revamping of 140
Scoutabout 55, 103
Up With the Partridge 142–6, 161, 169–70, 181, 248
upheaval at 277–8
Rider, Steve 160–1, 164
Rigg, Graham 5–6
Rosen, Bernie 97
Rosenthal, Jim 89, 180n
Savile, Jimmy 255
Saxon Radio 53–4
Schofield, Phil 50, 182n
Shayers, Rick 47, 49
Shears, Frank 280
Shepherd, Phil 285
Sinclair, Sir Clive 186
Smear, Kevin 65, 66, 81
Smith, Delia 75
Snook, Bett 55
Sonja (girlfriend) 259–64
Stubbs, Paul 50, 73
Summers, Rupert 110, 116
Susan (Travel Tavern Duty Manager) 151–2, 185–6
Susie (great aunt) 249
Taversham Archery Club 56–8
Thorburn, Cliff 210–11
Travel Tavern (Aylsham) 281
Travel Tavern (Linton)
‘An Afternoon with Alan Partridge’ 169–70, 171–2
expense 189
food at 150–1
matchless roadside views 148
misperceptions of 155
as perineum between metropoles 147
room design, perfection of 148–9
satisfying the businessman 161
staff, analysis of 151–3
Treacle (horse) 226–7, 228, 232
UK Conquest
Skirmish 27, 208–9, 211–12, 215, 310n
Ulvaeus, Björn 96
Valerie (aunt) 13
Vorderman, Carol 207
Walters, Adam 91–2, 96, 97
Welch, Raquel 134, 137
Whitfield, June 206
Wiley, Phil 19–20
Willis, Peter 134
Wilson, Quentin 100–1
Winton, Dale 89, 105, 174n
Witchell, Nicholas 68n, 269
Photo Insert
The place of my birth, The Queen Elizabeth Hospital, King’s Lynn. In an era before MRSA, cleanliness was maintained by a combination of soap and aggressive, largely buxom matrons. NHS car parks were free, too, although those days are now a distant memory. It’s not too bad if you’re just bobbing in to drop off some grapes or beer for a loved one. But for expectant fathers it can be cripplingly expensive, especially if the birth is being slowed down by your wife having an unusually long cervix. (It seems wrong that wealthy dads whose spouses have shorter birth canals and more elastic vaginas should pay less.) The council say they’re trying to encourage people to use public transport but I think that’s horseshit.
Norfolk, 1956. I’d just crawled into this group photo and taken centre stage – nothing changes! I remember being irritated that the girl behind me had put her hands on my shoulder when I was perfectly capable of sitting upright on my own. I don’t know what any of their names are, though some have suggested that the girl is Anne Frank. However, for a number of reasons this seems unlikely.
One of the many places where I attended Scout camp. I remember how we’d all sit around the campfire singing ‘Ging Gang Goolie’ until the sun came up, or until our 10pm bedtime, whichever came sooner. Then we’d all snuggle up in our sleeping bags to tell ghost stories or see who could shine a torch into their mouth for longest. I never got involved with this, wrongly assuming it carried a significant cancer risk. It was while camping at this exact site that I first mastered the sheepshank. People say knot-tying is a useless skill but try telling that to my bin bags!
On the day this was taken, my parents had been called into school by the headmaster because he was concerned my posture had homosexual overtones. He’d been alerted by my tendency to turn in my right knee and my preference for slip-on shoes. Also note that my father had insisted I tuck my tie into my shorts. In terms of psychological abuse, this was just the tip of the iceberg.
A semi-detached house in Edgbaston, Birmingham, much like the one my childhood nemesis Steven McCombe lives in. We never saw eye-to-eye but I’ve moved past that now because I prefer to let bygones be bygones. It’s not, as some have suggested, because I earn a lot more money than he does. It doesn’t matter to me in the slightest that McCombe wouldn’t know the top tax band if it broke into his house and attacked him while he slept. Nor that the engine in my car has double the cubic capacity of his. FYI, I also drive with more skill (e.g. can go round roundabouts using only one hand).
Me, reporting on The Day Today, where my beat was sport (plus the Paralympics). I used to warm my voice up beforehand by singing the national anthem to the tune of Live and Let Die. Not easy, but it can be done.
There are few men alive who can pull off a haircut that’s longer at the back and sides than it is on the top. I am one of those men. On windy days I would go outside and run into the wind, just to feel it billowing behind me like a superhero’s cape. I was very wary of having it cut off. I didn’t want to become a broadcasting version of the guy from Samson and Jemima. But I’m glad to report that when I did get sheared the impact on my career was minimal. For old times’ sake I kept the cuttings. They’re in a Waitrose Bag for Life in my shed. There’s probably enough to stuff a loose pillow or a compact lumbar-support cushion.
As soon as I heard that Roger Moore had agreed to appear on Knowing Me Knowing You, I rushed outside and ordered a subordinate to take a photo of me standing against a wall with my thumb up. In this shot the cold indifference of the brick contrasts beautifully with the wild elation that swirls inside me. In Western cultures an upturned thumb is a sign of contentment. In Middle Eastern cultures it translates as something very different. Had you seen me doing this in Tehran it would have meant I wished to molest Roger anally. Nothing could have been further from the truth.
Superman had Kryptonite, I had Tony Hayers. Here he is, standing behind me before the filming of Knowing Me Knowing Yule, during which I punched his lights out with a dead turkey. It’s hard to describe the pleasure I felt as the free-range meat crashed into the cheek of the mealy-mouthed commissioning editor. But I’ll have a go … Let me see. It was like the combined ecstasy of sneezing while driving over a humpback bridge. That’s how good it felt when I punched Hayers’s lights out with a dead turkey. Afterwards, it occurred to me that you could have a turkey-glove boxing event in It’s a Knockout. I looked into it but came up against a wall of bureaucratic red tape regarding the contestants’ potential contraction of salmonella. I offered to have all the ‘gloves’ cooked in an oven beforehand but this failed to satisfy them, which proved that the salmonella excuse was just a ruse. It all boiled down to that insidious new cult/fad of ‘animal rights’. No one ever mentions human rights.
Me, Sue Lewis, a stable lad and a horse (second left). There were concerns that it might get spooked by the noise from Glen Ponder’s band and run into the audience. We knew there were going to be school kids in the front row, and Health and Safety estimated that if things went wrong, up to 20 children could be trampled before the horse could be lassoed and destroyed. In the event, however, the beast behaved impeccably. It was a credit to itself.
Singing an Abba medley with lovely-shouldered American chanteuse Gina Langland. Many people felt that despite having no formal training, I actually out-sung her, certainly in terms of volume. I’ve always been able to hold a tune, though. As a child I’d sing in the shower, often when it wasn’t turned on. I just liked the acoustics in the bathroom.
Me, giving an inspirational address to a roomful of teenagers at an event to promote careers in the Norfolk media. I’d arrived wearing a tie but quickly switched to a cravat in order to blend in better with the 16–18-year-olds. I would have gone open-necked but there was a pretty chunky pimple on my chest, the result of forgetting to shower after I’d got home from squash.
Paddington Green Police Station, the UK’s highest-security police station and the scene of my incarceration on 21–22 October 1994 following the sad, bad death of chatshow guest Forbes McAlli
ster. In a desperate attempt to be released I pointed out to the policeman that I had laid on hot food for my colleagues as part of my show’s wrap party. Unless I turned up at the Pitcher & Piano to pay for the grub up front, they would be deprived of around eight dozen mini Kievs. I’ll never forget the police officer’s riposte. He simply said, ‘Sounds like they’ve been spared a fate WORSE than death.’ Well, I laughed my head off and for a moment clean forgot that I was on a manslaughter charge. DI Lance and I became lifelong friends after that, and he is to be technical adviser on my Norwich-based detective series Swallow (should it happen).
Highgate Cemetery, the final resting place of Karl Marx, Jeremy Beadle and Forbes McAllister. For the first three years on the anniversary of his death I would go to visit him. I’d wait until his wife had left his graveside (usually biding my time tucked away behind the massive stone head of Mr Marx). Then I’d go up and say a few words. Nothing too profound. Just an apology. And then, more often than not, there would be an awkward silence. After a while I’d puncture the silence with chit-chat, normally about the news, the weather or whatever reality TV programme was on at the time. I haven’t been back since July 2001, however, due to the fact that I had begun to find the visits boring. Also, hiding behind that giant communist head gave me the heebie jeebies!!
My best-ever blazer. It actually belonged to Lenny Henry but I stole it from his dressing room at Comic Relief. He came after me and demanded the jacket back, saying it was his. I simply stared him down and replied, ‘Prove it.’ ‘I’m going to report this, Alan,’ he called as I walked off down the corridor. ‘Oh yeah?’ I shouted, without even looking back. ‘And who do you think they’re going to believe?’ The next year I decided to give it to a charity shop, but they didn’t want it. So I just threw it in a bin. Easy come, easy go.
The meeting of two chat heavyweights. Clive asked me back to his dressing room afterwards to reminisce about our best-ever interviews and take a shower with him. I declined the shower but we had a lovely natter.
Me, moments before staging a mock execution of Elton John. I shot the former Watford chairman straight in the mouth. It was probably the most realistic mimed celebrity assassination I’d ever pulled off. I’d slit the throat of Monty Don the year before at a Christmas party but it was nowhere near as convincing. Elton and I later went for cocktails where he spent the best part of two hours outlining the plus points of homosexuality. I’m still not convinced, Elton! Love the songs, though.
When behind the Radio Norwich mic, I’d always be turned out in shirt, tie, buffed footwear, quality sweater. Just because you can’t see the people you’re talking to, doesn’t mean your standards should drop. That’s something I learned from my good friends the blind. It’s equally important for TV newsreaders. They always look good up top but there are some who refuse to wear trousers – Trevor Macdonald (cut-down jeans); Kate Silverton (PE skirt); James Naughtie (Captain America).
A Toblerone. This is a 750-grammer, one of the tastiest in the Toblerone range. Although I’m salivating profusely as I look at the photograph, I steer well clear of them these days. Have I given up Toblerones? Ha ha. No, you can never say you’ve given up Toblerones. I just say, ‘I’m not going to eat one today.’ And if I make it until bedtime without eating one, great. I’ll then celebrate with half a Yorkie.
Still in the grips of my Toblerone addiction, this shot shows me sprinting to the corner shop, desperate for my next Swiss-choc high. By this point I’ve sunk so low that I don’t even care that my groin is peppered with splash-back from a recent foray to the urinal. Incidentally, during this period I wore exclusively C&A. I found the cut of their garments wonderfully forgiving.
Attleborough Leisure Vehicles, the dealership that sold me my Delta static home. I got a discount for paying cash, although the guy got annoyed when the last twenty quid consisted of small denomination coins stored in a large whisky bottle. To lighten the mood I said, ‘What are you going to do? Call the coppers?!’ He didn’t laugh but I knew I was on to something. I raced home and faxed the joke to Terry Wogan for his exclusive use on that year’s Children in Need. I tuned in to see if he used it but quickly grew bored and flicked over to ITV to watch What Women Want. How Mel Gibson did not win an Oscar for his performance is beyond me. Not least because it was shot years before he became Australia’s best-known anti-semite. Ironic really, because Mad Max was a Jew (CAN SOMEONE CHECK THIS?).
Me, in the caravan. In the wine rack is a bottle of plum wine given to me by a local farmer. It was one of the worst liquids my mouth has ever played host to. It was almost as bad as the time Michael spiked my coffee with WD40. I got him back by claiming I’d seen him inappropriately touch a female guest in the Travel Tavern car park. He was suspended for a month. Great days. (It was a lie, of course, but I didn’t feel bad because I know for a fact he did once touch a woman but got away with it.)
On the right is my ex-Forces confidant Michael, with his ‘thousand-yard stare’. I often practise this look in the mirror but just can’t get the hang of it! In the centre, my former girlfriend Sonja. Our relationship was 80% physical, 15% small talk, 5% Don’t Know.
Standing outside Classic House. In the top-right window, Michael can be seen peeping. During the building’s construction I employed him as a security guard. He offered the ideal combination of military know-how and borderline post-traumatic stress disorder. He would do whatever it took to defend the property, and hang the consequences. Thankfully, the closest we ever came to a burglar was a fox that wandered in, lost. May it rest in peace.
My stall in Norwich train station, where I once spent a week selling copies of Bouncing Back. It’s probably fair to attribute the lack of takers to poor literacy rates in Norfolk. In the more rural areas many kids are simply beyond the reach of the education system. It’s rumoured that some go their whole life and never learn to speak.
When I wake up each morning, this is what I see: a new dawn, a glittering horizon, a vista ripe with opportunity. It really is one of my favourite posters. I take a sense of boundless optimism with me wherever I go. Along with mouthwash, a clean shirt and a piece of paper containing the phone numbers of my next of kin. Oh yes, I also like to think of myself jumping into that hammock to give the young lady a big kiss and a cuddle, whether she likes it or not!
10 kilometres, 20, 30! Here you can see me eating up the ground on a static exercise cycle. 40 kilometres, 50, 60! I’m throwing my weight behind a campaign to encourage cycling among fat kids. 70 kilometres, 80, 90! This was quality public-service radio but also compelling TV, thanks to the studio webcams I’d suggested we install. 100 kilometres, 200, 300! (No one knows how far I cycled that day. What we do know is that the campaign itself ran into funding difficulties and was discontinued later that month.)
This is yours truly with Sidekick Simon. He is a genuine original and an unbelievably funny man but lost his job on Mid-Morning Matters because he basically has an attitude problem. Also, many webcam viewers said they didn’t like his beard – and I agree. It’s too wispy and not a good colour. In this picture we’re pulling funny faces, which was my idea. These impromptu moments of goofing around were an almost hourly occurrence before things turned sour. After I sacked him he threatened to take me to an industrial tribunal. But I put a big Jiffy bag of dog dirt through his letter box and he soon backed off!
Here I am at the North Norfolk Digital desk. I’m not actually on air; it’s just a publicity shot. I keep a few autographed copies in my glove box at all times, in case I get accosted by a fan or need to bribe a bent copper. At the time of writing, I haven’t needed to use them for either. I did once get stopped by a fan at some traffic lights but I just drove off.
Acknowledgements
Pete Gabitas (1958–2005)
Norfolk Range Rover
Dave Millicent
William ‘Bill’ Oddie
Steven Eastwood
All those who have ever doubted me – you only made me stronger
A
lvin Krysko (1986–2009)
HRH Prince Charles
Lynn Benfield
Copyright
First published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2011
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© Rob Gibbons, Neil Gibbons, Armando Iannucci and Steve Coogan 2011
Rob Gibbons, Neil Gibbons, Armando Iannucci and Steve Coogan assert the moral right to be identified as the authors of this work
Picture Credits: Page 1, top © Albanpix Ltd/Rex Features, bottom courtesy of author; page 2, top © Getty Images, bottom courtesy of author; page 3 © Adrian Sherratt/Alamy; page 4 © BBC Photo Library, inset © Tim Rooke/Rex Features; page 5 © Colin Mason/LFI/Photoshot; page 6 © Fremantle Media Ltd; page 7, top & bottom left © BBC Photo Library, bottom right © Brian Rasic/Rex Features; page 8, left © David Pearson/Alamy, right © Andy Drysdale/Rex Features; page 9 © Justin Canning/Comic Relief; page 10, top © BBC Photo Library, bottom © Ken McKay/Rex Features; page 11 © BBC Photo Library; page 12, left © Hera Food/Alamy, right © BBC Photo Library; page 13, left © Alvey and Towers, right © BBC Photo Library; page 14 © BBC Photo Library; page 15, top © BBC Photo Library, bottom © Yuri Arcurs/Alamy; page 16 © Baby Cow Productions/Fostersfunny.co.uk
Partridge, Alan Page 28
