I, Partridge (31 page)

Pete had a stunning Ukrainian girlfriend, a decade his junior, and arranged similar girlfriends for six or seven of us. Mine was probably the second best.
²³¹

Lithe, smooth-skinned and so youthful I’d started pubing before she was even born, I couldn’t help but notice that she was a svelte, effortless size eight. In other words, she’d achieved through genetics and poverty the exact body shape that Carol had been fruitlessly striving for since she was 20. Just a thought!

And right from the off, it was an exciting time. I think I’ve mentioned what a lot of sex we had? Ever the joker, she bought a window sticker that said, ‘If the caravan’s rocking, don’t come knocking!’ And I made my own one that said, ‘If it looks like we’re having sexual intercourse in here, please respect our privacy!’

I was in two minds about whether to include intimate details of my sex life in this book, but I read a pamphlet in a dentist’s waiting room which said that it was healthy and important to speak openly about sexual issues, so I will. If Carol is reading, that’s her lookout.

Sex with Carol was all very sedate. It was effective – at least two of our copulations resulted in children – but sedate.

With Sonja, it was much more spontaneous. What I like to call smash and grab sex. Or a ram raid!! Sonja delighted in the spontaneity of our sexual salad days and relished my playfulness.

Using the full area of the caravan, I liked to pretend to be a KGB agent. But as a Ukrainian who had spent half of her life as part of the Eastern bloc, she’d rather pretend to be an East German gypsy, so I’d be the Stasi. I’d ask to see her papers before mounting her from behind over the twin hobs that were concealed beneath a work surface. She’d pretend to be confused and … I think you get the idea, gents. At that point we must draw down a veil.

Suffice to say it ended with us showering off, and me returning to my normal accent (Sonja had retained hers) before we’d both settle down to a quick boil-in-the-bag curry while watching a VHS of Taggarts and Magnums, the austere greyness of those Glaswegian skyscapes contrasting perfectly with the sunshine of
Magnum P.I.
, like a TV detective yin and yang.

But it was more than sexual. Apart from the lots of sex we were having, Sonja had plenty more to offer. She had a wonderful anti-ageing effect on me, like Oil of Olay has on a middle-aged woman’s cracked, craggy skin. Energetic, boisterous and really very zesty,
²³²
she loved to laugh – boy, how she loved to laugh – and had a relatively infectious giggle. I’m glad to say that was the only infectious thing about her – I had her fully checked out before
anything
happened. (A lot of nonsense is spoken about germs passed from one to another. There’s
nothing
more unsexy than talking about venereal disease – when I’m with a new lover, I merely casually suggest/insist that we take a hot bath together with three caps of Dettol, an activity that is sexy
and
hygienic.)

All in all, Sonja had that indiscriminate fun-loving quality that you often find with people from post-Soviet regimes. It’s as if their people have cast off the state-imposed grumpiness of Communism and are now grabbing life with both hands. After a while, of course, it becomes incredibly tiresome. But Sonja’s love of practical jokes, sex, laughter, chintzy homeware and relentless intercourse was a sometime source of periodic happiness for quite a while.

We broke up just hours after the house was completed. She was understandably miffed by this but, as I explained patiently in rudimentary English, it was a new build so I wanted shoes off at the door – and she was hopeless at remembering to do that.

You know that phrase, if you love someone set them free? I’ve always liked the sound of that – even if its logic is plainly horseshit. It’s the equivalent of saying, ‘If you like beefburgers, don’t eat them’ or ‘If you hate London, go and live there.’ Instead, I’ve adapted it slightly to read, ‘If you don’t love someone and don’t want to hang around with them any more, set them free’. It just makes more sense.

Breaking the news to her wasn’t easy. We’d been living together for a year and a half for goodness sake, and she’d often talked about marriage – ideally to me, but at a push anyone with UK citizenship. This was a big deal for her.

So I locked myself in the bathroomette and got my assistant to do it. She broke the news with some relish – a bit too much if you ask me. Of course, Sonja was devastated. She kept banging on the door and telling me to come out and face her. Knowing she was from a former Soviet country where human rights atrocities are commonplace, I had no idea what she was capable of, so I had no choice but to stay inside.

‘Come out, Alan!’ she was shouting.

Through the door, I could hear my assistant trying to placate/fib to her. ‘He’s not in there any more,’ she attempted. ‘He clambered out of the window and ran off.’ I winced at her utter inability to lie and pledged to fine her £10 later on.

‘Alan, I love you!’ she kept shouting (Sonja, not my assistant – urgh). Poor kid, I thought as I did my belt up. (I was in the toilet anyway so thought I might as well make use of it.) But I became less sympathetic with each shout, because it was repetitive and, other than the theme tune to
Ski Sunday
, I don’t like repetitive noises.

She stayed for absolutely ages. I found this irritating because I’d promised to send a showreel to Bid-Up TV and the post office was going to shut. After a few hours she calmed down and sloped off, but I’d missed the last post and never got that BUTV job. Shame, because it was one of my favourite channels and I used to practise the patter in the shower, imagining I was selling Radox or a bath mitt.

And so I moved into the house alone – a big space for one certainly, but I liked that, sometimes running around the building with a makeshift cape around my collar. It had four good-sized bedrooms and I used to alternate between rooms 1 and 4, leaving 2 (Fernando’s) and 3 (Denise’s) untouched in case they dropped by and needed to go to sleep. Still do!

And Sonja? Well, she and I are still very close – in the sense that she’s now my cleaner. I wish things had turned out differently but I’m glad they didn’t.

217
The finishing touch was to be a boot scraper outside the front door. When I see one of those outside a house I think, ‘They know which way to vote at a General Election!’

218
One of the very, very few.

219
I may be wrong about this, but he looks like he could be gypsy. I’m not sure of his ethnicity but I’m reliably informed he once tried to put a curse on Leo Sayer after an argument over the bill in an Indian restaurant.

220
Still clueless over that one.
Animals
.

221
The name was registered but no business was ever conducted.

222
Postscript – it turned out my assistant’s mum died of colon cancer anyway, so I was absolved/vindicated.

223
‘Fail to prepare? Prepare to fail!’ – as I once had engraved on the underside of a watch that I’ve subsequently never worn.

224
‘Every Breath You Take’ – The Police with Sting.

225
North Norfolk Digital Listener Survey, June 2011.

226
So-called because of the time of day it was broadcast and because that’s where Dave was heading if he didn’t cut down on the booze.

227
And it was always bitter.

228
Manual masturbatory relief by a consenting foreign hand.

229
Press play on Track 39. Check out the video!!!!

230
I won’t say too much. I’ve no doubt she’ll be reading this. She still sends me Christmas cards with glitter glued on to a picture of Our Lord with a sort of Ready Brek glow around him and inside the inscription says, For unto us this day a child is born (which is fair enough). But I’ve always found her continued correspondence a
bit
desperate.

231
My favourite thing about her? Her backside.

232
NB – check word exists.

Chapter 31
Forward Solutions™

I AWOKE AT 3AM
to find sweat pouring from all over my body. Something wasn’t right.

But how could this be? I’d
bounced
back. I was in solid fettle. Slim, happy, professionally successful, I was a published author no less! Things were going fine for me. So what gave?

It wasn’t until after I’d made toilet that things started to fall into place. Whether it was a brainwave triggered by the exhilaration of one of my best ever slashes, or the blissful relaxation engendered by crouching in the half-light, flannelling sweat from my undercarriage, I’ll probably never know. But it was at that moment that my destiny took shape.

Yes, things were going fine for
me
. But, as I’ve always modestly insisted, it’s not all about me. There are people out there who are lonely, weak, vulnerable, obese, not on the radio, poverty-stricken, drugged to the nines on smack pipes. Things were going fine for me, but what about them? The underpoor, the badlings, the shitsam and flopsam. What could I, Alan Partridge, do for them?

It was obvious. I had a responsibility to give. I had a god-given duty to help others. It was incumbent upon me, Alan Partridge, to summon up everything I’d learnt while bouncing back and run after-work Forward Solutions™ courses for a special corporate rate
²³³
of £299.98 per head, ex VAT.
²³⁴

A man who does manual labour for a living once accused me of being arrogant. My crime? Taking my wisdom and sharing it with people who would never develop it off their own bat.

Is that arrogant, do you think? To genuinely help people less savvy than you? When Gandhi advocated non-violent resistance or when Moses parted the Red Sea, were
they
being arrogant? Well yes, maybe Moses was a little bit jazz-hands, but leaders need a little showmanship. It’s what Jesus of Nazareth would have had in mind as he turned loaves and fishes into five thousand tuna butties.
²³⁵

So no, not arrogant. Helpful.

‘It’s not arrogant, it’s helpful,’ I said, wishing I’d never wound my window down to address him. He was holding a Stop/Go lollipop while his ‘colleagues’ spread gravel across one lane of the carriageway. You would not find a candidate more in need of night school and a shave. And, in a nice way, I’d said so.

I was in the early evangelical flush of Forward Solutions™ – keen to get out there and improve lives. So I’d slapped the door of the Lexus and suggested that if he improved his literacy and appearance he ‘could drive one of these’.

What followed had been good Samaritanism thrown back in my face. So I explained that I was a force for good.

‘Yeah, but only if folk want helping,’ he spluttered, unintellectually. ‘Tha’s no right to come up t’ folk and t’ tell ’em wot’s right and what’s not, tha dunt. I’m happy as I am.’

He made me think about all the funny things Jez Clarkson says about the working class. I thought, ‘Wow. If Clarkson could hear this spiel, he’d have a
field day
, laughing along with me at this guy’s working classness.’ No doubt we’d end up down the pub swapping stories about people with no money.
²³⁶

‘My friend,’ I said, ‘you’re wearing a high-visibility jacket over a t-shirt that says “Rage Against the Machine” on it – the only machine here is that generator and if you were to rage against that, it’d be riding rough shod over basic health and safety. Not a good look, hombre!’

And with that quip, I revved my engine, ready to speed off. There was no traffic in either direction so I was ready to slam her into first and really let rip. You snub my advice, I’m going to deliver a quip and then drive past you fast – it’s that simple.

But he just stood there watching me, the Stop side of the lollipop facing my way. I revved louder to let him know I was eager to drive past him fast but he seemed not to notice.

I started to become anxious. The more time that elapsed between my acid put-down and me driving off fast, the less it would seem like a conversational flourish – it’d just look irresponsible. I revved again. Still nothing.

I called out to him but he didn’t seem to hear me. This was really annoying. On the off chance that he might be about to turn the lolly round I repeated the ‘Not a good look, hombre’ bit to give it proximity to my driving away. But then a full five minutes passed.

With my requests falling on deaf ears, I got out of the car and approached him.
²³⁷
I was just about to ask him to turn the lollipop to Go when he did just that. I trudged back to the car and pulled steadily away.

I learnt something that day. That
unsolicited
life coaching was inadvisable. If people don’t pay for it, they don’t appreciate it. Even during the Sermon on the Mount there must have been a couple of Sinai-based goat herders who wished Christ would just eff off.

Also, it’s not a sustainable business model, and at least by charging a fee you cut out the true bottom feeders – who are probably beyond help anyway. My advice is more for amateur businessmen, shopkeepers, even people who rent out pedalos on a shallow man-made lake. It’s not for single parents, asylum seekers, football hooligans, people in care, or criminals (unless white collar and sorry).