I, Partridge - Alan Partridge [81]
‘We’re going for a quick drink, if you guys fancy it?’ says Pepsi/Shirlie.
‘Fancy it?’ says Alan. ‘Not half!’
Soon after, Alan, fellow DJ Jon Boyd, a couple of producers and Pepsi or Shirlie from Pepsi & Shirlie are sat in the bar of a Marriott hotel, enjoying pints of bitter (the men) and a wine (Pepsi/Shirlie).
Alan surveys the scene, throws his head back and laughs quietly. He’s made it. He’s really made it. He shakes his head slowly and basks in the euphoric glow of genuine happiness. And then someone nudges him.
‘Chocolate?’
It’s Pepsi/Shirlie. Alan looks down to see that she’s offering him a strange and unusual confectionery. Brown in colour but lightly pebble-dashed with white flecks, it comes in centimetre-wide segments that together form a rounded pentehedron shape.
He wouldn’t normally – even then he was prone to a fat back – but he’s in a celebratory mood and feels good. It’s a party atmosphere. A bit of fun. Sod it, why not? He takes one.
At that moment, his life changes forever.
(I’m going to revert to both the first person and the past tense now, because it’s quite tiring to write like that and I’ve just had a mug of hot milk.)
At that moment, my life changed forever.
The wallop of honey and almond nougat was the first to strike, the nutty sweetness further engorging my throbbing sense of happiness. Then came the hit of rich milk chocolate, its generous sugar content somehow taking me higher, my mind diving and soaring into a new ecstasy. I felt amazing, gold-plated, Vanden Plas.
We finished our drinks and went our separate ways, but that sensation of deliciousness, acceptance and professional success were, on a barely conscious level, now inextricably linked with Toblerones.
Over the years, I developed a taste for the Swiss delicacy. ‘Nothing I can’t handle,’ I’d always say. It was nothing out of the ordinary. I’d sometimes buy one of the small ones while queuing at a supermarket checkout or grab one to enjoy with a sandwich at a petrol station. I knew what I was doing. It was just a fun snack, a choc treat. After all, who doesn’t like Toblerone?
I thought nothing of this until, several years later, I was sexually assaulted (I had my pants removed and arse exposed) by hooligans at a live Comic Relief event. With incredible selfishness, many of the people who’d pledged money to the poor of Africa were only happy to see the cash reach the needy if they could first peer at my naked anus. When I refused, I was gang-debagged.
Badly shaken, I began to drive home. I was deeply embarrassed by what had happened and felt small, unappreciated and cheap. I wanted to eat a Toblerone. So I stopped into an Esso garage and ate a Toblerone. I felt a lot better and should have begun to wonder if there was some subconscious link between my self-confidence and the consumption of some Toblerone. Should have, but didn’t. That’s what addiction does – it makes you focus on little beyond the next fix.
Unwilling to confront my demons, I became steadily more keen on the chocolate snack, silently measuring any hardships I encountered in segments of Toblerone. Argument with Carol? Three slabs and I’ll be fine. Disparaging remark from passer-by? Two should do it. My assistant is being an idiot? Three, maybe four – but she really is pushing her luck.
But as my personal problems began to mount, so did my intake. After Carol left, I’d sometimes get up in the night and eat a whole Toblerone to myself. And I’m not talking about a small one – I mean a medium-sized one. On another occasion, I remember ruining a colleague’s birthday meal by eating a third of a Toblerone before joining them for dinner. Sated by the snack, I was unable to finish the lasagne she’d cooked and only had a small