I, Partridge - Alan Partridge [65]
Immediately I figure out that Maxwell isn’t a good Samaritan, he’s a dangerously obsessed super-fan. But the RTE executives behind me see it differently, viewing it as evidence that I’m an East Anglian egomaniac. They flee before you can say ‘Gerry Adams’.
I scan the walls. Some of his pictures have come from magazines and newspapers, but to my horror others have been captured with a telephoto lens. I’m now incredibly nervous and give voice to this in the form of a very loud gulp. Yet at the same time I can’t help but notice that Maxwell’s photos are actually very good, especially because many have been taken while crouching behind bins, squirrelled away in bushes or – Jesus of Nazareth! – hidden inside my shed.
I particularly like one shot of me stepping out of the shower, circa 1994. Don’t worry, reader, you can’t see my privates. In fact, Maxwell has cleverly used the cactus on the window-sill as a kind of photographic loin cloth. But what it does capture is a certain muscularity. This was the year, don’t forget, when I had set myself the goal of being able to do a one-armed press-up. And while I was destined never to succeed, all the gym work had left me with a body that would not have looked out of place in a magazine for men who like to look at other men.159
Yet what really draws me to this photo, what really speaks to me, is its portrayal of my hidden vulnerability. Sure there’s the raw, animal power of my physique, but there is also an essential fragility to my personality. And that’s communicated with real poignancy by the fact that there’s nothing more than a spiky Mexican plant shielding the world from my freshly washed penis and balls.
Yes, I like Maxwell’s work very much indeed. But there’s no time to dwell on this. ‘I’ve got something to show you, Alan.’ Blocking the doorway, Maxwell removes his shirt and utters a sentence I will never forget. ‘I’ve had a scale drawing of your face tattooed on my stomach.’
For a split second I think maybe it’s one of those transfers you used to get free with bubble gum. But no, it’s too big, too complex to simply be an old-fashioned lick-and-peel. It really is a tattoo. Though one thing it isn’t, is to scale. Even with fear muddying my senses, I refuse to accept that my face is as big as a torso.
The next thing I know, Maxwell has donned a plastic Alan Partridge face mask. Although not official Partridge merchandise, these masks are nevertheless a lot of fun. Still available from www.maskplanet.com/partridgeface at £9.99 for ten (excluding postage), they’re ideal for parties of all kinds. All I ask is that they not be used for Halloween. Have a bit of respect.
It’s now that things take a worrying turn for the worse. In what I fear may be the first stage of some form of ritualistic sacrifice, Maxwell begins to chant a terrifying noise. Avian in nature, I think perhaps it’s bird song, a crow maybe. To my relief it turns out that he’s just shouting my well-known TV catch-phrase (‘Aha! Aha! Aha!’), but the panic has galvanised me. I need to get out of here.
My only concern is that he may be preparing to use a weapon. If it comes to hand-to-hand combat I have every confidence that I can take him down. As a teen I’d been schooled in the ways of Judo. I chose not to progress to the very top belts as I knew I was becoming capable of badly hurting someone with the sheer proficiency of my self-defence techniques. The thought of breaking my opponent’s arm, or ensuring that his shoulders remained in contact with the mat for a count of three, only to discover 20 years later that he had become, say, head of Norfolk’s biggest Range Rover dealership, made my blood run cold.
Fair enough I’m not karate world champ Jackie Chan, but nevertheless there’s a certain sense of invincibility that comes with knowing that 30 years ago you were awarded a green belt in Judo.160 My guess