Steve Coogan - I, Partridge: We Need to Talk about Alan

I, PARTRIDGE:
WE NEED TO TALK ABOUT ALAN

Alan Partridge
With Rob Gibbons, Neil Gibbons, Armando Iannucci and Steve Coogan

For Fernando. And Denise.

Contents

ALAN PARTRIDGE IS A DJ who presents Mid-Morning Matters . He is hard-working and enthusiastic, with a broad appeal to our regional listenership. He has worked at the station since 2009 and was previously employed by its sister station Radio Norwich.

I have always found Alan to be honest and trustworthy and a relatively good ambassador for the station and for Gordale Media as a whole.

Alan is smart, punctual and his attendance record is very good, with an average of 1.5 sick days taken per year of employment.

I would have no hesitation in recommending him.

Regards,

Andy Powell

MD, Gordale Media

Hi, Alan. Tell me what is this page?
Its the introduction to my book.

Written as a short interview with yourself?
Yes.

Thats brave and unusual. Why?
Well, questions and answers are my bread and butter; my meat and drink; my sausage, beans and chips. Im an accomplished broadcaster, presenter and interviewer. Chat is what I do.

Youre not going to write the whole book like this, are you?
No.

What do you want the book to say?
That I am Alan Gordon Partridge, a respected broadcaster, but also so much more than that. Son to a dead father, father to a living son, TV personality, businessman, brand, rambler, writer, thinker, sayer, doer. I think thats everything.

And today?
Today, Im the presenter of Mid-Morning Matters , an award-worthy weekday morning-thru-lunchtime radio show on North Norfolk Digital North Norfolks best music mix. In fact, you join me in my studio, as I scribble these opening thoughts in the 3 minutes 36 seconds of downtime I enjoy as a record plays.

So what can people expect from the book?
They can expect quality throughout and excellence in places. These memoirs are a serious, thoughtful and grammatically sound body of work, a welcome antidote to the kind of crank em out, pile em high shit-lit that passes for most modern autobiographies.

Examples?
Well, put it this way. In terms of craftsmanship, its less Bewes, Madeley, Parsons and more Clancey, Archer, Rushdie. Whats more, its accessible enough to capture a market as wide as that of Rowling, Brown, Smith, McNab, Lama

Is there anything in the book that breaks the mould?
Yes, a soundtrack. I spent three days with my iPod creating a list of tracks that would provide the perfect mood music to accompany my life.
My publishers HarperCollins said that this wasnt necessary. In fact they specifically told me not to bother, as they werent willing to pay for the production or dispatch of a CD and certainly werent going to seek clearance from, or pay royalties to, the artists Id chosen.
But they cant stop me providing you, the reader, with a list of songs plus directions as to where in the book they should be played. Youll find the tracklist on page 311. My instructions can be found within the text. Please note: the soundtrack is mandatory.

What kind of research did the book involve?
Content: six consecutive afternoons of remembering. Style: reading ten pages from each of the writers mentioned above.

And have you been honest?
Searingly honest. Brutally honest. Painfully honest. Needlessly honest. Distressingly honest. HarperCollins asked for full disclosure and thats what I delivered. Ive opened myself up (not literally), put my balls on the line (not literally) and written it all down (literally).

Having read your book, I see youve had your fair share of run-ins. Indeed, Phil Wileys behaviour at school and in Scouts seems particularly sickening. Do you agree with those people who say that hes proven himself to be a pretty scummy human?
Phil Wiley. [Chuckles] In all honesty? I dont give the guy a second thought. I just let bygones be bygones.

And what about Nick Peacock and his cowardly refusal to give you the Radio Norwich breakfast show, even though it leaves a sour taste in the mouth of even the most casual observer? That must rankle?
Look, Nick did what he did. Im fairly zen about the whole episode.

Given the success of this book, therell be a pretty loud clamour for a follow-up. Are you ready for that?
I take whatever comes my way. I roll with the punches and I ride the tsunami of life.

Does the book have an ISBN number?
Yes, I insisted on it.

What is it?
Youll find it on the back of the book. But for ease of reference its ISBN-10: 0007449178 and ISBN-13: 978-0007449170

Thanks, Alan.
Goodbye and God bless .

I also have a daughter.

Hue & Crys Labour of Love. I thought Id choose a song from their debut album as its one Ive heard of, something I cant say about any of the songs from their subsequent 15 albums.

Rodney. Richard. Tony. Tom. Jeffrey. Salman. Joanna. Dan. Wilbur. Andrew. Dalai.

This is a footnote, by the way. Ill be using these to pepper and garnish the body copy, so keep an eye out for them. Or as I say: If you see a number, look down under! Which either rhymes or nearly rhymes.

Chapter 1
Beginnings

WHEN I WAS EIGHT years old, I suffered a nose bleed so profuse and generous, I bolted from the schoolyard and sought solace in the first-class countryside of Norfolk.

Nose bleeds were a pretty common feature of my childhood, caused variously by physical exercise, spicy food, bright sunlight, embarrassment, dairy, shouting (hearing or doing) and fiddling with my nose. And my school friends were wise to it. More impressively, theyd worked out that they could induce a haemorrhage themselves, by tethering me to the roundabout with the strap of my own school bag and letting the centrifugal force do the rest. (Unbowed, I refused to accept this affliction and would sneak into the yard alone after school and subject myself to a few turns of the ride once or twice a week. This went on until I developed enough tolerance to prevent the bleeding, at the age of about 16.)

But this nose bleed was hefty, brought on by a perfect storm of country dancing, hot weather and the high pollen count. As it spread and dried on my face and neck, I knew I couldnt face the juvenile tittering of my class colleagues.

Which is how I came to wander the leafy idylls on the outskirts of Norwich. Had this been 2011, Id have probably returned to the school with some Uzis to give my classmates something to really laugh about, but this was a different and better time. So I walked though the countryside, and I bathed in the majesty of nature in quite a mature way for an eight-year-old.

It was quiet, peaceful. The only soul I encountered was a lady rambler, who literally ran when I smiled at her. (The bleeding was very profuse.)

Eventually, I found myself stood at the verge of a copse, directly in front of a tree. I didnt remember approaching it, but there I was, standing and gawping at a single tree. Why, I thought? Why this tree? What is it about this simple field maple that makes it stand out from the others? Its not the biggest, the strongest, the coolest, the best at PE. Why am I being hauled into the tractor beam of this tree over and above the millions of other ordinary trees? I guess it had a certain something. At ease with itself and blessed with a gentle authority, it had class and spunk.

Then it hit me (the thought). Its me, I exclaimed. I am that tree. I personify its stand-out quality. Some people might say thats arrogant. Arrogant? Actually, accurate.

Whats made me different from the others? How and these were pretty much my exact words, even at the age of eight did I come to be born with this aura of otherness, this je ne sais quoi ?