I, Partridge - Alan Partridge [66]
My guess is wrong. Maxwell twists my arm and fixes me in a headlock. Clever. He knows that one wrong move from me and my head will be ripped clean off. I have to act fast. Quick as a flash, I elbow him in the nuts, nodding as I hear the satisfying thud of bone on gland. I’ve just turned his testicles into a couple of bollock pancakes. And it feels good. ‘Would you like lemon juice with them, sir?’ I roar, inside my head.
Fear still ripples through me like it does in that flavour of ice-cream I mentioned earlier, but my will to survive is strong. No, Maxwell, Alan Partridge isn’t ready to die just yet. Despite the fact that my wife has left me and my kids rarely take my calls, I have a wife and kids to live for. At this point he’s still doubled up. I charge over and – bang, bang – head-butt him twice in the back. He screeches like an alley cat. ‘Looks like I got the kidneys then!’ I roar, still inside my head.
I quickly consider my next attack. Time for a bunch of fives, methinks. Looking around I see Maxwell catching his breath. Then, like an animal rearing up on to its hind legs, or like a human standing up, he stands up. I send a command to my brain. Instantly the fingers of my right hand start to curl inwards. Within seconds a fist has been formed. I launch it directly at my assailant’s eye. ‘Delivery for Mr Maxwell!’ I roar, this time remembering to say it out loud.
‘Really – what is it?’ his furrowed brow seems to ask.
‘A knuckle sandwich!’ my fist replies.
Somehow recovering from the force of the blow, Maxwell picks up a chair and swings it at my brain. I duck, thwarting him with the sheer speed of my knee bend. Now on my haunches, I have an idea. Tucking my head into my chest I launch into a ferocious forward roll. It skittles the insane super-fan in the blink of an eye.
For several minutes we thrash around on the floor like Tarzan and that crocodile (I’m Tarzan, he’s the croc). If I’m honest the rolling around does little to advance the fight and causes neither of us any injuries. We get back to our feet. Maxwell now has me by the throat. We both know we are entering the endgame. He thinks he’s got me, I can see it on his ugly mug, but he’s not counted on one thing – POW! – I floor him with a classic one-inch punch. Textbook stuff, a real gut-buster.161
With Maxwell fighting for air, I see my chance and make haste for the exit. But before I can reach my car, he’s giving chase. In his hand is some sort of weapon. I don’t get a chance to look properly but my hunch is that it is either a gun or the brush from a dustpan and brush. In a split second I’ve reached my car, slid across the bonnet and got inside. I crank the ignition. The gentle throb of the Rover’s British-made two-litre engine is as comforting as a nice big hug from Mummy (would have been, were she still alive). Before Maxwell can reach me I wind down the window and holler something witty. It may have intimated that he was mentally and physically disabled, I forget now.
As I put the pedal to the metal he’s tearing after me. Yet for the first time since I entered his house, I’m starting to feel confident – the Rover 800 can out-accelerate most cars in its class, never mind a sprinting nut-case. But as I ease her into third, a wry smile dancing across my increasingly moist lips, I spot something awful. I’m driving down a dead end! I slam on the brakes and can’t believe it when the car comes to a halt without careering through the fence. Then again, I had bought British.
By now Maxwell is almost upon me. I bolt from the car, swivel on my heels and begin to sprint, leaping over a five-foot stile like it isn’t there. I hurtle across a farmer’s field, my legs eating up the ground, my arms pumping like the pistons of a big Victorian steam engine. It doesn’t even matter that I’m wearing a shirt, tie and blazer, nor that instead of running spikes I have on faux-leather shoes bought from a supermarket.
Within minutes I have sprinted for what is surely about four miles. More to the point, Maxwell has given