I, Partridge (8 page)

It was sports broadcasting with real panache, that much should be obvious, but it was nothing out of the ordinary. That was until, mid-way through the event, second favourite Chris Curtis accidentally discharged his bow and it issued a rod of arrow into the arm of a female steward. (And for the billionth time, I didn’t
accuse
Curtis of being drunk, I merely speculated that he
might
be drunk.)

Suddenly, I was hurled into the middle of a breaking news story. This was live radio and all ears were literally on me.

‘The poor woman’s wailing like a banshee over there and, as concerned officials gather round her to stem the flow of blood and presumably discuss what, if any, rule has been broken, I’ll do my best to describe the scene.

‘Basically, archers are standing round chatting – none of them have approached the stricken victim, but that’s what archers do. If this was in the wild, the archers would stand there high-fiving each other while the carcass was retrieved by a young bushwacker or loyal gun dog.

‘Not that she’s dead. She’s hit in her upper arm, which must come as some relief. If it’d been her neck, it would have been curtains for both her and the rest of the afternoon’s archery action, coming to you live from Taverham.

‘And while the lady steward squeals like an impaled but quiet pig, I can tell you she’s gone into shock – you can see that from here. The colour’s drained from her and she’s all a-quiver. And actually … like “a quiver”, she has an arrow in her.

‘Erm … it’s an unusual sight, certainly. A person lying there with a big rod coming out of them, like a human kebab or – if you prefer – some kind of lady lolly. And a not unattractive lady lolly, I must say. One that I’m sure every man here would dearly like to lick.

‘But that’s not to in any way trivialise what is clearly a distressing situation.

‘Er … St John’s ambulance are nearby. Not doing anything, of course, but I’m not sure they’re trained to administer medical care. They’re to a real paramedic what the Salvation Army is to a special forces soldier. Still, they look smart enough.

‘And the arrow’s out! The arrow is out! It’s been plucked from the woman like a pointy Excalibur. Well done that man …

‘Right. Next to shoot is Mark Allen …’

When I played the tape back to Carol the next morning, she agreed (in an uncharacteristically effusive show of support) that it had been ‘a powerful and moving broadcasting
tour de force
’.
⁵⁷

And she wasn’t the only one impressed. With my commentary played out on BBC radio news bulletins up and down the land, I was thrust into the national limelight. Suddenly, I was hot property.

And so it was that, six months later, I was included on a round-robin circular memo to BBC reporters, asking for applications to join the team of a new Radio 4 current affairs show. I was a wanted man!

45
Press play on Track 10.

46
Listen to.

47
Biographical shorthand for: alcoholic.

48
I just did a click with my fingers.

49
He explained that this was ‘radio tradition’, and I diligently kept the practice up until years later at Radio 4, when I was challenged about the existence of Wetwipple Dog Track. A subsequent BBC disciplinary was only made bearable by the presence of the kindest BBC HR adviser to ever discipline me. NB – false greyhound racing results are
not
a radio tradition.

50
I once retorted with ‘Alright! Keep your hair on!’ (He has chronic alopecia.) He wasn’t that impressed.

51
Press play on Track 11.

52
‘Bi-monthly’ is a funny word. Twice a month or once every two months? In this case, it depended on audience demand. Mainly the latter.

53
Dickie Davies.

54
Elton Welsby.

55
Barry Davies.

56
Tony Gubba.

57
My words. Her agreement.

Chapter 7
Joining the Bbc

I’M STANDING IN FRONT
of a building that is literally steeped in history. Behind me is London’s swanky Regent Street, home to the Café Royal, Hamley’s toy store and a genuinely impressive two-storey McDonald’s.

Ahead of me, as I say, is a formidable structure, headquarters to broadcasting magnificence. Inside its browny-coloured walls are rooms, studios and cupboards that have played host to some of the greatest moments in broadcasting:
Just a Minute
,
Gardener’s Question Time
, John Birt’s 55th birthday party.

I’m about to start work for an organisation that needs absolutely no introduction, qualification or explanation. Reader, I’m about to work for Radio 4, the BBC1 of UK radio.
⁵⁸

Before this big break, I’d been to London before: once for Carol’s birthday when she was going through an ‘unfulfilled’ phase and had ideas above her/Norwich station, and another time when I had to pick up a cagoule that had found its way on to the Charlton Athletic team bus after a fractious post-match interview.

But working in the capital? This was quite unexpected. I’d received the good news during an intervention – Carol’s brother Tim was drinking too much, so we’d effectively ambushed him in our lounge – and I was pleased that my own success could in some small way deflect attention from his enormous failings. To provide a bit of levity, I left the room for a moment and came back in wearing a bowler hat and umbrella, saying ‘I’m going to work in London!’ while marching up and down. I thought that was absolutely hilarious. After a stern word from Carol, the intervention continued in earnest and I’m delighted to say it was a success. Tim’s barely touched a drop since then, apart from wine.

Although it was a Sunday, I thought it best that I telephoned every one of my Radio Norwich colleagues to tell them I’d been plucked for national stardom and I’d be leaving Norwich. It was best they found out from me, as I knew that the loss of the station’s Mr Sport would hit them hard. Most of them took it well and showed tremendous stoicism, displaying almost no emotion.

I began to make arrangements for my new life. But it was only after I’d completely cleared my desk weeks later that I found out that
On the Hour
was to be a weekly show, which meant that we were only required in London on a Friday.

I spoke to the station controller of Radio Norwich, quickly unresigned and set about returning the items to my desk. There were a few snide remarks from colleagues but I was unperturbed, glad even, that I’d made the error, as the process of clearing and then restocking my workspace was an absolute pleasure. It allowed me to conduct a full stationery audit, think seriously about the strategy and ergonomics of my desk, and devise a new layout that was fresher, simpler and more logical.

The telephone was switched to the far left, on the grounds that I tended to wedge the receiver under my left jowl and use my right hand to scribble notes or gesticulate. To that end, my pen jar and notepad were migrated from the leftermost reaches of the space to a new position, just by the right hand. The computer monitor – previously slap bang in the middle – was perched in the right-hand corner, angled jauntily in my face’s favour. Snacks and chocs were housed in a new Tupperware box in the top drawer, a radical departure which freed up a good quartile of the desk’s surface. Staplers, hole punches, sticky-backed plastic, Post-it notes: gone, in a hard-headed cull of underused items. The angle-poise was placed – nice touch, this – on an adjoining cabinet, not impinging on the desktop at all and casting its beam from an unusual angle which gave a quality of light that was genuinely different from that of the desks of Elaine Clark (news), or Sophie DeVault (weather).

It was a pared-down and original layout that was user-friendly and looked good too. I’ve tried several other designs since but have honestly never bettered this one. If I have the time, I’ll sketch it out and put it in the appendix, entirely free of charge.
⁵⁹

It all felt like a fresh start for me. A new city, a new job, a new desk system, even a new brother-in-law who could speak clearly and wasn’t over-affectionate with my kids. I was cockerel-a-hoop.

Radio 4’s
On the Hour
was a weekly news programme with seriously big balls. It made
Newsnight
look like
Newsround
and
The Nine O’Clock News
look like
Newsround
. If other shows were a normal-sized packet of crisps,
On the Hour
was very much a grab bag. And for those of you unfamiliar with the denominations of crisp bags, that means it was large.

It was a serious break for me and I knew it.
⁶⁰
I’ll never forget my first week in the job. On the morning of the show I’d arrived at London’s [CHECK NAME OF STATION] with nothing other than a Slazenger back-pack, a selection of snacks and sandwiches, a spare shirt and tie, a notebook, pens, pencils, pencil sharpener, first aid kit, an emergency 50p for the phone box and (I hoped) a glint in my eye.

I hopped on the tube and made my way over to the BBC. (By the way, for anyone reading this overseas or in Wales, the ‘tube’ is a means of public transport.)
⁶¹
The show was to be recorded in the august surroundings of Broadcasting House. And what a building! As soon as you walked through the doors, you could tell these people knew what they were doing. Quite simply, the place stank of news.

But this reek of pure BBC quality only added to my sense of apprehension. With only an hour to go until the opening editorial meeting, nerves fluttered around my stomach. It’s a hard feeling to describe but it was almost as if someone had put moths in my tummy.

It was of some comfort to me that I knew one of the team already.
On the Hour
was edited by the redoubtable (love that word) Steven Eastwood. I’d met him when I came up to London for my job interview. Things had begun, as they so often do at the BBC, with a handshake.

‘That’s a good handshake you’ve got there, Alan.’

‘Thanks,’ I replied. ‘I practise it in front of the mirror.’

‘And how was your journey?’

‘Real good, thanks, Stephen,’ I said, briefly forgetting that his name was actually spelt ‘Steven’.

‘So tell me, young man, how much do you want this job?’ he probed.

‘What’s it out of? Ten?’

But Eastwood didn’t want a number – if he had, my answer would have been ten, maybe eleven – he just wanted to see a flicker of true passion. Thankfully for me, that’s exactly what he saw. And incredibly that was all it took – along with a 90-minute interview, a written exam, a series of psychometric tests and the submission of a full portfolio of my work – for him to offer me a job. Well from that moment onwards, our professional relationship went from strength to strength to strength to strength to strength.

On a personal level things were slightly different. He and I were just chalk and Cheddar. At the height of the show’s popularity I was receiving five, sometimes six, pieces of fan mail a quarter. It was pretty relentless and if I’m honest, I think it stuck in Eastwood’s craw. Sure, I tried to build bridges from time to time. I’d take him to the BBC bar and order us each a pint of bitter and a meat-based sandwich. But he’d take a few sips (of his drink) before claiming he was ‘dead drunk’ and needed to go home.

Maybe it was possible to get drunk that quickly. I’ve certainly heard it said that Chinamen can’t hold their booze. But all these years later, when I think back to those aborted evenings out, there’s one tiny detail that just doesn’t add up: Eastwood wasn’t Chinese.

Okay, he had a soft spot for a portion of Chicken Chow Mein on a Friday night. But, be honest, who doesn’t? And besides, even the most berserk Sinophile would struggle to argue that ingesting industrial amounts of egg noodles actually makes you Chinese. No, Eastwood was from Hertfordshire, and there was nothing anybody could do about it.

But as I made my way to that first editorial meeting, I knew I still had my fellow reporters to wow. Questions tumbled around my head like trainers in the washing machine I have mentioned on two previous occasions. Would I pass muster? Would I cut the mustard? Would I pass the mustard?

I was panicking. There was no point spending my time conflating two well-known phrases or sayings into a third that, while making grammatical sense, had no value as a metaphor. Or was there? I thought for a moment. No, there definitely wasn’t.

Somehow I needed to chill the eff out. If I was a drug-doer I would probably have spliffed myself into the middle of next week. But I wasn’t (although – full disclosure – I had taken two paracetemols from my first aid kit and administered a splodge of Savlon to an ankle graze sustained at London’s [CHECK NAME OF STATION].)

In the end I sorted myself out by using a simple but effective visualisation technique taught to me by either Paul McKenna or Russ Abbott, I forget which. Hang on, no, it was Ali Bongo. Taken from the teachings of Buddha (I’m guessing here), the idea is to imagine yourself as someone with the characteristic you desire. In the case of Bongo, he would think of a cuddly old cat lying in the sunshine. Before a big show he would spend 15 minutes purring, licking his imaginary paws and hanging his head over a bin trying to bring up fur balls. And by the end of it? He was as cool as beans.

For me, though, cats weren’t the answer. No, the answer was Roger Moore. I locked myself in a toilet cubicle and spent the best part of a quarter of an hour visualising myself in
A View to a Kill
, taking on the evil Max Zorin, sailing under the ocean in a submarine disguised as an iceberg and having it off with Grace Jones, the first black woman I have ever slept with.