´óÏó´«Ã½

Oasis...'Whatever'

Oasis are playing Bridlington and what a joy to meet the college 'twagging' generation in the queue this week. Just to be clear this column does not condone absenteeism from a quality learned institution but it's still good to hear the 'rock'n'roll generation is still alive and well in 21st century Britain.

Birthday boy Sam (second from left)

Many endured the night on the pavement outside Bridlington Spa to be sure to get their hands on one of 3,500 tickets. Many including Sam who was celebrating his 18th birthday with his mates. After much merriment and a cider or two they spoke to me live on the Breakfast Show….

The Fame Game

My six year son turned to me last night whilst watching TV and asked "is this the ´óÏó´«Ã½ News?". When I told him it was he was taken aback. He couldn't believe I truly worked for the same establishment as the Daleks.

Dr Who and Radio Humberside Saturday Breakfast are indeed all part of the same machine, if at opposite ends. The connection now having dawned on Frank meant I was creeping up in his estimations. Until he dropped the bombshell "..............but that means YOU'RE FAMOUS!"

I explained that just because you work at the ´óÏó´«Ã½, it doesn't automatically make you famous. At that moment a report on Look North took us to an interview on a bench in Hull's Queens Gardens. This is a popular location for occasional stories, it being right next to the ´óÏó´«Ã½. "Mummy, there's that bench that made YOU FAMOUS!" shouted Frank in excitement..."you know when that couple couldn't get the baby out". It was indeed the very bench where six months back I interviewed a Hull couple for Look North. It was part of the Donor Diaries series; this couple had been trying IVF unsuccessfully for 25 years.Ìý Pleased with my son's attention to detail, I agreed that it was the very same bench and OK, I admit it, I'm famous.

The confession had barely passed my lips when Frank piped up "yeah, but you're not famous anymore cos Shan had her baby". This was very true, I’d successfully donated eggs to my sister, who gave birth to a bouncing baby boy a couple of weeks ago.

In my son's eyes, now Tom was here and the fickle finger of fame had moved on. I told him I didn’t want to be famous anyway. "Why?" he asked, "…because I don't like people knowing me" I said. "But everyone knows you anyway Mummy!" In the world of Barton, perhaps they do but I'm sure that's got more to do with motherhood than it has a bench or the ´óÏó´«Ã½. I think I’ll throw on a dalek costume next time I'm on the school run and exterminate any notion of ‘fame’.

Life in plastic..it's fantastic

Those of you who have been following my Donor Diaries will have learned the wonderful news, a new addition to the Barcroft clan. Gorgeous though my new nephew, Tom, is, he is already been superceded by an even newer family member. Little did I know as I grabbed for "Gareth" in a moment of desperation that he would be quite such a hit with my daughter. Gareth is not only Connie's new favourite friend, he's also a cross-dresser. Oh do let me explain before I get into trouble….

A few weeks ago I went on a hen weekend in Derbyshire. As we 19 giggling girlies and the Hen hit Bakewell, Gareth joined us on our night out. The following morning I was appalled to discover a deflated dummy stuffed in the bin. Surely that was no way to treat a man? So, I claimed Gareth as my own, brought him home and forgot about him. Then this week, my son was invited to tea at a friends. I knew my daughter would be disappointed that she was Norma-No-Mates stuck at home with boring, old, ginger, mum. And, reader, it was at this precise moment that I remembered Gareth.

As I hastily blew up the beast, I must confess the implications of what I was doing and how it might look were far from my mind. I must stress that the dummy is neuterÌý and though it has chest hair, is redundant of other 'bits and pieces'. Gareth has now become Connie and my daughter has re-named herself Ruth (I think this makes me a Gran). He goes on the trampoline, on my daughter's shoulders and even in the same bed as her. My son is now desperate for one of his own and believe me, I'm not even going there with the husband.

You can have your cake and you can eat it

Dave turned 30 this week and was presenting the Morning Show. I arranged with the Producer that while he thought a home-baking expert was coming in to speak to him about the secret to that rich, fluffy cake texture, in actual fact...it would be me!

I baked him a cake and the cake was green, here's what happened...

Your name's not down, you're not coming in

I got on the wrong side of security this week and for the first time in my ten year (plus) broadcasting career, I got "chucked out". I wasn't aiming a missile at an armour-plated limousine known as The Beast nor was I launching nuclear attack at the radiation-withstanding Air Force One. I didn't attempt to ram any giant steel reinforced barricades and thereÌý wasn't a team of hundreds of security staff barring any closer proximity to my intended target. I wasn't on the trail of US president Barack Obama but.....a caravan, any one would have done.Ìý

Disappointingly, I never got close. A single security guard brandishing nothing more than a staff badge, a high visibility jacket and a beard told me in so many words to steer clear of that particular caravan manufacturers. Without the necessary paperwork required to speak into a microphone in their public car park, I was required to remove myself and my van immediately.

I know us lack-lustre ´óÏó´«Ã½ hacks had failed to make the necessary phone-call to manager-of-caravans but just occasionally you do take your chances with a solo, 7am broadcast for 2 minutes sitting in a vast and empty car park at the biggest factory site in Europe. Violating international security I wasn't but I may as well have been.

My intention had been to discuss - and in so doing highlight - the plight of caravan manufacturing in the current economic climate. A delegation from East Yorkshire have been meeting with Peter Mandleson in London this week to raise their concerns and ask for help. In the last six months or so around 1500 caravan production jobs have been lost in this area alone. In many cases several members of the same family have been left out of work.

Meanwhile £14m has been spent on the policing operation for the G20 Summit. London has been hosting the largest gathering of world leaders since 1946, and the first UK visit for Mr Obama and his 500-strong entourage. British officials have been organising security not seen on this scale before and it seems those White House staff stop at nothing to protect their president.

Did you know for example that a supply of AB-type blood (Barak Obama's blood type) travels with him for emergency transfusions? Also, when celebrity chef Jamie Oliver cooks for Mr Obama at 10 Downing Street he won't be able to bring his mobile phone - even though his wife is due to give birth that day. Some aspects of security may seem extreme but many see it as the necessary level needed to protect arguably the most powerful man in the world. As for me? Well I wouldn't have brought any harm to that caravan....honest.

William Shakespeare is alive and well

Do you eat your five portions a day? We were told this week that in this region we're not eating nearly enough fruit and veg. According to a North East Lincolnshire health study, just 22% of adults in the area eat the recommended five portions a day.

Now my cooking leaves a lot to be desired, but we are big fruit and veg eaters in my household. I sometimes find it hard to push my kids beyond fish fingers, but stick a pile of carrots or sprouts on their plate and they're happy as can be.

My 4 year old daughter often goes off on a banana fest and - up until his front teeth came out - my 6 year old son loved nothing better than to gnaw on a cob of sweetcorn. I'm pretty sure their enthusiasm for all things turnip does lay in the hands of one woman… Karen.

Karen runs our local fruit and veg shop with her husband Troy. She's one of the first people I met when I moved to the area and my children have grown up dropping by her shop on the way to and from nursery. Our day is not complete without picking up a cucumber and getting the local gossip. Whilst she sneaks the odd apple to the kiddies, I get to find out the latest news.

You might think ´óÏó´«Ã½ journalists have their ears to the ground, but I’m telling you it's always the shop keeper that hears first. For example I've learned this week that not only is there an elderly man called "William Shakespeare" alive and well in town but there are also THREE famous people living locally… Rory Underwood's mother-in-law, that chap from Emmerdale and….me (Karen likes to totally take the Michael)

Of course the other good thing is that we're buying local. To me it's not just about the produce, it's about the characters, the people you meet and the shopping experience, which we find much more fun. And it means we eat more of the good stuff.

This may sound like some idyllic Family-Robinson style existence where crisps and chocolate are cast aside for a pound of courgettes. Believe me, nothing could be further from the truth and I dread to think how many portions of the bad stuff we're noshing too.

Last night, as we sat back to watch Dr Who with our drinks, my daughter Connie summed it up. "Mummy, when I have my packed lunch at school, please can I have it with wine?" I blame Karen.

Hey sister, go sister, soul sister, go sister

I've got nothing against blokes and I like nothing more than surrounding myself with them (and barking orders at them) on Saturday Breakfast. However, aren't women ace!

This week I've been out and about reporting across East Yorkshire and Northern Lincolnshire and I wound up at a coal merchants in deepest, darkest and quite franky, dirtiest and smelliest Scunthorpe. There amongst the muck and the mountains of coal was a delightful lady called Beverley, a tall, blonde dressed in big bovver boots and muck from head to toe -Ìý but she still had her makeup on and an ironic glint in her eye.

She was manning the phones, running the business, dealing with clients, running her household via her mobile (her teenage daughter off on a school trip had somehow fallen out of bed that morning and banged her head). At one point she even calmly separated a ferocious attack on her cat by the fat stray, and that was all before we even went to air.

Beverley has learnt how to make fences as a sideline to the business and when not at work fends off attacks on the netball court for various clubs around North Lincolnshire.

I also had the pleasure of meeting an Italian lass called Liz this week who has settled on a farm near Pocklington. Liz was about to crack the whip and brave the Kiplingcotes Derby on her beloved 'Charlie'.

A woman in her late forties, Liz only returned to horse racing a few years ago having ridden in her teens.Ìý Motherhood and family life overtook for many years but she had finally returned to the saddle and seemingly was giving as good as she'd got. She actually won the race two years ago which is no mean feat.

Dating back to 1519, the Kiplingcotes Derby is England's oldest horse race and I can't help thinking it must be one of the country's scariest too. A four-mile uphill, off road, muddy, pot-holey, crazy, random,Ìý every-man-for-himself kind of a race; frankly you have to be well hard - and perhaps slightly bonkers - to even attempt it.

This year Liz came a very respectable second and she says it's time now to hang up her stirrups and return to the cooking and ironing. Beverley and Liz, you do me proud and that's coming from someone who doesn't deal in muck, is scared of cats, has barely brushed past a horse and is a rubbish cook, but I'm learning, and still barking (orders).

Children and disability

My four-year-old daughter joined me in my bed in the early hours this morning. She wanted to get up, at 4am, but I managed to convince her otherwise, Cbeebies wasn't on for another 2 hours anyway.

As I drifted off she started explaining a thing or two to me..."The lady on CBeebies without the hand is called Cerrie, Mummy."

"Is she Connie?" I said, "that's a nice name and I think she's a good presenter too, and pretty". Connie agreed.

Cerrie Burnell hit the headlines last week. It emerged that the new disabled presenter has been the subject of a disturbing campaign after some parents complained that she was scaring toddlers. They claimed Cerrie, who was born with one arm, is not suitable to appear on the children's channel.

Connie and my five-year-old son Frank certainly noticed Cerrie's absent arm without any prompting from me. To them it was more a matter of intrigue than disgust. They certainly weren't scared. Their Gran only has one leg and they like nothing more than playing the "Granny Andy" game on the trampoline. This involves seeing how long you can bounce on one leg without falling over, their Gran thinks it's marvellous!

In bed, Connie explained to me that some people have accidents and some children are just born like that..."..but me Mummy, I'm not like Cerrie, 'cos I've got two hands". I told Connie she was absolutely right and she also had two legs and a very cheeky face which made her giggle. "In the end Connie it really doesn't matter what you're like on the outside, it's being nice and kind on the inside that counts". This seemed to hit some early developing chord with my daughter and she drifted off to sleep once more.

Parenting doesn't often go as smoothly as that but sometimes a vigorous bounce on a trampoline gives you a clear head. I welcome anyone scared by disability to grow up and join in.

Joining a drugs bust

I was summoned to a police station early in the morning to meet a bloke called Brian. I was escorted, along with four other journalists, to a room to fill out various risk-assessment forms. We were then given the name of a street in Hull where we were told to reconvene immediately; the police would be arriving in their van ready for the raid and there would be no messing about.

The hacks headed off at speed in their whizzy clapped-out cars. I was last. Almost immediately I hit a red light and lost all of them. If only I had known where on earth I was going. The police van was just next to me, but if I followed them I might miss the action. I pulled out my street map and hoped for the best.

Miraculously I arrived in time and joined the huddled hacks who were now clearly all best mates. I thought we all looked a bit conspicuous standing outside a potential drug dealer's house with cameras and recording devices in full view. So I stepped away from the group.

Not one of them noticed the team of eight specialist officers, dressed all in black, marching around the corner at the far end of the street. It was like a group of Cybermen; they appeared from nowhere. I legged it at full pelt and the hack pack followed. We were then treated to the brief but familiar TV scene where the burly fellow bashes his way through a door with an enormous metal battering ram. It took four bashes, and some vocal support from his colleagues.

I caught a brief glimpse of a startled bloke rising from his sofa. The police entered and then the door was shut on us... for an hour. As an officer stood guard, another leafleted neighbouring houses with information about what was happening, though I expect they've already heard. It was zero Celsius, the next-door-neighbour offered us a cup of tea. He had a Rottweiler in his front window and a huge tattoo on his head.

I made small talk with a fellow hack, which didn't go down well. She became suspicious when I asked her if she planned to run this story in her news bulletin later. I think she was hoping to treat it as an exclusive.

After a while my feet began to feel separate from my ankles so I got in my car and drove around the block. On my return I saw an officer walking out of the property with a big blue bag.

Eventually Brian came out of the front door to give his statement. No drugs were found at this property but all in all the police operation has been a success and has led to four arrests this week. The drugs raid was over, Brian went to his next job and we all said goodbye.

Spelling Crab

Don't tell me you've got one of those naturals who's reciting Shakespeare from the age of 6. Is your primary school child undaunted by the length and tiny print of Bleak House? A novel which, despite its merits, I still can't face.

I had problems of my own recently, reading Alex James's autobiography 'A Bit of a Blur'. The bassist with Blur is a bit of an intellectual, as well as a true rock-n-roller, so there are plenty of tricky words in there... alongside the boozing and bedroom antics.

Spelling Crab is the answer in our house - to reading that is. My son Frank can't get enough of the pincers of my husband's right hand as it transforms into a pedantic rock-pool monster. Frank reads from his school text book and gets a nip every time he gets a word wrong.

It's proving such a hit that Frank deliberately misreads words, so my husband is having to deploy 'Naughty Spelling Crab' which only nips if you get a word right. I tell you, it's a barrel of laughs in our house and my daughter Connie likes to join in the fun too. Soon my family will be jointly authoring works on the scale of War and Peace, although I bet even that could be improved with the help of a bad-tempered crab.