I, Partridge - Alan Partridge [63]
154 Antagonistic talkshow host Trisha now lives there.
155 Thanks again, Steve.
156 His loss. Monkey Tennis was later snapped up by TV stations in Laos and Taiwan and ran for two successful years – after which the format reached the end of its natural life and the monkeys were quickly and humanely destroyed.
Chapter 20
Proof that the Public Loved Me
READERS, PLEASE DON YOUR Kevlar body armour and retreat from the blast zone, taking care to position yourself behind a wall or stationary vehicle, because I am about to blow the lid on one of the most explosive incidents in my entire life. Women and children should remain indoors, keep away from the windows and await further instructions.
For extra dramatic impact I will now shift into the present tense.157 It’s a technique my editor at HarperCollins feels worked particularly well in the chapter where I described my own birth. And while he feels it worked less well in the section on being interrogated by the police after shooting a man, he does think it’s worth having another go. So here goes.
A small pink tongue emerges from a man’s mouth. It hesitates, as if blinded by the light, then darts left and right, greedily scouring the lips for any crumbs of moisture. It finds nothing, so starts again, this time more slowly, gliding over every crease and crevice like some sort of very thorough snake. Still nothing. It bows its head as if to say ‘no drink today then’, before slithering slowly back into the darkness.
Pan back to reveal that the tongue is mine (as is the mouth). We can tell by the look on my face that something’s wrong. It’s probably the eyes that give it away. The pupils have gone all dinky. I’m clearly stressed to buggery. A single bead of sweat trickles down my back like a rescue party sent to fetch help. But there is no help where it’s headed. There’s only my bottom.
I listen out for any noise. I haven’t got my hopes up but boy I’d love to hear the roar of an approaching 999 car. Sadly, the only sound to be heard is the slight squelch emanating from my sweat-savaged undies. Unsure of what to do next, I decide to sum up where I am and what is happening to me, just so it’s clear. The time is 4pm on 8 May 1997 and I’m being held captive in the home of deranged super-fan Jed Maxwell, I think to myself.
The day had begun so promisingly. I, Partridge was to conduct ‘An Afternoon with Alan Partridge’ at the Linton Travel Tavern. With Sue Cook as my ravishing special guest, it was to be a chance for me to re-connect with some of my most loyal fans. Yes they could call in and talk to me on my radio show every morning, but it wasn’t quite the same. They could never be 1000% sure that they weren’t just listening to someone doing a very good impression of my voice. For example Phil Cool, Rory Bremner or local impressionist James Galbraith (to my mind, the pick of the three – his Desmond Tutu is so good he almost doesn’t need to black up).
I’d toyed with the idea of doing an arena gig but quickly ruled it out. My fans (and any members of the hotel’s staff who’d excitedly asked to sit in – and not just to bulk out the numbers) deserved better than that. They deserved something more intimate. Not in a sexual sense you understand, though with Sue Cook in the room you couldn’t blame a chap for keeping his fingers crossed!! Seriously, you really couldn’t. I think she’s fit.
The format was to be looser than my TV show, firmer than my radio work. A fun chat with Sue about her life, loves and Crimewatch career, followed by an open Q&A with myself. And no topic would be off-limits, with the honourable exception of the recent hit on Jill Dando.
But there was another reason why I was fizzing with excitement like the sodium bicarbonate-rich soluble tablets mentioned in the last chapter. That morning I’d breakfasted with two senior execs from Irish TV channel RTE.158 As a combination of fruit juice, fried food and hot coffee settled in our contented tummies, we began to get to know one another.
The art of befriending a fellow human was one I had