I, Partridge - Alan Partridge [61]
I knew that scaling back my schedule of cold-calling might look like I’d lost some of my hunger and I didn’t want to give that impression at all, so I kept trying. At the same time, I didn’t want to sound like a broken record because I’m not. So I displayed my creative side in my correspondence. I’d send him a teddy with a note saying ‘Alan can BEARly wait to get started on series 2’, or a honey-roast ham with the message, ‘When can we MEAT?’
I was on the verge of stopping because this approach was costing me a fortune and I was running out of puns. But then the call came. ‘Tony wants to meet.’
I was a bit disappointed by this, because I didn’t see the need for a meeting. Why wouldn’t he just bike over contracts for the next series? I thought that was a bit off actually (still do) but, ever the professional, I just said: ‘Fine.’
‘He’s booked a table in the BBC restaurant, Friday at 1.’
I knew for a fact this establishment served ‘modern European’ whereas I’d hoped we could meet at a TGI Friday because I wanted something with chips. So I politely declined, but then reconsidered and called back very quickly to accept.
Victory at last. I phoned down to hotel reception and told them I’d be moving out at the end of the week and then asked my assistant to find me a house that befitted a prime-time TV personality. She found one.154
I then phoned arrogant breakfast DJ Dave Clifton and laughed into the receiver for ages. It was important that I wasn’t triumphalist about being recommissioned but equally it was essential that I got one over on Dave Clifton. This felt like a happy medium.
Two days later I was buying a five-bedroomed house to live in. I didn’t expect Carol to come back to me but, knowing that she was living in a four-bedroomed residence, it was out of the question that I would live somewhere inferior when I was to be one of the faces of BBC television for the next decade.
As I was inspecting the facilities, the BBC called. Unable to wait until Friday, they brought the meeting forward. I had one hour to deodorise and get to TV Centre. Tough call. Ingeniously, I ended up doubling up on the two tasks by getting my assistant to hold the wheel on the A140 while I reached into my shirt and swabbed my pits generously with a roll-on.
I felt, looked and smelt fresh and was in high spirits, electing to forego a conversation role-play in favour of a singalong to The Very Very Best of Tears for Fears. (Their album was actually called The Very Best of Tears for Fears but I didn’t like ‘The Way You Are’ or ‘Woman in Chains’ and had taped it on to a C90 minus these two tracks, then renamed it to create a compilation that really was the crème de la cream of their output.)
Hayers came down to the restaurant door as I was deep in conversation with Steve Rider (I’d called Steve on the way and asked him to meet me there and engage me in ‘high-level chat’ to impress Hayers.)155
‘… and I’ll get Barry Sheene to bloomin’ well explain himself when I next interview him,’ I concluded as Hayers approached. In my peripheral vision, I could see he was as impressed as anyone would be by my casual mention of a former motorcycle world champ who was by now half-metal.
We sat down and Hayers began to make small talk.
‘My Lunn Poly brochure arrived this morning so I’ve just been looking at holidays,’ he started.
I could tell something was wrong – he was nervous, shifty. I ordered food and wine for us both – a nice German wine, some Italian food and UK water – as he tried to manufacture some chit-chat. This is so BBC, I thought. (Try meeting someone in the BBC and taking the lift with them – I guarantee they’ll make some comment about the lift being slow or full. They are inane.)
‘Portugal is supposed to be nice,’ he stuttered.
‘Cut the sweet shit, twinkle toes,’ I said, like a latter-day Jack Regan. If I smoked I’d have stubbed it out at that moment. Instead, I set down