I, Partridge (10 page)

But my new-found clout in Norfolk was probably most noticeable in my voiceover work. For years I’d played second fiddle to Pete Farley. Now this guy was good. Name any of the major advertising campaigns from ’86 through to ’91 (Dunfield Carpets, CDA Automotive, Arlo Wholefoods) and Farley was always there or thereabouts. All the rest of us got were the crumbs off his table.

It’s not even like we could go foraging into Suffolk for scraps. Because Farley had it sewn up there too. The first of a new breed, he was truly pan-Anglian. Rumour had it that his tentacles even stretched up the fens to Cambridge. The guy was bullet-proof.

Once in every while me and the rest of the boys would meet up for a few pints. As the guest ale flowed, we’d plot how to bring him to his knees. It was nothing sinister (we weren’t like that), we just wanted a fair shot at the big jobs. The exception to this – and he’ll chuckle when he reads this – was fellow voiceover artist Vic Noden (think ‘Asprey Motors – stunning vehicles, stunning prices’).

Now Noden would really do a number on Farley. By 9pm he’d have wished every terminal illness under the sun on him. By 10pm, and with us all the worse for wear, he’d have infected the wife too. And by closing time, well, let’s just say Farley’s kids weren’t long for this world either! We’d all be
crying
with laughter.

Except when we’d all bid each other good night, jumped in our cars and driven home, the same conclusion had always been reached. Farley could not be toppled.

And then one day along came
On the Hour
. All of a sudden, Alan Gordon Partridge was box office (in Norwich). No longer a quiet little mouse, now I would roar like a lion.
⁶⁷
Gone were the days of doing second-tier work for a few shekels here and there. Now some of the biggest names in corporate Norfolk were wangling four-figure deals in my face like a large willy. And believe me, it felt good.

The other day I pulled out my 1992 diary. I dusted it down, buffed it off and allowed myself a peek inside at the companies I’d lent my voice to. It read like a
Who’s Who
of the companies I’d done work for in ’92.

Work literally
rolled
in that year – most of it enjoyable. There was the odd engagement that I found unsettling, but you take the rough with the smooth. One spring evening, for example, I provided commentary over the PA for a private greyhound racing event for a group of local businessmen, at a track I’m not able to name. I was well paid and given unlimited buffet access but only realised at the last minute that the dogs were chasing an actual rabbit. And by then, I’d already committed to doing the commentary.

I fulfilled the commitment to the best of my abilities, consoling myself at the end of each race with the knowledge that I was being given a small window into what it would have been like in medieval times to be hung, drawn and quartered.

Yes, it was a busy time for me. To manage my affairs and also because I deserved one, I took on a personal assistant, a local spinster who lived with her mother. She’d worked in a very junior capacity at Radio Broadland in Great Yarmouth during my six months there, and while I wasn’t exactly blown away by her ability or attitude, I noticed that she was affordable.

But it wasn’t just in my VO work that things were changing. I was receiving the kind of countywide exposure that few of the Norfolk alumni had ever experienced. Okay, I wasn’t yet in Delia Smith’s league but I was certainly in Bernard Matthews territory. And when you’re being spoken of in the same breath as the country’s leading farmyard-to-table strategist, how could you
not
become a monster?

As the months rolled by, keeping my feet on the ground was becoming ever harder. I remember picking up the post from the mat one day and just standing there, stunned. I’d opened an innocuous-looking envelope to find – and I’m shaking just to think about it – a Burton’s Gold Card. The grand-daddy of all high-street store cards, it not only came with a complimentary shoe horn, but also entitled the bearer to free alterations on every suit purchased.

Yet something wasn’t adding up. I hadn’t even come close to hitting the £500 annual spending threshold required to ‘go gold’. And they knew it. I just couldn’t get my head around it. It couldn’t be real. It was probably just an admin error or a cruel wheeze dreamt up by some of the lads at Radio Norwich. But the more I looked at it, the more I realised it was the real deal. No, there was no getting away from it. Someone
very
senior at BHQ (Burton Headquarters) had decided that, just to curry favour with Alan Partridge, it was worth breaking one of the most non-negotiable rules in UK retailing.

I felt my legs start to buckle beneath me and reached out to steady myself on the bannister. I had dreamt of this moment for years. I tried to call out to Carol and the kids, but my voice failed. All that came out was a strangled whisper: ‘Guys, I’ve gone gold.’

And with that, I lost consciousness.

I remember boarding a Norwich-to-London train one Friday morning in late 1991 when something extraordinary happened. On the platform I’d come across a young man who’d just returned from fighting in Gulf War One. He’d lost both his legs after being on the receiving end of a road-side bomb and (probably quite rightly) had been decorated with every award for bravery. As the train came in we got aboard and sat down next to one another. Naturally I couldn’t wait to start quizzing him about the almost comical mismatch between the domestically-built T-72 tanks used by the Iraqis and the far superior M1 Abrams and Challenger 1s under the command of the Americans and British respectively. (I’d even heard impressive reports about the Kuwait M-84AB.) But I would never get the chance.

I’d only been sat down a matter of seconds when a hush descended over the carriage. People were looking my way. Suddenly, like a scene from a very good movie, one passenger started clapping. Then another and another until, soon, the entire carriage had joined in the applause. Some people were shouting the word ‘hero’ or ‘thank you’. It was as if all my years of selfless commitment to the Norfolk community were being recognised in this one spontaneous outpouring of emotion. Not by the mealy-mouthed critics or the slippery commissioners but by the most important people of all – the normal, everyday man on the street/train. I just sat there motionless, allowing myself to be sprayed in the face and body with a high-pressure jet of public appreciation. Never before have I felt so humbled.

If there was one disappointing aspect to this, it was that the young soldier next to me was the only person not to applaud. I know he’d lost both his legs, but you don’t clap with your feet. I thought about taking it up with him but thought better of it. No, I said to myself, be the bigger man, let it slide. He may have publicly humiliated you, but look at it this way – if you ever needed to go head-to-head with him in an impromptu limb audit, there would only be one winner. And with that thought, the train pulled away.

It was a full week later that I realised my mistake. They’d been clapping for the military amputee. Every man jack of them. And there I’d been, drunk on the ale of celebrity, arrogantly assuming that their thanks and praise had been heaped at me.

I felt ashamed. In an act of contrition, I grounded myself for a week and denied myself access to the BBC club. If I could have given my legs to that soldier, after being killed in a car accident perhaps, I definitely would have done.

In the end, I just got my assistant to leave a box of chocolates on a cenotaph. I was going to leave a card with it, but I thought it would look a bit too much like the Milk Tray man – which would have rubbed salt in their wounds, given their mobility issues.

I felt so stupid because, without exception, those guys out there – whether they’re disabling landmines, driving tanks or photographing inmates – are
all
heroes.

64
Press play on Track 14.

65
This isn’t swearing. Her cheeks were host to several burst blood vessels.

66
Press play on Track 15.

67
Literally in the case of Fairview Ride-On Lawnmowers. ‘Fairview, we’re kings of the jungle. Rooooaaaarrrrr!!!!’

Chapter 9
The Move to TV

AND THEN CAME THE
news that the programme was to be transferred to BBC television.
⁶⁸
Our editor Steven Eastwood had found out at noon and busily set about sharing the good news. But these, don’t forget, were the days before mobile phones. And I wasn’t in the office. I was in Ealing. I’d heard that BP had done a pretty awesome job on the refurb of one of their garages, so I’d driven over to take a look.

I was not disappointed. Things got off to a flying start before I’d even turned my engine off.
What
a forecourt. Crisp new signage, beautifully re-laid tarmac, they’d even installed the new generation of pumps I’d read so much about. With 20% more nozzle pressure, the petrol just flew into the tank. Apparently as you filled up you could actually feel the power of the gush through the handle.

And the shop! It was like a newsagents, a supermarket and a Halfords all rolled into one. For the hungry driver in particular, the pickings were rich. My eyes darted across the chill cabinets. Microwave pasties, reheat-and-eat pies, packaged sandwiches – the choice of perishables was truly humbling. As I stood there drinking in the whole incredible experience, one thing was abundantly clear to me: I was witnessing the start of a whole new era of petrol station excellence. And so it turned out to be
⁶⁹
.
⁷⁰

To some of you it might seem weird that I was so damn buzzed up by a petrol station. But all I can say is that I must have sensed something in the air. And sure enough, when I got back to the office, Eastwood told me about our impending transfer from wireless to goggle-box.

‘Alan, the show’s moving to TV!’

‘OMG,’ I spluttered, inadvertently inventing the now-popular acronym.

‘We found out this morning but you weren’t around,’ he went on. ‘I’d have phoned you but mobile phones haven’t yet reached mainstream adoption,’ his shrug seemed to add.

I didn’t mind, though, because there was only one thought in my mind – my career was about to go megastrophic.

Soon enough, launch day arrived. And right from the off, things just clicked. They say a chain is only as strong as its weakest link. Yet from Christopher Morris (anchor) to Rosie May (environment) to Ted Maul (replacing Kev Smear as roving reporter) to Peter O’Hanraha-hanrahan (economics editor) to yours truly (sport) there simply was no weak link.

In fact, the consensus was that the show – renamed
The Day Today
– worked even better on telly. Viewers said they preferred it, because now they could see us, whereas before they had to make up what we looked like in their heads. By way of example, a lot of folks said they expected me to have far nicer eyes.

I also insisted on doing my studio reports with the word ‘sport’ in massive letters behind me (see picture section). Some people thought this was ego. In fact it was a savvy move designed to keep the deaf on-side.

The Day Today
was a plum job, though, and I knew it. Okay, I wasn’t especially chummy with my colleagues but that was alright by me. I wasn’t invited to Rosie May’s birthday drinks, Peter O’Hanraha-hanrahan’s summer BBQ or the funeral of Ted Maul’s little girl (though to be fair, neither was anyone else). But who cares/cared? Not me! You don’t have to be best buddies with your work-mates to enjoy your job. And I certainly wasn’t (best buddies), but certainly did (enjoy job).

More worrying was the risk of my job being given to someone else. Occasionally certain young BBC starlets (Ryder, Irvine, Bonnet) would start circling, keen for a piece of my sports beat. But I was fiercely protective of my patch. I was like a lady swan guarding her cygnets. If anyone came too close, I would rear up, spread my wings and chase them across the park. And if they happened to be accompanied by the family dog, then I’m sorry but that dog was going down.

I still believe I was right to be defensive – and, on occasion, orally threatening – because for a sports journalist in particular, the early 90s was a time of plenty. Whether reporting for radio or TV, the country was awash and a-slosh with sporting giants. Never mind interviewing them, it’s an honour just to say the names of these sporting greats. I’d often sit at home, saying them aloud, letting their names drench my teeth and gums like a good-quality fluoride mouthwash.
⁷¹

In athletics there was Linford Christie, Sally Gunnell and the not unattractive Fatima Whitbread. On the track we were witness to the derring-do of Nigel Mansell, in the ring the very hard punches of Frank Bruno and out at the crease the swashbuckling style of Ian Botham, known to friends and colleagues simply as ‘Beef’.

And I, Partridge was lucky enough to meet them all. Just the other night I sat down in front of my roaring gas fire, poured myself a glass of bitter and totted up all the sports stars I’ve met over the years. The grand total: 116. Not bad for a young lad from Norwich. Not bad at all.

If pushed, though, I’d have to say my favourite was Sally Gunnell.
⁷²
Not only did she insist on competing with a full face of make-up and a big, ballsy squirt of perfume, but she was also ruddy good company.

In 1991 I was sent out to Tokyo to cover the Athletics World Championships. Sally was taking part in the 400m hurdles (for women). We all watched as she quite literally overcame all the obstacles put in her way to romp home to a creditable second place. Yes, Gunnell had silvered.