Big Beacon, page 20
93 The night before I’d stayed up way past bedtime to do research on the leopard seal. The second largest species of seal in the Antarctic, the only natural predator of hydrurga leptonyx is the orca. To be able to go online and watch video after video of seal and orca going at it hammer and tongs was absolutely terrific and took up much of my research time. And far from endangered, the leopard seal is classified as a species of ‘Least Concern’. This means that, while the death of any living creature apart from a cat is a loss to be mourned, if you did happen to take out a leopard seal, there’s no real need to worry.
94 I was later told that the UK population is not growing.
95 Her fellow presenters being Jon Sopel and competition winner Lewis [FIND OUT SURNAME].
96 And just a post-scrit. What of Aled’s talcing tip? Well it. Worked. Beautifully. Nary a single itch from start to finish. From either ball, even the notoriously scratch-hungry left. And while I definitely did want to scit-scrit-scrit the boys a few times towards the start of the show, that was just because I was nervous and, rightly or wrongly, I get a deep, thumb-sucking comfort from putting hand down trouser.
CIDER WITH ALAN
March 2023
I’ve become a cantankerous presence, there on the shore.
My assistant’s nephew, Tim Benfield, is going through some personal problems that she doesn’t particularly want to go into – presumably he’s fallen in with his chemsex friends again – so she’s headed back to Norfolk, leaving me alone in the lighthouse, with the occasional visit of the seagull – who I have named Likeworm because he likes worms – for company.
And you know what? That suits me JF.97 I’ve had enough of people. ‘People’, which I’ve put in quotation marks to indicate contempt, gang up on you; ‘people’ go on strike; ‘people’ don’t do what they say they will, or they do do what they say they will but not in the way they said they would; ‘people’ hurt your feelings; ‘people’ say you can’t interview Her Royal Highness the Princess Royal Princess Anne. ‘People’? You can keep them.
I’m not sleeping well. When they walked out at the start of winter, the builders had left the upper window unglazed, so a chill wind whips in and corkscrews down through the building of an evening. I am drinking, sometimes two, three glasses of rum each night, and maybe another one mid-morning. I am a danger to myself and others.
One hour bleeds into the next, one day into another. I begin to withdraw into myself like an animal’s penis when not in use. With nothing to differentiate this week from last, time begins to lose its meaning; to stretch and compress, to warp and flop. Staring endlessly into the salty abyss, my life provides as little mental stimulation as an ITV2 documentary.
I’ve stationed myself at the top window, my now-redundant loudhailer by my side. As the rest of the country sleeps, snores or – and let’s not shy away from this – jerks off, I am at my post, performing a pathetic facsimile of a lighthouseman’s role. I’ll put the loudhailer to lips if I see a boat out at sea, issuing a half-hearted, ‘Danger, rocks.’ The rest of the time, I’ll rest my chin on the windowsill, like Seldom used to do on the kitchen island, and just listen to the lapping waters. I have lost the life I once knew, the friends I once had, the joy that once danced in my heart like Andi Peters at a BBC disco.
I am at my lowest ebb. And while I will subsequently have ebbs that are lower, this really is one shitty ebb. Even my stubble, which until recently has made me look rugged, unknowable and actually quite fit, has changed for the worse. Now grown out into a full beard, or certainly four-fifths of one, it has transformed my appearance into that of a 1980s geography teacher, one struggling to command the respect of his class now that the threat of caning had been removed by nanny-state legislation.
The previous night was particularly challenging. The icy temperatures have meant that on a number of occasions I have became hyperthermish, while Likeworm, who surely to God should have been asleep, was making a din the entire night. Hungry? Thirsty? Beak stuck in a ring pull? I had absolutely no idea. I just wanted to be at peace.
Come this morning I have no such luck. Upwind from me, over on the headland, a few-dozen locals have gathered for an impromptu party. A hub of music, chatter, cackle upon cackle of laughter. And soon a new noise begins to filter through. Raised voices. An argument. The unmistakable rhythms and cadences of passive-aggressive quarrel. Not now. Please, not now. I start to make out a few voices.
‘Why can’t you turn a blind eye? It’s Sally’s birthday, John.’
‘You know I can’t do that.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because it’s the law, that’s why.’
Argh. I rummage around in my bag and pull out some binoculars. Then I dock the twin-lensed peeping pipes with my eyes to see what all the fuss is about.
The land belongs to millionaire-businessman Paul Duxberry. Duxberry (real name Paul Daniels)98 is big in caravans. His showroom in Deal boasts either the largest or second largest mobile-home forecourt in western Europe, depending on how you calculate it. But he is also known for his largesse, selflessly giving large amounts to charities, the needy and the Conservative Party.
Recently, when the problem of illegal immigrants arriving on the shores of Kent first emerged, Duxberry donated five of his ’vans for use as mini-immigration processing centres. As well as providing a roof over the refugees’ heads, the solution has the added bonus that if the government drags its heels about relocating them, the caravan doors can be locked and the ’gees can be quickly and quietly towed out-of-county.
At the time, however, I know very little of this. My knowledge of the four-foot-six Caravan Kingdom founder extends only to chatter overheard in local post offices and pubs: namely that Duxberry holds an annual get-together to toast the year’s first brew of his famous homemade cider. Clearly, this is what I’m now looking at.
Almost every member of the Friends of Abbot’s Cliff is there too. The woman who looks like a school teacher/dog trainer. The man who looks like Harry Secombe with a rash. The angry woman with the hair. The angry woman with the mole. The angry woman with the padded gilet. The other angry woman with the padded gilet who I didn’t mention before. But there are others of their ilk, too. There must be, what, twenty of them? Twenty-five, maybe. The grown-ups drink cider and chomp on burgers. The kids jump on a bouncy castle and – and this will surely end badly – also chomp on burgers.
Now, every one of them is standing, hands on hips, glaring at a policeman intent on shutting the party down. How can I tell? Three words: big dick energy. Years of experience hosting local radio summer roadshows have taught me just how keen the fuzz always are to kibosh unlicensed gatherings. And by the way this cop leaned on the door of his car before tugging up his trousers by his belt loop, I know it’s happening again.
‘It’s an unlicensed gathering, Paul. I warned you this would happen yesterday. I want it shutting down, now, please.’
I lower the binoculars and pop the hailer to my lips: ‘Don’t need a licence.’
Suddenly the conversation halts. In my peripheral vision, I can see people have turned to look at this strange man atop an unfinished lighthouse. The policeman bellows over at me: ‘SORRY, DID YOU SAY SOMETHING?’
I sigh then answer, ‘I said they don’t need a licence.’
The officer clocks me and yells back: ‘I THINK YOU’LL FIND THEY DO.’
To be fair to the fella, his shouting is first class. I am miles away yet his every word is clear as crystal/can be/a bell/day/fuck. Has he attended drama school? Could he be a lay preacher at a local church? I have no way of knowing. Instead, I bullhorn him a reply: ‘What, a premises licence or a personal licence?’
‘PREMISES.’
‘Right. I didn’t realise these events took place multiple times in any twelve-month period.’
I hear Paul say to the officer, ‘They don’t. I only do this once a year.’
I allow myself a smile. ‘He says he only does it once a year. And there’s me thinking under the Licensing Act 2003, a premises licence is only required for venues that host more than three events in any calendar year. As opposed to a temporary event notice, which covers events that only take place annually.’
The officer looks fidgety now. ‘NO, ER … ACTUALLY, THINKING ABOUT IT, IT WOULD BE A TEMPORARY EVENT NOTICE.’
‘Cool. Which para?’
‘WHAT?’
‘Which paragraph of the terms of a temporary event notice does this gathering fall under? The sale of alcohol?’
‘YEAH.’
‘And does that apply if he’s giving it away? Only I’ve not seen any money changing hands.’
‘WELL … NO. THAT WOULD BE DIFFERENT.’
‘It would, wouldn’t it?’
A pause. I can see the cop getting flustered. He tries another tack. ‘BUT IT ALSO APPLIES TO THE SALE OF FOOD, AND HE IS SELLING THE BURGERS.’
‘You make a good point there, officer.’
‘THANK YOU, NOW IF YOU’VE QUITE—’
‘Didn’t realise it was so late, though.’
‘WHAT DO YOU MEAN, LATE?’
‘Well, I could have sworn paragraph five of the Licensing Act 2003 says it’s only a requirement to have a licence if selling food after 11 a.m.’.
Members of the gathering start to look at each other, excitedly.
Me, I keep my cool. The policeman, less so, never before having faced a foe so well-versed in the 2003 Licensing Act. Turning away, he mutters, ‘Fine, then, carry on.’
The crowd whoops. I actually feel good. For the first time in a long time, I, Alan Partridge, feel good.
The policeman turns back, Columbo-style. ‘Oh, but one more thing,’ he says to Paul. ‘No music. I know for a fact you don’t have a music licence.’
‘But I do!’ I holler. ‘Got one last year when I was buying a roadshow bus which I subsequently crashed into a ditch. And this is … “Life in the Fast Lane” by the Eagles. Turn it up, Kent!’
I press play on my iPhone and put it against the mic of the loud hailer. Joe Walsh’s classic riff fills the seaside air.
The response from the cider-swillers is immediate and unequivocal. Conceived in their minds, manufactured in their vocal chords and transported by their throats, a deafening cheer is emitted from twenty to twenty-five mouths. The target of their roar? Yours truly. In a single virtuosic display of legislative clever-cloggery, I have saved the day. And on that, some sort of instinct deep within me takes over.
‘Shaping up to be a hot one!’ I say, guesstimating a forecast from the shape of the clouds. ‘Sunny intervals, with a high of eighteen. A few isolated patches of rain drifting in off the Channel later. And on the roads …’
I spin to look over at the dual carriageway.
‘Things looking clear on the A20 with just a minor build-up on the westbound approach to the Court Wood interchange. That’s your traffic. And this … is Alan Partridge.’
And right there, on the twenty-seven second mark, in comes Don Henley with the vocal. It is poetry.
We continue in this way for another hour. I’m supplying some fat tunes, and for their part they’re getting kids to ferry over burgers and bottles of cider, which I tuck into merrily, even though the cider is horrible.
As the songs play, I’ll catch the eye of a local and we’ll raise a glass at each other. I feel a warm sensation in my tummy, and almost a stirring in my loins. I’ve wanted this for so long. I line up ‘Pass the Dutchie’ by Musical Youth, and it’s while looking down and watching the cream of the local community belting out the reggae hit in cod Jamaican accents I genuinely don’t think they intend to be racist, that I see a car.
It is veering along the A20, at breakneck speed. Is that … my assistant’s car?
It approaches the drive down to the lighthouse and, without waiting, pulls an almighty right turn onto the gravel, screeching across a lane of oncoming traffic. What is she playing at?
She pulls up and hurries out of the car, patting at her hair in that way older women do.
‘Up here!’ I shout.
She looks up, out of breath, panic etched across her forever-frowning face.
‘Get yourself a cider,’ I beam.
But she shakes her head. ‘The man’s coming,’ she says. ‘He didn’t say when but soon.’
‘What man?’ I say. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘The man from the Lighthouse Board. They want to see it’s in good condition before …’
‘Before? Before what?’
‘Before Princess Anne will come and open it.’
I collapse.
* * *
97 ‘Just fine’.
98 A name he shared with the father of mid-ranking eighties magician Martin Daniels.
BACK IN THE BIG TIME
2019/20
At 9.18 on Sunday, 2 March 2019, John Baskell was pronounced dead. His exhausted heart, which had fought so valiantly for so long against an endless onslaught of fry-ups, whisky, cream cakes, fags and more cream cakes, had simply said ‘no more’. John was zipped into a body bag, wheeled down to the mortuary and placed in an extra-large fridge.
I had first learned the news from a friend (Greg Dyke) who shall remain nameless. The first text said: ‘Guess who’s dead’; the second, ‘John Basket’ and the third, ‘John Baskell’.
Confirmation arrived in a phone call from my assistant. She’d been based at the hospital since John’s admission, quietly keeping tabs on his condition and feeding back updates. That morning, calling me from a payphone because she thought that’s what a spy would do, she had uttered the pre-arranged phrase: ‘Leningrad has fallen.’
Boy, had he fallen.
They say you shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but it’s also wrong to defend the indefensible.
I don’t mind harbouring someone per se. I would have harboured Anne Frank without a thought for my own safety. During the reign of Elizabeth 1, I would even have harboured a Catholic priest as long as my kids weren’t in the house on their own with him.
But harbouring a guy who exudes bad energy – uh-uh.
It’s like if you’d owned a classic car that had been the pride of your family, but years later you discovered that, although considered a classic – all original detailing and pristine bodywork – it had been touching up other cars in the garage in an aggressive and sexual way.
What I’m about to say might sound a bit mean, but part of my contract with Orion Publishing is to ‘write truthfully in a manner which can include but isn’t limited to embarrassment, offence to self, offence to others, sexual indiscretion, scatology, boastfulness, meanness and humour’.
So I’m gonna say it. Much-loved presenter John Baskell – like many people described as much-loved – wasn’t actually loved much. He was fine, he could do the job. In that sense, he was a kind of forerunner to your much-loved Dan Walkers or much-loved Stephen Mulherns. If they appear on screen, you’ll sigh, obviously, but you won’t necessarily turn over. Today that seems to earn you the moniker of ‘much-loved’. Fine. No skin off my nose.
And while John’s Wikipedia page is a quite astonishing hagiography dripping with syrupy prose about his ‘talent’ and ‘likeability’, it seems to me that one honours his memory better if we honour the man he actually was. Which is why I prefer to remember the real John. The John who threw an ashtray at a costume assistant; the John who wouldn’t work with Aled Jones; the John who stank of fags.
But I like to think I balanced the public veneration of John, in the form of a moving obituary VT, written and presented by me with additional material by Ray Stubbs, with an even-handed airing of his failings, in the form of me reading out unvetted tweets from anonymous viewers – something I later learned was a broadcasting no-no. This Time bosses felt I’d unduly amplified messages which had clearly been broadcast in error. I apologised and, while Jennie remained in a sulk for some time, I was able to put it behind me and move on. And it was right that I did so, because with John dead, the starter pistol on the race to succeed him, like a Glock 9mm with suppressor, had quietly fired.
It’s no exaggeration to say that the This Time sofa spot was one of the most coveted positions anywhere in pre-watershed chat-based light-entertainment UK TV. So it was no surprise that the cream of presenting talent was queuing up to make it their own. Dan Snow. Matt Baker. Ainsley Harriott. Ben Fogle. Giants of broadcasting. One of the ones from Mel and Sue had also thrown her hat into the ring because it’d be just my fucking luck they’d give it to a woman.
As the incumbent, I liked to think the job was mine to lose, but I was under no illusions: this would be one of the most brutal campaigns ever fought for a BBC job. See any of them in a corridor and it’d be handshakes and hellos (or high-fives and whoops, if you bumped into Ainsley), but behind the scenes the gloves were off. Were sweeteners offered? Were threats made? I don’t know. All I can say is that as far as I am personally aware, the rumour that Dan Snow offered to give the producer a private sports massage with his big strong hands is completely unfounded.99
What soon became clear, however, was that the race had boiled down to a straight fight between me and the grandma’s favourite, Matt Baker. Of all my opponents, it was Baker I feared the most (not least because research indicated that much of the This Time audience were grandmas).
Professional, effortlessly likeable, and with an energy I like to describe as hetero-camp, Baker had it all. Yet something about him seemed off. No one could be that squeaky clean. I dispatched my assistant to dig up some dirt.
When she filed her report three days later, it made for bleak reading. Baker’s only failing? It generally took him two attempts to parallel park. Not that that was even a failing these days. In an age when the motor car is fast becoming the devil, millennials see poor parking as a plus. It’s incredible but true.
Ultimately, though, an incident that happened over six years earlier was to cost Baker his shot at the job. With the commissioning editor poised to hand him the contract, a tip-off from an anonymous source – who only identified herself as ‘a female Baptist with the best interests of the corporation at heart’ – revealed that during the filming of an episode of Countryfile in 2015, a worse-for-wear Matt Baker had thrown sheep shit at some boys.
