Authors: Alan Partridge
But then, disaster: I received word that Sue Cook had bailed on me. Incandescent with rage, I slammed my fist down on the reception desk. Such was the ferocity of the blow that it left a noticeable dent in the granite. I know their handshake had
seemed
to suggest that Sue wasn’t a deal-breaker but it was too late, my confidence was shot to ribbons, pieces and buggery. Oh Cooky, I thought to myself, you are as unreliable as you are fit – i.e., very.
Sure enough, the show was a disaster. Some months later Michael, the kindly ex-Forces Travel Tavern employee, had attempted to put things in perspective. After all, I hadn’t shot any of my guests dead. Neither had anyone been punched in the face with a turkeyed hand. And in a way he was right, but in the heat of the moment I couldn’t see it like that. To my mind I’d just done a show that sucked some pretty big bum hole.
Worse still, the Irish televisual twosome had left. I gave chase and intercepted them in the foyer. Never before had they looked so Irish. I’ve no idea what that meant, but I do remember thinking it. Somehow I managed to smooth their ruffled emerald feathers, at which point they asked if they could come back to my house to talk further. I could hardly say no. In Ireland, due to a shortage of office facilities, it’s quite normal to have a strategic business meeting in another man’s lounge. The problem of course was that I had nowhere to take them. Only months earlier I had been comprehensively de-housed by Carol.
It was now that Maxwell had entered the story. To save my blushes, he had offered me the use of his bungalow. He would pose as my flat-mate/bungalow buddy and all would be well. Except when we reached his home, all wasn’t well.
The first problem came in his choice of art. Over my mantelpiece there’s a painting of a country church with a herd of geese wandering past. Over Maxwell’s there was a painting of a topless female biker, her hair flailing in the wind, her nipples standing to attention like a couple of boob soldiers.
Yet all that would have been fine – after all, breasts are just sacks of fat at the end of the day – if it hadn’t been for the
other
room in Maxwell’s home. Maintaining the ruse that this was actually my house was proving pretty tense, so I’d gone to the toilet to piddle out some stress. Except I didn’t know where the toilet was and when I’d pushed open the nearest door and entered the room – whoops! – I’d stumbled into this terrifying shrine to yours truly. And it’s at this point that I’ll return you to the powerful immediacy of my present-tense writing.
Fear ripples through me like the raspberry in a raspberry ripple ice-cream. I look around me. From floor to ceiling the walls are
covered
in pictures of Alan Gordon Partridge. This is one of the weirdest rooms I’ve ever been in, and that includes Bill Oddie’s blast-proof underground bird chamber.
Immediately I figure out that Maxwell isn’t a good Samaritan, he’s a dangerously obsessed super-fan. But the RTE executives behind me see it differently, viewing it as evidence that I’m an East Anglian egomaniac. They flee before you can say ‘Gerry Adams’.
I scan the walls. Some of his pictures have come from magazines and newspapers, but to my horror others have been captured with a telephoto lens. I’m now incredibly nervous and give voice to this in the form of a very loud gulp. Yet at the same time I can’t help but notice that Maxwell’s photos are actually very good, especially because many have been taken while crouching behind bins, squirrelled away in bushes or – Jesus of Nazareth! – hidden inside my shed.
I particularly like one shot of me stepping out of the shower, circa 1994. Don’t worry, reader, you can’t see my privates. In fact, Maxwell has cleverly used the cactus on the window-sill as a kind of photographic loin cloth. But what it does capture is a certain muscularity. This was the year, don’t forget, when I had set myself the goal of being able to do a one-armed press-up. And while I was destined never to succeed, all the gym work had left me with a body that would not have looked out of place in a magazine for men who like to look at other men.
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Yet what really draws me to this photo, what really speaks to me, is its portrayal of my hidden vulnerability. Sure there’s the raw, animal power of my physique, but there is also an essential fragility to my personality. And that’s communicated with real poignancy by the fact that there’s nothing more than a spiky Mexican plant shielding the world from my freshly washed penis and balls.
Yes, I like Maxwell’s work very much indeed. But there’s no time to dwell on this. ‘I’ve got something to show you, Alan.’ Blocking the doorway, Maxwell removes his shirt and utters a sentence I will never forget. ‘I’ve had a scale drawing of your face tattooed on my stomach.’
For a split second I think maybe it’s one of those transfers you used to get free with bubble gum. But no, it’s too big, too complex to simply be an old-fashioned lick-and-peel. It really
is
a tattoo. Though one thing it
isn’t
, is to scale. Even with fear muddying my senses, I refuse to accept that my face is as big as a torso.
The next thing I know, Maxwell has donned a plastic Alan Partridge face mask. Although not official Partridge merchandise, these masks are nevertheless a lot of fun. Still available from
www.maskplanet.com/partridgeface
at £9.99 for ten (excluding postage), they’re ideal for parties of all kinds. All I ask is that they not be used for Halloween. Have a bit of respect.
It’s now that things take a worrying turn for the worse. In what I fear may be the first stage of some form of ritualistic sacrifice, Maxwell begins to chant a terrifying noise. Avian in nature, I think perhaps it’s bird song, a crow maybe. To my relief it turns out that he’s just shouting my well-known TV catch-phrase (‘Aha! Aha! Aha!’), but the panic has galvanised me. I need to get out of here.
My only concern is that he may be preparing to use a weapon. If it comes to hand-to-hand combat I have every confidence that I can take him down. As a teen I’d been schooled in the ways of Judo. I chose not to progress to the very top belts as I knew I was becoming capable of badly hurting someone with the sheer proficiency of my self-defence techniques. The thought of breaking my opponent’s arm, or ensuring that his shoulders remained in contact with the mat for a count of three, only to discover 20 years later that he had become, say, head of Norfolk’s biggest Range Rover dealership, made my blood run cold.
Fair enough I’m not karate world champ Jackie Chan, but nevertheless there’s a certain sense of invincibility that comes with knowing that 30 years ago you were awarded a green belt in Judo.
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My guess – Maxwell will pick up on this and stand aside.
My guess is wrong. Maxwell twists my arm and fixes me in a headlock. Clever. He knows that one wrong move from me and my head will be ripped clean off. I have to act fast. Quick as a flash, I elbow him in the nuts, nodding as I hear the satisfying thud of bone on gland. I’ve just turned his testicles into a couple of bollock pancakes. And it feels good. ‘Would you like lemon juice with them, sir?’ I roar, inside my head.
Fear still ripples through me like it does in that flavour of ice-cream I mentioned earlier, but my will to survive is strong. No, Maxwell, Alan Partridge isn’t ready to die just yet. Despite the fact that my wife has left me and my kids rarely take my calls, I have a wife and kids to live for. At this point he’s still doubled up. I charge over and – bang, bang – head-butt him twice in the back. He screeches like an alley cat. ‘Looks like I got the kidneys then!’ I roar, still inside my head.
I quickly consider my next attack. Time for a bunch of fives, methinks. Looking around I see Maxwell catching his breath. Then, like an animal rearing up on to its hind legs, or like a human standing up, he stands up. I send a command to my brain. Instantly the fingers of my right hand start to curl inwards. Within seconds a fist has been formed. I launch it directly at my assailant’s eye. ‘Delivery for Mr Maxwell!’ I roar, this time remembering to say it out loud.
‘Really – what is it?’ his furrowed brow seems to ask.
‘A knuckle sandwich!’ my fist replies.
Somehow recovering from the force of the blow, Maxwell picks up a chair and swings it at my brain. I duck, thwarting him with the sheer speed of my knee bend. Now on my haunches, I have an idea. Tucking my head into my chest I launch into a ferocious forward roll. It skittles the insane super-fan in the blink of an eye.
For several minutes we thrash around on the floor like Tarzan and that crocodile (I’m Tarzan, he’s the croc). If I’m honest the rolling around does little to advance the fight and causes neither of us any injuries. We get back to our feet. Maxwell now has me by the throat. We both know we are entering the endgame. He thinks he’s got me, I can see it on his ugly mug, but he’s not counted on one thing – POW! – I floor him with a classic one-inch punch. Textbook stuff, a real gut-buster.
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With Maxwell fighting for air, I see my chance and make haste for the exit. But before I can reach my car, he’s giving chase. In his hand is some sort of weapon. I don’t get a chance to look properly but my hunch is that it is either a gun or the brush from a dustpan and brush. In a split second I’ve reached my car, slid across the bonnet and got inside. I crank the ignition. The gentle throb of the Rover’s British-made two-litre engine is as comforting as a nice big hug from Mummy (would have been, were she still alive). Before Maxwell can reach me I wind down the window and holler something witty. It may have intimated that he was mentally and physically disabled, I forget now.
As I put the pedal to the metal he’s tearing after me. Yet for the first time since I entered his house, I’m starting to feel confident – the Rover 800 can out-accelerate most cars in its class, never mind a sprinting nut-case. But as I ease her into third, a wry smile dancing across my increasingly moist lips, I spot something awful. I’m driving down a dead end! I slam on the brakes and can’t believe it when the car comes to a halt without careering through the fence. Then again, I had bought British.
By now Maxwell is almost upon me. I bolt from the car, swivel on my heels and begin to sprint, leaping over a five-foot stile like it isn’t there. I hurtle across a farmer’s field, my legs eating up the ground, my arms pumping like the pistons of a big Victorian steam engine. It doesn’t even matter that I’m wearing a shirt, tie and blazer, nor that instead of running spikes I have on faux-leather shoes bought from a supermarket.
Within minutes I have sprinted for what is surely about four miles. More to the point, Maxwell has given up. And who could blame him? I’ve just blown my previous personal best for fleeing across fields right out of the water.
I just manage to stagger to a public phone box. I call my assistant and tell her to (a) collect my car and (b) deal with Maxwell personally. Hanging up, I slump against the side of the phone box and slide into a heap on the floor, the calling cards of a hundred local whores raining down on me like big drops of prostitute rain. I begin to weep. I have cheated death. I am free.
And today? I am stronger, wiser and happy. People assume the episode must have profoundly affected me but I can honestly say it’s not something I ever think about. Move on. (You may now remove your Kevlar body armour.)
157
Press play on Track 30.
158
I’ve got a lot of time for Ireland. Its economy was known as the Celtic Tiger, which I loved. Then, of course, it hit the wall, much like that sleeping dog on YouTube. Very funny. Just type in ‘sleeping dog runs into wall’. If you don’t watch it about ten times back-to-back, there’s something wrong with you. I also like sneezing panda, keyboard cat, dramatic chipmunk, skateboarding dog, otters holding hands and ‘Don’t Taze Me, Bro’.
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Each to his own and all that, but the idea of a man looking at my rock-hard buttocks and salivating makes me want to run home and dead-lock the doors. And please don’t infer from that that I’m a homophobe. I’m not and haven’t been since I attended The Boat Show with Dale Winton, Paul O’Grady and Noel Edmonds – he’s not gay but you get the picture.
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It’s a strange feeling that only people with high-level self-defence capabilities can ever really experience. I once discussed this with some sumo wrestlers who I interviewed with a translator, and they completely agreed.
161
I’m shocked by my own strength. I feel like those women who lift cars to free their trapped children. I’ve always thought it’s odd how little press attention these stories generate. Maybe they are just urban myths, but I’m very interested in the argument of my friend Michael. He believes the truth is that the government deliberately keep a lid on these stories because they don’t want housewives to know how strong they really are. Food for thought certainly.
SUE COOK’S VOICE WAS
shaking. Ordinarily, it’d be hard to tell whether it was through emotion or because the pubs had yet to open, but this was 3pm so I knew it was the former.
It was five months after the now totally forgotten Maxwell incident and I’d just been MCing over the public address system at the Swaffham Country Fayre, one of the red-letter dates on the Norfolk agricultural calendar but smaller than the Norfolk Show. I didn’t care about that. I was and am a positive person – an arialator-half-full kinda guy.
FYI – this was agriculture with the emphasis very much on ‘culture’. Face-painting and craft stalls were the order of the day, and an accordion player was on site, playing television theme tunes to delighted passers-by. I was happy to be there and soak all this up – it was proof positive that ‘culture’ isn’t confined to London. In fact, the only time I’ve ever seen an accordion in the Big Smoke was one strapped to a Romany woman
162
outside a tube station. I enjoyed the fayre, although I left early because people were hassling me to return to TV.