Big Beacon, page 13
The making of the programme was a revelation, though. I felt vital, free, fizzing and good. Nobody watching the show could possibly argue that I’d not been on a journey of redemption and emerged a better man and, yes, a better broadcaster. The turning point for me arrived in a teenager’s house party near Denton. I had mingled with the youngsters and, on realising drugs were being passed round and that I had a duty of care, I confiscated an ecstasy tablet in exchange for some money.
I confess to this: a quick nibble to ensure it was indeed the designer nightclub substance did have an effect on me. Others at the party won’t have noticed any behavioural change, my constitution is too hardy for that to show, but on the inside my consciousness was expanding and cartwheeling in fascinating new directions.
A friend’s wife told me of a similar experience she’d had while on a yoga retreat in Cancún. One evening, each of the yogic women took a brew containing ayahuasca, a hallucinogenic drug found in South America. She says it was revelatory, creating a feeling of total spiritual purification. She returned to the UK with a new lease of life, a whole new outlook and also a Peruvian boyfriend – which has caused some marital friction but only to her husband.
For me, the experience of nibbling ecstasy was similarly life-changing. As I wandered the kitchen, grinning and asking teenagers if they were having a good night, I felt an enormous sense of change. It was as if in that moment I was shedding any residual feelings of shame or guilt. And from that moment, I felt precisely zero guilt for what I’d said to Marvin. At no point since have I even considered the possibility that I, Alan Partridge, had done anything wrong, not really. And that can be only healthy.
I made four firm friends that night, friendships that I know continue to this day, a bond that spans the 240 miles between my home and theirs, between a guy old enough to be their granddad and four Mancunian youths. I think one was called Gav and I’m not sure about the others.
As for the show, I was keen for it to get as wide (or big) an audience as possible. For a while, I was in talks with a friend on Norwich City Council over the prospect of showing it on the big outdoors screens outside Norwich Forum.
‘We only put the screens up for Pride weekend,’ he said.
‘Great, show it then.’
‘Pride is for the LGBTQ+ community. It’s got nothing to do with what you call “chavs”.’
‘You’re not telling me you can’t slip a C in there on the quiet,’ I spluttered. ‘Say it’s an LGBTCQ+ event, no one will notice. Please, Paul. There’ll be two thousand people watching that.’
In the end he wouldn’t do it, and I had to settle for a much smaller audience on Sky Atlantic.
* * *
64 I don’t want to suggest that these are my views. I’m just saying anyone can retrofit an acronym onto a Romani word and say they made it up. It’s bullshit.
65 On one occasion the winners of a father and son tournament were disqualified when it emerged that the son was actually adopted. And while some see this as needlessly strict, I’m told there are plans to introduce a secondary event for orphans, bastards and adoptees.
66 2008 – Karl Howman.
67 It was made with cuttings taken from a catalogue, which can work extremely well if you stay away from the bras and showers. (For members of Gen Z, ‘catalogues’ were the precursor to the internet.)
68 And accidentally recorded it.
SPITTING FEATHERS
April 2022
It’s the morning after I made love to Red and I’ve never felt so virile. As she sleeps soundly on the bed, I stride over to the bathroom. When my bladder’s full, I become erect – yet emptying a bladder when one has a stiffy is a tricksy task indeed. Gripping the member and attempting to force it downwards only serves to excite the thing more. So I prefer a different technique, working with – not against – the proud appendage. Standing two paces back from the bowl with my hands by my sides, the flow begins, arcing up and over into the toilet like half a McDonald’s logo. As the bladder empties and tumescence begins to subside, so the angle of flight begins to decrease. As this happens, I counteract it by graaaaaaaaaadually leaning forward, making a body position reminiscent of a ski-jumper in flight. At a certain point, however, leaning any further forward becomes impossible without falling into the pan. I have now entered the trickiest phase of the ablution.
Instinct suggests taking a step towards the loo, but this would lead the torso to twist. Though that twist would be almost imperceptible to the human eye, even minor lateral adjustments to the beam can lead to devastating consequences as you splash the wall to the right of the toilet, panic, and as you overcorrect, splash the wall to the left. Instead, what is required is a series of smooth, small shuffles, bringing you forward quickly but safely, until eventually you come to rest with your shins against the rim just in time to shudder and finish.
I wander back over to the mattress. My eyes land on the sleeping figure of Red. God, she’s beautiful. I lean over, put my fingers under her chin and gently close her mouth because she’s been sleeping with it open.
‘That’s better,’ I whisper.
By now I’m starting to register just how much my back has stiffened up. Lost in the fog of passion, I’d twisted, turned, bent and at one pointed leaned myself into positions simply not suited to a man of my age. If I’m ever to experience such wide-ranging coitus again, I will request a short break every twenty minutes to snack and stretch. It would also make sense to pre-book with my osteopath the night before.69
I throw on some clothes, rip a banana away from the rest of its family and greedily munch on the smile-shaped fruit. I take one more lingering look at Red, quickly re-close her mouth because it’s fallen open again and head out for a bracing coastal walk. Yesterday, I found out that the nearby Samphire Hoe nature reserve was created using soil dug out during the construction of the Channel Tunnel. To be able to walk around on earth that had once been buried deep beneath the sea is a tantalising prospect indeed. And because seabed sediment is largely made up of fossilised remains, there’s every chance I’ll effectively be treading on a terrydactyl spine, a billion-year-old woodlouse or – if I’m really lucky – an ancient fish face.
But an hour later, as I gaily march up and down the nature reserve as happy as a sandboy/one of the women from a Bodyform advert, I receive a message from my assistant that is so intriguing I will now do a time-jump to one day later.
‘Will it be chips or jacket spuds? Will it be salad or frozen peas? Will it be onions, fried onion rings, we’ll have to wait and see.’
I’m in my car singing the song from the Birdseye Steakhouse Grills adverts from the mid-eighties. Some of you will be familiar with that reference and some won’t, and that – despite the fretting of my editor – is fine. Where am I headed?
Well, the intriguing message from my assistant had been about TV cook James Martin. His assistant had contacted her out of the blue, presumably in response to my round-robin letter asking for financial contributions to the rebuild. His message had read: ‘Come over. Can have lunch and chat about renno project.’70
Well, this was manna from heaven. We’ve already swerved over budget and a chunk of cash from a well-loved celebrity chef would be just the ticket. And so, after briefing my assistant as to how long the builders are allowed for lunch and where they can and can’t wear outdoor shoes in the property, I’m driving to an address in Sussex, a spring in my step and a song on my lips.
‘Hope it’s chips, it’s chips.71 We hope it’s chips, it’s chips …’72
Crunch.
Two black shoes drop into shot. Clarks CitiStrides, which sound fusty but they’re actually really good shoes.
Pull back to reveal Alan Partridge, the hot yellow sun bouncing off his clean brown hair as he walks confidently along the gravel.
Extreme close-up. A tongue emerges from his mouth. It’s his own so there’s nothing weird going on, but it means business. It’s come out to do a clean-up, darting this way (i.e. left) and that (i.e. right) to mop up the stray flakes of almond croissant that bejewel his fat pink lips. Job done, the fleshy cleaning cloth retreats. The man is ready.
(I’m now going to stop talking like a film script but believe it was a useful technique to set the scene and reserve the right to return to it later. Thank you.)
James Martin is waiting for me. Boots. Stone-washed jeans. Leather jacket. Guy looks gooooood.
Me? Same deal. So that’s boots, it’s stone-washed jeans, it’s leather jacket. I kick myself because he’s got one with zip pockets in the arms and I haven’t. The pockets serve no actual purpose, but they do elevate the jacket to the next level of cool and he knows it.
He’s leaning on the bonnet of a Ferrari 275 GTB long nose. It’s parked at forty-five degrees to the drive with the front wheels turned to face forward. It’s an angle you only ever see cars parked at in motoring magazines and will have taken Martin several goes to get right, after which he’ll have had to smooth out the gravel to hide the evidence of the previous attempts. But as with the zip pockets of his leather jacket, blow me off if it doesn’t look absolutely outstanding. And as I reach him and thrust out my arm for a shake, he looks every bit the lord of the manor/lighthouse.
‘Nice jacket.’
‘Zip pockets.’
‘Clocked ’em.’
‘Cool.’
‘Chest bump?’
‘Sure.’
We each take a step back then come forward again and bump chests. There’s then a slightly awkward silence because it was a bit of a weird thing to do, but we soon move past it as Martin starts to tell me about his £5 million car collection, which might sound braggy but it isn’t and I enjoy hearing it. As he lists each vehicle one by one, telling me first what he paid for it and then how much more it’s worth now, it’s not hard to see why he’s once again been voted Fortnum & Mason’s TV Personality of the Year. His conversation really is as sparkling as the Prosecco his personal wine label is hoping to start producing in the near future. His current wines include a red Corbières and white Vin de Pays d’Oc sourced from the Languedoc area in the south of France. He says that if we had more time, he’d be able to fly me there. Better still, as he’s one of the few people in the UK to have gained both a helicopter licence and a private pilot’s licence, I could choose the type of aircraft we travel in! It’s a cracking line but one based in truth because he actually does have both licences.
I say, ‘James, you’re the only guy I know whose small-talk is about high-performance machines.’ I slap his leather back and throw in a shoulder squeeze as we share a high-octane cackle. Outstanding.
With the preamble both done and enjoyed I am ready to get to brass tacks.
‘So what gives, JM?’ I say, perching my backside on the bonnet next to him, before he asks me not to do that because it might damage the paintwork, which is absolutely fair enough. I stand back up and get my bearings. This clearly isn’t where he actually lives. There’s no Union Jack, for a start. And just behind us is a crumbling old lighthouse.
‘What is this place?’ I ask.
‘This is the renovation I mentioned,’ he beams, revealing chemically whitened teeth that look just about OK on television but in person give the impression he’s recently eaten Tipp-Ex. ‘A nineteenth-century Sussex lighthouse. I’m going to completely rebuild it.’
Riiiiiiight, I think. It’s a free country, last time I checked, anyway, and James can spend his money however he sees fit … but this does sound quite similar to the project I’m doing.
‘And you’re telling me this, why?’ I say quietly.
I feel sweat forming on my northernmost (i.e. top) lip. My brain clanks and whirrs trying to make sense of this. I can only think he’s interested in us becoming ‘build buddies’. Yes, that could be it. Our projects are similar in nature, after all, similar in scale, and most likely happening over similar time periods.
More to the point, building projects are notoriously stressful, frequently leading to relationship breakdowns, mental health problems and – chillingly for Martin and I – hair loss. So it would make sense that we buddy up to offer a shoulder to cry on when times get tough. And as men of a certain profile, finding someone trustworthy to unburden yourself to is never easy. Loose lips sink ships, and that phrase – coined by the US Office of War Information – is as true for celebrities in the modern age as it is for gobshites in the Second World War.
Open up to a kindly stranger during a trip to the barber’s, a visit to the dental hygienist or at your monthly mani-pedi and eyelash tint, and you can all too easily find yourself plastered over the next day’s tabloids.
Money talks, and the lure of easy cash from the gossip-hungry red tops is particularly hard to resist for the working-class people who are employed to work on your hair, teeth and feet.
It’s a terrifying thought, and a risk that could be eliminated completely by the elegant simplicity of my ‘build buddy’ concept. A ‘no judgement’ Whatsapp group, weekly Zoom check-in calls, and a monthly pie and pint evening at a location equidistant from our two sites would provide exactly the kind of safe, secure release valve the two of us need. It’s a compelling pitch.
But Martin suggests no such thing.
‘I just thought you’d be interested,’ he says.
I smile tightly. ‘I’m interested, James. Interested in whether you think it’ll look like we’re copying each other. Because if you think about it, even for one second, I think you’ll agree that’s what it will look like and that’s what people will say.’
He chuckles. ‘Nah, I just think we should preserve our national treasures. I’ve always said, we should respect Britain’s architectural heritage. Said it on the press release.’
My cheek quivers as I fight to maintain my smile. ‘No, I said that to you, James. Remember, in Esther McVey’s kitchen? I’m the one who … hang on, press release?’
‘Yeah, Howard wanted to flag it up as a big feature of the show. Create some buzz.’
‘Hang on, Howard?’
‘You know him, don’t you? Wasn’t he producing it when you were there?’
‘Hang on, producing it?’
‘This Time. That’s who I’m filming the restoration for. They’re going to try to get Princess Anne to come to the opening.’
My mouth dries like dog dirt in the sun.73 Is he for real?? It would be helpful to see his eyes but he’s put on mirrored sunglasses, so instead of James Martin all I see looking back at me are two Alan Partridges with grotesquely elongated noses. His face betrays no sign of a smile. He is serious.
‘Just stay cool, Alan, stay cool,’ I think to myself.
‘About what?’ replies Martin.
It seems I hadn’t thought it to myself, I’d said it out loud, suggesting I’d failed to do the very thing my words had described. ‘Nothing, pal. We’re golden.’
Discombobulated and needing to get out of there, I jump towards Martin for another chest bump, but as I hadn’t mentioned it first I nearly flatten him. Thankfully there’s no harm done and he tells me to hop in the 275, he’ll give me a lift to the station. I don’t need a lift to the station, as I’ve come by car, but it might look like a sulk to turn down his offer, plus I’ve nearly just split his nose open with my sternum. He drops me at the train, I spend the day there until it gets dark, get a taxi back to his lighthouse, quietly climb in my car, roll down the hill away from his house with my lights off and then begin the drive home.
‘How dare he! That man is a … is a …’
‘It’s alright, let it out.’
‘That man is a good-for-nothing copycat.’
I have never seen my assistant this angry. She is spitting feathers. Not literally – though that did once happen when she was plucking some roadkill. Me? I’m more sanguine.
‘Listen,’ I say, chucking some chewing gum towards my mouth and very nearly getting it in. ‘All I care about is preserving our national treasures.’
‘Isn’t that what James Martin said in the press relea—’
‘Yes, and he got it from me,’ I snap, not because I’m bothered about him doing up a lighthouse (after he’d told me, I quickly realised I wasn’t), I just find it irritating when people use my words in their press releases. Nah, the lighthouse thing is all good with me, baby.
‘Maybe just pop in a call to the Lighthouse Board, though. Might as well invite them to see it. Might as well.’
My assistant opens up her laptop with the care of someone who still doesn’t understand that the screen won’t snap off if she does it a bit faster. As she types, a look of pride spreads across her face, a look I’ve seen frequently since she learned to use the forefinger of her right hand as well as the one on her left. Suddenly she stops.
‘Heavens to Murgatroyd.’
‘Hm?’
‘Princess Anne is their patron. It says here she has been a keen pharol— … pharol—’
‘Pharologist, lover of lighthouses, go on.’
‘A keen pharologist since the age of five when she accompanied the Queen to one on the Isle of Lewis! Alan, imagine if Her Highness came to your lighthouse, and imagine if that happened before she opened the This Time one!’
I sling another piece of chew gum at my mouth. Bullseye. ‘Yes that would be a very pleasant thing to happen.’
Time to get serious. I despatch my assistant to Sussex, allowing her to stay in a modest B&B close to James Martin’s lighthouse. Her mission? To steal onto the site at first light and accrue detailed photographic intel on the star of James Martin’s build. I want to know every detail.
