I, Partridge - Alan Partridge [31]
To some of you it might seem weird that I was so damn buzzed up by a petrol station. But all I can say is that I must have sensed something in the air. And sure enough, when I got back to the office, Eastwood told me about our impending transfer from wireless to goggle-box.
‘Alan, the show’s moving to TV!’
‘OMG,’ I spluttered, inadvertently inventing the now-popular acronym.
‘We found out this morning but you weren’t around,’ he went on. ‘I’d have phoned you but mobile phones haven’t yet reached mainstream adoption,’ his shrug seemed to add.
I didn’t mind, though, because there was only one thought in my mind – my career was about to go megastrophic.
Soon enough, launch day arrived. And right from the off, things just clicked. They say a chain is only as strong as its weakest link. Yet from Christopher Morris (anchor) to Rosie May (environment) to Ted Maul (replacing Kev Smear as roving reporter) to Peter O’Hanraha-hanrahan (economics editor) to yours truly (sport) there simply was no weak link.
In fact, the consensus was that the show – renamed The Day Today – worked even better on telly. Viewers said they preferred it, because now they could see us, whereas before they had to make up what we looked like in their heads. By way of example, a lot of folks said they expected me to have far nicer eyes.
I also insisted on doing my studio reports with the word ‘sport’ in massive letters behind me (see picture section). Some people thought this was ego. In fact it was a savvy move designed to keep the deaf on-side.
The Day Today was a plum job, though, and I knew it. Okay, I wasn’t especially chummy with my colleagues but that was alright by me. I wasn’t invited to Rosie May’s birthday drinks, Peter O’Hanraha-hanrahan’s summer BBQ or the funeral of Ted Maul’s little girl (though to be fair, neither was anyone else). But who cares/cared? Not me! You don’t have to be best buddies with your work-mates to enjoy your job. And I certainly wasn’t (best buddies), but certainly did (enjoy job).
More worrying was the risk of my job being given to someone else. Occasionally certain young BBC starlets (Ryder, Irvine, Bonnet) would start circling, keen for a piece of my sports beat. But I was fiercely protective of my patch. I was like a lady swan guarding her cygnets. If anyone came too close, I would rear up, spread my wings and chase them across the park. And if they happened to be accompanied by the family dog, then I’m sorry but that dog was going down.
I still believe I was right to be defensive – and, on occasion, orally threatening – because for a sports journalist in particular, the early 90s was a time of plenty. Whether reporting for radio or TV, the country was awash and a-slosh with sporting giants. Never mind interviewing them, it’s an honour just to say the names of these sporting greats. I’d often sit at home, saying them aloud, letting their names drench my teeth and gums like a good-quality fluoride mouthwash.71
In athletics there was Linford Christie, Sally Gunnell and the not unattractive Fatima Whitbread. On the track we were witness to the derring-do of Nigel Mansell, in the ring the very hard punches of Frank Bruno and out at the crease the swashbuckling style of Ian Botham, known to friends and colleagues simply as ‘Beef’.
And I, Partridge was lucky enough to meet them all. Just the other night I sat down in front of my roaring gas fire, poured myself a glass of bitter and totted up all the sports stars I’ve met over the years. The grand total: 116. Not bad for a young lad from Norwich. Not bad at all.
If pushed, though, I’d have to say my favourite was Sally Gunnell.72 Not only did she insist on competing with a full face of make-up and a big, ballsy squirt of perfume, but she was