‘The only soldiers I want to talk about are the ones I dip in my boiled egg, which coincidentally has also been decapitated!’ his next bite seemed to add. This was typical of my dad – or would have been if he’d said it – because he’d often have dark thoughts rounded off with a little joke.
He wasn’t an easy man, though. Mum said he came back from the war with a rage that never went away. She said he was still just very angry with Mr Hitler. Yet it was me that suffered the consequences. Let’s just say Poppa had a hand like a leather shovel.
What made it all the more galling was that it wasn’t even me that had carried out the Final Solution. The closest I’d ever got to the extermination of the Jewish race was teasing Jon Malick about his big nose. But (a) I didn’t even know he was Jewish. And (b) it was pretty massive. You could have hung your washing off it. They say your nose is one of the few things that keeps growing throughout your life. Jon will now be 56. Good god.
The only thing that softened the blow (metaphor) was that I was at least being beaten with a degree of excellence. My father was a naturally gifted corporal punisher. The quality of the blows was always the same, whether administering them with his right hand or his left, whether he was alone or had Mum screaming at him to stop, whether we were in the privacy of the home or out at a charity treasure hunt organised by Round Table.
I couldn’t wait for the day when I was big enough to turn round and thump him in the tummy or set fire to an Airfix Messerschmitt and put it behind his bedroom door so he’d be intoxicated by the burning plastic.
You see, it wasn’t just physical abuse. The torment was sometimes psychological. I still bear mental scars from him trimming our privet hedge and then making me go and collect the cuttings in the rain. Well, I’ve got a saying: ‘Be careful what you do, because some day something similar might happen to you.’
And you know what? It did, because financial difficulties in later life meant he ended up as a casual labourer in his 60s. I allowed myself a wry smile at that. You may think it’s cold of me to be glad of his occupational misfortune just because he had me collecting privets, but let me tell you this: he made me do it four times, in as many years. On another occasion, he made me clear out the garage on a sunny day.
But I never have turned round and thumped him in the tummy or set fire to an Airfix Messerschmitt before putting it behind his bedroom door so he’d be intoxicated by the burning plastic. Why? Well, I guess resentment fades with time. Also he’s now dead. And the last thing I’ve got time to do is exhume, and subsequently duff up, the cadaver of a loved one. There’d be a heck of a lot of paperwork, for one. Plus I really need to take the car in for a service. Must do that next week.12
‘Ah, but at least your parents didn’t split up,’ you might be crowing. ‘You’re lucky in that respect, Alan!’
I shake my head slowly and smile. You see, my parents’ marriage wasn’t as stable as their long list of wedding anniversaries might suggest. And that in itself was unusual and upsetting.
Of course, these days the institution of marriage is in crisis. It’s crumbling like an Oxo cube. I don’t have the exact figures to hand,13 but it’s probably correct to say that half of all marriages end in separation. Take the royal family. Elizabeth and Phillip – solid as a rock; Charles and Diana – crumbled like an Oxo cube. Charles and Camilla – rock; Andrew and Fergie – Oxo. Edward and his wife14 – rock; Anne and Mark Phillips – Oxo. You see, exactly one in two.
‘Marriage is dead!’ I shouted to the listeners of Mid-Morning Matters, not six weeks ago.15 Then I paused for dramatic effect and to finish my mouthful of sandwich. ‘Someone inform the relatives. Time of death: 2011. Cause of death … well, why don’t you play Quincy? Get in touch and let us know why you think marriage passed away.’
It turned out to be a really insightful phone-in. Dealing with unemployed listeners five days a week, I’m still sometimes pleasantly surprised that they can be brainy. Regular caller Ralph laid the blame at the door of the Mormons. Other less angry listeners put it down to the rise of contraception, E-numbers giving us attention deficit, and tax law, while my assistant texted in to say it was a symptom of terrible ungodliness.16
Me? I put it down to a combination of all these factors. Apart from the one about ungodliness. And the one about Mormons. Whatever your view, in the last hundred years there must have been more divorces than marriages.
Fifty years ago things were kinda different though. It was as rare to see a divorce as it was to see a four-leaf clover or a black chap in a position of authority. If only things had stayed that way.17
Now, I’d thought my parents’ union was in the rock-solid camp. But I was wrong. Because one night something happened that threatened to turn my world upside down like one of those paperweights with fake snow inside. It was an incident that made me have a terrible, terrible thought. What if the rock of their marriage was actually a rock made … of Oxo?
I woke with a start. At first I assumed I’d trumped myself awake again – it was summer time so there were lots of fresh vegetables in our diet. But as I listened through the darkness, I realised that something far worse was going on. My mother and father were having the row to end all rows.
A sudden shot of fear ripped through my pre-pubic body. And now I did do a trump. The noise fizzed out of my back passage like a child calling for help. That child was me. I cupped my hands behind my ears creating a sort of makeshift amplifier. Look and Learn Magazine was right – it really did work.18 But still I couldn’t quite hear everything. I shut my eyes in the hope it might make me hear better, like they say it does for blind people.
‘I’ve told you, there’s no point keeping those. They’re not tax-deductible,’ my dad thundered.
‘I think you’ll find they are,’ raged my mum like some sort of feral animal (a badger with TB perhaps).
‘They’re not. You only get VAT back on lunches outside of a 50-mile radius from your place of residence. You effing bitch,’ he seemed to add, with his eyes, I imagined.
‘Alright, fine, I’ll get rid of them then,’ sobbed my mum, her fight gone, her spirit crushed like a Stu Francis grape.
Then the door was shut. Or was it slammed? It was hard to know for sure as I’d now opened my eyes, thus depriving myself of the hearing boost conferred on me by blindness. I curled up on my bed like a foetus (though admittedly, quite a large one) and cried like a baby (again, large). ‘Please Lord, make it stop,’ I snivelled. ‘I’ll do anything you ask of me (within reason and subject to getting permission from my mum). Just don’t let them break up.’ Like an Oxo cube, I could have added.
And with that, I went off to the bathroom to clear my head, not to mention my nose.
Yet miraculously, when I went down to breakfast the next morning, there was no mention of the bitter war of words that had waged so fiercely just hours before. The nightmare that had threatened to rip my world apart like an experienced chef portioning up a ball of mozzarella had somehow been averted.
It was 25 October 1962, and on the other side of the Atlantic, President ‘JFK’ Kennedy had just pulled the world back from the brink of nuclear war. Could I just have experienced my own personal Cuban Missile Crisis?
Yes, I could have.
And so, in summary, mine was a childhood of undeniable hardship – a chilling and far-from-delicious cocktail of neglect, solitude, domestic strife, and abuse.19
I was, if you like, A Child Called It. This was Alan’s Ashes. A protagonist dealt a really shoddy hand by hard-hearted parents. (They’re dead now and my mum’s sister Valerie, who disputes my version of events pretty vociferously, has gone medically demented so I’m really the gospel here.)
But it wasn’t all foul-tasting. For example, I remember the intense joy I felt when my father slipped on some cake and cracked his head open. It was the day of my ninth birthday, and as I sat effortlessly reading a book aimed at 11–12-year-olds, I heard a commotion. It was my father.
‘Delivery for Mr P
artridge! Delivery for Mr Partridge!’ he was saying.
He meant me, rather than himself, and although he could have eliminated the obvious ambiguity by saying ‘Alan Partridge’ or ‘Master Partridge’, my instincts told me that he was using the third person, so probably did mean me.
I ran into the kitchen. And there was my father – normally so cruel, as I think I’ve made abundantly clear – holding a cake. It was a ruby red birthday cake, with my name piped on to it in reasonably accomplished joined-up writing. I could barely contain my excitement – more at the cake than the writing. I adored cakes, but was only allowed to eat any on special occasions such as after meals. I began to run over, licking my lips as I sprinted.
Although blessed with cat-like co-ordination, something made me lose my bearings. Perhaps I’d been pushing myself too hard with the book for 11–12-year-olds and my brain was scrambled. Whatever it was, I misjudged my proximity to the table and clattered against it. The cake fell from it and smashed on to the floor in a hail of crumbs and redness and cream.
My father surveyed the scene, his face slowly crumpling with anger. He crouched down, taking the weight of his body on his two haunches and then he addressed me: ‘You’ll never amount to anything,’ he said. ‘You’re that to me.’20
On the word ‘that’, he held his finger and thumb one, maybe two, centimetres apart as if to say ‘not very much’.
I didn’t know what to say, my mind blasted by the twin concerns of spilt cake and parental cruelty. He turned to go and put one of his angry feet on to the remains of the cake. This acted as a lubricant, destroying any traction his foot might have had with the floor. It shot forward and, with his balance now a distant memory, he came crashing to the floor. His back took the first hit, smashing against lino and cake with a bang – ‘bang’. His rump was next – ‘doof’ – followed by his skull – ‘crack’. And for a second he was motionless, before blood began to spill from the back of his head.
As my father lay on the ground, the tension – much like the physical integrity of Dad’s skull – was broken. Suddenly, all the years of neglect, which could easily make a book in its own right and definitely a film, were lifted. The hardship, the loneliness, the disappointment squeezed out of my eyes in the form of hot salt tears. Was I crying or laughing? I didn’t know. All I knew was that these tears felt like a monsoon on a parched African savannah to the delight of a proud but easy-going black farmer. Pitter-patter, pitter-patter.
Pitter-patter. Pitter-patter. I’m back at that tree as an eight-year-old child, my nose still bleeding (but it should scab up in a few minutes). All those childhood thoughts are racing through my mind, even though some of the incidents above haven’t yet happened, so would have only raced through my mind in a very vague form.
These hard hardships, testing trials and tricky tribulations are the things that have made me who I am. Like this tree, I am different. I have staying power, strength, nobility, staying power and the ability to ‘branch’ out.
I wait for the bleeding to stop. It has done … now. The cathartic, cleansing effect of rapid blood loss has made me feel elated.21 And I return to school to face what proved to be a pretty massive bollocking. I didn’t care. Something had been ignited in me.22
I still return to that tree once a year. It’s been bulldozed now to make the car park of Morrison’s. I like to think it was pulped to make the very pages you’re reading now (a huge long shot, admittedly).
But still I stand there each year, smack bang in the middle of a disabled parking bay, and remember its leafy majesty. We’ve both had our knocks (my TV career was bulldozed by a short-sighted commissioner who I’m delighted to say is now dead), but we retain that indefinable quality of excellence. And I think back to that turning point, that fulcrum of my early years when I first fully realised what I had, where I was going, and who I was. I was Alan Partridge.
5 Press play on Track 1 of the soundtrack.
6 In more ways than one, as it transpired. Years later, I took a walk to this place at dusk and saw a teenage couple sullying my memory of that tree with some pretty vigorous frottage. I was going to run at them with a stick, but in the end I didn’t.
7 ‘I do not know what’.
8 Press play on Track 2.
9 By the way, update on the Murray Mints: one’s already gone, the other is a shadow of its former self.
10 Bear in mind, this was the late 60s. Everyone was experimenting. We’d just put a man on the moon, anything seemed possible. In this case, of course, it wasn’t. But then we didn’t have Google. If you wanted to find out if something was possible you had to try it for yourself. Terrible business.
11 Of which more later! (possibly)
12 Press play on Track 3.
13 Internet’s down.
14 Internet’s still down.
15 Time of me writing, not time of you reading.
16 Didn’t read it out.
17 Divorces.
18 It’s a technique I still use to this day when talking to quiet people at cocktail parties.
19 Naysayers have suggested that I’m dramatising details of my early years because my publishers were concerned that my childhood was boring. How wrong they are. If anything I’m bravely playing down some of the hardships I faced in a way that critics might choose to describe as ‘stoical’.
20 Auntie Valerie, who was there that day, is adamant that Dad said absolutely nothing of the sort. But, like I say, this is a woman who often forgets her own address, so you can strike her testimony from the record.
21 This was a feeling I would come to know well in later years. Major blood loss has been a close friend of mine – be it the kind I’ve endured (impaling my foot on a spike before a sales presentation, sneezing blood over a nun’s wimple) or the kind I’ve inflicted (punching a commissioning editor, shooting a guest). And on each occasion, the initial regret has been swiftly replaced by a joyous high, brought on by relief, defiance or morphine. In this case: it was a brand new sense of purpose.
22 Metaphor.
Chapter 2
Scouts and Schooling
I JOINED LORD BADEN Powell’s army of pre-pubescents – and it is an army – in the heyday of the Boy Scouts. In those days we were truly legion. Some say there were close to a million UK scouts in the early 1960s, a terrifying proposition if you imagine them all running at you across a field or chanting ‘Ging Gang Goolie’ again and again and again and again, but slightly louder each time.
Even among such a vast number, I stood out as a quite outstanding officer in the North Norwich district, (HQ’d in Costessey). I excelled at outdoor tasks, mastering knots that could (theoretically) lash a small boat to a jetty or splice together a child’s shattered leg; identifying clues to help me track a stricken comrade; spotting dock leaves from 50 paces. But I was even more adept at the domestic chores that Scouting taught. I could embroider badges on to the shirts of every scout who asked and was an absolute whizz at buffing shoes, tying neckerchiefs and adjusting woggles.23
I might as well admit now, before any member of my troop publishes a counter-memoir, that I never mastered fire-lighting. I admit that – I couldn’t do fires. I could build them into sturdy wigwams of sticks and newspaper, no problem. But I found it very, very hard to make them catch fire. In fact, I still can’t, which is why gas BBQs are such a blessed relief.
I’m often asked, what do Scouts do? Well, although highly trained and physically fit, Scouts are not invited to defend Britain in international conflict. Instead, much of our effort went into the production of our annual Gang Show – my first taste of showbiz.
My aptitude for knot-tying meant that I was called into action as a stage-hand, hoiking up scenery panels and then lowering them down again. I was good at it and felt no real calling to be on stage … until the night of our first show.
Scout Leader Dave Millicent was MC. Smartly dressed and with his hair parted to one side, he worked the crowd beautifully and introduced each turn with real panac
he. He was, in a very real sense, a presenter that night. And it was at the show’s pinnacle – as he cued up the backing track to ‘Crest of a Wave’ and told them to ‘take it away’ – that I think I first knew what I wanted to be. I wanted to present.
Many years later, I contacted Dave and asked him to co-present my show on hospital radio, but he said he didn’t want to do it and didn’t remember who I was. Still, he was a good man and a very talented Scout.
What most appealed to me about the Scouts was that it was a true meritocracy. If you were diligent and resourceful and attended each week, you could orienteer your way to the very top. I’m proud to say I achieved the rank of Patrol Leader in no time, with six good Scouts under my command.
You’d think that this would automatically confer on me a bit of respect and obedience from others in the patrol. Sadly, many in the troop felt the Scouting hierarchy only applied during our weekly meetings. One member of the troop, Phil Wiley, was in my class at school – and his behaviour towards me, a superior officer, was quite, quite shameful.
On one occasion, he stole my swimming trunks, dropped them in a urinal and laughed. This was in front of the whole class, many of who(m) were in my troop. Of course, I couldn’t let this slide, and ordered him to rescue and wash them. He sniggered. I took a breath.
‘Do as I say,’ I said calmly.
He began to walk away.
‘Do as I say, Scout Wiley,’ I boomed.
‘What did you call me? Scout Wiley?’
He laughed again and indicated to the rest of the class that I was mentally defective, by twirling a finger by the side of his head. Well, this was rank insubordination.
‘Do as I say. I’m your Patrol Leader!’
‘Oh my god …’ he attempted, weakly.
‘I am your Patrol Leader.’
‘You are such a tit.’
‘I am your Patrol Leader!’
‘Fuck off.’ He actually said that to me.
‘I am your Patrol Leader! I am your Patrol Leader! I am your Patrol Leader! I am your Patrol Leader!’
Partridge, Alan Page 2
