Fool fingered in fateful fall

It's been a mad three days since the launch of the campaign to Help Wee Oliver Walk.

More than £2,000 is now in the bank, with that figure growing by the hour.  And more supportive celebrity retweets have come from the likes of Peter Andre, Zoe Ball, and British and Irish Lions rugby captain Sam Warburton, amongst others.

I've spent a large chunk of today teeing up what I hope will be a big push in the media to secure the remaining almost £58,000 still required.  But I am only one of many volunteers doing our little bit to ensure Oliver can have his operation and literally start moving forward.

I will keep a link to his Just Giving page at the top of this blog in case you're feeling generous.  And I'll obviously keep you informed.

Now to more trivial matters in the tiny form of Wee John, who left yesterday after a fleeting visit to see his godchildren. They even bought him a little elf because of the obvious physical similarities.

That said, one part of His Weeness was slightly less wee than normal after an undignified New Year tumble in the street.

(John claims that no alcohol was involved.  There again, he also claims to be 5'6'').  

Whilst two fingers were strapped together, only one was actually dislocated.

And, of course, it has to be THAT one (albeit on the other hand).

And the same to you, sir.  

Help Wee Oliver Walk

This blog is no stranger to wee people, but I've got a particularly special little person to tell you about tonight.

Meet Wee Oliver Dickey, he's five years old and, like me, he's fortunate enough to hail from Coleraine.

But the wee man has a wee problem.  Let me hand you over to his adoring mum Charlene, who tells Oliver's story much better than I ever could:

"Oliver was born 6 weeks premature on 16 August 2008, weighing 5lb 6oz. He spent two weeks in the neo-natal unit in Antrim Area Hospital before the doctors decided that he was healthy enough and ready to come home with us to Coleraine. We were over the moon.

"The months flew in and our beautiful little baby grew bigger every day! He developed his own wee personality, had us wrapped around his wee finger!

"But as Oliver approached his 1st birthday we knew something wasn't right.  He wasn't reaching the same milestones as other babies his age! He couldn't balance well, he couldn't sit or crawl.

"We contacted our doctor who arranged for Oliver to start some physiotherapy sessions. But we still couldn't see any improvement, so we had him referred to a peadetrician. After meeting with Oliver she arranged for him to have an MRI scan to see if they could find out what was wrong.

"On 9th April 2010 we got a phone call to go to the hospital.

"The MRI result showed that our beautiful wee baby had cerebral palsy. We were devastated!!

"The doctor told us that Oliver had a type of cerebral palsy called spastic diplegia, which means that his legs are very tight and he can be in a lot of pain at times.

"She told us that this meant that he might not be able not walk, but this was something that couldn't be confirmed until he got older.  It was basically a waiting game!! All we could do was start more physio and give Oliver as much help as we could to get him stronger and hope and pray for the best!

"I was 4 months pregnant with our second son, Max, who came along on 20 September that year.  As time passed Oliver did begin to improve. He started crawling properly and began to pull up on furniture around the house.

"But as Max got older, it became more obvious to us just how bad Oliver's cerebral palsy was. Max began walking at 10 months. Oliver just sat and watched. One day he said to us 'look, Max is walking.'

"We were broken!! We pushed harder with more physio and hydrotherapy. We bought equipment for the house to help us with his daily physio routine.

"He became more determined once Max started walking and began trying to use a Kaye walker. When he started nursery he went in every day in his wheelchair but tried at least once every day to walk a wee bit in his frame across the classroom. But he knew he was different. He would say that the boys and girls could run but he can't!

"Oliver started primary school in September 2013, and I have never seen him so happy. He just loves it. The kids in his class are brilliant with him, they push him around in his chair, they draw him pictures to take home, they never leave him out!

"But once again, Oliver knows he's different. He came home one day and said 'Mummy, the boys and girls can jump in the puddles but I can't.'

"We knew we had to do something.  We looked into a surgery called Selective Dorsal Rhizotomy (SDR). The surgery in simple terms cuts the dead nerve endings away from the spine and allows the ones that do work to perform properly!

"We got all of Oliver's medical information together and applied to St. Louis Children's Hospital in America.

"Just before Christmas, we got the email from Dr Park to say that he thinks Oliver is an excellent candidate for the surgery. He expects that after surgery Oliver will walk independently at least in a protected environment.

"This was huge news!!! The thought that one day he could do something simple like walk to the toilet. Or pick up a toy that he's dropped on the floor!

"So now we need your help!! We need to raise at least £60,000 to pay for Oliver to get to America for his SDR surgery, 12 months of intensive physiotherapy and any equipment he'll need after it! This will be life changing for Oliver. And for us as a family!

"Please help us if you can, no matter how small a donation. It all adds up! Please Help Wee Oliver Walk!!!

"Should we exceed the target amount (or if we do not raise enough funds, or if they cannot be used for any other reason) the funds raised will go to the general funds of Tree of Hope to assist other sick children."

Last night the Help Wee Oliver Walk campaign kicked off with the launch of his JustGiving page, which you can access by clicking onto THIS LINK.

This is being backed up on Twitter via @HelpWeeOliver and the hashtag #helpweeoliverwalk

Overnight, Britain's two greatest ever Paralympians, David Weir and Baroness Tanni Grey-Thompson, generously the efforts with retweets.  And the greatest living Irishman (in my view), Barry McGuigan, followed suit.  As I write, Olympic medal-winning gymnast Beth Tweddle has just joined the chorus of Twitter noise and I expect many other high-profile individuals to do the same before this is done.

And done it must be.

Lots of people have to face very difficult situations in this world with no hope of ever finding a solution.  But one does exist for Oliver and I'm sure everyone would agree that the wee man has to be given the opportunity to benefit from it.

I know the whole family circle would be incredibly grateful if you could back the campaign by throwing some pennies in the pot.  But, given the amount of cash that is required, we also need to spread the word as far and wide as we can.  Your help with this would be equally welcome.

It looks like £1,000 may be raised in the first 24 hours.  Another 59 days like this will do the job.

I say again, let's get it done.    

So that was Christmas

Greetings, dear reader, and let me wish you and yours an especially Happy New Year.

I begin 2014 with a double apology to my mother.  Firstly, for not phoning at midnight to wish her what I've just wished you.  (I have since wished her what I've just wished you, so now we're all even). 

And secondly, I apologise for not updating this blog, which I regret to inform you will not be any better in the coming year. 

My principal reason for not doing so was because I couldn't be arsed (to update the blog, not phone my mother. Honest).  However, as much I felt I needed a bit of a break from writing it, I also felt that you deserved a rest from having to read it.  Plus, you were probably a tad busy too. 

Anyway, we're back and you may even have noticed that I've chosen to start 2014 with a new look.  The colours are those of my beloved Coleraine Football Club who are currently enduring their worst run of form since Fred Flintstone and Barney Rubble were the strike partnership.  They have lost the last eight games in a row and, given that they are 2-0 down to league champions Cliftonville as I write, it looks like becoming nine.  But still, I'm doing my bit.

Now then, Christmas.  Needless to say I hope you had a good one and the big man who comes but once a year brought you a little splash of personal pleasure.

Against all expectations, he did pay a swift visit to the White household.

 

And even left a note.

 

 

I'm also very relieved to report that Barry Turkey came up trumps, although his brown bum did suggest that it had been a bit of an ordeal for him.

 

 

Ah yes, the onesies. As well as the kids, I got one, Vanessa got one and my mother got one.

 

A mumsie, if you will. 

 

 

(That'll teach her for giving me a hard time). The similarity to her granddaughter's version is entirely deliberate.

 

We also had a number of very welcome visitors over the Christmas period. 

 

These included my fellow Aireborough Lions Micros rugby coaches (I use that term about myself guardedly) and their wives.

 

   

Oh, and sprogs. 

 

 

We even had a surprise virtual guest in the tiny form of Wee John, who joined us via the magic of FaceTime. 

 

 

(Actual size).

 

Also visiting on their way back to Scotland was my old schoolmate Wee Colin Andrews, together with Evie and their ever-smiling little boy Milo (although, ironically, not in this picture). 

We look forward to seeing them all again in June when the Tour de France sets off from Yorkshire.  They'll be camping in our garden. (They're quirky like that.  Plus, Colin's an artist and sleeping in a conventional bed does nothing for his reputation).

Which brings us on to last night, when Jamie unexpected joined us for the fireworks at midnight.

Before leaving us again.  (He's asleep, you see.  Have a look.  Yes?  Good work).

So we move on, bravely, determinedly and with a hint of a smirk to see what 2014 has to offer. 

But not until the drink runs out (which could be a little while yet).

 

Chin up - and bottoms up for as long as you can get away with it.

One bird, one stone

I brought our turkey home tonight to lie in state in the garage fridge. 

And it's a big bird (think Newcastle city centre on a Saturday night).

So much so that I decided to weigh it on our bathroom scales. 

One stone precisely. 

 

I'm nothing if not proud. 

 

But what to name him/her? 

 

Last year, Tyrone did us proud.  We shall/do remember him.

 

However, having spent much of the weekend just gone trying to decide what to call this year's table treat, I still could not decide.

 

Enter Sue the charming cleaner.

 

At work, we share a kitchen with a local church and sunny Sue and I have a little chat two or three times a week. 

 

This morning I arrived with our turkey dragging behind me having just come from Asda.  And I mentioned that I intended to park it in the kitchen where it was cool.  That was not good enough for our Sue.  Oh no.

 

It had to go in the church fridge. The only problem was that the fridge was behind a door to which I wasn't certain I had a key.

 

To calm my nerves, Sue said she wouldn't lock the door - just in case.  But, unbeknownst to me, she went a step further.  

 

And when I went collect our turkey at the end of the day, I discovered a note.        

 

 

Barry Turkey, I hope you enjoy the next 36 hours with us until.......well......you'll find out...

Three candles on her cake

In common with another well-known British queen, Charlotte had two birthdays this year; her real one last Thursday, and her public one today.

The highlight of this morning's formal duties (think Trooping the Colour) was attending her party at a local play barn.  (Can you spot her waving at her subjects?)

There was a big turnout from her bezzie mates (and their dedicated parents). 

Even Yoda put in an appearance.

And all seemed to go without a hitch.

Well, I say that.  In truth there was one slight hiccup. 

You see, three is quite old. And three candles on your cake is a heck of a lot to be expected to blow out on your own.

Enter Oliver Clarke, stage left. 

His help was very much appreciated.

Me and my girl

Three years ago today, Charlotte Frances White was thrust into the world by the power of Mum.

It's been something of an adventure ever since.

This morning, alongside big bro, the process of celebrating her big landmark got underway.  (Another event is planned for Saturday).

 

And what do I think?  Well. She's my girl. 

Sleigh bells ring and grumpy girls sing

Santa Claus made his traditional pre-Christmas visit to the Silverdale estate tonight, courtesy of Guiseley Lions. 

Jamie enjoyed the moment, as he has done for each of the past three years.

But Charlotte couldn't be arsed.  After all, she has already seen him twice in recent weeks.  And, to be fair, the warning signs were there the last time she was forced to have her picture taken with him.   

 

Talking of legendary old blokes, last night was the Status Quo concert. 

And a great night was had, albeit a bit surreal at times - mainly due to the crowd.  Honestly, I've never seen anything quite like it.

First, my old Coleraine man brother Paul and I were told off by a fat lass behind for talking during 10cc, the support act.

And then a sour-faced woman told Paul off for dancing - behind her.      

 

However, experience has taught me to keep the powder dry when these things happen.  And, by the end, the great man had gone to join the fat lass and her friends for a pic.

 

Rock on.

He's (not) the daddy

 

Following the false start of a few weeks ago when Jamie got his dates wrong, today was the day when the baby Jesus showed Himself to the world - in a makeshift stable at Guiseley Infants School. Who'd have thought. (It said on the match programme that He also appeared yesterday afternoon in the first performance of the Sleepy Shepherd but, having not seen Him myself, I refuse to believe).

 

As previously revealed here, Jamie bagged the key role of Joseph and seemed to revel in it.  In fact, his shouty "thank you" when handed a box of gold by one of the wise men was a sure highlight of the entire production.  

 

The only downside was him finding out he was not Jesus' real father in front of so many people. 

 

If you ask me, just because Jamie's a lifelong friend of Jeremy Kyle doesn't mean he should be treated like one of the great man's delinquent guests.

 

 

But still.

 

The boy did good - and even managed a sneaky wave for my sneaky pic.  

 

 Let's hope Santa Claus was watching too.

Let there be rock

Like most other people with an interest in these things, on Sunday I watched Andy Murray receive this year's BBC Sports Personality of the Year award on TV.

Buy this was only due to the fact that he couldn't be arsed to travel to Leeds to pick up the trophy in person. 

Had he done so, all I would've had to do was look down.

Yes, alongside 11,999 other lucky souls, I managed to get a ticket for one of the most prestigious events in the sporting calendar. 

And the setting - the brand, spanking new First Direct Arena - was as much as if not more impressive than the stars who filled the stage.

Indeed, so excited were my stepdad Derek and I that we did the obvious thing - and took a selfie.

Having had to wait six months to enter the grandest new entertainment venue the country has to offer, I feel a touch spoilt to advise you that I shall be returning there this evening.

In a case of "in with the new and out come the old," tonight is the night that my top mate (and fellow man of Coleraine) Paul and I head to see Status Quo, supported by the equally crumbly 10cc.

And who knows, maybe Cliff Richard will come on at the end (although I do hope not).

Rock on.

Strokes of good fortune

We had an unexpected but welcome visitor to our door on Sunday afternoon.

It was a kindly neighbour, who had previously stood on our doorstep about 10 days earlier clutching a piece of paper featuring a black and white drawing of Father Christmas.

She explained she was promoting a colouring competition to raise funds for Guiseley Senior Citizens.  And, for a mere 50p entry fee, Jamie could win a prize. 

I took her up on her kind offer and, later that night, Jamie completed his masterpiece and I left it aside for submission.

That was the last I heard or thought of the episode until yesterday when our nice neighbour reappeared clutching a mini chocolate Santa.

"You remember when your little boy entered the colouring competition?" she recounted.

"Er, yes," replied Vanessa, who (because I was wearing an apron) I'd dispatched to answer the door.

"Well, he won and here's his prize!" she beamed.

Thanking our neighbour, Vanessa returned to tell Jamie the good news and hand him his reward.  He was thrilled.

A couple of minutes later, a slightly (more than normal) confused Mrs W pulled me to one side with a query.

"Did you hand in Jamie's entry?" she asked.

"No.  Did you?"

"No."

We later found it sitting on top of the fridge.

Still, a win is a win.

Happy Charlottemas

It was Charlotte's nursery Christmas show today. 

She was quiet to begin with, but then she piped up.

What an angel.

The Flying Furby

You don't have to be the most eagle-eyed Christmas shopper to spot that Furbies are back.

Yes, the love-them-or-hate-them battery-operated creatures have been relaunched once again after a gap of eight years.

When they first appeared in the late 1990s, I was still in the relatively early stages of courting Vanessa.  And I thought I would do something both ingenious and romantic. 

That's right, I would buy Vanessa a Furby for her birthday.

One that looked exactly like this, in fact.    

Isn't he/she/it lovely? Awww. 

Her reaction: "You bought me a Furby?"

Then reaction I had hoped for: "You bought me a Furby!"

(It's all in the grammar). 

As the days and weeks passed, Vanessa and her Furby did not grow close.  Indeed, the poor thing became more of an ornament than a pet (if you can call something shoved on top of a bookcase, surrounded by an assortment of non-decorative items, an ornament.  I'd say you probably couldn't).

As weeks became months, nothing changed. 

That was until Wee John came over to our flat in Clapham Junction - Vanessa and I had shacked up by this stage - to watch the rugby on TV.  And His Weeness got carried away. 

So carried away did he get, that he decided to do his Jonny Wilkinson impersonation.

And drop-kicked the poor, unloved, unwanted Furby against our landing wall.

Finally coming to rest at the bottom of the stairs, he/she/it never did make another sound.

A waste of a life?  You could say that.

A waste of forty quid.  Absolutely, bloody definitely. 

Without wishing to give too much away, I can exclusively reveal here that Mrs W will not be getting another one for Christmas.

Hairy horror

Jamie's Wee Uncle Godfather John came to see him (and goddaughter Charlotte) this weekend, and much fun was had.

So much so, that Jamie felt it incumbent upon himself to draw a portrait of tribute for His Weeness to take back to that London.

And beards aren't easy. But I think he just about nailed it.     

3 in the bed and the little one ain't bothered

Charlotte hasn't been feeling at her best over recent days - she has a "poorly ear."

And when you have a poorly ear, you need company. 

Normally, when she's not happy during the darkened hours, Charlotte's approach is to scream loud enough to be carried into our room and deposited on my pillow.

But tonight the sister (of Jamie) was doing it for herself, and made her own way while V and me were having our tea. (That rhymes).

Yup, that's my pillow. 

This has not happened before and I'm loathe to move her.

Thankfully, the Ashes cricket is about to start on the telly, live from Australia.  And they'll be up for hours yet.   

SATURDAY MORNING UPDATE: When I eventually did try to get in, Charlotte sensed my presence, opened one eye and muttered: "I was here first." Women.

Nelson Mandela and me

This was moment, in the autumn of 2000, when former South African President Nelson Mandela attended the Labour Party Conference in Brighton. 

I was seated many rows back, but very definitely in the direction you can see him waving.

In other words, it is almost certain he was waving at me - although he never said.

News of his death, announced tonight, was one of those "where were you when you heard?" moments that don't come along too often. (For the record, I was sitting on the sofa and I'm still here).

It is a sad and historic occasion.

But I feel comfort in the knowledge that Gabrielle (who warmed us up by singing 'Dreams'), Tony Blair, John Prescott, me and several thousand others had the chance to spend some quality time together when the opportunity was there.

RIP Madiba.

Cheeky porker

This was Jamie a little earlier having some supper in his casual clothes.

The scene is in stark contrast to last night when, with Vanessa out on the razzle dazzle, I committed the cardinal error of presenting him with a bowl of spaghetti bolognese for tea - while he was still wearing his school uniform.

He left home in a fresh one this morning.

More frustrated by my own stupidly than by my son's pig-like qualities, I demanded to know why his clothes were so badly soiled.

"Because, I'm a messy eater," he purred back through a smirk.

As I say, all my fault.   

That's chest freezing great

Above you can see the door of our under-the-stairs cupboard thingy. 

The door frame is precisely 50.6cms wide.

Below you can see our brand new chest freezer, delivered yesterday evening.

As it turns out, the width of this hugely exciting purchase at its narrowest point is 52.6cms, meaning it won't fit in. Trust me, I tried.

On the face of it, this looks like something of a domestic disaster. But not quite.

As luck would have it, Arctic weather is due to arrive over our house on Thursday so we'll not then need a freezer any more.

Swings and roundabouts.  

And we're off (to TK Maxx)

It's December and the pre-Christmas excitement is building.  (I don't think I've ever had so much beer stashed away than I have at the moment).

Of course, the season of goodwill is all about sharing joy and happiness, and being generous when you can. 

And it was in this spirit that, yesterday afternoon, I was the recipient of all of the above from a kindly stranger wearing a TK Maxx uniform.

I was doing a bit of shopping in Leeds city centre with various family members in mind.

Father Christmas himself is obviously responsible for Jamie and Charlotte's gifts, so they weren't on my list. 

But that was before I walked into TK Maxx to be met by a treasure trove of sheer toy goodness - at especially keen prices.  I soon decided that Santa wouldn't mind if I acquired one or two extra bits for him to pass on to the kids on the big night. He could even have the credit. 

So picked up a couple of fun-based items. Then a couple more. I got a big trolley basket. I picked up a couple more. Then a couple more. I ended up with 15 items in the end - an overflowing basket and all I could carry under my spare arm. 

I wasn't really keeping a tally of what I was spending - Santa would be getting the bill in any case - but I knew I was well past the £100 mark as I joined the queue for the tills.

It was at this point that I first began to wonder whether I had perhaps gone a little bit too far. And, as I edged up the queue, it is likely that a mild degree of panic was etched across my face.

Cue arrival of nice TK Maxx lady, who was giving out sweets to sweaty customers.  (I chose some fudge, just so you know).

As I thanked her, she surveyed my mountain of gifts.

"Do you know anyone who works for TX Maxx?" she asked.

"No," I replied (thinking that she was bound to).

"That's a shame," she said, "because there's a 20% family and friends staff discount today, but only today."

"Oh," I pondered, before doing what anyone else would do in this situation.  Yes, I put on my "pathetic" face.

"That would have been very handy because I have bought quite a lot," I whimpered.  "They're for my little boy and little girl, you know.  He's five and she's three very soon.  And..."

"You can be my friend," she interjected. 

You can guess the rest - KER-CHING!!!!

It was my first taste of 2013 Christmas spirit, and I liked it.  

A sh*t of the tongue

I was getting dressed yesterday morning when Charlotte arrived with some startling news.

"I shit on the dining room floor."

Now, this is not something I would expect to hear from my daughter.  I say so for three reasons:

1. She's a girl and I've always been told that girls don't, you know, poo;
2. She'd not performed such a foul act (pardon the pun) on the dining room floor in the past; and
3. I'd not previously heard her swear.

So I asked her to tell me again what had happened. 

"I shit on the dining room floor."

"Tell me again."

"I shit on the dining room floor."

"Say that again."

"I shit on the dining room floor."

"What happened?"

"I shit on the dining room floor."

"Say it slowly.  What did you do?"

"I shit on the dining room floor."

"Slower."

"I shit on the dining room floor."

"OK, one more time.  Tell me what you did."

"I shit on the dining room floor."

I was now officially concerned.  So I took her downstairs with me to see what state the dining room floor was in.

Thankfully, there was nothing to report other than a clean(ish) carpet. 

So I asked Charlotte to tell me again what she'd done.

"I shit on the dining room floor."

"Again."

"I shit on the dining room floor."

I decided a change of tack was necessary, albeit one with an element of risk.

"Can you show me what you did?"

And with a little nod, she threw herself to the ground.

"Ah!  You slipped on the dining room floor?"

"Yes."

Good news.  (She wasn't hurt).