I, Partridge - Alan Partridge [32]
In 1991 I was sent out to Tokyo to cover the Athletics World Championships. Sally was taking part in the 400m hurdles (for women). We all watched as she quite literally overcame all the obstacles put in her way to romp home to a creditable second place. Yes, Gunnell had silvered.
Within minutes she’d put on high heels and a new pair of dungarees and joined a bunch of her fellow athletes at a local bar. It would have taken her longer, but she already had make-up on, you could probably smell her perfume in Hiroshima, and as she’d only actually been running for 53.16 seconds (a new British record by the way) it seemed crazy to shower – a wet wipe administered to the main danger zones had been deemed more than adequate.
Yet no sooner had the shin-dig hit its stride than Sally’s chums and buddies seemed to drift away. Gunnell may have run her race but the rest of them were yet to compete. Their loss however was very much AP’s gain (my gain). And as Sally wasn’t ready to head home, we moved on to a restaurant serving authentic Japanese nosh.
Of course, these days young professionals hotfoot it to Pret a Manger every lunchtime to gobble down box after box of sushi. But back then, things were different. Back then, our tastes were simpler and less foreign. As a result Sal and myself were pretty miffed as we browsed the menu. What was all this stuff?
Others might have given up and headed off to a Western fast food joint, but not us. Our attitude was very much ‘when in Rome …’, so when the waiter came round we went for it and ordered a couple of bowls of rice.
For the next three hours we chatted away like there was no tomorrow. Sally may only have managed silver, but in a Chatathlon our conversation would easily have brought home the gold. We seemed to cover every topic under the sun. Favourite film, best cheese, biggest regret, smallest regret, euthanasia. But little did we realise, as our ace natter entered its fourth hour, that our cultural ignorance was about to be our undoing.
The problem was a little thing called ‘sake’. We’d been knocking back glass after glass of the stuff, assuming it was nothing more dangerous than indigenous pop. Yet as we left the restaurant we soon realised that we were catastrophically ming-monged. Sally was so gone she thought her silver medal was currency. And I was so gone that I later mistook Sally for Kriss Akabusi (look him up).
But what a laugh we had as we staggered along the street like silly idiots. I dared her to hop all the way back to the hotel (she did). She dared me to pick up a bin and smash in the window of a nearby shop (I didn’t). We checked out a few more bars and even stopped in at a local karaoke place, duetting on UB40’s ‘Rat in Mi Kitchen’. And, at last, at long long last, when we finally made it back to our digs we couldn’t believe our eyes – it was nearly quarter to eleven. What a night!
It was in my first few months at the BBC that I received one of the finest pieces of advice in Britain. I was over at TV Centre preparing to interview a bantamweight boxer (I forget his name and ethnicity) when I saw a man coming out of the disabled toilet – it was none other than the late, great Des Lynam.73 Clocking me, he wandered over, doing up his belt and seeing to his fly.
‘Heard you on the radio last night, Alan.’
‘Crumbs,’ I spluttered. ‘Thanks.’
‘I liked what you did.’
‘Crumbs,’ I spluttered again, in much the same way as I had done previously. ‘Thanks.’
‘But a word of advice on your broadcasting voice.’
I stiffened up like a cock; a cock that was afraid of being attacked by a fox. What was he about to say? Gladdeningly, I didn’t have to wait long for the answer, because it was a conversation in real time.
‘Your broadcasting voice is solid enough, but it’s too nasal. If you ever want to make the leap to TV …’
‘I do, Des, I do,’ I thought to myself, but didn’t say out loud.
‘… then you want to pull the nasality up by about a quarter. And Alan?’
‘Yes, Lynam,’ I said, for some reason selecting to use his surname rather than his first name.