I, Partridge - Alan Partridge [113]
‘Bouncy castle fall only partially broken by bad man,’ I answer, concisely. ‘Now drive!’
He steps on the gas and with a massive cloud of dust we wheel-spin out of the depot, our back end bucking like a bronco. But at the lights, disaster. Clifton’s bus turns left, mine goes right. I ding the dinger, but as I leap from the bus and on to the pavement I’ve forgotten about my ankle. The sudden throb of pain makes me understand what childbirth must be like. Except I’m feeling it in my lower leg rather than my vagina (which is presumably more sensitive).
‘Are you okay?’ says a passing French woman who’s obviously learnt to speak English. I totally ignore her, partly out of pain, partly because I’m still angry at her countrymen for taking part in the Vichy regime.
I scan my surroundings. If I can cut across the retail park I should – should – be able to head him off at the junction. It’s a long shot but it’s the only shot I have. I make my way past Boots, JJB Sports and Blacks, who I notice have got 25% off all waterproof trousers. This is handy, not only as I need a new pair of waterproof trousers but also because I always aim to get them at a discounted rate rather than pay full price.
But when I look back over to the junction, the bus has gone. Clifton has eluded me! ‘Noooooooooo!!!!’ I shout, tossing my head back and firing my scream into the sky (although some of it will inevitably have spilled into the nearby Burtons). I trudge on in a daze, making it a few more paces before collapsing to the ground in a tangled heap of DJ.
When I finally come round – how long has it been? A few seconds? A few minutes? A few hours?275 – I realise where I am.276 I’m lying in a disabled parking bay outside Morrison’s. Yet this isn’t just any old Morrison’s. This is the site of the copse where I’d stood all those years ago, an eight-year-old marvelling at a simple maple, bowled over by its class and its spunk. The same site to which I make pilgrimage once a year, to remember that tree and take stock; to remember who I am and re-engorge my sense of self.
But today feels different. Today the tree/parking space feels blank, impassive, solemn. Rather than replenishing my self-esteem, being here seems to be sending me a far more poignant message.
As a child this is where I’d looked ahead to the rest of my life, where my hopes and ambitions had taken shape. And now I am here once more, at the tail-end of my career, bested yet again by a rival DJ. The message is clear – I really am past it.
Try as I might, I can’t ignore what this tree277 is trying to tell me. I feel tears welling in my two eyes for I know what I must do. I must go into North Norfolk Digital278 in the morning and announce my retirement, effective immediately.
As the enormity of my decision dawns on me, I bring my arms into my body, tuck my chin on to my chest and roll away to the left (as a disabled guy wants to get into the parking space).
That night I sit alone on my sofa and prepare to write a goodbye speech to my listeners. Armed with nothing other than a pad of paper and one of those biros that writes in different colours depending on which button you flick down, I set to work.
Memories, people from my past, significant achievements dance before me, like I imagine they would if I was sitting at a fire after drinking the potion in some kind of voodoo ceremony.
I will myself to write my goodbye. But that night’s Bid-Up TV is so enjoyable that four hours later I realise I haven’t done anything (other than make a winning bid for a 12v automatic hammer with soft-grip handle).
I turn off the TV and head into the kitchen to treat myself to a bowl of Coco-Pops with hot milk (heavenly), and as I’m slurping down a mouthful of sweet brown cereal, I fall sound asleep. I wake at 7, with a bit of milk on my face but also with a genuine sense of clarity and certainty. ‘No time for McDonald’s today,’ I say loudly, ‘I have to say my goodbyes: to my colleagues, to my listeners, to the profession that