Forget Mad Monk - meet Mad Mother

So, what sort of day did have you have?

Mine was OK-ish. Did a day's work, made it back just in time for my latest physio appointment, Vanessa's in London so I've just got Jamie off to sleep and now it's time for baseball, beer and steak. Actually, on reflection, it'll have been quite a good day by the time I get to bed.

And then there's been my mum's day.

She was thrown out of Russia.

Accompanied by her partner Derek, she set off early on Saturday morning for a trip to the fjords, which I always understood to be in Norway. However, for some reason, according to the text she sent me on Saturday afternoon, the two of them ended up in Stockholm.

I texted back: "Are you sure you're in Stockholm?"

To which she replied: "Yes, Derek's sitting beside a big sign which says Stockholm so I think it is."

Then, yesterday, she texted me again to say she was in Russia. Do they have fjords in Russia? No doubt I'll find out when she comes back.

So we fast forward to this afternoon when my phone beeped again to herald the arrival of another text message from my mother, and this was what it said:

"They chucked us out of Russia!"

I kid you not.

I quickly felt the need to sit down before, on partially regaining my composure, demanding to know (fairly obviously):

"WHY?!!"

A couple of minutes later, my phone beeped again with her response:

"Because of your political connections!"

Now I was confused, verging on concerned.

"Tell me more..." I replied.

There was a delay of a good half hour before her next text took her off on a complete tangent.

"We were in a palace where Rasputin lived and was murdered."

(Told you). So, I tried again:

"AND?!"

Another delay, this time of about four and a half hours until a short while ago, when her last message arrived:

"Sorry, I keep losing signal. It must be the satellite."

And that's as much as I know.

Needless to say, I'll keep you informed on developments although, if you hear anything on the news, do feel free to pass it on to me.

PS I don't THINK she's a spy (but, there again, would a "good" spy tell you if they were?)

Radio silence is golden

I signed up for my first mobile phone with great reluctance.

It was the late 1990s and, in the end, I folded under peer pressure. Pretty much everyone else I hung around with in London at that time had a mobile. And it just seemed easier to buy a crap one from Carphone Warehouse to put on the pub table alongside theirs, rather than having to keep explaining why I didn't believe I needed a brick of my own.

In time, I have to concede, it did become a useful tool - particularly for work - but, deep down, I still kind of hankered after the days when people couldn't find me.

Yes, I know I could have turned it off - and now do so regularly - but you obviously develop a habit (particularly when work's involved) of checking for messages and, therefore, never really turning yourself off fully.

I tell you all this because my current mobile phone conked out this morning and seems incapable of being resuscitated. I have since spoken to Vodafone who, sadly, are making swift arrangements to replace it. I have also shoved my SIM card into an old handset and am now fully contactable once again.

But my point is this; for almost 40 minutes when I was out and about at lunchtime and for around an hour and a quarter as I travelled home from work, no-one could get me and there was no point in me fretting about it.

Heaven.

Mums are, like, SO uncool

My reputation for paternal heroism (WHAT?!) was shown to be rightfully earned once again last night when I used up almost a quarter of an hour of my precious home alone time to click all three wheels onto Jamie's new pram.

He took it out for a test drive this afternoon and, I think, was pleased by the power which surrounded him.

More importantly, I hear some of the chicks in prams in Pudsey Park were equally impressed.

If only he could have found a way to get rid of his mother.

Phil & Ted's Pointless Adventure

With the new baby now little more than five months from splashdown, Vanessa bought a new pushchair online earlier in the week which converts into a "double."

It was delivered yesterday afternoon (that's the box pictured above) but she waited until today when the "man of the house" (i.e. me) would be around before trying to put it up.

But the trouble is I'm a poor excuse for a man about the house, particularly when it comes to screwing things together. Linked to this is my normal apology that I can't possibly screw things together on this occasion because the manufacturer forgot to put one or more parts into the box.

It was therefore no surprise that I got no further than step 2 of 26 before declaring that something was very wrong.

I was trying to put the mudguards on and, according to the instructions, they required two screws each. But not only were there no screws in the box, but there were also no brackets to screw them into. Needless to say I cried foul (and several less polite words).

But what to do? Because, deep down and based on previous experience, I reckoned that everything probably was there and I wasn't reading the instructions properly. However, after checking and re-checking said instructions several more times, I was still at a dead end.

So I saw two options. The first, and easiest, was to phone some wee girl in a call centre, blame it all on her and send a plague upon her house, herself and her family. The second, more defensive, approach would be to drive to Mothercare in Bradford, see one of our buggies already built and take pictures.

We chose the latter and, to my surprise at least, found that we were actually right and that our buggy was missing the brackets and that our mudguards were actually a different model from those in the instruction manual.

It was therefore back to base to get the wee girl on the phone and demand that she accepted some abuse.

What happened next was a surprise - but irritatingly so.

Vanessa made the call before eventually passing the handset to me to hear some techy stuff from the wee girl.

The long and short of it was that the manufacturers - "Phil & Ted's Most Excellent Buggy Company" - had changed the design of the mudguards and the way there were attached but hadn't bothered to change the instructions that came with the buggy. (A "Most Excellent Company" my ****).

Phone call over, Vanessa and I went back downstairs, attempted to attach one of the mudguards as instructed and - bingo.

We stopped at that point because, quite frankly, we were bored of the buggy by then although I might "try" to finish the job myself later when Vanessa goes out on another pregnant lady J2O binge in Leeds. But I might not.

All in all, though, not the Saturday afternoon we had planned.

But, with the house to myself (and Jamie), it's a day that can yet be rescued with the help of beer, steak and sport on TV. In fact, I'm quite confident that it will be.

Geordie ****wits

Last night, on this blog, I cast doubt on Paul Gascoigne's claim to be Pope John Paul II's best mate.

And then tonight, after being out for the evening, I arrived home to discover that Gazza has arrived at the police cordon in Northumberland claiming to be a pal of Raoul Moat who, as I write, is standing up with a gun to his napper.

Do you sense a pattern?

I'm off to bed shortly but, by the morning, there's every chance Geordie Rambo might be deed, man.

And Gazza might be safely back behind lock and key.

Full of hot air?

It's late, I'm tired and you're probably not that arsed either, but I'll just share one quick cynical thought with you now that I'm here.

I was reading the Metro newspaper this morning - the free one you get on public transport - whilst I was on the train to work (told you so), when I stumbled across the following story.

Paul Gascoigne and his phone friend Pope

Paul Gascoigne, whose Orange Walk antics offended so many, claims to have been a mate of the late Pope.

Gazza, 43, revealed he and John Paul II used to chat on the phone.

‘His bodyguard was my bodyguard at one point. The Pope rang me up wanting to speak to me,’ the former England and Lazio star told OK! magazine.

‘It was him who got in touch with me first. But I didn’t like having his number in my phone, in case someone stole my mobile.

‘It didn’t faze me. I just said, “Alreet Pope. How are you?”

But here's the thing. Whilst I would love to think that all of this is true, I reckon Gazza's talking out of his flute.

Let's hope he (finally) gets well soon.

Jamie Says No

I indulged in a bit of infant exploitation/fun first thing this morning.

Jamie had woken up in a bad mood and was indulging in his latest fad: saying "no!" to everything.

In recent days it's been a steady stream of negatives - "no milk!" (before having milk), "no bath!" (before having his bath), "no tea!" (before having at least some of his tea). You kind of get the idea.

This morning he was running round shrieking "no milk!" when I decided to invent a brand new game, simply entitled "Jamie Says No."

And the rules were very simple; I would ask him if he wanted something or if he was going to do something, and he would shout "no!" followed by whatever it was he wasn't having or doing.

So I began with, "are you going to have fun today?"

"No fun!" came the response.

"Are you going to get dressed?"

"No dressed!"

OK, thought I, let's test his morals.

"Do you want war?"

"No war!" (Bono would have been proud).

"Do you have hope?"

"No hope!"

"Do you want a future?"

"No future!" (Morrissey ditto).

And we finished up with a bit of Ulster politics.

"Jamie, Dublin rule," I began. "Do you want Dublin rule?"

"No Dublin rule!" I was filled with pride.

But the best was left till to last.

"Do you want to surrender?"

"NO SURRENDER!"

Good boy.

A rash decision

Chicken pox - now there's a lovely disease for you.

I was one of those particularly "fortunate" individuals who was well into his teens before contracting it, and the memories make me want to wretch even now.

As a result, I have always fully appreciated the arguments put forward by those who say it's best to get it young. However, there does seem something slightly perverse about going out of your way to make your child ill. And that is the dilemma Vanessa and I have wrestled with all day - before deciding to take the easy (albeit expensive) option.

Vanessa's sister Hannah's little boy Oliver now has chicken pox and so the chance exists for Jamie to have a go too - maybe by giving Oliver a hug or a big blokey kiss.

This opportunity would easily present itself on Thursday when Oliver, his little brother Alexander and Jamie all normally go to their Grandma Judy's to be spoilt. But, I mean, he has been a bit under the weather for the last few days in any case, there's a weekend coming up, chicken pox makes you sick as well as ugly and, if I were him, I'd prefer to be out and about feeling good than staying in and feeling lousy and scratchy.

So Mrs W and I have ticked the "stick him into nursery for an extra day on Thursday instead" box in the expectation that he'll have lots more chances to experience the joys of chicken pox in the time to come.

He may thank us for this in the future.

But, equally, he might very well not.

The wrong sort of crap

Friends of mine have often argued that my musical tastes leave a lot to be desired. Or, to put it another way, that I listen to crap.

And yes, they have a point. Had you chosen to walk into our kitchen at around 9pm tonight, for example, you would have heard me singing along to a bit of Baltimora (he's from Norn Iron, you know).

For me, the key to enjoyable crappy music is the crappy musician or band having at least an awareness of the fact that they might just be a bit crappy. But the moment they start taking themselves a little too seriously is the moment I lose interest.

To illustrate, about three or four years ago, Vanessa and I went over to the MEN Arena in Manchester to see James (the band, not some random bloke) do a huge "homecoming" gig in front of a full house. And they were magnificent.

It was Vanessa's idea to go - I wasn't that arsed, if truth be told - but I was very glad I did. By the end, lead singer Tim Booth (above left) had the audience eating out of his hand and left me mad keen to see them again if the chance ever came along.

And it did about 18 months ago when we made the short journey to Bradford's St George's Hall with expectations high. And James were awful - but not a "good" awful.

It was actually apparent from very early in their set that this was going to be the case after they began with four or five unknown songs and received a flat reaction. But, instead of cranking things up with some of their hits from the 90s, they persevered with Tim Booth cockily declaring that the tunes they were playing "will soon become old favourites." Funnily enough they didn't.

I vowed after that gig never to go to see them again but, of course, I'm fickle. And when I discovered at the weekend that they are due to headline on the Saturday night of Bingley Music Live in September, there was never any question that we wouldn't go (subject to babysitters - since secured) and I bought the tickets at lunchtime today.

But I really hope they play my "likable" sort of crap this time - rather than just crap.

The law can be fun

Us Whites were very kindly invited along to a barbecue at the home of our friends Kirsty (above, front right) and Tom (back left) yesterday afternoon when, let's just say, Jamie could have behaved like a somewhat more responsible two-year-old.

The conversation was fun and, at times, very illuminating, particularly when Amy (front left with her back to the camera) informed Vanessa of what a privileged position she was currently in.

"Did you know that, as a pregnant woman, you are legally entitled in this country to stop a policeman and pee in his hat whilst he shields you from prying eyes with his cloak?" advised Amy

And, funnily enough, Vanessa didn't know that.

But, given her brother Jonathan is a proud member of Her Majesty's West Yorkshire Constabulary and a cap-wearer, the next family get together could be one to remember should she "unfortunately" get caught short.

Credit where it's due

In common with most little boys, I would have thought, Jamie doesn't relish the prospect of having his hair dried after his bath.

His levels of ingenuity have seen a marked increase across a whole range of areas in recent weeks, mostly to his mother's and my frustration.

But last night, I had to hand it to our son.

I'd given him his bath and, after saying individual goodbyes to all his bath toys and the water itself (he can be extremely polite when we wants to be), he toddled off into our bedroom as normal to get into his pyjamas.

The normal form is for him to sit on Vanessa's or my knee and watch Peppa Pig whilst we do the necessary drying, grooming and dressing.

However, this time, he had a plan. Rather than simply plonk himself on me and let me get on with my duties, he made an extra stop on the way - at his toy box.

And out of this he pulled his builder's hat, which he held until I lifted him onto my knee before, coolly, putting it on his head. And, as far as he was concerned, it wasn't coming off. Or, to put it another way, there was no way he was going to let me dry his hair.

I shouted Vanessa to quickly get the camera and this was the genuine scene she captured.

Needless to say a vicious three-way fight then ensued between Jamie, the hairdryer and me. And, satisfactorily from my point of view, the hairdryer won.

But goodness knows what devilish plan he has in store for us tonight.

The old ones are the best

I was in Marks & Spencer in Keighley at lunchtime today picking up a sandwich and overheard a short but glorious exchange between an elderly lady and a checkout girl.

The lady shopper had just paid for her handful of purchases and the girl at the till asked her what she wanted to put them into.

"I can give you a small bag for free, a bigger bag for 5p or a Bag for Life which costs a bit more," the checkout girl explained.

"I'm 84, love," replied the elderly lady firmly but politely. "What would I want with a Bag for Life?"

Before adding: "I don't even buy green bananas any more."

I've been smiling ever since.

Some tramps live in mansions

I've been working my tush off in my new job this week and haven't had a lot of time to do or think about much else - including something mildly interesting to write about here.

But then, a short while ago, I got a phone call from a lawyerly friend who we'll call "Bodney."

Bodney had been in conversation with some other lawyerly friends who advised him of a story which no-one can talk about for probably two weeks (if they don't want to lose their house and piggy bank contents) but which should then be all over the papers.

It involves the "real" reason why England's footballers performed so poorly at the World Cup. And, I have to say, it left me a little taken aback - not that any of us should be these days.

I'll say no more than that (given that my house and piggy bank contents only partly belong to me).

But why don't you type "Steven Gerrard rumours" into Google and see what you find? I would if I were you.

PS If you already know what I'm referring to, well, bully for you.

Coleraine misses out - again

In the wake of the devastating news a few months ago that the Northern Ireland Milk Cup Finals Night had been moved from its spiritual home of Coleraine to Ballymena, tonight I learnt of another sickening development for those who like to watch their football by the banks of the Bann.

As you'll no doubt be aware, the football World Cup is to be held in Northern Ireland for the very first time eight years from now and, late this afternoon, a press statement was issued by the local Organising Committee:

"To help diffuse media speculation and after consultation with representatives from the Province's various league committees, the following cities, towns and villages have been chosen as host venues for the 2018 Finals.

"Belfast, Ballymena, Ballyclare, Drumahoe, Ballinamallard, Coagh, Drumaness, Portglenone, Cullybackey, Banbridge, Portavogie, Aughnacloy, Donemana, Castlederg and Dunaghy.

"This list is subject to change as apparently some of the local councils take down the posts (at council-owned facilities) to 'rest' the pitches in the summer, so we will know better nearer the time."

I don't know what my wee town has done wrong but it's obviously rubbed somebody up the wrong way.

But we must not be bitter and I would still encourage you to follow the build-up to Northern Ireland 2018 right here.

Some facts are best out in the open

I bought Jamie a new tee shirt today, a photo of which you can see above.

You don't think it's in any way self-indulgent, do you?

What's that on t'roof?

In advance of yesterday's World Cup football debacle (you'll know the one I'm on about), Wee John and I went to Headingley to watch Yorkshire lose heroically to Leicestershire in the ongoing Friends Provident Twenty20 cricket tourney. My mate Mike was there too (right of shot), one of the greatest men God ever invented.

Cricket being cricket, you tend to look around and, at the modern day Headingley, it's not surprising to have your eyes drawn to the spanking new Carnegie Pavilion which wouldn't look out of place in Doctor Who.

But, space age though it is, the structure remains Yorkshire born and bred.

Which was why I wasn't that astounded when I spotted the 1970s television aerial perched upon its top.

You can put a building into Yorkshire...

Germany 4 England 1

At times I felt like closing the curtains.

Lock up your...um...Wee Johns

Here's a sight you don't see very often; no, not Wee John smoking (because that's a very common occurrence), but someone smoking in a pub.

His Smallness is up for the weekend and, last night, we went for a quick bite to eat before stopping for last orders in a local bar on the way home.

However, just as we were about to leave, a woman came up and demanded to know if he smoked.

When he said yes, he was handed an ashtray before she moved on to the next customer - just as the front door was being locked.

We eventually left sometime around 2am.

Needless to say, I will be handing him over to the police later today.

The age of consent

I found an opened letter lying on our kitchen table last night which I thought you might want to hear about.

It was from our dentist and it read as follows:

"I am writing to remind you that it is now twelve months since your last dental check-up. Please contact the practice to arrange a suitable appointment.

"Our practice emphasises preventive dentistry and an important part of this is to attend on a regular basis so that problems can be detected at an early stage and therefore be prevented from progressing into difficult treatments.

"If you already have an appointment booked, please disregard this letter.

"Yours sincerely

"Dr B Stafford

"PS We wish to remind you that charges are payable in advance and in full on the day. A fee may be charged if appointments are broken or cancelled without 24 hours notice. Please keep us informed of any change of address."

But here's the thing.

The letter wasn't addressed to either Vanessa or myself.

It was addressed to "Mast Jamie White."

And whilst he did attend an initial appointment last year, he didn't receive any treatment owing to the fact that he only had four teeth.

Still, as a responsible father, I will bring the correspondence to his attention with a suggestion that he gets in touch with the practice as a matter of urgency.

Hat a boy

As regular readers may have spotted, our Jamie is cute, blond-haired and blue-eyed (and clearly not mine).

And whilst his aesthetics may be pleasing to many (particularly him), these attributes - added to his pale skin - make him particularly susceptible to damage from the always strong Yorkshire sun (what?!)

One of the obvious ways to guard against the ever present White Rose Rays is for him to wear a hat - which he has always hated. Until today, that is.

Because Vanessa - who's off this week and currently out on a J2O-fuelled pregnant lady binge in Leeds city centre - reported earlier that he'd worn his sunhat all day.

Then, after I arrived home, he kept it on whilst the two of us did our now signature lawn mowing double act in the back garden.

Eventually I got him in the bath, but only after several minutes trying to persuade him to take his hat off before getting in the water.

But, as soon as he was out and the poncho towel was draped on his person, on went his hat once again.

If only we could persuade him that the hat does the exact same job as his dummy.

Because getting him to part with that is the next major challenge facing the Whites.