I, Partridge - Alan Partridge [85]
Over the roar of the onrushing traffic, I heard her whinny. But because I hadn’t seen the incident, and because I knew almost nothing about horses, I assumed she was just laughing. The poor girl. By the time we got back to the stable her hoof looked like a split sausage.
She was fine in the end. Even more incredibly, she didn’t seem to blame me in any way. She bore no grudge.201 The dignity of these beasts. Mind-blowing.
After the rides I liked to stick around. I’d lean on the gate, unwrap a Twix and watch as the ponies got groomed. I’d marvel at the skill of the stable lads as they went to work with their hoof picks, shedding blades and dandy brushes. I really loved the fact that it was like a car-wash for horses. I really loved that fact.
Once one of the lads offered to let me have a go, but I got all shy and said ‘no’, even though I would have enjoyed it. Not a day goes by when I don’t think about that moment. What an error.
Over time, though, I did pluck up the confidence to join in the chit-chat.
‘Lovely grooming, John!’ I might shout.
‘Thanks, Mr Partridge,’ he might reply.
‘Except for the fact that there’s still shit on Prancer’s undercarriage!’ I might add. I had a smile on my face but we both knew it needed dealing with.
I don’t ride any more, haven’t done for a while. I stopped when Brokeback Mountain came out. I just didn’t feel comfortable. I do occasionally go on the stables’ website though. I like to see if they’ve uploaded any new pictures of Treacle. I also ‘friended’ her on Facebook. I know it’s not actually her that replies but it’s still nice.
Just as important as my mental health was my physical shape. Over the previous few years my body had become flooded with blubber. It was now home to over five stones of excess weight. There was no getting away from it, I was clinically chubbed-up. And it needed to change. I set about one of the most merciless exercise regimes in the history of Norwich.
In the last few years I estimated that I had spent somewhere in the region of £54,000 on Toblerone. That’s more than most unhappily married men spend on prostitutes in their whole lives. My assistant said that wasting so much money on treat-food was immoral, especially with so much starvation in places like Africa and parts of Norfolk. She said the devil had got inside me, which sounded serious at first, but she says that about most people, especially John Craven.
But first things first – I had to round up all the remaining Toblerones in my house and get rid of them. Going through my cupboards was easy. The problem came when I needed to find the secret stash. I knew that in the fug of a previous Swiss choc high I had hidden a bar somewhere in the house. But where?
Never before had I been so badly in need of a metal detector adapted to detect Toblerone. Instead I had to search myself, through the medium of my assistant. I (i.e. she) began by checking the cisterns of all three toilets. Then I (she) checked the underside of all tables and chairs. And then I (she) checked in the loft, during which I (she) fell from the stepladder and cracked my (her) head on the wall. But I found nothing.
It wasn’t until hours later that I (i.e. me – she’d taken the bus to casualty) found it, hidden in an air vent behind a wardrobe. It was just sat there looking at me, like some sort of confectionery Anne Frank. (God I hate the Nazis!)
I gathered what remained of my Toblerone supply into just six bin bags. I knew that the most cathartic thing to do would be to just give it all away. So that very afternoon I parked up at the local primary school, wound down my window, and handed bars out to the kids as they walked home. It was just a nice thing to do and the fact that the police were called says more about