Oh no, it's the Scary Sheep Woman!

Some very special guests have just arrived all the way from Australia.

Louise, Tim and their beautiful one-year-old little girl Scarlett crossed our threshold about an hour ago, and they're here until tomorrow. 

Vanessa and Louise went to (the) university (bar) together, and Louise was also a bridesmaid at our wedding. 

They are living in Sydney at the moment but intend to move back to Louise's native Wales in June of next year. 

Jamie was particularly pleased to see Scarlett, but was a little more dubious at the prospect of encountering her mother who I had previously described to him as the Scary Sheep Woman, owing to the fact that, when unleashed, her hair is very wild and very woolly. And Welsh.

Thankfully it's safely tethered at the moment, although there are bound to be countless attempts at escape over the next 24 hours or so. 

But I would expect we'll have fun (especially this afternoon when Tim, Other John and I are off to try something just a little bit different...)         

Doctors and Peelers

I'm just back from my appointment with Dr Not Shit and - here's a shock - he confirmed that his "valued" (by no-one) colleague, Dr Shit, had got it wrong in dealing with my sinusitis.  

The long and short of it is that she (twice) prescribed me a dosage of antibiotics that would barely have relieved a budgie of the sniffles.  And, as a result, I've been forced to ensure three months of headaches. 

Mercifully, the horse tranquillisers he gave me should sort things out in a few days. (I have - somewhat imaginatively - put a 20p beside them to prove to you that I'm not lying about their sheer hugeness). 

Good old Dr Not Shit, or Dr Real Doctor as I've now decided call him. 

I hope you'll quickly permit me to go off on a little tangent before I leave you to your own devices.

You'll probably have seen yesterday's scenes of students and their "supporters" smashing up Conservative HQ in Westminster, during which several police officers were injured.

Now, if my Northern Ireland upbringing has taught me anything, it's to always try to see the funny side in any difficult situation.

And a Radio 5 Live early morning interview with an anonymous member of the police riot squad did make me titter. 

Describing the angst faced by him and pals on the frontline, he came out with this classic:

"The abuse, the threats that we received, basically wishing us death.  And worse......well, there's nothing worse than death.  Obviously." 

Bless.

A slippery moment - now banished

Jamie's old slippers have had to be stood down (so to speak).  

His old Postman Pat and Jess size sevens are still big enough for him.  But sadly they're falling to bits and their replacement was becoming ever-inevitable.

Given how much he loves them, we would have persevered for just a teeny bit longer had it not been for a particularly harrowing incident during last week's visit to the Children's A&E Ward of the Leeds General Infirmary.

You might naturally think that the worst point of our late-night trip was when the assembled doctors advised that Jamie would have to have a chest x-ray and might have to stay overnight, such was their concern for our boy.

But for me, it wasn't. 

It was that horrible, awful, gut-wrenching, terrible instant when everything seemed to stop and all I wanted was for the Whites to be swallowed up.

Yes, it was the moment - at around 11.15pm - when the big nurse (there's always a big nurse) removed one of his now decommissioned slippers and, after a short pause, announced loudly to the room full of medical types : "Oh, he's got smelly feet!"

Hopefully Jamie will now be happy - and considerably more fragrant - in his size eight Bob the Builders.   

 

A weekend I can barely remember

No update yesterday as my sinusitis is back yet again, for the second time in a month, and I couldn't open my eyes to look at a screen.  (Perhaps I should have just typed with the screen off. It might have been my best effort yet).         

I've just visited my local GP practice to request an appointment with Dr Not Shit; Dr Shit just keeps giving me antibiotics which are the equivalent of putting a sticking plaster on my head. I see Dr Not Shit at 4pm tomorrow, which counts as "fast-track" in these parts.

But quickly back to Wales and the rugby weekend just gone by.

Above you can see the game - Welshies v Oz.

Here's Dan (closest to the camera), Other John and Wee John at said game...

...lots of flamethrowers getting us all excited before the teams came out...

...the Max Boyce Band keeping us entertained before we got inside... 

...Wee "Welsh" John (why would he own a Welsh shirt?) watching his "beloved" Ireland play South Africa on TV in the pub afterwards (I'm going to buy him a fixed identity for Christmas)...

...and Dan, sporting his special Yorkshire "off the arse pants" whilst trying to work out how the grill worked on Sunday morning...

...before Other John arrived to tell him.  

I thought they looked a bit like Gregg and John from MasterChef.

Kind of.

So, that was our weekend in the Principality.

Now for Wednesday in Keighley - and work.    

Is that who I think it is?

I returned from Cardiff yesterday a little "fatigued" and therefore didn't update this rubbish.  And I still don't feel sufficiently energised to go and find my camera even now, never mind the lead that goes with it.  So I'll wrap up Wales next time (if I can find enough paper......come on it's late). 

However, whilst I'm here, I'll quickly share this with you.

Owing to Jamie's bout of illness last week (from which he's now thankfully well on the way to a full recovery) I worked at home on both Thursday and Friday (and, yes, I DID work - thank you very much).

And a bizarre thing happened.  It was shortly after 10am on Thursday and, as I tapped away on this very keyboard, I heard an ice cream van drive past playing the theme to Batman.  How odd, I thought.  It was early November, the kids were in school and, whilst I'm no Lord Sugar, it didn't appear to me to be the ideal selling climate for ice cream.

I then forgot about the episode, until the very same thing happened at the very same time on Friday morning.

Again, I didn't see the van itself but the Batman theme was blasting away as before. 

At this point Vanessa, who was preparing to depart for a midwife's appointment (hence the need for me to be around to look after Jamie), passed by the door.

"How much ice cream is that joker expecting to sell?" I asked in a smart arse kind of way, not expecting an answer.

"What do you mean?" replied wifey.  "Ice cream?"    

"Yes," I said.  "He was doing the same thing yesterday.  Can't you hear him?  He's playing the Batman theme.  It's an ice cream man."

"That's not an ice cream man!" Vanessa rattled back, dryly.  "That's Bapman  - he goes around the offices.  He's selling sandwiches!"

I tell you what, it's all happening in these parts.

I came

To no-one's great surprise (least of all Vanessa's), I did travel down to Wales yesterday after Sproglet showed some signs of improvement.

Last night was a mixture of restraint and bizarreness (which apparently is a word).

Above was Dan, Wee John and Other John having a fine meal at Wee John's local Italian (I was there too but someone had to take the photo).

Earlier, we gazed in awe at Wee John's telly which is actually much bigger than he is.

And earlier still we met Big Dave in The Walkabout Bar.

Big Dave's getting married in two weeks. Good luck with that future Mrs Big Dave. 

The highlight of today was supposed to be Wales v Australia in the Millennium Stadium (at rugby, for the uninitiated).  But Dan has just been sick, meaning this afternoon's game will now have to be a cracker. 

I predicted Wales 20 Australia 37 in the sweep stake in Wee John's local last night, and I am confident that a big turkey will be accompanying me on the train home to Pudsey tomorrow afternoon as a consequence.

I'm now off to learn the words of the Welsh national anthem. Other John says he's worried he might cry when the locals sing it later, and I want to play my full part in trying to ensure he does.

Going out to work is underrated

Another day, another career idea bites the dust.

Because I've decided not to become a house husband. And perhaps it's just as well.

Jamie is still quite poorly and, after Vanessa stayed at home yesterday to look after him, today was my turn.

You always know our boy isn't well when he isn't eating (fat ****), and he isn't really eating at the moment - which means he isn't well.  (I'm nothing if not logical).

But, in my book, he has to eat to something.  So, as you can see above, I gave him giant chocolate buttons for breakfast  - followed by a McDonald's Happy Meal for lunch.

Although, in truth, he still didn't eat very much.

Since then he's been up and down, up and down. Hopefully, tomorrow morning, he'll wake-up up and stay up.

If he does, I'll wish him and his mother a pleasant couple of days before heading off to Cardiff for a rugby weekend with Wee John, Other John and Dan.  But if he doesn't, I may have to rethink.

If you don't hear from me tomorrow, you'll know I've gone.  And if you do, then I haven't  - as I shall no doubt explain to you at greater length than you require.

Adieu.

My kind of politician



Vanessa and I met in June 1997 when both employed as House of Commons staffers, me by the Ulster Unionists and Vanessa by Labour MP Barry Sheerman (pictured).

Barry was very good not just to her, but to us both, and we continue to see him from time to time.   

I also keep a close eye on what he's up to in Parliament, and an extract from the Official Report of yesterday's proceedings I've just stumbled across illustrates why.

It was Health Questions and, well, here is what the great man asked:

  

Mr Barry Sheerman (Huddersfield) (Lab/Co-op): Is it appropriate for my constituents in Huddersfield to be lectured about healthy living standards by a Minister who is out of condition, overweight and a chain smoker?

What a legend.

UPDATE: Since writing this, I've subsequently discovered that the minister to whom Barry directed his insult was a certain Simon Burns who, you might be interested to know, was once extremely rude and condescending to me in a House of Commons lift.  One could therefore suggest that what goes around becomes very round - or FAT - in the end.  So I take enormous pleasure in doing so.

But which one was the REAL Dr Brown Bear?

We've been quite fortunate with Jamie's health thus far, but there inevitably comes a time as a parent when you have to take your sprog to casualty in something of a rush/mild panic.  And it tends to be at night.

Last night was our night.

According to Vanessa, Jamie hadn't been "himself" as yesterday afternoon wore on and, by the time I got home shortly after 6, he'd progressed from not being himself to being arguably someone else entirely.  Who was clearly quite sick.

He was burning up, he was crying out and he was beginning to smell like a blood relative of Champion the Wonder Horse (or such like - you get my point).

Being the one in our relationship who talks proper, it was Vanessa's job (she orders our takeaways for the same reason) to phone NHS Direct, who promptly told us to take our boy to the accident and emergency department of the Leeds General Infirmary.

In an attempt to make our trip sound like an adventure, I told Jamie he was off to visit Dr Brown Bear from Peppa Pig.  And it did cheer him up.

However, some six hours later - at around 2am - the novelty had long since worn off as "Dr Brown Bear" number four or number five, I'm not sure which (but he was a jolly German and he answered to the name of Claus), prodded him for the umpteenth time before finally sending him home with an inhaler, a bottle of anti-biotics and a blotchy face.

Needless to say it was a huge relief to be told that, whilst he was obviously poorly, there was nothing too much to worry about.

I know it's a cliche, but you - or I, certainly - do sometimes take the old health thing for granted, which is wrong.  And sadly, there were a few parents there last night who seemed to have a lot more to be concerned about than us.  So much so, that I felt a little guilty as we departed.  Hopefully they all went home happy in the end.

And as for the procession of Dr Brown Bears and assorted nurses, they were predictably brilliant. 

I now look forward to renewing acquaintances with their equally professional colleagues along the corridor in the maternity unit in around seven weeks from now. 

Bloody hell.

It was just like watching Jerry Springer

It all started off in a friendly enough fashion. 

It was shortly after 10 o'clock yesterday morning in the little play park across the road from Kirkstall Abbey in Leeds.  Vanessa and I had taken Jamie there to burn off some fat, sorry, energy and, as if by magic, her sister Hannah appeared together with dippy hubby Dagenham Dave and their two boys Oliver and Alexander.  That's the mummies pictured together above, with Oliver and White Junior.  All very pleasant. 

However, if you look again closely at the photo, in the bottom left hand corner, you can just see the handlebar of a scooter - Oliver's scooter. 

And here he is trying it out...

Before Jamie decided he wanted a go - cue riot...

...with mere shouting...

...quickly turning into a fully blown public order incident.

I do love a chilled-out Sunday morning. 

The wisdom of Gatt

England's cricket team landed in Australia yesterday, as the countdown to their defence of The Ashes enters its final few weeks. 

There is going to be a lot of guff talked between now and the first ball being bowled, but I'd be surprised if any "expert" manages to outdo Mike Gatting on the "Guffometer" with this contribution on Radio Five Live this morning, which I have since managed to retrieve via the BBC iPlayer

Presenter: The former England captain Mike Gatting, the last skipper to win in Australia, will tell us how England might do it this time.  How?

Gatting: Well, they've got to perform well as a team, Garry. The bowlers have got to get the wickets.  Obviously you've got to take 20 wickets.  But we need to get some runs on the board.  The most important thing is the fielding.  They've got to catch their catches.

I'm so glad they had him on because neither you nor I could possibly have worked any of that out for ourselves.

Our Leon? You're lyin'!

I've been a Coleraine Football Club fan for a lifetime, and I've watched Sky Sports' Soccer AM for as long as it's been on our screens.

But I never thought I'd see the day when a Coleraine player would appear on it.  This morning it happened.

His name is Leon Knight, he signed for Coleraine only a few weeks ago - his fourteenth club, despite the fact he's just 28 years old.  And he'd been booked to appear on the show before he joined the Bannsiders.

However, appear he did and he was great.  More importantly, he did a great PR job for my wee town and my wee club.  He was even asked to send in a Coleraine shirt to hang up on the famous studio wall.

He's played only two games for the Bannsiders thus far and didn't appear against Crusaders today as he was in London filming the programme live.  He's also very unlikely to stay at the club past the end of this season when his contract runs out.

But I think there's little doubt he's already a Coleraine legend.  Marvellous.  

My good deed

What you really want at shortly after nine on a Saturday morning, when you're rushing to blow up your car tyre with a slow puncture in time for your wife and son to get to a three-year-old's birthday party, is a pissed-up chav on a bicycle stopping to ask if you'd mind doing his tyres too.

But that's what happened to me about 20 minutes ago.

And, being the proud member of the Big Society that I am, I did as he requested whilst he tried vainly to explain to his wench on the phone why he hadn't yet made it home from last night's house party.

On the plus side, I now know that £45 will get us a new car tyre, thereby lessening the chances of other chavs pulling up alongside on future occasions to ask for "a bit of air, mate."

And surely the rest of today will have something nice in store for me as a reward for my kindness.

That That - touts!

I can't really believe I'm about to admit this in public - but here goes.

Just a few minutes ago, I bought tickets to see That That play live in Manchester next summer.

I'm not sure at this point whether or not I'll actually be one of the four individuals going along to see the show, although it is very likely. Vanessa will certainly be there.

But the key point is this.

I've got four tickets that the touts or some other equally greedy b*stards haven't got and, for that fact alone, I'm feeling rather pleased.

(Plus, Take That were quite good when I saw them last year. As was Robbie, for that matter, a few years before that. Ahem).

UPDATE: Frankie Boyle writing in today's Sun: "Gary Barlow said the next Take That tour will have 'something for everyone.' Everyone apart from heterosexual men." Harsh.

Grumpy skeleton

After last night's man-in-black in the form of the brilliant Kevin Bridges (you must go to see him if you get the chance), tonight we had a toddler-in-black in the form of our son.

They're having a Halloween party at Jamie's nursery tomorrow and all inmates have been invited to pitch up in fancy dress. But we only found out about this yesterday, leaving Vanessa and me little time to cobble something together.

So thank goodness for Asda.

At just £4.80 (reduced from £6, don't you know?) his skeleton-themed scary outfit initially won his favour, as the picture above confirms.

By then he had a closer examination...

...followed by an even closer examination...

...and, well, then he wasn't so keen.

But tough, it's either this or a bin liner. And we're clean out of bin liners.

Line of the night

And it was the very last line of the night.

Audience member: "What's your favourite ever heckle?"

Kevin Bridges: "Some man in Lancaster called me a Porridge Goblin."

Sleep well.

For one night only: all Bridges lead to Kevin

I've been having a "less than enjoyable week" thus far, and am really in the mood to sit down with a pint or two and listen to a blunt-speaking Glaswegian telling a room full of strangers exactly how it is.

And, as luck would have it, that's exactly what Vanessa and I are doing tonight when we go to see comedian Kevin Bridges live at the West Yorkshire Playhouse in Leeds.

Anyone who has heard of him will need me to say no more.

For those who haven't, he's a blunt-speaking Glaswegian very good at telling a room full of strangers exactly how it is (is there an echo in here?)

He first came to national attention last summer after appearing on Michael McIntyre's Comedy Roadshow on BBC1.

If you didn't see it, give yourself a treat by turning up your speakers and clicking onto this link. And if were fortunate enough to catch it, you might wish to remind yourself of just how good he is.

I'll give you the lowdown tomorrow (but don't expect me to remember any of his gags).

Oop, oop and away

Our country is clearly experiencing some difficult economic times at the moment, of that there is no doubt.

But as I witnessed on the train home last night, here in Yorkshire, there is every reason to believe that our vibrant "advanced manufacturing" industry will pull us through. Or, as the locals call it, "knitting."

Meet The Kerrs

I don't have advertising on this site for two reasons:

1. I only do this for a bit of fun, and
2. Most of my friends who read it are incredibly tight and wouldn't buy anything anyway.

However, I'll kind of break my rule for one day only by inviting you to visit a brand, spanking new blog written by two good friends of mine.

Andy Kerr and I have essentially known each other since we were eggs; we went to Macosquin Primary School together, Coleraine Inst together and we've kept in touch in one way or another ever since.

Meanwhile, his wife Lydia has been my "blokey" mate since the mid-1980s when we used to walk past each other on The Old Bridge in Coleraine en route to our respective "big" schools.

Many years hence, Andy and Lydia "got together" (this is a family blog) whilst living in London. They're now happily married with a beautiful two-year-old daughter and a baby-boy-in-arms - and they've just moved to Melbourne.

Vanessa and I met up with them last month, as the countdown to their departure entered its final days, and they were clearly very excited. Quite right too.

Since then, they've arrived in Oz and started building their nest.

And, best of all, you can follow their progress via their blog, Kerrangaro News (do you see what they did there?) which is now live.

Go on, have a look.

I wonder what Prince Charles thinks

Above you can see a picture of Dubai's Burj Khalifa, the world's tallest building and favourite to be named "Best Tall Building in the World" in a ceremony organised yesterday by the Council on Tall Buildings and Urban Habitat.

But it didn't win - it lost out to a rusty box in Leeds which, alongside other uses, is home to students flats.

Here is a picture of said winning entry.

And I promise, I'm not making this up.