I, Partridge - Alan Partridge [122]
Singing an Abba medley with lovely-shouldered American chanteuse Gina Langland. Many people felt that despite having no formal training, I actually out-sung her, certainly in terms of volume. I’ve always been able to hold a tune, though. As a child I’d sing in the shower, often when it wasn’t turned on. I just liked the acoustics in the bathroom.
Me, giving an inspirational address to a roomful of teenagers at an event to promote careers in the Norfolk media. I’d arrived wearing a tie but quickly switched to a cravat in order to blend in better with the 16–18-year-olds. I would have gone open-necked but there was a pretty chunky pimple on my chest, the result of forgetting to shower after I’d got home from squash.
Paddington Green Police Station, the UK’s highest-security police station and the scene of my incarceration on 21–22 October 1994 following the sad, bad death of chatshow guest Forbes McAllister. In a desperate attempt to be released I pointed out to the policeman that I had laid on hot food for my colleagues as part of my show’s wrap party. Unless I turned up at the Pitcher & Piano to pay for the grub up front, they would be deprived of around eight dozen mini Kievs. I’ll never forget the police officer’s riposte. He simply said, ‘Sounds like they’ve been spared a fate WORSE than death.’ Well, I laughed my head off and for a moment clean forgot that I was on a manslaughter charge. DI Lance and I became lifelong friends after that, and he is to be technical adviser on my Norwich-based detective series Swallow (should it happen).
Highgate Cemetery, the final resting place of Karl Marx, Jeremy Beadle and Forbes McAllister. For the first three years on the anniversary of his death I would go to visit him. I’d wait until his wife had left his graveside (usually biding my time tucked away behind the massive stone head of Mr Marx). Then I’d go up and say a few words. Nothing too profound. Just an apology. And then, more often than not, there would be an awkward silence. After a while I’d puncture the silence with chit-chat, normally about the news, the weather or whatever reality TV programme was on at the time. I haven’t been back since July 2001, however, due to the fact that I had begun to find the visits boring. Also, hiding behind that giant communist head gave me the heebie jeebies!!
My best-ever blazer. It actually belonged to Lenny Henry but I stole it from his dressing room at Comic Relief. He came after me and demanded the jacket back, saying it was his. I simply stared him down and replied, ‘Prove it.’ ‘I’m going to report this, Alan,’ he called as I walked off down the corridor. ‘Oh yeah?’ I shouted, without even looking back. ‘And who do you think they’re going to believe?’ The next year I decided to give it to a charity shop, but they didn’t want it. So I just threw it in a bin. Easy come, easy go.
The meeting of two chat heavyweights. Clive asked me back to his dressing room afterwards to reminisce about our best-ever interviews and take a shower with him. I declined the shower but we had a lovely natter.
Me, moments before staging a mock execution of Elton John. I shot the former Watford chairman straight in the mouth. It was probably the most realistic mimed celebrity assassination I’d ever pulled off. I’d slit the throat of Monty Don the year before at a Christmas party but it was nowhere near as convincing. Elton and I later went for cocktails where he spent the best part of two hours outlining the plus points of homosexuality. I’m still not convinced, Elton! Love the songs, though.
When behind the Radio Norwich mic, I’d always be turned out