I, Partridge - Alan Partridge [112]
With an hour to kill before opening time he’s clearly decided to come and make mischief. Yet this time he has badly miscalculated. What he is attempting won’t just leave me a bit red-faced, there is every chance it could lead to paralysis on a truly Perry Masonesque scale. And there is no way I am prepared to spend the rest of my life in a wheelchair, even though I have always been curious about the turning circles of the motorised ones.
I shut my eyes and prepare for the worst. But instead of the crack of bone on tarmacadam, what I hear is more of a squelchy thud. Because Clifton has failed to get out of my way and has effectively broken my fall. Better still, his recent thyroid problem means that, to land on, there’s very little actual difference between him and a bouncy castle.
Yet as we lie there in a tangled heap of DJs, I realise I haven’t totally escaped injury. My left ankle is badly sprained. As the pain courses up my body I yelp like a shot dog. Clifton is pretty badly hurt too. Blood is glugging from a cut in his knee like a big squirt of leg ketchup.
I’m sorely tempted to spit in the bastard’s mouth, but don’t. I’m worried it might be taken as a sign of affection by any sexual deviants in the crowd. As my mind scans its database for a plan B, he leaps up and starts to run away. Instantly I’m hurled into the belly of a dilemma. What do I do now? He’s pushed it too far this time, but I’m still a professional, I’ve still got a show to do. My fans are expecting three hours of quality radio, delivered mid-air. I may have a bust ankle, but there’s no reason I can’t get back on that castle and hop.
But then I look out into the (small but high-quality) sea of faces. My god, people are laughing at me. Worse, on the front row I see Craig Kilty, aka The Monster, and a man who looks very much like Tony Hayers but isn’t Tony Hayers because Tony Hayers is dead. What I wouldn’t give to wipe the smiles off their faces, especially the face of Craig Kilty aka The Monster because it is actually him, whereas the other one isn’t Tony Hayers (because Tony Hayers is dead).
If I just let Clifton get away with it even more people will think I’m past it. Even more people will think it’s time to put me out to pasture/stud. Instantly my mind is made up.273 ‘Sorry, guys,’ I say, ‘show’s cancelled.’
Two hours later the pursuit is still in full swing. Struggling with different but identically debilitating injuries,274 we’re locked in a dramatic low-speed chase. Thankfully for me, Clifton has been unable to stem the bleeding from his knee. Even if I temporarily lose sight of him I can always tell which direction he’s headed because he leaves a small trail of blood. He’s like a large, menstruating snail (with a drink problem).
By this point my ankle has swollen to roughly the size of a child’s head. There’s no way I can give up, though. To make matters worse, he’s goading me.
‘You’ll never catch me, Partridge.’
‘I wouldn’t bet on that,’ I counter, as a pregnant woman overtakes me.
‘Well I would,’ he replies, his ridiculous mid-Atlantic accent hanging on the breeze like a bad trump.
‘Oh yeah, how much?’
‘How much have you got?’
‘Depends if you mean cash or assets. If we’re going down the assets route then we’re talking house, car, antique Toby jug, which is chipped but not badly …’
Suddenly something hits me. This entire conversation has been nothing more than a smokescreen. With me distracted he’s hobbled on to a number 23 bus and is getting away. Overcome with rage I flick him the Vs (both hands). A young boy misunderstands and thinks I’ve aimed the insult towards his mother. Keen to defend her honour, he flicks his wrist to and fro in the international gesture for ‘masturbator’.
I flick my head effortlessly to the right and see another bus pulling in. Hauling my kiddy’s head of an ankle aboard, I pay my fare (£1.50 for a single!) and fix the driver square between the eyes.
‘Follow that bus!’ I bellow, my face puce with frustration.
‘Jesus, what happened