A shuffle back in time

I've just returned from a fun, surreal and nostalgic lunch with my old boss, former Northern Ireland First Minister David - now Lord - Trimble.

Although I stopped working for David and the Ulster Unionists back in 2003, I have kept in relatively close touch with him and we meet up from time to time.

Like me, he has joined the Conservatives although his role in the Upper House of the Mother of Parliaments is slightly more pivotal to the Party's fortunes than mine in Bradford City Hall.

He is here all week with his wife Daphne who continues to be one of the nicest and most charming individuals I have met in politics. But as the picture shows, David has had a bit of an accident - he fell off his canal boat in Warwickshire.

As a winner of the Nobel Peace Prize, he was a prime target for the IRA during the darkest days of the Northern Ireland Troubles. But whilst they thankfully failed to cause him any physical damage, his wooden water chugger very much did.

And the Tory faithful clearly share his pain. Just like in the old days when I used to accompany him to these events, he was stopped at every turn, as we headed to the coffee bar, by people wanting to shake his hand, ask how he was, get an autograph or have a picture taken with him.

He was then grabbed by Michael Crick, the Political Editor of BBC Newsnight, to do a television interview for tonight's programme - captured above.

And by the time he eventually reached our table, it wasn't just Daphne and me there but also Shadow Justice Secretary Dominic Grieve and Shadow Northern Ireland Secretary Owen Patterson. Both will be key figures in a Cameron Government should the Conservatives be elected, and both wanted to hear David's thoughts on the world.

And like any politician worth his salt, he was only too happy to provide them.

It really was a true rewinding of the clock for me personally, and it was wonderful to be back there, albeit briefly.

In town with the Tories

I'm writing this in a Wetherspoon's pub in the centre of Manchester. I've never used Wireless Internet before and it seems more trouble than it's worth. But more of that another time because I know you're sitting there at home or at work dying to find out how things are going at the Conservative Party Conference.

Well, now I can put you out of your misery. Things are going OK. I hope that makes you feel better.

I didn't arrive at Manchester Central - the somewhat unimaginative new name for the GMex - until well into the afternoon yesterday after the tram I was travelling on broke down. We then all had to change onto the one behind which, obviously enough, couldn't get past the original one which conked out. (I'm no expert on trams but I do know they're not very good at over-taking - I think it's something to do with the fact they're on rails).

The first sight I saw after finally arriving at Conference was a welcome one - old-hand Conservative MP for Lichfield Michael Fabricant (below right).

I've never met the man in my life but, in my six years working in Westminster, was constantly amused by him from afar. Prior to entering Parliament, he ran a mobile disco, performing under the name of "DJ Mickey Fab". Mr Fabricant also wears a very bad blond wig and every time he stands up to speak in the House of Commons, is greeted with calls of "hair! hair!" from Labour MPs and sometimes a few from his own ranks.

After having a nostalgic chuckle at him, I went to the ba....er....caught up with some old friends and even took the rather radical step of attending a fringe meeting. It was about blogging and there wasn't much to report other than the fact that Guido Fawkes - the "renowned right-wing blogger" who I would like to think you've never heard of - got up to utter an immortal phrase:

"Twitter is shit."

And then sat down again. Credit where it's due (he's the one on the left).

Next was surely the highlight of the week if not the entire social calendar year. Yes folks, I'm talking about the Yorkshire and North-East Conservatives Conference Party. Wow.

Predictably enough, William Hague was the "turn" and gave a shouty speech which can best be summarised as follows:

• Yorkshire great
• Conservatives great
• Labour bad
• See you next year

And then they had a "disco." Indeed.

The best bit of the evening for me was bumping into my "eccentric" and ever so slightly mad old friend Dr Jason Aldiss. Jason is a vet by trade and a very special vet at that. For Jason doesn't try to make animals better. No, that would be much too dull. Jason kills them.

My association with Jason goes back three and a half years when I misguidedly stood as the Conservative candidate in Pudsey at the local government elections. I polled 2113 votes but, proving to me beyond all doubt that there is a God, still lost. Never, ever again.

As for today, I would imagine I'll be spending the rest of the day and night with a load of Tories.

Is it still only Tuesday?!

No, seriously...

I'm about to do something you might find a little odd; I'm about to head to Manchester to spend the next four days at the Conservative Party Conference.

It might not be your cup of tea. And, to be honest, I'm not entirely certain it's my cup of tea either. But that is where I'm going so we'll all just have to get used to it.

The good news is that I will try to update this rubbish whilst I'm there, so you too can revel in the joy that is Tory Conference.

I hope you enjoy the ride.

It's a boys' thing

Although our guests from Australia, Graham and his little boy Cleve, left our house on Tuesday to continue their travels on the other side of the Pennines, they don't actually depart for home for another few days.

And yesterday our mutual friend Smiley Simon (below) and I hooked up with them at Turf Moor, the home ground of Graham's beloved Burnley Football Club.

Graham has been a manic Burnley fan since his very early years but, until last Saturday, had never seen them play in the top flight of English football (they only got promoted to the Premier League this season). Sadly, Spurs stuffed his boys 5-0 at White Hart Lane. So, would yesterday's visit of Birmingham City allow him to witness Burnley winning a Premier League game before he travelled back Down Under?

He took Cleve to the club shop before kick-off - he is very determined to ensure that his boy is a chip off the old block when it comes to who he supports, and quite right too.

Cleve then had the rare honour of meeting Bertie Bee, Burnley's famous mascot (yes, famous in Burnley).

Graham himself had the chance to taste a half-time drink for which there is apparently little demand back in Australia (can't think why).

It was 0-0 at that stage but, in the second half, Burnley began to lay siege to the Birmingham goal.

And eventually they scored - twice, in fact. Making two little boys very happy indeed.

Birmingham secured a consolation goal with virtually the last kick of the game, leaving the final score 2-1 to the home side.

Graham was very excited and not a little emotional at this - and I was more than a little relieved on his behalf.

I'm fortunate enough to be meeting Graham very shortly for a couple of farewell pints in Leeds before he heads south tomorrow, and I'm sure it will be fun.

But yesterday was a day I will always remember and will always feel privileged to have shared with him and his boy. Hopefully it will not be too long before they're back.

A (fat) chance discovery

There is a view that a disproportionately large number of fat people live in the North of England and, certainly, there is some evidence to support this.

But they don't appear to live in Burnley.

I went to the Lancashire town this afternoon to watch the newly promoted local football team take on Birmingham City in the Premier League.

I'll tell you more about the trip tomorrow but, before X Factor comes on, I thought it might be interesting to show you a picture of the turnstiles at Turf Moor, home of Burnley FC.

Have a look and my point becomes obvious. Because no authentic "big fat Northern b*stard" could possibly squeeze through one of those doors.

The only conclusion I can therefore reach is that Burnley - or its football fans at the very least - is the skinny exception which proves the fat Northerner rule.

Have good evening.

Bin there - now empty mine, please

The picture above was the scene in our street first thing this morning.

If you don't live in Leeds, you may not be aware that the local refuse collectors are on strike over pay.

It will be five weeks on Tuesday since our bins were lifted - i.e. back in August - and this is not ideal when you're living with a 15-month-old boy who gets through a lot of nappies (now I've got your attention).

I've been in two minds about the whole thing. As a Council Taxpayer and someone keen to ensure that his family is not struck by the plague in the coming days, I'm not pleased. (I'm equally not happy about the fact that, according to Leeds City Council, 95% of households will by today have had their bins emptied by contractors - leaving our street in the 5% not so fortunate).

On the flip side, I have inherent sympathy for binmen because, for six glorious years whilst still a student, I spent my summers hanging off the back of refuse lorries as a temporary employee of Coleraine Borough Council.

In addition to emptying house bins, the "Wombles" - as we were known by all and sundry - also cleaned the beaches along the beautiful Causeway Coast, picked up litter along the sides of roads and shined the public bogs. And it was wonderful.

In fact, below you can see some snaps from an end-of-summer Womble night out in the early 1990s - I'm the one at an angle (for some reason) in the top left-hand corner. Thankfully my particularly bad parting is just out of view.

One of the best things about being a Womble (shut up!) was the chance to work with some of the full-time staff. As a 17-year-old, as I was when I started, there was something rather nice about being treated as an equal by men twice and three times your age. You got to know about their lives, their families, their hopes and their fears. And they were the salt of the earth with, almost always, a wicked sense of humour.

Their pay and jobs were placed under threat during my time there and it bothered me deeply. So much so that I wrote my entire undergraduate dissertation on this very subject.

I don't know any binmen in Leeds so I'm not aware if they're as decent or entertaining as my former refuse collecting colleagues in Coleraine. But I don't wish them any particular harm - so long as our bin gets emptied on Tuesday.

Sit on that

I went hunter gathering in Bradford yesterday lunchtime (kind of).

But rather than going out with a big spear and coming back with a big bear for tea, I ventured forth unarmed before returning with a bicycle child carrier and a baby helmet. So, very similar.

You may remember that, last weekend, my local bike shop quoted me several tenners more than £100 for a child carrier. Since then, the Whites' economic situation has worsened significantly - diesel, petrol car, etc etc - so the cheaper Halford's option suddenly became more attractive than ever. But, I have to say, I'm pleased with my purchases.

Unsurprisingly, Jamie initially seemed much more interested in his new blue helmet emblazoned with lots of cars than his seat. (He should really be too small for a helmet yet but he's got a massive head so we're alright).

But then he decided to investigate the many possibilities offered by his new perch (which I reckon could be the actual one used as Tom Cruise's ejector seat in Top Gun. It's certainly the right size).

He even climbed in for a try.

However, a couple of minutes later, the boredom kicked in along with the realisation that he hates having anything on his aforementioned massive head.

I hereby declare that I will summon the enthusiasm to fit his new throne to my bike in time for Christmas. Maybe even this Christmas.

Dieselgate - The Inquest

£300 is the figure you're after. Unless you've already asked me, and many people have.

Yes, "a carpet" (in Cockney rhyming slang - apparently) was what it cost to fix our car after the little diesel mishap.

And yet I feel quite relieved. I did a little anxious research on Monday afternoon, just after we received the diagnosis from the garage, and discovered that 400 people a day in this country mistakenly put diesel in a petrol car or vice versa.

I also found out that the problem can cost up to £6,000 to fix if you've driven it any distance - as we had. Our gleaming vehicle isn't worth anything like that much, but I was warned by more knowledgeable people than me that a bill close to £1,000 could still be expected if the car wasn't to be written off.

So, you know, things could have been worse.

The matter of the cost being settled, two further questions remained:

1. When was the deed done?
2. Who filled the car?

And, believe it or not, it appears we will never know the answer to either.

The reason is that the garage said there were apparently only "traces" of diesel in the tank and, even more bizarrely, that it could have been put in there anything up to 18 months ago.

Personally, I think the bill was only £50 and Vanessa bunged the mechanic the rest just to concoct a made-up story- because it couldn't possibly have been my mistake. Could it?!

I asked our now departed visitors Cleve and Graham on Monday night how intelligent they thought the Whites were following our error and their expressions above tell you the answer.

Meanwhile Jamie was oblivious to all that was going on. Whilst waiting for the tow truck man to appear, I briefly left Vanessa on "clamper watch" - it could have cost us another £120 if one of those nice people had encountered our illegally parked vehicle - and took Jamie on a very swift trip around the second floor of the Royal Armouries.

He seemed to like the piece of baby armour on show so we'll have to take him back some other time. But perhaps it's best we get the bus.

A kick in the pumps

Yesterday's trip to the Royal Armouries was certainly memorable but, sadly, not for the reason we would have wished.

Actually, it was an effing disaster.

The picture above of our visitors from Oz, Graham (left) and his little boy Cleve, gives you a subtle hint about what happened.

On the positive side, at least our car broke down very close to Yorkshire's renowned exhibition of the instruments of death and mutilation, meaning our guests could continue with their visit.

Also, it only took about an hour for the breakdown truck to arrive.

And when it did, our driver man Nick was both helpful and entertaining.

Despite an in-cab warning that no CD player was available for use...

...this was not in fact the case, cheering up all passengers on-board.

But if there was a lesson to be learnt it was this.

Never put diesel in your petrol car.

The truth hurts

"Daddy. I don't know what Jamie's daddy is talking about. I can't understand what he's saying."

The words of Yorkshire-born but Australian bred Cleve Readfearn (above left) yesterday afternoon after just a few hours in my company.

His dad, Graham, went on to explain that I talked differently to everyone else in Leeds because they all came from here and I didn't.

But Cleve's point was very well made. And I'm gutted.

By the way, the gathering pictured above and below was in honour of Graham and Cleve's visit which continues today with a visit to Leeds Armouries.

Which means I'd better hurry on and get into that shower.

The boys are back in town

Bit of a frustrating old day yesterday.

Against all the odds, I did get off my wotsit to visit the local cycle shop in search of a child seat. Unfortunately, the bloke gave me a quote of well over £100 to which I responded that it was a child seat I was after and not a leather armchair. He didn't see the funny side so I said I would go elsewhere - Internet here I come.

As predicted, there was a puncture when I tried to blow up our bike tyres although on Vanessa's bike rather than mine. So, whilst in the shop, I bought a new tube and guess what? It also had a hole in it. Great.

And do you remember the stair gates I had to buy extensions for about a month ago. Well, given that I was on a "roll" yesterday (ahem), I thought I would finally turn my attention to fitting the extensions and putting up the gates. And, again, guess what? That's right - the extensions don't fit.

Is it any wonder I ****ing hate doing DIY? Grrrrr!!!!!

Much more happily, Vanessa, Jamie and I are preparing to greet some extremely special guests at lunchtime today. My very good friend Graham, his wife Hayley and their little boy Cleve emigrated to Australia four years ago - much to my displeasure. They haven't been back to the UK since, during which time their number has increased with the arrival of a lovely little girl named Nell.

However, today Graham and Cleve are visiting Yorkshire and will stay with us until Tuesday.

Graham, pictured beside me above, was an usher at our wedding in 2005 and even sang a couple of "contemporary" numbers in the church - attracting well-deserved claps, cheers and even whistles in response (our wedding was quite lively). I am also one of Cleve's four proud lifelong mentors following his civil naming ceremony in Bradford the same year.

Needless to say we can't wait to see them. And then we're taking them to the pub.

Facts of the day

I made two earth-shattering discoveries this morning whilst watching Postman Pat (who, in case you haven't heard, has recently been promoted to Head of the Special Delivery Service - well done him).

The first was his surname - yep, pretty exciting stuff.

Bob the Builder doesn't have a surname to my knowledge. Neither do Noddy and Big Ears. Indeed, very few children's telly characters seem to have a surname (something for you to think about there).

But Pat most definitely does and, just for you, I can now reveal that his full name is Pat Clifton. Wow.

My second wondrous discovery is just as fascinating - hard to believe, I know.

Because just when you thought Jamie Oliver couldn't possibly be on our TV screens any more than he already is, he's now got himself another gig.

For the original Naked Chef is also moonlighting as boss of the Pencaster Sorting Office where Mr Clifton and his faithful moggy Jess pick up their special deliveries.

And here's the proof.

The things you can learn so early in the day when you're a dad.

Planning an uphill task

I'm a great one for making big plans - and not quite getting round to fulfilling any of them.

To be fair, I have got better as I've got older. But, like most men, I'm not perfect and am happy to admit it. (You'll note I have made no reference to women in this regard).

Friday afternoon is, of course, the time to make your weekend plans and so today I've come up with a biggie. For tomorrow, my friends, I "plan" to get a child seat fitted onto my bike.

This idea has come about for two reasons:

1. Vanessa told me I have to
2. See reason one

OK, I half jest. Yes, Vanessa did tell me I have to. However, the real reason 2 is that we went cycling whilst on holiday on Monday and Jamie rode on a child seat behind me (Vanessa said she certainly wasn't having him and instead chose a bike with a basket).

Most importantly, I think he enjoyed himself.

One of the potential flies in tomorrow's plan-shaped bottle of ointment is that I haven't been out on my bike for more than a year and the tyres are currently as flat as two really flat things. Hopefully they will reinflate but, if my past experience of being a White is anything to go by, there's bound to be holes at least one of them.

The next challenge will then be to find a child seat at a reasonable price. The original thought was to ride my bike about four miles to Halford's in Leeds because Vanessa said they fitted child seats for free. But I've now checked and they don't plus they don't seem any cheaper than other outlets anyway.

I therefore intend to pedal the somewhat lesser distance of about a mile to a bike shop in neighbouring Bramley which will hopefully be able to sort me out. But will they fit it for me? Because if they don't, I'm going to have to have a go myself and there's as much chance of me doing that properly as there is of me single-handedly building NASA's replacement for the Space Shuttle.

Still, we'll see how we go.

By the way, when I said I thought Jamie seemed to enjoy his first taste of cycling, I didn't necessarily mean that he hadn't found the whole experience just a little bit tiring.

Happy Arthur's Day!

Today is the day when we all get to celebrate 250 years since the birth of the world's most famous stout - Guinness.

Arthur Guinness signed his first lease on the Dublin brewery exactly two and a half centuries ago and, never one to miss out on an opportunity, the company is promoting a host of festivities across the planet beginning at exactly 1759 BST this evening.

The highlight is set to be the beaming of a live concert from Guinness HQ into tens of thousands of pubs across a hundred-plus countries. My friend Ben and I will be in O'Neill's in Leeds - and I've even managed to secure vouchers to cover our first two rounds (always thinking, me).

Yes, it's a commercial stunt but, hey, how much encouragement do you think I need to go out, put on a silly hat and drink pints of Guinness for several hours on a Thursday night? Right first time - not much at all.

I trust you too have a very pleasurable Arthur's Day and I hope you also intend to raise a glass to a great man (not that I know anything about him other than what I've just told you, but he invented Guinness and that makes him extremely special in my alcohol-stained book).

Sláinte!

The holiday adventures of a trainee gigolo

If there was one thing the female infant visitors to Murcia were not short of during our visit, it was attention from Jamie. And he really does have some work to do on his act - not that he was wholly unsuccessful.

The scene captured above, when he fell to his knees in front of a random passing dolly bird, did not bode well for him after she simply walked past.

But then he spotted the fair Emily and waddled up for a closer look.

After a swift and, one might say, cold rejection, he tried the old "fall to the knees and look sad/desperate" trick again.

And then he completely threw in the self-respect towel and had to be rescued by his Mummy.

But a little later, he decided to show some maturity by seeking Emily's advice on how he might win over someone else.

At first he didn't like what he heard.

So Emily decided to get tough and tell him to act like the young man he is.

Sensing no other option, he listened some more. And Emily was so impressed by whatever it was he gurgled next that she decided to point Jamie in the direction of her fellow baby Geordie lass, named Eva.

Thankfully Eva proved to be a much more willing proposition and soon wanted to take him to meet her Mam.

A suggestion Jamie was very open to - even excited about.

This all happened on Friday night. And, after dinner on Saturday, he sealed the deal.

Sadly Eva was due to leave just a few hours later and Jamie was forced into a tearful goodbye.

However, as his experiences with Emily had taught him, the only way to deal with heartache is to get back on that horse.

So, on Sunday evening, he ran into Jenna...

...who left on Monday.