I, Partridge - Alan Partridge [13]
Young I may have been, but I was confident enough to speak my mind. This strutting, young, cockcertain Alan would often dish out compliments as he perused and felt her body.
‘You’re a really busty woman, Jem,’ I once said. ‘One of the bustiest on campus.’
‘Thanks,’ she said through her cigarette.
‘You’ve got quite a long torso, but your legs aren’t in the least bit thick. Believe me, if I didn’t have lectures, I’d love to kiss your back from top to bottom and from side to side. Also diagonally.’
Things like that.
And I knew how to party. Typically, I’d press a blade crease into my cords,36 comb my thick hair past my ears like a glossy hat (the style at the time) before pitching up fashionably late to a house party, where my appearance through the frosted glass of the door would provide hushed whispers of anticipation inside.
Perhaps subconsciously aware that I’d soon become a disc jockey (DJ), I’d bring albums with me and sit in front of the record player, treating my fellow carousers to the latest cuts. And what cuts! You couldn’t pigeon-hole me if you tried. The Swingle Singers, Nana Mouskouri, John Denver, The Seekers, The New Seekers, and then I’d throw them a curveball with some Steeleye Span. And all the while I’d sing along at a steadily increasing volume. (My warm tenor actually improved many of the tracks, some of which were marred by the rock stars of the time adopting a screechy higher register.) I’d do all this while getting roaring drunk on a Watneys Party Four – it was four pints of foaming beer in a can or, with Shaw’s Lemonade, six pints of shandy. What’s more, I knew a lot about my selected artists and would regale the fellow partygoers with interesting facts about the artists we were listening to.
On one occasion, I woke up to find my records had disappeared, no doubt pilfered by a new convert to my fresh rock sounds. Although it was only 9pm, the party had completely wound down, with guests no doubt annoyed into leaving by the noisy party going on next door.
Fun as these times were, I’d begun to grow disillusioned with university life. My relationship with Jemima had burned brightly (certainly on my part), but our encounters stopped when we had a blazing row (ah, the passion of youth) on the subject of female armpit hair on which I had – and have – pretty trenchant views. I’m in full agreement that women should enjoy sexual equality with men and not feel expected to live up to an unrealistic ideal, but if you’re a lady and you don’t shave your pits, you look like a ruddy bloke. End of.
To be honest, the end of this affair came as a blessed relief. I’d experienced a COLOSSAL sexual enlightenment, learning much about my own capabilities and the ins and outs of female anatomy, but Jemima was undeniably one of those uppity, over-confident types who think they can live by their own rules. Listeners to my current radio show (don’t worry, we’ll come to that!) will know that I actively relish the regimented parameters and enforced norms of broadcast media.
Smoking ‘doobies’, buying books second-hand and getting out of bed after midday is all well and good (it isn’t), but it’s far from productive. These people might be able to tell you which French films John Luc Picard was in, but I bet you any money they wouldn’t be able to reattach a stop cock if it came loose. Utterly useless people.
My measure of success