I, Partridge - Alan Partridge [30]
I’d only been sat down a matter of seconds when a hush descended over the carriage. People were looking my way. Suddenly, like a scene from a very good movie, one passenger started clapping. Then another and another until, soon, the entire carriage had joined in the applause. Some people were shouting the word ‘hero’ or ‘thank you’. It was as if all my years of selfless commitment to the Norfolk community were being recognised in this one spontaneous outpouring of emotion. Not by the mealy-mouthed critics or the slippery commissioners but by the most important people of all – the normal, everyday man on the street/train. I just sat there motionless, allowing myself to be sprayed in the face and body with a high-pressure jet of public appreciation. Never before have I felt so humbled.
If there was one disappointing aspect to this, it was that the young soldier next to me was the only person not to applaud. I know he’d lost both his legs, but you don’t clap with your feet. I thought about taking it up with him but thought better of it. No, I said to myself, be the bigger man, let it slide. He may have publicly humiliated you, but look at it this way – if you ever needed to go head-to-head with him in an impromptu limb audit, there would only be one winner. And with that thought, the train pulled away.
It was a full week later that I realised my mistake. They’d been clapping for the military amputee. Every man jack of them. And there I’d been, drunk on the ale of celebrity, arrogantly assuming that their thanks and praise had been heaped at me.
I felt ashamed. In an act of contrition, I grounded myself for a week and denied myself access to the BBC club. If I could have given my legs to that soldier, after being killed in a car accident perhaps, I definitely would have done.
In the end, I just got my assistant to leave a box of chocolates on a cenotaph. I was going to leave a card with it, but I thought it would look a bit too much like the Milk Tray man – which would have rubbed salt in their wounds, given their mobility issues.
I felt so stupid because, without exception, those guys out there – whether they’re disabling landmines, driving tanks or photographing inmates – are all heroes.
64 Press play on Track 14.
65 This isn’t swearing. Her cheeks were host to several burst blood vessels.
66 Press play on Track 15.
67 Literally in the case of Fairview Ride-On Lawnmowers. ‘Fairview, we’re kings of the jungle. Rooooaaaarrrrr!!!!’
Chapter 9
The Move to TV
AND THEN CAME THE news that the programme was to be transferred to BBC television.68 Our editor Steven Eastwood had found out at noon and busily set about sharing the good news. But these, don’t forget, were the days before mobile phones. And I wasn’t in the office. I was in Ealing. I’d heard that BP had done a pretty awesome job on the refurb of one of their garages, so I’d driven over to take a look.
I was not disappointed. Things got off to a flying start before I’d even turned my engine off. What a forecourt. Crisp new signage, beautifully re-laid tarmac, they’d even installed the new generation of pumps I’d read so much about. With 20% more nozzle pressure, the petrol just flew into the tank. Apparently as you filled up you could actually feel the power of the gush through the handle.
And the shop! It was like a newsagents, a supermarket and a Halfords all rolled into one. For the hungry driver in particular, the pickings were rich. My eyes darted across the chill