities were even more of a bonus for the fact that Anthony and many of the players will be leaving micro rugby behind come September to move up to the Under 7s. (Anthony is many more than seven years in age, but has under seven hairs on his hair - thus qualifying for the gig).

With the Lions' big recruitment drive now very much underway - most recently at Guiseley Carnival last Sunday (see below) - we're confident of filling the gaps in the playing ranks.

But how to fill the coaching void?

Easily enough, it has turned out, with four rugby daddies - each with a son remaining eligible for micro rugby next season - having already stepped forward.

There's Coach Kris (the soon-to-be-new Anthony), top Yorkshireman and still at the peak of his playing powers come a Saturday afternoon.

There's Coach Dylan, top man of Anglesey, who loves Wales, rugby, and did I mention Wales?

There's Coach Daniel, top Dubliner and sometime Shane MacGowan lookalike who, as a school teacher, will be very much at home (particularly as he can see his house from the training pitch).

And there's Coach me. 

Yes, really.

I've made clear to my teamies that I'm happy to take a back seat on this one, if only on the grounds that none of the kids will understand a word I'm attempting to utter. Including Jamie. But at their service I shall be.

The four of us have enrolled on an official Rugby Football Union coaching course being held in two Fridays' time. This is something which pleases me greatly, as I was supposed to depart for our annual camping weekend that afternoon but now won't have to leave until the Saturday morning. (I love it when a plan comes together).

I'll keep you informed on progress.

Kicking an old 'un when he's down

As I was travelling to work this morning, I inwardly declared that today was the day to get on with my big idea.

I was talking to Mags' charming mum Moira on Sunday evening, and mentioned that I'd been considering joining the Anthony Nolan register.

Prior to Mags getting ill three years ago, I hadn't heard of Anthony Nolan, a remarkable charity that saves the lives of people with blood cancer who need a blood stem cell or bone marrow transplant. 

But Mags told me all about it and, when she had her first bout of leukaemia, Anthony Nolan saved her life when she was matched with a donor and had a successful bone marrow transplant.  That was one of the many reasons why her death was so shocking and so cruel after her illness returned, because it wasn't supposed to be like that.

However, back to Sunday and me telling Moira of my heroic plan. 

"Well, you'd better hurry up!" she announced.

"Erm...OK. Why the rush?"

"Because when you reach 45, you're no good to them!"

"Really? Why?!"

"Because you're too old!"

How dare she.

So, as I was having my lunchtime sandwiches today, I decided to find out what I needed to do to get on with things.

The answer?  Find myself a time machine.

When I went on to Anthony Nolan's website I discovered that Moira was a touch out when she said that 45 was the cut off age for usefulness.  Or she would've been a touch out until very recently. 

To quote from the website:

"Anthony Nolan is changing the age criteria for joining its donor register from 18-40 to 16-30."

What?!

The website, under FAQs, proceeded to answer my burning question, i.e. "Why are you recruiting younger donors?" with "Due to scientific, medical and resource reasons."

It then continued to humiliate me with some detailed bullet points:

"Science

• Lowering the average age of our register will help Anthony Nolan save more lives
  
• Younger people make the most successful donors for patients with blood cancer

Medical

• Doctors will always choose a younger donor if they are available
  
• Older donors are more likely to have developed age-related conditions which may mean they cannot donate
  
• The health of our donors is a priority for Anthony Nolan so we want to provide the healthiest donors for patients

Resources

• As a charity, we must spend our resources on recruiting the people who will be the best possible donors for patients with blood cancer
  
• It costs £100 to add each donor to our register so we must recruit the people most likely to be chosen as donors, who will remain on our register for the longest time."    

Or, in short and this time in my own words, because I'm knackered.

On reflection? Probably fair enough.

The saddest day

I wasn't planning to write anything about today, because I wasn't sure I'd be able to. But I'll have a go.

It was Mags' funeral, you see. And I thought that would be very sad.

It was.

There was a family service at the crematorium this morning. And this afternoon, everyone gathered at the local Methodist church in Westhead to celebrate Mags' life.

But try as we did, the tears overwhelmed the cheers.

Future events are planned, probably in London. And I look forward to those.

But for now, back in Yorkshire, I feel glad that I knew someone who made me feel good about the world.

The world felt good about her too.

What would Mags do?

I'm on a train from Leeds to Liverpool, stage two of the saddest journey I've ever had to undertake. In Liverpool, I change stations and head for Ormskirk in Lancashire where Mags' funeral will take place tomorrow. 

That's Mags on the left with some of her bestest girls who I know have also been through the mill over the past fortnight.

Funerals in Northern Ireland tend to be held two or a maximum three days after someone has passed away. In England it's obviously different and, whilst it does give you more time to collect your thoughts, that sense of dread just hangs over you. 

That said and in typical Mags style, her funeral will be different from any other I've attended. Wearing black is banned "unless it's your favourite colour." And afterwards, rather than mourn, we're all being invited to celebrate her life with a tipple. Good.

Those of us travelling from various parts of the country and arriving in the coming hours will also be getting together this evening for comradeship, reflection - and probably more drink.

On the subject of reflection, I can report that Mags' unswervingly positive outlook has already given birth to a new mantra which I fully intend to follow.

Vanessa and I were talking about Mags the other night and I was saying that I was going to stop allowing myself to be wound up by small irritations that really don't matter.

This prompted Vanessa to propose a new test. From now on, every time I feel myself getting annoyed, I have to ask the following question:

"What would Mags do?"

And do you know what? I've tried it and it works. 

In time I am absolutely certain that my new trick will make me happier.

But we'll have to get through the next 24 hours first.

Ground control to major idiot

Since receiving the devastating news of our mate Mags' death 10 days ago, my friend Hayley and I have been seeking to have a conversation.

One mild complication has been the fact that Hayley lives in Brisbane, Australia. The more significant difficulty was that the White family's home phones have been on the blink for the past two weeks. (How I've missed those cold calls).

I'm not good with technology, but I tried everything to get them to work.

I turned them on and off. I shuffled the batteries. I pressed their many buttons in every conceivable combination. I swore at them. I even bounced one off a wall. All to no avail.

Last weekend Vanessa and I came to the collective decision to buy some new ones, but didn't quite get round to it. So the plan was to do that this weekend instead. Until last night, that is.

Because, last night, I decided to have a final fiddle with the "main" phone i.e. the one that's plugged into the BT socket thingy.

And guess what?

Got it first time; it wasn't plugged into the BT socket thingy.

So Hayley, if you're reading this, I'll give you a ring first thing tomorrow morning (our time).  Make sure you have your phone plugged in.

No sh*t Charlotte

I'm home alone tonight.  Actually, not quite true.  Vanessa's in London, but Jamie and Charlotte are in bed resting up in preparation for keeping me up all night.  It's inevitable.

And there is one other absent "friend," so to speak. 

His name is Mr Poo. 

Yes, Charlotte is in potty training and, to be fair to the girl, the job is already almost half-done.  Only a few days in, and her wee is flowing freely.  Occasionally down her legs, but normally into her pink pot and we're very happy about that.

But Mr Poo simply does not want to put in an appearance. 

We have had one since the weekend, but not in Minnie Mouse.  In fact, I caught him in the style of Ian Botham in his slip-fielding pomp as Charlotte shuffled off elsewhere, trousers around her ankles. 

One can only hope that, with some patience, we crack Mr Poo before Mr Poo cracks us. But there can be no guarantees.    

Don't blame it on the weatherman

I have reached the stage in life where the years seem to be going quicker. 

And so it was that today I was back at Headingley cricket ground for the annual 364 Club Lunch with, amongst other regulars, John "John Kettley Is A Weatherman" Kettley (white shirt)

He even signed me a copy of his book (available on eBay).  

And, thanks to John, this year I have a White Stuff weather exclusive for you.   

 

Between the roast beef and the vanilla creme brulee, Steve (pictured left) asked John if this summer was going to be "shit."

 

John said no.

 

Don't forget folks, you read it here first.



Slugging it out

We have a bit of a slug problem, and it's beginning to upset me. 

To bring you up to speed at a pace marginally quicker than that of an average slug, over the past few weeks we've woken up to slug trails on our kitchen mat.

I responded in the manner any self-respecting Homer Simpson fan would do; I did nothing and hoped they'd go away.  But they didn't. 

Then last night, I suddenly and unexpectedly (I even surprised myself) sprang into action.  That's right, I put some salt down outside our kitchen door to show them who was boss. 

Unfortunately, this morning, I came downstairs to discover it wasn't me. 

I've even helpfully done you a map to illustrate.

If you look closely at the right hand side of the photo, you can see the beginning of a slug trail - pointed out in green. The trail actually goes the whole way to the wall, but it's difficult to see in the picture so I've highlighted the remainder in white.

Still with me?  Good, I hope you are.

It was at this point of the journey that the slug in question became a very bad slug.  Because, indicated in red, you can see where he (or she?) entered our house without permission - just beyond where my fiendishly cunning salt trap ended - and left a fresh trail all over our mat. Very bad slug!

So tonight, I have a little surprise in store for him (or her - or them).

Because if one or more naughty mollusk somehow manages to storm my now extended outdoor salt barricade during the wee small hours, they will find a brand new wall of salt lying in wait.  Har! Har! Har!

As my friend, I would respectfully ask that this stays our secret for now.  And let's hope slugs don't read this blog.

EARLY MORNING UPDATE: There is no sign of any overnight invaders. I repeat, no slugs - first time in ages. But the battle goes on...

Five years ago - I didn't have grey hair

There can be nothing like your son's fifth birthday to cheer you up after a long and difficult week.  And, as luck would have it, it happens to be Jamie's today.

Formal proceedings actually got underway on Friday evening with his party at Aireborough rugby club. 

And yes, for a while, we were a little worried...

 

...before the guests duly arrived.

 

 

They even brought loads of presents, which made one spoilt little so-and-so even more spoilt. 

 

But surely that's what birthdays are all about.

 



Catch you later - I'm going in.

My friend Mags

This is a picture of my beautiful, lovely, charming, hilarious, loyal and incredibly kind friend Mags. 

Regular readers will remember Wee John and I teaming up two years ago to tackle the Great North Run in celebration after Mags had beaten cancer for a second time.

Unfortunately, at the beginning of last month, I received a text from Mags to say that the nasty, horrible, vile leukaemia had "made a show again" and she was going back into hospital for more treatment. 

We exchanged further texts and I offered to travel down to London to see her after I'd returned from holiday in Menorca.  I didn't hear back, but she'd already warned me that she would be "flat out" during parts of her treatment and not to be concerned if a reply wasn't swiftly forthcoming.  So I wasn't. 

But tragically, last night, I received a phone call to say that Mags had passed away yesterday morning.

I cannot describe to you how sad I feel, and I know that everyone else who knew her well will be going through the same painful ordeal. 

Mags was one of the very few people I've met who did not divide opinion - because everyone loved her.  Indeed, that probably made her unique.

Even in her most challenging moments, she was positive, upbeat and trying to make you feel good - no matter how she might have been feeling herself.

She was also Charlotte's godmother and that makes me immensely proud, as it will my daughter as she gets older and I get to tell her all about my friend.

Mags, I'm so, so sorry you that couldn't hang around for at least another 41 years.  Because you would have made a magnificently entertaining, batty old woman.

Guiseleylympics

Following the incredible highs of the London Olympics, many feared that 2013 would be a year of sporting anti-climax - myself included. 

But today I was proved wrong after attending Guiseley Infants School's annual sports day.

I was there to watch Jamie make his debut.  And I am delighted to report that he, like everyone else on parade, did themselves and their parents proud. 

Why our son was the only competitor wearing his school shoes rather than his pumps (which were in his school bag), goodness only knows.

 

But despite this unnecessary handicap, he ran fast, jumped high...

  ...and even demonstrated his prowess in the sack.

Yes, a proud moment. 

The spectacular afternoon ended with two inevitabilities.

First, a characteristically "rousing" (scary) speech from Mrs Bell, the headteacher. 

And second, the news that Jamie's team - the Zebras - had finished in "a highly commendable fourth place" (i.e. last). 

Still, in a surprise development, he won the beanbag throwing event, an achievement certainly worthy of some chocolate cake after his tea.

Unfortunately you can't toast sporting success with chocolate cake, so I'll probably have some wine.    

Fathers and sons

A Fathers' Day to remember for an assortment of reasons.

I woke up this morning to five cards (I only have two kids, as above), with Jamie's handcrafted doodle of him and me the ace in the pack.

I think he has me to a tee. 

And then it was off to the fun fair which has been visiting Guiseley this weekend.

Now, even on Fathers' Day, you would think that such a trip would be one for the kids.  But you would be overlooking one crucial fact.

Having grown up a mere amble from Barry's Amusements in Portrush, I - like almost everyone else from that glorious part of the world - know my amusements.  And forget Barry's Big Dipper (stop it), for me the Waltzer reigns supreme. I love it.

Really, I could spend all day on the Walzter.  Indeed, it was the one aspect of Michael Jackson's life that made me stand back in envy.  Michael Jackson had his own Walzter.  I don't think a man could be luckier than that - even with Jermaine as a brother. 

But over the past five years, I haven't had much of a chance to go Waltzing. Until last year, Jamie was too small - and then was was too scared. 

But today, for me, on Fathers' Day, he agreed to go on with me - twice.

I don't remember feeling so proud (or sad - but let's move on). 

Which takes me to my own dad, who I spoke to a little earlier to wish him a Happy Fathers' Day too.

After exchanging pleasantries, he announced a neighbour had just told him that, following a recent death, he was now the oldest resident on the street.

"Where do I go from there?" he asked.

"I wouldn't like to say," I replied.

"And a good night to you too, you c***."

That's my dad.

 

Proof of the bedding is in the sleeping

Something of a little milestone today when Charlotte waved a sad goodbye to her cot, and prepared to move into her big girl bed. 

Thankfully what the Bed Fairy brought was soon a cause for celebration - and dressing up.

 

Now let's see if she sleeps...

Wonder Woman down

Vanessa was out on the cocktails with the girls last night and, this morning, was "feeling the effects."

Meanwhile Charlotte, who's never made a black coffee before, offered to have a go.

 

Perhaps tonight she'll ask her mummy if she fancies some cocoa.   



Dolly dilemma

Bridge successfully repaired thanks to the dental brilliance of Robert and the immense kindness of Tricia and colleagues for fitting me in, I'm now at George Best Belfast City Airport waiting to board the flight back to Yorkshire. 

But one question remains unanswered.

How the hell am I going to get that doll into that bag, thereby avoiding a Flybe surcharge?

 

At this moment, I have absolutely no idea.

Something to spout about

"Be not afraid of greatness: some are born great, some achieve greatness and some have greatness thrust upon them."  (William Shakespeare - Twelfth Night, Act II, Scene V).

It was with these words ringing in my ears that I accepted the nomination from the visibly keen and enthusiastic individuals above to become Publicity Officer at Aireborough Lions RUFC.  I was given a free run for the newly created post at last Friday evening's AGM, on the grounds that no-one else wanted it.

Where this opportunity will take me, one can only speculate - other than to The Ings pub on the last Thursday of every month for a Committee meeting. 

More importantly, where might it take the club? 

Well, nowhere strictly speaking, as they're already based in Guiseley and have no intention of going elsewhere other than for away matches. 

Still, together we'll try to do something good.

Jamie Schumacher

Following a particularly fun 24 hours in Welsh Wales with some especially generous natives, some English folk and a small smattering East Timorese Antipodeans, this morning we headed to the Legoland Discovery Centre in Manchester. 

Amongst the characters him and her encountered there were Buzz Lightyear...

...a neckless giraffe...

...and Ronnie Corbett and Giant Haystacks.

After all this star gazing, Jamie decided it was high time he went for a relaxing drive.

 

The concept behind Lego City: Forest Pursuit Ride (according to the bumph) is as follows: "Children can join a driving adventure as they take to the forest pathways in their own off-road Lego vehicles on a mission to capture the robbers."

 

Got it?  Great. 

 

It's at this point that I must remind you of two critical factors:

1. Every one of Jamie's less impressive "attributes" is inherited directly from me; and
2. I am yet to pass my driving test, having failed three times thus far.

So this was how he got on.

 

 

Actually, to be fair - this was him a couple minutes later. 

 

 

Now that I've seen it again, he's not much better is he?   Hmmm.

 

Maybe him and me can train it to work together in years to come.  Or perhaps Charlotte will give us both a lift.   

I feel like Doctor Who

Continuing the recent international flavour of this awful blog (i.e. I was in Spain last week), tonight you join me in a Premier Inn just inside the Welsh border. (Thankfully Lenny Henry appears to have the night off).

And tomorrow, life gets even more exciting when we Whites visit an entirely new jurisdiction (for us).

That's right, we're off to Legoland.

Lets hope the sights there are less scary than they are in Wales.

King of Dance and Queen of Ice Cream

Spending ten days together in foreign climes really helps you to get to know your children.  This includes the opportunity to spot any emerging similarities between them and their parents.

And what did we learn in Menorca? 

For me, two things.

First, that Jamie has inherited my (lack of) ability to dance.

And second, that Charlotte likes to savour a big ice cream almost as much as her mother - and is every bit as messy.