I, Partridge - Alan Partridge [39]
Having salvaged BBC2, I set about making the best show that had ever been on it. Knowing Me Knowing You would be broadcast from a studio 25% larger than Aspel & Company’s and make use of a house band (a trait subsequently appropriated by US talk shows such as Letterman and Conan O’Barian).
Finding the band was easy. I’d seen local musician Glen Ponder rock the joint at a Norwich wine bar months before. Dressed in tails and armed only with a baton, he was the conductor to what was essentially a pub band – a needlessly high-brow touch that I felt would fit well with the tone of my show.
And finally, after months of slog (made more complicated by Lisa’s vindictive employment tribunal), we were ready. I was to become a star.
86 Not racist.
Chapter 12
Glen Ponder, Musician87
SAY WHAT YOU LIKE about Glen Ponder – and I have, frequently – but he was a virtuoso conductor of lounge music, possibly the most talented easy-listening batonsman of his era. He and his loyal band of minstrels (musicians) were a fixture on the Norwich music scene, effortlessly able to switch between the rival demands of a wine bar, a hotel lobby or a shopping mall forecourt. He was that versatile. As soon as I saw him and his band in action, I knew they must be given a big break. By me.
Glen had just finished an awe-inspiring during-dinner set at Café Symphony in Norwich (now, at long last, a Nando’s) when I decided to broach it. I followed him to his bus stop.
‘Mr Ponder,’ I shouted as I approached.
‘Let’s have it then, fucker!’ he said, wheeling round and baring his fists and clenching his teeth. I pretended not to notice and ploughed on.
‘Great set back there, man,’ I said, using the word ‘man’ so he knew I was familiar with modern music. ‘Magnificent tracks.’
He looked at me in order to size me up and gauge my intentions. His breathing was shallow and his eyes were wild. I had to say something.
‘Are you okay?’ I said in a quiet soothing voice, as if I was a Conductor Whisperer. He was instantly becalmed.
‘Sorry about that,’ he said, now at ease. ‘I thought you were a mugger.’
Glen, it turned out, was responsible for collecting up the coins that were tossed at the band, carrying them home and piggy-banking them. As such, he was often targeted by youths, vagrants and Scots.
Clearly, I was none of these things and we were able to strike up a conversation.
‘Wanna be a star?’ I asked, casually, pretending to inspect my fingernails. He just looked at me.
‘I’m Alan Partridge,’ I said, but he looked at me even more blankly. ‘From Radio 4’s Knowing Me Knowing You,’ I added. Still nothing. Then I added The Day Today and On the Hour, fruitlessly. I listed several other pieces of my work, but it wasn’t until I mentioned Scoutabout that the penny dropped. Flippin’ Scoutabout.
Undeterred, I suggested that he and his band sign up with me. He agreed there and then, before we’d even discussed terms or mentioned money – which I found both refreshing and a bit desperate. But I remembered a piece of advice I’d been given by Bernard Matthews – ‘It’s when they’re tired, desperate and hungry that they’re at their most compliant’ – and I suddenly knew that this could work out very well indeed.
Of course, it didn’t. I made Glen and his group Brandysnaps88 my house band and, while not expecting an unending gush of gratitude, I was anticipating a little bit of respect. What I got from Glen, alongside rank amateurism and off-kilter comic timing, was literally a slap in the face89 – and that hurt me. It hurt me a lot.90
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