Alan Partridge on teen years, getting older and why, in a way, he’s always been a chat show host
Alan Partridge has been a constant on our TVs and airwaves for over 30 years. Even when there have been tricky, sometimes Toblerone-flecked, years in the wilderness he has bounced back
Alan Partridge was born on 2 April 1955 in King’s Lynn. After a long, unpaid stint on hospital radio station Radio Smile at St Luke’s Hospital, Norwich (1975-’83), he became a radio traffic reporter and, by the late 80s was a sports reporter on Radio Norwich, honing the enthusiastic commentary style which would later serve him so well on the BBC shows On The Hour and The Day Today.
In 1994 Partridge was given his own chat show, Knowing Me, Knowing You, at his beloved BBC. It sadly ended in tragedy when he accidentally shot and killed restaurant critic Forbes McAllister on air.
The following year, he suffered a bitter personal blow as his wife Carol, mother to his two children Fernando and Denise, left him for her fitness instructor. This may have contributed to his a breakdown while filming his Xmas TV special Knowing Me, Knowing Yule, during which he punched BBC Commissioning Editor Tony Hayers with a turkey.
Alan Patridge’s stint as a long-term guest in the Linton Travel Tavern was immortalised in 1997, when the first series of the fly-on-the-wall documentary I’m Alan Partridge was aired. The second series followed in 2002, focusing on his relationship with his Ukrainian girlfriend Sonja Puchkovskaya (right), and telling all about his harrowing Toblerone addiction.
After a wilderness period, which saw Partridge attempt to rebrand as a life coach, he returned to his roots in 2011, presenting Mid Morning Matters, a North Norfolk Digital radio show. Back on track, a number of documentaries followed – among them tributes to his home county (Welcome To The Places Of My Life) and Britain’s class divide (Alan Partridge’s Scissored Isle – as well as his autobiography I, Partridge: We Need To Talk About Alan.
Partridge appeared on the cover of Big Issue in 2017 alongside The Thick of It’s Malcolm Tucker to discuss Brexit. The pair don’t get on very well, even when Partridge recommends mindfulness to the angry spin doctor – “I know three people who’ve given it a go. One of them killed himself, but it worked wonders for the other two.”
In 2019, he made his BBC return with This Time, a current affairs programme. Highlights included him performing mouth-to-mouth resuscitation on a mannequin called Eileen (“Come on, Eileen!”) soundtracked by Queen’s Another One Bites the Dust and meeting an lookalike who sang Irish republican songs on air. Following the second series, Partridge opted to move into podcasting with The Oasthouse, now on its third series.
Speaking to The Big Issue for his Letter to My Younger Self, Alan Partridge reflects on a life which has brought him professional success, but on a personal level has been a bit of mixed bag, if we’re being honest
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Paint a picture for us – what kind of teenage boy were you?
I wasn’t your typical teenager. Whether it was because my mum cut my hair or because I wasn’t allowed to sit in the front seat of the car until I was 15, I retained a wonderfully childlike quality long into adolescence. I’d spend weekends – not sniffing glue or kissing with tongues – but collecting conkers or drawing pictures of the Red Arrows or writing letters to the Red Arrows.
The day before my 15th birthday, I had my passing out parade at the Scout hut. I shook hands with every Scout there, saluted the Scout Leader, lowered and folded the flag and then, while the others ran off to the recreation ground to hoik up a rope swing, I walked in the other direction – needing to find myself. I walked for what seemed like miles but was probably just kilometres until, in the window of a charity shop, I saw a denim jacket and knew I had to have it. I bought it, tossed my neckerchief into a river and donned the denim. Even though it was a woman’s jacket initially made for a female darts team, wearing it transformed me. Suddenly I had swagger, attitude and beef. If clothes maketh the man, then that denim jacket sure madeketh me.
What were your main concerns and preoccupations?
Throughout these years, scouting always came first – had to, we’d sworn allegiance to Lord Baden Powell and Her Majesty the Queen and I’m sorry but that meant something. But after leaving the Scouts due to my age, my world opened up. Suddenly my eyes were opened to music, girls, cars and yes, the odd illicit substance! While drugs per se didn’t arrive in Norwich until the late ’70s, I’d learned that you could open the cola mixer tap in the school canteen and pour out some syrup to get a sugar rush. High on the cocktail of vegetable extracts, me and another boy would spend afternoons giggling and talking at 100mph, or 70mph certainly.
All good fun but soon I began to fixate on these stolen gulps of sugar. I’m not saying I became dependent – that would trivialise substance issues – but I sure wanted it very much. One day it dawned on me: I barely recognised the boy I had become – one who said ‘yeah’ instead of ‘yes’ and ‘what’ instead of ‘pardon’, a boy who could barely remember how to even draw a Red Arrow. I knew I had to beat this. Fortunately, one weekend, the canteen changed the mixer to something called Trident Cola which tasted absolutely rancid.
How did you get on with the opposite sex?
Was I a hit with the girls? Not really. My mother told me that holding hands with a girl could cause her to fall pregnant, but she didn’t explain it was a joke for several years and even though I knew it probably wasn’t true, the holding-hands-pregnant thing did retard my confidence around girls.
Things changed one hot summer. I had always suffered from nosebleeds and would regularly have to sit with the school nurse until they subsided. One day, a new girl – who was also having a nosebleed – plonked herself next to me. We sat in silence that afternoon and on many other afternoons thereafter; over time, a bond began to form and soon we’d find ourselves sitting outside the nurse’s office, silently holding each other’s hand while our remaining hand clutched tissues to our respective noses.
Everyone called her Bloody Mary, but I later found out her name was Helen. She moved away over the holidays and, though I’m sad we never spoke, I cherish those quietly companionable nosebleed afternoons.
Did you always have an ambition to be a chat show host?
In a way, I’ve always been a chat show host, forever peppering parents and teachers with questions and conversation-starters. From slightly annoying ones like “Are we nearly there yet?” or “Why does dad make a murmuring noise when he eats?” – to deeper, more existential queries such as “Does God see women getting undressed?” As I grew older, people began to say, “What is this, some kind of interview?” and I realised that I had matured into a very accomplished interlocutor. I’d see the likes of Johnny Carson and David Frost on the TV and realise that if they could earn fame and fortune asking questions, then so could I.
And I did. Without being vulgar (I know this is a magazine for the homeless) I have earned more than £150,000 in 18 of the last 25 years.
If you could time travel back to your younger self and use your hindsight to give him some useful advice, what would you tell him?
Believe me, if I could travel back in time, I have a list of things I’d do before I doled out advice to myself. Kill baby Hitler, shake hands with Moses, ride a dinosaur, not shoot a man on live TV. Having completed my list, sure, I’d sit down with the slightly younger me and offer some advice. Namely: do not buy crypto, no matter how many times the ad appears online. And when going through a divorce, find your own lawyer, do not use the one your ex-wife suggests. She has a vested interest in you having a bad lawyer. It’s obvious.
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Do you think the BBC has always treated you well? Have you always been shown the respect you feel you deserve?
I have no beef with the BBC. Interestingly, I’m one of the few broadcasters to have been sacked by the corporation twice. The last time? Well, you might think I’d be upset at what was a pretty clear-cut case of unfair dismissal. After all, I was grieving the death of my big dead dog Seldom. I needed and deserved sympathy. None came. And yet, I forgive them.
But their cruel treatment of me is one thing; their decision to snub the death of Seldom is quite another. In the weeks before Seldom died, the crew of This Time had held one-minute silences for Gerry Marsden, Captain Tom, Prince Philip and Michael Apted – three of whom I have heard of. When I asked that the same honour be afforded my dead dog, I was given short shrift. Seldom’s death went unmarked by the corporation. I can forgive a lot but that? That, I will not, cannot and shall not forgive, ever. I will never, ever, ever, ever, ever forgive them.
What have you learned about yourself as a husband and father along the way?
It’s important to remember that being a husband or a father accounts for only a small part of who you are – something my ex-wife Carol never fully understood. At social functions, she’d sometimes embarrass me/herself by answering the question “And what do you do?” with the words: “I’m a full-time mum.” I would quickly laugh and explain to her that a mum isn’t a job, and that she was technically unemployed. Because I was employed, I was able to bring in fresh or American ideas from the world of broadcasting and business and deploy them in a domestic setting, something I was keen to impress on Carol during her annual review.
This imposed some welcome structure on the family unit, with me re-imagining my wife and kids as members of a TV crew. Myself as presenter and executive producer; Carol, the huffy floor manager, wayward son Fernando was every inch the gobby cameraman and daughter Denise – who had a hormone defect that reduced her to tantrums most days – was the make-up lady because that’s a thing that make-up ladies do. It all worked beautifully. Yes, the marriage ended in a painful divorce and I became estranged from my kids but I don’t think anyone is suggesting that was my fault. It was Carol’s fault. Carol and the kids.
How does the pressure of your job sit with you? Do you enjoy being a celebrity?
Nightclub and tits impresario Peter Stringfellow used to have a saying, “A diamond is just a piece of coal put under pressure”. Odd from a man who buckled so cravenly under financial pressure that he declared himself bankrupt not once but twice. Still! There’s something in it. And I like to think I thrive under pressure, as long as I’ve had a nap and a snack. And make no mistake, being in the public eye – I almost said ‘pubic’ then! Horrible! – being in the public eye, does bring a certain amount of pressure. People want to approach and chat. They take photographs. They tut if you snap at a waitress.
Fortunately, my assistant understands the pressures of fame and creates a ring of steel around me to limit interactions with the public. She’s my first line of defence, bodychecking anyone who gets too close like a Baptist linebacker and on one occasion smashing a sightseer’s camera. I find that hugely comforting.
What advice would you give your younger self about getting older?
Put simply, ageing is drying. You’re drying out with every day that passes. Your hair goes wiry, your skin gets chapped, lips crack, feet itch, bum wrinkles, odour gets musty. The trick to staying young? Moisture, moisture, moisture. Eliminate dryness aggressively and often. Conditioner, skin lotion, coconut oil, lip balm, lacquers, creams, ointments and mists. Get wet and stay wet.
If you could re-live one day of your life so far, what day would it be?
We actually had this exact conversation over Zoom, me and a few broadcasting chums. I said the happiest day of my life – the day I’d love to relive – was the day I met Princess Anne. Others had their own favourites: James May said his was the day Clarkson punched that producer; Deborah Meaden said it was the day she moved into a new house and found two grand in a child’s shoebox; Les Dennis said the first time he slept with Holden, and Jake Humphrey smiled to himself and said the best day of his life hasn’t happened yet. Well, we all wet ourselves. The guy talks bollocks.
Hello mate!
Just a quick one, mate. I’ve written another searing memoir and just thought I’d send a few copies to a few of my closest mates.
Obviously, mate, you come pretty high on that list. So here’s yours. A little gift from one mate to another (mate). Nothing more than that.
Anyway, that’s all it was. Hope all’s well with you, mate. Cheers, friend. All the best, buddy. Speak soon, pal. Bye.
Oh! Shit, nearly forgot to say… if you do enjoy the book and you did wanna, say, holler about it on TV, radio, social media, amongst friends (large groups only please), or in a national newspaper, then that’d be cool by me, mate. I know what you’re like! And I know what kind of support one mate gives to another mate, which is obviously what we are.
Obviously I’ll do the same for you, mate. If you got anything you’re proud of, bung it my way and after running it by my team I’ll consider, in selected cases, giving the big chops on my socials. No biggie. Why wouldn’t I? We’re mates.
Anyway, enjoy the book and enjoy talking about it to people.
Alan Partridge: Taggart is my Friday night treat
Nothing at the moment as I recently got a TV in my bedroom.
While I love all of Shakespeare’s works, the book I most wish I’d written is One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel García Márquez, in the original Spanish.
Delia Smith’s Christmas. A lovely book with great photographs and nice paper stock, but it contains too many recipes and lacks a clear narrative arc or unifying theme — and my God, she likes butter. To be fair, Delia holds her hands up. “I f***ed up,” she says.
Nomad by Alan Partridge. When I finished writing it I was so elated I attached it to an email, whizzed it off to the publishers and only afterwards thought: “I should probably have read that back.” To this day I have never read Nomad back.
Ali Baba and the Smoggy Thieves by Peter Greaves, a scathing 2022 panto that entertained kids, but also dealt brilliantly with the proposal to extend the Ulez scheme to outer London. Hilarious yet thought-provoking. “The days of widespread car ownership are behind you!” “Oh no, they’re not!” Yes, very enjoyable.
Would rather not say.
Taggart. Some detective series fail because you don’t believe serious crimes would take place where they’re set — eg Oxfordshire. But Taggart is set in Glasgow, so that’s never going to be a problem. On a Friday evening, after I’ve rung round to see if anyone’s free for a drink and they’re not, I sit back with a glass of wine, pop the subtitles on and enjoy one to two episodes until I nod off.
“As sure as Kilimanjaro rises like Olympus above the Serengeti,” from Africa by Toto. An oddly unflattering simile since Kilimanjaro at 19,341ft is more than twice as high as Olympus at 9,570ft, but it prompted me to spend an afternoon googling the heights of famous mountains. And if the lyric encourages just one child to google the heights of famous mountains, well you cannot ask for more than that.
During a siege in 2013, I was briefly superb at the bass guitar even though I’ve shown no aptitude for it before or since. These days it’s drums. Other than bread-making and Laser Quest, there’s no better way to stressbust than playing the drums. I’m not a home drummer — neighbours complained — so if I’m feeling tense I just pop over to a friend’s house and hit the kit in his son’s bedroom. I’m free to stay as long as I like unless the boy has homework, in which case I’m to limit my sessions to half an hour.
Would rather not say.
Streets of Philadelphia by Bruce Springsteen. I heard it played over the end of Tom Hanks’s Aids drama Philadelphia and also at Kraft Foods’ launch of the low-fat cream cheese Philadelphia Light. I cried on both occasions.
Dubai. Heaven. On. Earth.
A friend told me that they’re making a stage musical of the film version of the stage musical Cats. If true, I’d love to come along. I’d video it on my iPhone to create a film version of the stage musical of the film version of the stage musical Cats.
War Horse. I didn’t find the horses realistic and could definitely see people inside. I didn’t boo, I just finished my crisps, then quietly climbed over a family to get to the aisle and slipped away. When the usher asked me why I was going I said I didn’t find the horses realistic and could definitely see the people inside. He said, “Have you tried pretending the people aren’t there?” As soon as he said that something clicked. I retook my seat, opened my Minstrels and was absolutely transfixed by Marianne Elliott and Tom Morris’s spellbinding production. Bravo.
Lee Child. His books are masterpieces, but sometimes — not boasting — my idea for what could happen in a fight scene is better than his. For instance, there’s one where Jack Reacher knocks someone out with a punch to the jaw whereas I’d have had Jack Reacher use judo because there’s no way the baddie would expect that. And there are other examples too.
Doctor Who after a particularly tough Saturday. I’d attended a bake sale to raise money for an extension to the car park at Royal Norwich Golf Club so members wouldn’t have to walk from the overflow behind the ninth, and my cupcakes just hadn’t sold. I’d worked really hard on them and even though a few had got squashed in the car and some of the icing had been dragged off, I still thought they were good. When I got home, hungry and deflated, Doctor Who was on, but my assistant had “tidied up”, so the remote had gone Awol. There was no way of not watching Doctor Who. I sat down, coat still on and just wept. Absolutely awful programme.
Alan Partridge on cars, Canadians and Sunday roasts: ‘I’m already about 70% vegan’
The broadcaster, newscaster, sportscaster, podcaster and star of Alpha Papa tackles questions about the climate crisis, Strictly Come Dancing and true love
If the call came, would you be the next James Bond? Bigbadsean
Wouldn’t happen. There’s a sequence to the casting of 007. They choose an actor from one of the smaller UK nations, then from a non-British Commonwealth country and finally an Englishman – and repeat. Actor from smaller UK nation (Connery, Scotland), non-British actor (Lazenby, Australia), Englishman (Moore, England). Sequence completed, we go again: actor from smaller UK nation (Dalton, Wales), non-British actor (Brosnan, Ireland), Englishman (Craig, England).
So, you see, I couldn’t be the next Bond. It’ll be James Nesbitt (Northern Ireland), Ryan Gosling (Canada), then an Englishman. Assuming Nesbitt and Gosling do three movies each (one every three years), the earliest I could take the role would be 2041, when I’d be in my 80s. That’s almost certainly too old. While I have ideas as to how the role could be slightly rewritten to accommodate the secret agent’s mobility and bladder issues, even then I think it very, very unlikely they’d choose me. Given all that? Not going to happen … probably not going to happen.
I’m a vegan. What would it take to convince you to become vegan, too? elykwh
I’m already about 70% vegan and have to say I don’t find it that hard. My last Sunday roast? Potatoes, carrots, parsnips, broccoli, cauliflower and beef. So, almost entirely vegan. Same with Nando’s. You’ve got your chips, your macho peas, your corn on the cob – show me a single thing on that plate that’s come from an animal. You can’t. Have another look. You still can’t. In most places, with only a minimum of effort, large portions of your meal can and will be vegan. So, be good to yourself, be good to the planet and go largely vegan today.
What song should be played at your funeral and who should sing? ambandib2005
There’s a homeless busker who performs at St Stephen’s underpass in Norwich. Some say he lives with his mum and pretends to be without a home to monetise the public’s pity for the downtrodden. I’m not sure; he looks homeless enough to me. But his act! A voice like thick honey, Kenneth-Williams-style diction and a set list comprising your Snow Patrols, Stereophonics and a slightly-too-high Goo Goo Doll encore. He’s the best singer I’ve ever heard (so far). And because I’m getting cremated and they position the singer near the furnace doors, he’d get to enjoy the warmth while singing. Even in death I’ll be giving a bit back to the needy. (Song: Pipes of Peace.)
Who would be your ideal partner in Strictly Come Dancing? mesm
I’ve given this a lot of thought and all things considered I’d go for one of the women.
What were the greatest life lessons you learned from your parents? Abadabs
From my father, I learned how to strengthen conkers (soak in vinegar, bake for two hours at 140C/gas mark 1). From my mother, never, ever stop to help a broken-down vehicle – even if they look to be in distress. It’s actually a trap set by robbers.
Have you given up on finding true love? baffledbylife
It makes me laugh when people say that. I feel true love every day: the true love of seeing a flower in bloom, of hearing a bird in song, of a freshly baked loaf or a gambolling lamb. I delight at the first dew of spring and the final leaves of autumn. And my heart positively soars when I’m about to reverse out of a parking space, but then realise the space in front is empty, meaning I can zoom out forwards. So, you see, true love fills my every waking hour. For what it’s worth, I also happen to be in a sexful relationship with a woman. But yeah, like I say, makes me laugh.
Radio, TV, books, films, podcasts. What worlds are left for you to conquer? CarrAgger
I’m increasingly drawn to the world of long-form documentary. What would mine be? Easy: the definitive history of the Vietnam war. Once that’s done – it would take eight to 10 weeks – I might direct a movie. The possibilities of cartoon excite me. There’s an elegance and poetry to animation that’s hard for live action to match. Also, if you have an idea for a scene where a character’s head has to turn round 350 degrees (which I do), animation makes it much easier.
If you weren’t available, who would you choose to anchor the next election night at the BBC? WyzacH
Matt Baker. Next question.
What has been your most rewarding spiritual experience? Aaaaaal
The opening ceremony of the 2012 London Olympics. I was watching the left-leaning propaganda display with a Welsh woman I’d accidentally started dating, and she asked if I had any Doritos, perhaps because she was hungry or wanted to crunch loudly over the commentary. I nipped to the garage and bought a bag, but didn’t buy salsa as I had a jar in the cupboard. When I got home, I noticed the salsa had gone off in 2010, but we tucked in anyway, since best-before dates are a scam. It was only when we finished that I noticed the expiry date actually said 2001.
The stomach cramps were the first to come, followed by dizzying nausea and soon (lots of) vomit. For the next six hours, we were sick again and again, locked in a double helix of distress and euphoric relief accompanied by the smell of wet wipes. It became a hallucinogenic, out-of-body experience. We found ourselves hugging and laughing, sharing our innermost thoughts, lost in flights of fancy and repeatedly being sick. By sunrise, it had worn off. I called her a cab and emailed my assistant five carefully chosen words: “Get me a cleaner, quick.”
I think of my life as the story of two Alans: the Alan before the time I was sick watching the opening ceremony of the 2012 London Olympics and the Alan after the time I was sick watching the opening ceremony of the 2012 London Olympics.
As a man with few equals, who can think on his feet while talking eloquently into a microphone, isn’t it time we heard you commentating on a Cup Final? thedribbler2
It’s a good question and, despite the fact you inexplicably capitalised the words “Cup” and “Final”, one I’m happy to answer. The only football finals I’d be prepared to commentate on would be for the women’s game. I’ll probably take some flak for this, but I happen to believe that women and girls are the future of the sport. Like I say, might not be the cool or popular thing to say, but it’s just what I happen to believe.
As an authority on the benefits of self-reflection and continuous improvement, what are your top three regrets and how did you learn from them? MarkAP
Laughed at wife when face swelled up after bee sting(s); kicked pig; wasn’t great dad. Don’t believe in looking back, so haven’t learned from them.
From the Rover Vitesse fastback to the Vauxhall Insignia, you have owned some of the truly great modern automobiles. Which has been your favourite car over the years? cy7000
An interesting question, and the answer may surprise you. I could easily reel off the high-class cars I’ve driven over the years: 2022 Range Rover Velar, 2021 Range Rover Vogue SE, Range Rover Sport 4.4 V8 petrol. But years before then, as a younger man in a simpler time, I fondly remember pootling around Norfolk in a humble little runaround. Wasn’t the fanciest nor most expensive, but it had personality, and that matters more than anything to me. I cried when I had to sell it. It was a 2002 Range Rover HSE+.
What’s your opinion on the rise of electric cars? CosmoLang
As Norfolk’s car laureate, it’s my job – my privilege – to promote car ownership and usage across the county. As such, I’m largely fuel-agnostic: what powers our vehicles is less important than that we’re in our vehicles. Remember: Norfolk is a big, flat pancake of a county with fewer public transport journeys available per head, as a percentage of mean population density, than anywhere in the UK. And although I made that statistic up, cars will continue to be central to our prosperity, not to mention our ability to get to work or our racquets club.
Does that make me an apologist for big oil or large petrol? Not a bit. Don’t forget, in the 90s, I was one of the first car-liking public figures to openly discuss catalytic converters, and not just because I liked saying the words “catalytic converter”. And while this isn’t the place to get into the whole he-said-she-said of whether climate change is actually happening, what I will say is that while cars are demonised, other sources of greenhouse emissions get off scot-free. Prime example? Cow trumps.
While I welcome the rise of electric cars, I don’t necessarily see it as the only show in town. With the technology available to make smaller and smaller reactors, we’d be fools to rule out the emergence of the nuclear hatchback.
WFH: A suggested itineraryApart from the deaths, the greatest downside to the Covid pandemic was surely the closing down of shared office spaces. Working from home was fun for a few days. Sending emails from the bath, eating choc ices while designing a Powerpoint presentation, conducting zoom calls with the contented smirk of a man who is secretly naked from the waist down. All good, honest, British fun. But it soon became debilitating. Away from the regimented timetable of a day in the office, corporate high-flyers – from COOs to VPs, marketing EMEA – found themselves lost and bewildered in the home, their working day plagued by the petty distractions of home life. Why is the washing machine beeping? Are the bin men usually this loud? Where is the dog, I’m sure we used to have a dog? Unforgivably, many succumbed to the lure of daytime telly or attended to their children, causing productivity to nose dive. What’s needed is structure. To that end, I humbly present a daily itinerary that worked for me. Maybe it will work for you.
How to make professional connectionsHow to make professional connections by Alan PartridgeA lot of people are surprised to hear I’m a keen advocate of LinkedIn. I’m seen very much as a people person – with good reason. When it comes to professional interaction, I like to do it man to man. A handshake after a game of squash. A clinked pint glass in a gastropub. Back slaps and big laughs through mouthfuls of steak and wine. To me, that’s business. Whereas LinkedIn users find solace in what you might call virtual connections tappity-tap-tapping smartphone messages on a quiet train or scrolling content at home with the blue light of an iPad illuminating their blankly impassive faces in an otherwise dark bedroom. What is a friend? Someone you spend a lot of time with, united in the pursuit of a shared objective which you work towards in exchange for money? Wrong – you’re thinking of a colleague. Someone you’re close to then, with whom you shared a bond of affection, warmth and trust, and has the same mum as you. Nope, that’s a sibling. Alright then, someone unrelated to you with whom you enjoy spending time, and who makes you laugh and lets you stroke them. Also wrong – that’s a dog. Although I’ve enjoyed seriously good online connections with some seriously good LinkedIn users – Beth Greaves, marketing manager at Borrowdale Executive Vehicles; Jim Snell, MD at Snell Animal Feed; Penelope Troome, legal executive at Wardle Wardle & Wardell; Stephen K Gribben III, VP, marketing EMEA at Hoopla Plastic Toys Inc – I honestly think more of you have it in you to function adequately in a social setting. Right now few of you do. I don’t propose to go into the reasons for that – in some cases, it’s shyness or a Kermit-the-frog-style ‘nerd voice’. In others, confidence isn’t the problem so much as having ripe breath or hairy hands. Whatever the reason – and as I say, I don’t have time to go into what it may be; it could be simply eating loudly – whatever that reason… and it could even be that you say pacific when you mean specific, again now is not the time to go into any of that. Whatever the reason, LinkedIn users tend to struggle when it comes to giving a good account of themselves in a real-world environment. Now some of you will take issue with that. ‘I have loads of LinkedIn followers, and I’ve never had a problem making friends.’ And yet you’re reading this right now on LinkedIn, whereas other people, ‘friend people’, aren’t are they? They’re sitting down to dinner with loved ones, hosting a cheese evening with friends from school, talking cars with the guys, cradling a newborn baby or succeeding in business. No disrespect intended – but good business is about relationships. Ask anyone from Matt Hancock to Aaron Banks and they’ll tell you: where possible, you do business with friends. I’ve got a lot of time for LinkedIn – it’s a valuable resource when you want to view someone’s mugshot so you know if they’re Hilary a man or Hilary a woman. Or if you need to know if a US contact goes by Steve Gribben of Stephen K Gribben III. Beyond that, it ain’t massively my bag. It’s a forum that often describes itself as a marketplace of ideas. You know what else calls itself a marketplace of ideas? A marketplace. Those covered ones where stallholders wear money belts and the ideas you overhear are generally old or unworkable. So why am I on here? Well, cards on the table, my initial sign-up came in 2019 and let’s call that what it was – a social media strategy devised by the marketing guys at Audible.co.uk who, and I’m guessing here, identified the LinkedIn demographic as the most likely to buy audiobooks. And they’re probably right – you’re guys who want to consume podcasts and books while sitting astride a rowing machine. Or driving to a sales conference in Birmingham. Or power walking before brunch. You’d no more read a book than I’d watch a television programme on ITV2. Knowing all this, the marketing boffins at Audible signed me up, hoping I’d wheedle my way in, butter you up, network with you, and kiss your sweet ass cheeks in the hope you’ll warm to me and listen to my podcast. But I’ve grown fond of each and every one of you. And since I’m here, I thought why not help a few of you out with The Alan Partridge Guide to Making Connections If You’re A LinkedIn User. 1. Shave your hands. Hairy-handed men engender feelings such as unease, mistrust, disdain and revulsion. It’s a fact that humans like to be around smooth-handed people. Yet of the men I’ve seen on LinkedIn more than half have hairy hands. 2. Volume. Normal conversation tends to be be around 60db. Lower if you’re Kirsty Young, a lot higher if you went to public school. But aim for 60. 3. Learn to sidle. Eavesdrop in a room until you find a conversation you can follow. Latch on, and very very slowly get closer and closer, murmuring agreement louder and louder. Before long you’ll be inside the conversation and might make a friend. 4. Fresh breath! Expel a gobful of breath into a cupped hand. If it ain’t fresh, get it fresh. 5. Cut out the Essex. If you’re from Essex, tone it down generally. 6. Eye contact. But remember to blink. 7. Think of things to say. It’s no use expecting a bundle of talking points to pop in your head right on cue. Prepare in advance a bunch of conversational jumping off points: how did you get here? Do you own a car? Do you like cars? What’s your favourite car? Does your wife own a car? What kind of car does your wife own? Have them ready. 8. Be nice. As my mum used to say, it’s nice to be important but it’s more important to be nice. FYI, she was neither. 9. Hand-stubble growing back? Shave again. Think yourself creative: a thought pieceThe question I’m asked more than any other – more than ‘are you Alan Partridge’ or ‘is that a wig’ or ‘why don’t you have a Norwich accent’ or ‘have you passed an advanced driving course because you drive like you have’ – is this: ‘how can I maximise my creativity?’Because whatever your profession, whatever game you’re in, you’re only going to become an industry leader if you’re creative. Creativity can take many forms. It might be Bernard Matthews’ forensic quest to find efficiencies in poultry slaughtering that would allow him to achieve the fabled ‘ten pence turkey’. Or Gary Barlow’s ingenuity both in writing hit pop tracks or seeking to become ever more tax efficient. True creativity needs to become a habit. It’s no good sitting down to dream up a logo or TV format and thinking you could just summon creativity at the flick of a switch. You need to train that muscle, like Ross Kemp does with his glutes. That means thinking creatively the moment you awake. Think about the way you get out of bed. You always get out of bed the same way – flopping one side of the duvet up, letting both legs dollop over the side, before planting the feet and standing up. Spend a few minutes thinking of another way to leave the bed, a different way to leave the bed. Roly poly off the end; stand on it and jump to the door; have an obese friend jump onto the mattress in a way that catapults you up and out, I don’t know. Just think, see what occurs. Okay, it’s breakfast. You’d normally slop a bowlful of porridge out of a pan and sit down to eat. Is that it? You’re just going to dole it mouthwards while you stare at the wall? Use your noodle and be creative. Why not use the porridge to exercise the mind muscle. How would you describe porridge to someone who’d never encountered it? What words would you use? Slop, paste, gunk, hot, claggy, silken, gruel, oaty, food, nice, eat, tummy, carbohydrate, coagulated. Any others? Already, your cogs are whirring. You’re in a creative mind space. Why not make a face from the components of the bowl. Two blueberries for eyes. A smear of banana could make a cracking little smile. Almond ears. If it’s thickened enough, use the sharp edge of the spoon to slash a nose down the middle. There it is, think outside the box, be different, be you, be best. You dress. What were you thinking, shirt and tie? How about just a shirt, open to the sternum? Or a polo shirt with a tie? Or a ribbed, turtle neck sweater in an unusual colour? Cravats can be a great way to explore your creative side. Ditto a beret. Try something different. For crying out loud, be creative. Time for that video call. Why not do that a little differently – after all they can only see you from the chest up. Why not host the call while sporting some ladies shoes, or scratching your feet with a pumice stone, or doing some lunges? Again, try to be creative. I don’t know how many times I have to say it. I could go on. This is an extract from Forward Solutions: An Imbecile’s Guide by Alan Partridge, published here with the kind permission of Alan Partridge. Copyright Alan Partridge. Alan Partridge.
Alan Partridge On The New BBC Series Of This Time…Alan, welcome back! For the uninitiated, what can you tell us about This Time? It’s what’s known as a magazine show, bottling all of the magic of magazine reading and translating that into 30 minutes of TV. Some people sneer at magazines. But imagine a world without magazines, with readers having to make do with books, newspapers and letters. A chilling prospect. This Time manages to be all your favourite magazines rolled into one. As informative as the Reader’s Digest, as sassy as Bunty, as entertaining as Private Eye pre-Hislop, as debonaire as Conde Nast Traveler, as fair-minded as The Spectator. Our goal? To deliver telly people talk about – what BBC execs still refer to as water cooler TV, even when you point out everyone works from home these days so office water coolers are just stagnant receptacles going mouldy round the nozzle. What kind of subjects does the show cover? What doesn’t it cover! But what does it cover? Well, we’ll cover current affairs, hot button topics, global issues, everyday niggles, some very light politics – pitched at or below GCSE level – all held together with good old fashioned chat, which by the way is baked into the format. We underfill the show by about 30% to allow for nattering. So over the half hour, expect around 20 minutes of content. And the rest of it is left slack to keep the show fresh. Describe a typical day working on the show. I like to arrive at the BBC early. I often bring in a box of doughnuts for the team and say ‘dig in’ while I stand beside the box to ensure no one takes more than their allocated one. It’s a shame I need to police it but this is the modern BBC for you. The editorial meeting will discuss items we can cover in future episodes. It’s all fairly workaday so I like to hurl in more daring ideas – often just semi-thoughts like ‘zero gravity?’ or ‘live from Broadmoor?’ – and yes, 99.9% of them will be quite rightly discarded. But it’s that 0.1% that could one day scoop us a nomination for a National Television Award. At lunch, I’ll grab a sandwich and go and look down into the atrium occupied by BBC News to see if I can see them ready the One O’Clock News, while my co-presenter Jennie [Gresham] spends time with her phone. After lunch, another meeting, this one running through that evening’s show. I tend to tune out of this one. It is possible to over-prepare for a show, and render it stale. Instead I prefer to experience parts of the show as a viewer would – which means sometimes I won’t really know who a guest is until they come on, or what Jennie’s report is about or why the man in my earpiece is saying I have to walk to the other side of the studio. And then it’s all about getting ready for the show. I’ll sit in hair and make up for half an hour and then retire to my dressing room to instantly redo my hair, unmaking all the mistakes the hair stylist wouldn’t have made if she’d been listening. Then I dress, do 10 push ups, finish the doughnuts if there are any doughnuts left, and wait for the show to start. Do you have any input on the stories you feature in the show? Under the producership of our producer Philip, it’s a green light, open door, free-for-all. Got an idea? Pitch it. Doesn’t have to be a topic to be covered in the show. I might go to him and say, the lighting guy isn’t very good, lose him. Or I think Jennie needs to wear more blusher. Philip is the Biddy Baxter of This Time, a producer who’s helmed the show since its inception. Sadly he’s leaving because he’s got a younger girlfriend and she wants to go travelling. But we’ll certainly miss him. He’s wonderfully hands off which means he’ll leave you to write your own autocue or deliver video packages without always running them by him And while things might change under the new producer whoever he (or she!!!!) is, they might not. What’s it like presenting alongside such a popular presenter as Jennie Gresham? A keen tennis player and childless, Jennie likes nothing more than catching up on the soaps, reading the Guardian newspaper or shopping for the latest iPads. She’s modern, sassy and wants it all! It’s fair to say we approach our roles as co-anchors slightly differently. One of us can be seen presenting umpteen other BBC shows from Walking the Lakes with Jennie Gresham to The Unexplored Brontes with Jennie Gresham to Inside John Lewis with Jennie Gresham to Jennie Gresham’s NHS Heroes. The other one prefers to dedicate him- or herself exclusively to This Time because he/she happens to think the show and our viewers deserve that, but each to their own. How would you describe your working relationship? We’ve had our ups and downs – it’s like a marriage. Very like a marriage in that we sit next to each on a sofa, we don’t face each other when we talk and there’s no sex or suggestion of sex. Are we friends? Well, are Ant and Dec friends? Are Holly and Phil? Are Richard and Judy. No, of course not. But we dovetail, at least I do. And the rest of the team? Roving reporter Ruth Duggan is a hugely popular member of the team, her charismatic smile redolent of public figures such as Priti Patel. Off air she has a tendency to mutter but on air she’s clear and informative. Yes, I like Ruth very much. Are we bosom buddies? No. She’d probably mutter that ‘bosom buddies’ is sexist and no better than saying ‘mammary mates’ or ‘chest chums’. But that’s part of her wonderfully dry sense of humour. Yes, I like Ruth very much. Simon Denton is our social media man. His role has slightly expanded, as has he due to inactivity during lockdown. He’s keen to take on more of a presenting brief, but that’s something we can revisit at the back end of next year or the first half of 2023. And talk about funny! From puns to quips to voices (he now has ten voices) to wry sideways looks at things, this guy comedically has it all and provides some welcome light relief, particularly after Ruth’s been on. And then there’s crew who I won’t name. They’re broadly fine. As for me, I’m just an old codger who potters in his garden and happens to be good at advanced driving. How has the show continued amid the Covid pandemic? We’ve coped manfully and womanfully. We even have a studio audience for every show. They have to socially distance when the camera is on them but out of shot they can do what they like. For the crew though, it’s a different story. Temperature tests on entry, no sharing water bottles, compulsory masks and of course regular testing which I’ve not enjoyed. I’ve had an overactive gag reflex ever since a drinking game I was made to play on a stag do. This makes Covid testing an ordeal. I’ve had to develop a routine to stave off panic. I numb the throat with an anaesthetic spray, eliminating as much sensation as possible. With my tonsils deadened, I blindfold myself, put on a loud piece of music, open my mouth and count to 500 hundred. The covid tester has until then to sneak in, swab, and leave. If they’re not heavily odoured, I can get to 500 without even knowing I’d been tested. It’s a rigmarole, but it works. This Time saw you return to presenting on the BBC after 25 years, how did it feel to be back on BBC One after such a long time? It’s like stumbling across a long-discarded pair of trousers in the back of your wardrobe. You’d grown out of them decades earlier but now due to a new fitness regime and gastric flu that means you can’t keep food down, they fit again. You put them on, savouring the snug grip of waistband on midriff, perhaps parading up and down the landing like it’s a catwalk. Obviously, chances are you’ll regain that weight and outgrow the slacks again, but right now? It feels intensely satisfying. That is what it feels like to be back on the BBC. I can’t put it any clearer than that. I’ve now had the pleasure of presenting the show since 2019 and for billions of households up and down the country, I’m now part of the furniture – one of the good ones such as an elegant sideboard or a sleek TV/stereo unit. Was there a particular guest that stood out for you in this or the previous series? I think what you’re asking is ‘what makes a good guest’. And that’s a great question. A good guest is famous, with two anecdotes, speaks quickly (eg someone Scottish) and clearly (eg someone not Scottish), and listens. A lot of them don’t listen, that’s the problem. They think it’s all about them. They don’t listen, they need to listen more. Alan, many well-known gameshows have returned to the airwaves of late. Jeremy Clarkson now hosts Who Wants to Be A Millionaire and Gino D’Acampo heads up Family Fortunes. Are there any classic gameshows from yesteryear you would like to revive/reboot and host? No. This Time with Alan Partridge returns to BBC One on Friday 30th April at 9.30pm
Alan Partridge on his new podcast: ‘This is the real, raw, be-cardiganed me’Rich Pelley Turn right out of Norwich railway station, take the number 12 bus, change at Norfolk and Norwich University Hospital, ride eight stops on the number 4 towards Swanton Morley, walk 1.1 miles, and you can’t help but spot the twin louvred conical towers of the oasthouse that Alan Partridge calls home. It is from this very oasthouse that Partridge – raconteur, national treasure, wit – broadcasts his brand new podcast, From the Oasthouse: The Alan Partridge Podcast, and to which Partridge has invited the Guardian. Partridge bounds out to greet me in what appears to be an effusive show of hospitality. He offers a handshake before snapping it back into a more pandemic-appropriate wave. “I am so fine with social distancing,” he says. “Remember, I work in television where you’re forever mauled, hugged and leant on by over-pally floor managers or cackling makeup ladies. Now I can say, ‘Get your hands off me!’ without appearing in any way rude.” He glances at my bag before lowering his voice. “I’d ask that you remove any sandwiches and if you’ve handled any such snack in the last hour, wash your hands quietly and well.” His dog, he explains – an enormous brown mastiff called Seldom – adores sandwiches. “Less than 0.1% of mastiffs attack,” says Partridge as we sidle past the animal. “Unfortunately, Seldom’s the whole of that 0.1%. The kindest thing I can say is that he’s a statistical anomaly.” Twenty minutes later, with the dog sleeping off a meal of ham and boiled eggs, we sit down at the kitchen table. Does Partridge trust the press, I ask? Was he involved in the phone hacking scandal? “I was concerned enough at the time to have a friend leave a fake message on my voicemail discussing the fact that a high oestrogen count had given me breasts that I was only able to hide with extensive strapping. I wanted to see if it got picked up by a paper. To this day there’s never been a story published suggesting Alan Partridge has tits.” Alan Partridge in person is just as you’d imagine Alan Partridge off the telly. He’s managed his first post-lockdown haircut. “No longer having to worry about the volume and lustre of my hair, I became a hat man, something I’ve always wanted to try,” he says. “So I’d buy a hat online and then spend a day wearing it. It was only when I answered the door to a smirking Ocado driver while wearing a Jamiroquai hat that I had a moment of clarity…” He’s sporting a fetching pair of burgundy trousers. “They’re not burgundy,” he corrects me. “They’re ox-blood. Sometimes I’ll just see a colour and think, ‘I want to wear that.’ So I’ll pick it out of a Dulux colour chart and send my assistant to the shops.” What’s the format of his new podcast? “Format is the death of chat,” counters Partridge. “Podcasts are strangled by format – talk about your favourite meal, tell us about the adverts you enjoy, tell us about the last time you cried, watch Doctor Who with me. Mine is different. I just yank back the curtain, drop the facade, peel back the warm hood of celebrity and reveal the real me, the raw me, the true me. A be-cardiganed, cuppa-tea-swigging, pair-of-slippers kind of Alan.” This is one of half a dozen times Partridge mentions tea or cardigans, as if keen to project the air of a man at ease with himself. “Five years ago, I was swanning around in a complimentary Kia, my name emblazoned on the side, the talk of Norwich – Johnny Big Bollocks,” he says. “Today…?” He nods outside to a silver saloon. What’s he driving, I ask? “Oh, a Vauxhall, but who cares really? After the year we’ve been through, there are more important things than how much you earn or what racquets club you’re a member of or how sweet your wheels are. And people say, ‘That’s the Insignia GSi, isn’t it? Nine-speed automatic with paddle shift? Keyless entry, e-boost hydraulic brakes, heated front seats with massage functionality?’ And I just chuckle. Some even peer through the window and say, ‘Tell you what, Alan, for a 40k car, this is specced to absolute buggery.’ And I just shrug and, again, chuckle.” Has Partridge been inspired by any other podcasts? “Less other podcasts, more by the excellence we see all around us: a dog leaping to catch a stick, a ballerina doing a brilliant ballet, a forklift truck driver steering one-handed while smoking.” Having said that, he admits to enjoying the true-crime genre (“Nothing beats settling down with a glass of wine and a plate of sandwiches to be entertained by the ins and outs of a man found battered to death in a hedge”) and is considering using a second series of his podcast to explore the disappearance of a friend who fell from a pier in 2013, never to be found. “I’m just waiting to hear from Audible as they’ve yet to say they definitely want a second series. I’m not worried. It’s just that they said they’d call and thus far they haven’t. It’s fine. They’ve not not called. They’ve just not called.” Alan Gordon Partridge is allergic to shellfish and was born in King’s Lynn, Norfolk. At school he was nicknamed Smelly Alison Fartridge. “Bullying suggests weakness. I wasn’t bullied. I allowed some pretty dysfunctional kids to reveal their dysfunction through the medium of hitting me. And now everyone knows they’re dysfunctional and I’m clearing a six-figure salary. So remind me – which one of us was bullied?” Partridge found fame presenting the sports on Radio 4’s On the Hour and BBC Two’s The Day Today. Does he still have an interest in sport? “Does anyone? Once upon a time, the theme from Grandstand by Keith Mansfield would waft through from the living room and every household in Britain would drift to the sofa, like a snake-charmed snake to a snake charmer. But as the BBC lost the rights to blue-riband events, the music developed a sarcastic feel, the bombast that had once led into, say, the Monaco Grand Prix jarring badly with live canoeing from Wiltshire or the Masters snooker from wherever the Masters snooker is from.” A TV presenter claiming to prefer radio is like a Hollywood actor claiming their first love is theatre – a clear lie “It’s interesting,” muses Partridge. “I proposed those shows in strict confidence at a private luncheon with Tony Hayers. Somehow, the world and his dog now know about them so I know Hayers must have betrayed my confidence and told people. Does that mean he deserved to die in a tragic accident just weeks later? Yes, I think it does.” Partridge then presented Up With the Partridge and Norfolk Nights on Radio Norwich (“A TV presenter claiming to prefer radio is like a Hollywood actor claiming their first love is ‘the theatre’ – a clear and obvious lie”), and Mid Morning Matters on North Norfolk Digital, the same radio station where he was later held hostage at gunpoint by fellow DJ Pat Farrell. He returned to live TV in 2019 to co-present BBC One’s flagship current affairs programme This Time, after host John Baskell died. Are there any broadcast media he’d still like to try? “I’d like to have had a crack at voicing the government’s public information Covid campaign. Nothing against Mark Strong. He has competent delivery and an authoritative voice, but a glance at the numbers suggests Strong just hasn’t worked. I’d love to be considered for the second wave.” So how does Partridge think the government is coping? “Something special is happening with the Conservative party right now,” he says. “I like Boris a lot, although I’ve never met him. He was going to be at a function I was at a few years ago, but apparently he’d just had another baby and was having a small gathering to celebrate hitting double figures. But he’s persuasive. We’re talking about a chap who’s managed to pass himself off as an energetic, sporty ladies’ man despite being morbidly obese with a kind of … I want to say collapsing face? Like that evil rabbit at the end of Watership Down. What can I say, I like the guy!” So what was Norwich like during lockdown? “Norwich is used to repelling unwanted plagues – be they germs, people from Suffolk or invading armies. I remember when my kids were teenagers…” (I interrupt to ask when he last saw his now middle-aged children. “Just before lockdown. They’re shielding so I couldn’t visit anyway. Fernando says he had head cancer and Denise says she’s sometimes diabetic…”) “Anyway, we’d have an enormous Christmas breakfast then go for a big old walk while Carol cooked Christmas lunch. One year, the kids didn’t want to come – I’d bought them a chemistry set, so I get it – so off I set on my own in my new coat, a lovely warm thing. After several miles, I found a world war two pillbox. It was just fascinating to sit inside, imagine the Germans had invaded and picture British soldiers in here, shouting, ‘Take that, Fritz!’ and whatnot. Anyway as I say it’d had been a very big breakfast and this was a very warm coat and long story short, I woke up and it was 2pm on Boxing Day. I didn’t realise until I got home and Carol had taken down all the decorations. So mixed memories there.” How’s his love life these days? “Varied. I signed up to an elite dating agency called Echelon, for high wealth/class individuals looking to encounter similar. It’s run by a couple called Wilf and Fi who provide a tightly curated list of potential matches. I was in a very happy sexless relationship for 12 months. We’d kiss, cuddle and talk about the garden. Very pleasant. Just nothing genital. Some of my mates said it must be like going out with a mermaid. They were right. Although one that can’t swim.” He shows me round the house. Recent spoilsports in the oasthouse field have noted that this particular oasthouse does not possess the visible joints nor the vented fireproof floor required of a traditional 19th-century oasthouse and is more likely to have been a game larder. “It didn’t used to be anything; it’s a new build, so they’re bang wrong,” he snaps. Meaning it never was an oasthouse? “That’s absolutely correct. In fact, if I come to sell it, I legally have to list it as an oast-style house. It only dates back to 2018. I read somewhere you can age brickwork by power hosing it with black coffee but it just made the house smell like a bank manager’s mouth so I had it cleaned off. Either way, it doesn’t look like a game larder and it’s never been a game larder.” Partridge suddenly jumps up. “Bugger me, I have to collect Lynn from her physio.” Ah, yes. Partridge’s dedicated assistant Lynn, who has worked for him since the 90s. “She’s just started a 12-month driving ban, so I’m having to ferry her around and subtract the petrol money from her wages. She fell asleep at the wheel after an Irish coffee and crashed into a stationary St John ambulance – people you’d expect to be able to cope in the event of a low-speed collision – but their training went out of the window and they went to pieces. It was only when a second St John ambulance arrived that they were able to restore some semblance of order. The judge made an example of her, which I think she was quietly flattered by.” Just one more question, I ask, as Partridge shows me the door. What’s the difference between an oasthouse and a game larder anyway? “You dry hops in an oasthouse. You mature dead animals in a game larder. Very different vibes. You might show a Tinder date around an oasthouse and kiss her up against the hops. Would you do that next to the corpse of a baby deer or a bunch of garrotted rabbits? I don’t know, maybe you would.”
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