I, Partridge - Alan Partridge [64]
And so it was that by the end of our pleasantly greasy breakfast, myself and the RTE execs had hit it off in what I can only describe as ‘a big way’. Better still, they had agreed to attend AAWAP (An Afternoon with Alan Partridge). We shook hands. ‘If this goes well, Alan, we’d be prepared to take the format (minus Sue Cook) and put it directly on to primetime telly on the Emerald Isle. And don’t worry about having to relocate to Ireland. You could just come over one day a week to record the show. Obviously we’d sort out your flights for you. Or, if you wanted to get the ferry we’d pay for your petrol for the run up to Holyhead and sort you out a cabin. And if you do buy any snacks on-board just keep your receipts and we’ll get you reimbursed within 28 days,’ their handshake seemed to say. I was deeply encouraged.
But then, disaster: I received word that Sue Cook had bailed on me. Incandescent with rage, I slammed my fist down on the reception desk. Such was the ferocity of the blow that it left a noticeable dent in the granite. I know their handshake had seemed to suggest that Sue wasn’t a deal-breaker but it was too late, my confidence was shot to ribbons, pieces and buggery. Oh Cooky, I thought to myself, you are as unreliable as you are fit – i.e., very.
Sure enough, the show was a disaster. Some months later Michael, the kindly ex-Forces Travel Tavern employee, had attempted to put things in perspective. After all, I hadn’t shot any of my guests dead. Neither had anyone been punched in the face with a turkeyed hand. And in a way he was right, but in the heat of the moment I couldn’t see it like that. To my mind I’d just done a show that sucked some pretty big bum hole.
Worse still, the Irish televisual twosome had left. I gave chase and intercepted them in the foyer. Never before had they looked so Irish. I’ve no idea what that meant, but I do remember thinking it. Somehow I managed to smooth their ruffled emerald feathers, at which point they asked if they could come back to my house to talk further. I could hardly say no. In Ireland, due to a shortage of office facilities, it’s quite normal to have a strategic business meeting in another man’s lounge. The problem of course was that I had nowhere to take them. Only months earlier I had been comprehensively de-housed by Carol.
It was now that Maxwell had entered the story. To save my blushes, he had offered me the use of his bungalow. He would pose as my flat-mate/bungalow buddy and all would be well. Except when we reached his home, all wasn’t well.
The first problem came in his choice of art. Over my mantelpiece there’s a painting of a country church with a herd of geese wandering past. Over Maxwell’s there was a painting of a topless female biker, her hair flailing in the wind, her nipples standing to attention like a couple of boob soldiers.
Yet all that would have been fine – after all, breasts are just sacks of fat at the end of the day – if it hadn’t been for the other room in Maxwell’s home. Maintaining the ruse that this was actually my house was proving pretty tense, so I’d gone to the toilet to piddle out some stress. Except I didn’t know where the toilet was and when I’d pushed open the nearest door and entered the room – whoops! – I’d stumbled into this terrifying shrine to yours truly. And it’s at this point that I’ll return you to the powerful immediacy of my present-tense writing.
Fear ripples through me like the raspberry in a raspberry ripple ice-cream. I look