Modern men

Both Yorkshire and Northern Ireland have strong reputations for many things but, in my experience, neither are generally regarded as hotbeds of modern men.

So yesterday, in an attempt to change these damaging perceptions, half-Yorkshireman/half-Ulsterman Jamie and full-on Ulsterman me decided to do a bit of Sunday afternoon baking.

We didn't set the bar particularly high, I admit, in choosing Milky Bar Button Cakes as our recipe of choice. But, you know, we all have to start somewhere.

I began by "demonstrating" the art of...well...mixing up a...er...mixture...

...before allowing White Junior to take over.

And take over he did. In fact, he wouldn't even let me lick the bowl.

But, after jointly icing and decorating our cakes, Jamie did allow me the privilege of offering him the first one...

...although he wouldn't then let me try one myself. Fat pig.

And finally, just to make me feel bad and himself look good in front of his mum, he got on with a bit of washing.

On a separate issue, mouse number five - Peter - came to abrupt end at around 8 o'clock this morning. However, in a break with convention, I didn't take a photo of the death scene as I reckon you're probably as moused-out with the whole saga now as I am.

On the positive side, there were no further mousey remains waiting for me when I got home tonight, hopefully a sign that I've managed to hideously murder Jaws' entire family. This would clearly be excellent news for lots of reasons, one being that I'm almost out of peanut butter.

And then there were four

Yep, another one has just been caught out and summarily disposed of like the vermin she is.

I've decided to call her Iris.

My name's Barry and I'm a serial killer

Here lies Jaws II.

And whilst I'm on the subject, here lies Jaws III.

Yes, as many wiser heads than me warned when the original (and still the best) Jaws headed off to meet his mousey maker on Wednesday afternoon, he did indeed invite some relatives over to ours. And, one by one, they are being carried out with their tails (what's left of them) very much between their legs.

We were made aware of their presence around lunchtime yesterday when Jaws II popped out to say hello to Vanessa whilst she was fattening Jamie up. I was upstairs at the time, and let's just say I was made aware of the situation very swiftly and at some volume.

And with this, "Operation Let's Deal With The B*stards Once And For All" was begun.

The first step was to take on board the advice of my work colleague Sally - who currently has some small-eared visitors of her own - by dropping pieces of cotton wool soaked in peppermint oil in the area in and around the kitchen cupboard where our little friends have been gathering. (Apparently they hate the smell of peppermint and it makes them want to leave - the mouse equivalent of someone farting at a party, I suppose).

I then reset the two traps under the sink - both of which had been sprung - and added another.

And finally, Jamie and I headed outside to see if we could discover how they had been getting in - Jamie taking his spade with him in case he was given the chance to batter one to death. Good boy.

And a little bit of careful investigation ....

...revealed a hole, circled in red...

...which I proceeded to cover up with an old piece of skirting board.

And with all of that done, it was time to wait.

I found Jaws II lying bedecked in his plastic collar of doom at around 10pm, and Jaws III, having carked it sometime in the wee small hours, was pronounced "dealt with" at around 9am this morning.

The responsible side of me obviously hopes this now brings an end to the matter. But the slightly bored side of me kind of hopes for a few more trophies.

Because every time I go and check under the sink to see what's there, I'm never sure what I'll find.

It's a bit like getting post.

Another young mind she's messed with

The sight above is a rare one in our house - Jamie sleeping (earlier this morning).

However, I've finally worked out the source of his nocturnal problems over the last 18 months.

Iris Robinson.

Even if you don't live in or come from Northern Ireland, you'll almost certainly be aware of the unlikely sexual exploits of the 61-year-old witch from Belfast and her 19-year-old cafe-keeping lover.

I don't know about you, but I have certainly had trouble getting my head down since I heard the news. Indeed, I couldn't bring myself to turn out the light until the early hours of Friday morning after the story first broke to a mostly unsuspecting (though certainly chortling) television audience back home.

Now, please don't get me wrong. I take no pleasure whatsoever in seeing the obvious personal difficulties that Mrs Robinson and her equally poisonous husband and Northern Ireland First Minister Peter are experiencing. Genuinely.

But these two odious individuals (her in particular) have spent the entirety of their public lives - in that characteristically smarmy way of theirs - judging all, condemning many and praising only those who share their view. And through it all, they and their similarly narrow-minded allies have unashamedly sought to portray themselves as better than the rest of us.

And yet now we all know different.

However, lest I go off on one (and I could happily spend the rest of the weekend telling you how much I detest this pair of shysters), let me return to my revelation.

Jamie has clearly known about Iris's affair from the start.

Think about it. It is established fact that wee Kirk (the cafe-keeper) and Mrs Robinson (the witch) began seeing all of each other (bleugh!) at the exact same time as Jamie moved out of Vanessa and into his Moses basket in the summer of 2008. And he's barely slept a wink since.

So he's clearly had a premonition or a sign or a flash (maybe of Iris's leg - or worse) of what was going on. But I'm certain he's known about it all this time, it's messed up his tiny head and it's turned him into a baby insomniac.

It's just so obvious when you think about it.

And because he hasn't been sleeping, neither Vanessa nor I have been sleeping and it's all Iris's fault.

I never believed I could hate Iris Robinson more but, as a result of my discovery, now I do.

PS What's the odds we'll see her on next year's Dancing On Ice?

Welly interesting - not

There aren't too many things which single me out from the other Whites and probably the entire population of Yorkshire. But there is certainly one.

I don't own a pair of wellies.

This fact has become increasingly glaring in recent days as the snow has continued to fall and my feet have continued to get soaked.

I don't think I've had a pair of wellies since moving to Coleraine from the nearby village of Macosquin at the age of 10. There's wasn't really a huge need for them when I lived in "the town," and later flits to Newcastle, Belfast and London didn't change matters as they have loads of tarmac and pavements in all three.

But our move to Yorkshire threatened to alter the situation irrevocably. Because Yorkshire folk love to go on long, endless and, in my view, pointless walks - apparently for "leisure" purposes. Meanwhile, I don't.

Obvious point, but why did God invent cars, buses, trains and even bicycles if he wanted us to walk to places?

Answer - he didn't. He invented all of these wonderful forms of transport precisely to avoid us having to walk. End of.

I have been forced to go for "walks" on several occasions over the last six years and each time I've complained bitterly and each time I've been dressed "inappropriately" (according to the locals) because I haven't been wearing wellies.

But, according to my thought processes, if I bought wellies then I'd be expected to go for more walks and that is just not going to happen. As such, the price of a few ruined pairs of trainers has been and remains a price very well worth paying.

Like most other areas across the country, the snow came to Yorkshire in December and looks set to stay for a long while yet.

And its arrival has allowed Yorkshire folk to get their beloved wellies out. From factory and shop workers, to men in suits, to women in posh dresses - they've all been traipsing around in their wellies and loving every minute of the experience.

Vanessa has certainly taken great pride in heaving on her rubber booties for the journey into the metropolis, and gloating to me that I look silly setting off to work in normal shoes.

And I've also been getting it from work colleagues.

"Where's tha's wellies lad?" they ask, smugly.

"Do you want me to take tha's off thee and shove them up tha's arse?" has been my typical response.

I could go on but I won't.

I'm not getting wellies.

Jaws: The Aftermath

The end, when it came, was fairly inevitable really. Indeed, so much were the odds beginning to stack against Jaws the Mouse that he may well have hopped onto his deathtrap voluntarily.

I'd spent any free bits of time I had yesterday seeking more and more advice from friends and work colleagues on how I could give myself the best chance of sending him to Mousey Heaven. And I used my lunch break to buy not two but three extra traps and a jar of peanut butter.

What I didn't realise until the last couple of days was the number of people I know who have had mouse problems - and how strongly they believe in their own particular method of dealing with the little blighters.

One of the big decisions I had to make was whether I went for traps that killed Jaws (deceased) or ones that simply trapped him for release later.

I had always thought that those people who used "live traps" did so either on moral grounds or because they were a bit soft. But Tracey, a friend at work, changed my view on this one yesterday afternoon. She was adamant that "live traps" were the best method of dealing with the problem simply because mice were more likely to fall for them.

"But I now hate Jaws," said me to her determinedly, "and it is therefore very important for me to kill him." (Not that a tiny, little mouse was getting to me or anything, clearly).

"So why don't you do what I do?" replied Tracey with an evil grin. "Get the mouse into the live trap - and then chuck the whole thing into a barrel of water and drown him!"

But, as it turned out, I didn't have the chance to finish Jaws off in this way because he was already lying waiting for me when I got home from work - in a dead mouse kind of a way.

It was the original trap, which he sprung on my first attempt, and some more cheap chocolate which did for him and clearly Vanessa and I were pleased with the outcome - the only downside being that our alcohol ban (until at least the last weekend of the month) stopped us from throwing a proper wake.

So that, we hope is that.

Or is it?

Because at about 8.45 last night, whilst we were catching up with the Thick of It, Vanessa swore she heard a noise under the cabinet where Jaws had spent his final hours. And the noise was, according to her, the exact same noise that he had made the previous evening.

She didn't hear the noise again before we went to bed, but I was taking no chances and promptly set up all three of my new traps - loaded with peanut butter - just in case. And this morning there was no sign that anything with a long tail and small ears had been near them.

But if there really is a Jaws II and he feels hard enough to have a go, I would only encourage him do so.

Because we all know what happened to that shark who thought Chief Brody wouldn't be as tough second time around.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KZBkQx6dmv4

Jaws the Mouse (2009 - 2010)

GOTCHA!

Now, it's really getting personal

I hate to admit it, but Jaws the Mouse is winning our little battle to the (i.e. his) death.

All doubts of his actual existence were dispelled last night when poor Vanessa saw him not once, but twice; the first time prancing into the living room to watch a bit of telly and, a little later, dashing excitedly across the floor to play with Jamie's tractors.

It wouldn't be so bad, but I have no recollection of inviting him or, indeed, any other mouse into our house, never mind allow him to hog our TV, and Jamie assures me that only he is permitted to play with his tractors.

I purchased my first weapon of war yesterday afternoon in the form of a Rentokil mousetrap and, on arrival home and before Jaws joined us in the living room, set it up under the sink using chocolate as the bait.

But following his mid-evening flit, I moved it to the living room, blocked off the door with boxes and went to bed to dream of mice - which I promptly did (Vanessa likewise).

However, here's the thing. When I got up this morning and headed down to hopefully witness Jaws lying in state, I got a shock.

He'd somehow managed to spring the trap, scoff the majority of the chocolate and return to cover.

What a clever soon-to-be-dead little mouse he is.

I now have no choice but to up the ante. I've already ordered three plug-in pest repeller jobbies from Amazon to dissuade Jaws' in-laws from coming to visit him.

But in the meantime, I'm doubly determined to effect his gruesome end.

So later I'm off to buy two more mousetraps plus a jar of peanut butter which Zoe in Australia assures me Jaws will love. But if my improvised shock and awe tactics don't work, well, I don't know.

I believe landmines are now banned. Would anyone happen to have a flamethrower handy?

Kill Jaws

I don't know how things are where you live, but there's been a drop of snow down Pudsey way overnight; the scene above was what greeted Jamie and I a few minutes ago as we set off on the short trek to nursery.

Unless you are a child (excluding Jamie who doesn't appear to be that keen on winter at this stage of his development), it is clearly a day to stay indoors if you can. And this also applies to animals. Or, more specifically, mice. Because we appear to have one living with us.

Vanessa noticed signs of nibbling on the top shelf of our kitchen cupboards over the weekend, and yesterday attempted further exploration - before bottling it over fears of an attack by Jaws the Mouse.

She asked me when I got in last night if I'd help her finish the job before we went to bed. But, keen to do anything that might take my mind off the fact that there's Guinness in the house which I cannot drink (at least until the last weekend in the month), I had a go myself whilst she was at the gym.

And I did rather well, even if I do say so myself (which I obviously just have done).

The top shelf is now fully cleaned up and disinfected (get me), and I even had a a sweep and clean underneath the cupboards where I also discovered more tell-tale signs of Jaws' presence.

The next stage is both gruesome and exciting in equal measure.

Yes, friends, Jaws must die.

I know you can get these "humane" trap things which would allow Jaws the chance to terrorise someone else - maybe Barrington next door - after being released. But I don't think that's what good neighbours do.

So I'm going to murder the little bugger, before placing his bloodied mousey head on a spike on top of our garden fence.

Today the search for the tools to do the job begins with a visit to Wilkos.

Is there such a thing as a mouse gun?

A mouse electric chair?

Mouse acid?

I'll keep you informed on progress of the hunt.

Drink? Feck! Ar*e!

First work day of the New Year is done - got to be happy about that.

However, I didn't rush home tonight as quickly as I would normally do after the first day back.

Because, in the midst of all the rain and the snow, I have a forecast you will not have heard from one of those excitable TV weatherpersons during the current cold snap.

I predict - and confidently - that the rest of January will be totally dry (at least until the last weekend).

In our house.

Those friends who know about our plan say I'll never do it (they have a lot more faith in Vanessa) and I have viciously shot them down.

But I will. Or, to put it another way, I won't - have another drink this month (at least until the last weekend).

I haven't stayed off drink for an entire month (at least until the last weekend...and...er...not including the first weekend) since I went to university almost 20 years ago. And it isn't going to be easy.

After coming home from work on the first day after the Christmas break, it's pretty much mandatory in my book to run straight to the fridge and open something to deaden the pain. But not tonight.

Because there comes a time, dear readers, when reason and responsibility must kick in. Hell, yes (and it almost certainly will be).

The wave of Christmas drinks thingies, coupled with too much drink before the run-up to the festive season actually began, too much drink during Christmas, then too much drink over New Year, has made me conclude that my strangely-proportioned body needs a break. And Vanessa's decision to join in makes it even harder for me to relent.

January, traditionally, is a very long month.

But January 2010 looks set to be a very, very long month.

At least, being sober, it's one I'll definitely remember.

"We've got tonight, who needs tomorrow..."

This is a day I normally loathe, being the day before we all go back to work.

However, after events at Old Trafford a little earlier where United won but, happily, not the one from Manchester, at least I know that "Sir" Alex Ferguson feels even worse than I do. And that, my friends, is "fantastic" (to use one of his favourite words after the ref's given his team two penalties and the other team two red cards).

I haven't been in my local pub today (mainly because it's awful) but, in an act of celebration, I simply had to walk up to take a picture (above) of the sign outside the front door. Credit where it's due, I say.

Ironically, Wee John (himself a Manchester United fan) is in that fine city as I write, waiting for his connection to Cardiff. (I phoned just to check he'd heard the result and, sadly, he had). And whilst I was very sorry to see him go, Jamie was even sorrier. The two of them have bonded very well over the past few days and, both being babies, this was hardly a surprise.

Last night, determined to ensure he wasn't forgotten, Wee John decided to, well, see for yourself.

What a sad little man he truly is.

Earlier, he and I joined our mutual friends Dan and Other John to watch the Leeds Carnegie-Bath rugby match at Headingley. And unlike their footballing counterparts, Leeds were dreadful and deservedly lost.

So we decided to make our own entertainment, actually beginning before the game itself (we must be psychic).

Then at the game...

...and, finally, after the game (where we bumped into Stevie, an old friend from Ballymena, on the right).

Before departing, we allowed England and British Lions hero John Bentley to fulfil a lifelong dream - by meeting Wee John.

I'm sure he's talked of nothing else since.

The End of Time - in our house

I don't know how 2010 has been panning out for you thus far but, in our house, it can only be described as a year of underachievement.

Whilst Vanessa and Jamie did go on a 15 minute walk yesterday afternoon, Wee John and I decided against it and haven't now crossed the threshold to the outside world since late 2009.

What we did "achieve" was to polish off a pack and a half of Guinness (Vanessa played her part too) before moving on to wine once our Chinese arrived.

And, of course, all four of us watched the demise of the tenth Doctor Who.

Jamie is still a touch on the young side to really get into the adventures of the last remaining Timelord, but I thought it would be good to be able to tell him he was allowed to stay up late to see David Tennant disappear into a puff of yellow smoke.

The fact that his mummy is deeply in love with the now former Doctor and, given the chance, would probably leave his daddy to be with said Mr Tennant is neither here nor there, and his painful end therefore gave his daddy no pleasure whatsoever. None at all. Not a bit.

Unlike the very welcome sight of Billie Piper which gave his daddy a huge lift.

So, how's YOUR hangover?

This was the exact moment when the clock struck midnight in our house, heralding the start of a brand new decade.

We were very pleased to share the evening with our friends Ewen, Gillian, Simon and Layla. (Wee John was there too, but there's nothing particularly noteworthy about that given he's had his own name plate on the door of our spare room for more than a year now).

Rather than having a simple drink fest (which was what it inevitably descended into long before Big Ben appeared on the telly), we decided to inject something of a cultural aspect into the evening by hosting a murder mystery party.

From left to right, Simon, Ewen, Gillian and Layla arrived looking very much their respective parts.

And so too did Vanessa, with a paper doily perched atop her head in an attempt to look like a maid. Wee John, sitting beside her, looked like he'd just arrived in from work. Which he had.

As for me, well, it's not for me to say. But I don't believe I look in the least bit camp, if that's what you're insinuating.

Vanessa turned out to be the evil murderer in the end which was not a surprise to any of us. This was not because any of us were particularly astute sleuths. It was more as a result of Vanessa mistakenly putting on the last part of the DVD two stages early, thereby allowing Hercule Poirot to tell us it was her - yet further proof that women should NEVER be in charge of the telly.

And then the party started...

...and continued...

...New Year came....

...so the party continued...

and then everyone went home (apart from Wee John who's inevitably here for another three days).

Happy New Year to you from the Whites (and Wee John).

Ending the year on a high

It is fitting that, on the day the 2009 New Year's Honours were announced, I tell you about a particularly special individual I had the great privilege of meeting on Monday afternoon.

Because if this man isn't suitably acknowledged by Her Majesty three years from now after what I believe will be gold at the 2012 London Olympics, then I'll eat something stiff and made out of fabric (I don't do hats).

I speak of Great Britain rowing star Alan Campbell who, a few months ago, won world championship silver in the single sculls.

I've written about Alan here several times before, most notably during last year's Beijing Olympics when he reached the final of his class despite suffering a serious infection which, after surgery, left him on crutches only weeks before the Games.

I went to the same school as Alan - Coleraine Inst - and have had the pleasure of meeting his delightful parents Jenny and William a handful of times before, both of whom are very friendly with and incredibly good to my vertically-challenged and eldest sister Jacquie (below centre).

And this boy is sheer class; not just in a boat, but also as a human being.

He's certainly one of the most determined sportsmen I've ever encountered - his achievement in beating the odds to line up in Beijing is obvious proof of that. However, equally important is the way he conducts himself.

Watching him do media interviews over the last number of years and also speaking to people who know him, I see and hear nothing but good. (And given the tales of what some other high profile sportsmen and women get up to these days, that is more than a little refreshing).

Jacquie knows what a huge fan I am of Alan and, when she heard he was back home in Coleraine for Christmas, she arranged for me to pop in to meet him at his family home.

It was a big surprise for me and I can't deny it wasn't a little embarrassing. He's more than eleven years younger than me, wouldn't have known me from, well, someone he didn't know and yet here was I sitting in his mum and dad's front room waiting to say hello. But, I mean, it was Christmas, the time of the year when most of us have strange people foist upon us when we'd probably rather be doing something else - so why not Alan too?!

And as expected, he was a total and complete star. I didn't say much, to be honest: I was too scared I'd get carried away and confirm my status as an idiot. So I just kind of smiled and nodded a lot. But he was very kind and friendly and, after Jenny and William shared lunch with Jacquie and me in their kitchen (it's not hard to work out why Alan has turned out the way he has), he even went outside to extract Jacquie's car from the frozen driveway (and, no, I don't think it was just because he wanted us to leave - don't be so cynical!)

I normally hate this fag end bit of the year when all that seems to lie ahead is January, the cold and Celebrity Big ****ing Brother. But I have to say, the short time I spent with Alan Campbell has seriously brightened my mood. He simply oozes positivity and brightness, and deserves every bit of success and recognition he gets.

Do please keep an eye out for him in 2010 and, indeed, right up to what will hopefully be his seven minutes of glory in the summer of 2012.

And, whatever you're doing, have a fun and safe night tonight.

All's well that ends well

Yes, we're back - and so, therefore, is this rubbish blog (sorry).

As for what's happened since we last "spoke," the answer is quite a lot in a very short space of time.

When we left each other on Christmas morning, the Whites were about to head across to Vanessa's brother Jonathan and our sister-in-law Helen's house for Christmas dinner. We're always grateful for any invitation, but for the two of them to invite us in at less than 24 hours notice following our Christmas Eve mishap was particularly kind. And it was a terrific day (pictured above) which we'll long appreciate.

Jamie ate his dinner like a horse (which was quite ironic, as Christmas hats tend to make his daddy's head look like that of a horse).

And then Cousin Jack generously gave him a significant share of his personal Christmas chocolate stash.

The only downside was that that monotonous old twonk Dagenham Dave also turned up (although, mercifully, only half of him).

So that was Christmas Day. The plan was then for Vanessa's mum Judy and stepdad Mike to very kindly drop us off at Manchester Airport on Boxing Morning before they then resumed their own plans and headed for Leicester. And that plan was going well for at least 10 minutes - until Jamie barfed up his entire bowl of breakfast porridge, all over himself and his car seat.

The poor boy was minging and, understandably, none too pleased. And we were left with no alternative but to swiftly get him out of his smeggy clothes and into some clean ones. By the side of a busy road. On top of a suitcase. Dignified it was not.

But then guess what? Nope, even worse I'm afraid. In the midst of all the trauma of the previous 36 hours, we discovered that Vanessa had forgotten to pack any clean trousers for him and we were forced to insert him into his pyjamas (still by the side of a busy road, on top of a suitcase). Thankfully, no-one at Manchester Airport seemed too bothered when we finally got there - and neither did he.

Next was lunch on the plane...

...before being picked up by his Granny White and Grandad Derek and, a short time later, deposited in the arms of Granda White.

Daddy then took Granda White to the Railway Arms where they met famed local Guinness drinker "President" (Mervyn) Kennedy (below right).

What happened during the remainder of Saturday evening is something of a mystery to your blogger.

But, on Sunday, I distinctly remember Grandad Derek very kindly taking Granny White, Auntie Sarah, Jamie and I to Portstewart Golf Club for tea (and a "cure")...

...before, back home, Grandad Derek flashed Jamie his tweety bird.

On Monday, it was "down the town" in Coleraine for me before going off to do something very special indeed - I'll tell you about that tomorrow.

And, finally, it was time for "Cottage Pie Double Surprise" at Granda Whites...

...the "Double Surprise" being that I made it and no-one was ill (at the time of writing).

The dessert was later served up by Jamie's lovely little (although growing by the day) Cousin Katie.

One especially welcome guest at Monday night's gathering was Mr John Gordon (below), a very good friend who wasn't supposed to see Christmas this year after an intensive battle with life-threatening cancer. Thankfully it was a battle he won hands down.

And that, my friends, is the moral of the Whites' Christmas 2009. Yes, we had our problems but, in short, our flight was delayed by 36 hours, we were spoilt throughout and no-one died. John's presence on Monday evening brought that home to me very graphically indeed - and served as yet another reason why I (and everyone else) was so pleased to see him.

I hope you also had an enjoyable and memorable few days.