I, Partridge (11 page)

Within minutes she’d put on high heels and a new pair of dungarees and joined a bunch of her fellow athletes at a local bar. It would have taken her longer, but she already had make-up on, you could probably smell her perfume in Hiroshima, and as she’d only actually been running for 53.16 seconds (a new British record by the way) it seemed crazy to shower – a wet wipe administered to the main danger zones had been deemed more than adequate.

Yet no sooner had the shin-dig hit its stride than Sally’s chums and buddies seemed to drift away. Gunnell may have run
her
race but the rest of them were yet to compete. Their loss however was very much AP’s gain (my gain). And as Sally wasn’t ready to head home, we moved on to a restaurant serving authentic Japanese nosh.

Of course, these days young professionals hotfoot it to Pret a Manger every lunchtime to gobble down box after box of sushi. But back then, things were different. Back then, our tastes were simpler and less foreign. As a result Sal and myself were pretty miffed as we browsed the menu. What
was
all this stuff?

Others might have given up and headed off to a Western fast food joint, but not us. Our attitude was very much ‘when in Rome …’, so when the waiter came round we went for it and ordered a couple of bowls of rice.

For the next three hours we chatted away like there was no tomorrow. Sally may only have managed silver, but in a Chatathlon our conversation would easily have brought home the gold. We seemed to cover every topic under the sun. Favourite film, best cheese, biggest regret, smallest regret, euthanasia. But little did we realise, as our ace natter entered its fourth hour, that our cultural ignorance was about to be our undoing.

The problem was a little thing called ‘sake’. We’d been knocking back glass after glass of the stuff, assuming it was nothing more dangerous than indigenous pop. Yet as we left the restaurant we soon realised that we were catastrophically ming-monged. Sally was so gone she thought her silver medal was currency. And I was so gone that I later mistook Sally for Kriss Akabusi (look him up).

But what a laugh we had as we staggered along the street like silly idiots. I dared her to hop all the way back to the hotel (she did). She dared me to pick up a bin and smash in the window of a nearby shop (I didn’t). We checked out a few more bars and even stopped in at a local karaoke place, duetting on UB40’s ‘Rat in Mi Kitchen’. And, at last, at long long last, when we finally made it back to our digs we couldn’t believe our eyes – it was nearly quarter to eleven. What a night!

It was in my first few months at the BBC that I received one of the finest pieces of advice in Britain. I was over at TV Centre preparing to interview a bantamweight boxer (I forget his name and ethnicity) when I saw a man coming out of the disabled toilet – it was none other than the late, great Des Lynam.
⁷³
Clocking me, he wandered over, doing up his belt and seeing to his fly.

‘Heard you on the radio last night, Alan.’

‘Crumbs,’ I spluttered. ‘Thanks.’

‘I liked what you did.’

‘Crumbs,’ I spluttered again, in much the same way as I had done previously. ‘Thanks.’

‘But a word of advice on your broadcasting voice.’

I stiffened up like a cock; a cock that was afraid of being attacked by a fox. What was he about to say? Gladdeningly, I didn’t have to wait long for the answer, because it was a conversation in real time.

‘Your broadcasting voice is solid enough, but it’s too nasal. If you ever want to make the leap to TV …’

‘I do, Des, I do,’ I thought to myself, but didn’t say out loud.

‘… then you want to pull the nasality up by about a quarter. And Alan?’

‘Yes, Lynam,’ I said, for some reason selecting to use his surname rather than his first name.

‘Trust me on this one.’

And with that, he was gone, as gone as gone can be.

That night I barely slept. Thoughts were tumbling around my head like the trainers in the washing machine I referred to both on page 3 and page 64. Des was right. How could I not have spotted this before?

My mind drifted back to my earliest broadcasts on hospital radio. I had indeed beefed up the nasal quality of my voice, thinking it lent it a timbre that was trustworthy, authoritative and basically quite nice. It sounds crazy when I think back to it, but I was so convinced of this that I used to deliberately try to catch a cold. The all-too-common viral infection of the upper respiratory tract was an excellent way to cause profound blockages of the soft palate which in extreme cases can make you sound like Melvyn Bragg before he had that operation. As such, it was perfect for my needs.

Many was the day I’d ride the public bus system of Norwich, seeking out any passengers with the snivels. I’d move over to them and casually strike up a conversation. I’d talk about the stuff of everyday life – the weather, last night’s TV, the design of the new Opel Kadett which, staggeringly, had a transaxle that allowed the clutch to be replaced without removing the transmission unit. I didn’t care really, just as long as I was close to them.

And when they finally reached their stop, I would always,
always
insist on a handshake – or better still, a long, lingering, long embrace – to up my chances of contamination.

Once I was so desperate I even doused myself in pepper. I stood next to a man with a nose throbbing like a Belisha beacon and waited for him to sneeze. As he threw his head back I inched even closer, only moving away again when I knew I’d been covered in a fine sheen of infected nasal drizzle.

Yet now, almost four years later, I saw the folly of my ways. My voice had become
too
nasal,
too
serious. If I was to fulfil my ambitions of being a top-quality TV broadcaster I needed a cadence that was versatile. I needed a voice that could flit like a carefree moth from the heavyweight to the powder-puff.

I spent the entire night stood in front of my bathroom mirror doing everything in my power to quash exactly 25% of my vocal nasality. Of course with radio being an entirely aural medium, the mirror had no part to play. I could just as easily have stood in front of a wall. (But, truth be told, I had spotted a pimple developing on my neck – roughly three inches south of my left ear lobe – and was keen both to track its growth and plot its destruction.)

By daybreak I had finally cracked it. Although, as a result of ten hours of unbroken speaking, I had also lost my voice. Ironically, the three weeks I subsequently had to take off work very nearly cost me my job. But I clung on, I survived, and returned as the broadcaster I am today. I now had a voice that could take on any chat-based challenge; that could swoop and glide from genre to genre. It was the voice that I still use today – high-brow yet inclusive, candid yet mysterious, loud yet quiet. In short, it was the voice of I, Partridge.

As for the neck pimple, it expanded for a further 48 hours before I was able to take it down using a hot pin.

68
Press play on Track 16.

69
The next quantum leap forward was to come in 2003 when – breaking the mould once again – the guys at Beyond Petroleum launched their fabulous Wild Bean cafés. Quite simply, shit hot.

70
Little did I know that some years later I would be spending a lot of time in one of these petrol stations as a certain Geordie chum saw me through the many stages of a pretty hefty mental meltdown. But that’s for later. And please don’t skip ahead. Just stay patient, keep reading and you’ll get there.

71
I remember around this time bumping into former
Grandstand
presenter Frank Bough at a fancy dress party in Shepherd’s Bush (long story). I commented that the early 90s really was a golden age for British sport. Frank simply took the ball gag out of his mouth and said, ‘You’re not wrong, Alan’ before dropping on to all fours and being led away.

72
Press play on Track 17.

73
Lynam may have been unencumbered by disability, but he was also a senior figure in the BBC of the 90s. As such, he was contractually entitled to use these roomier facilities whenever he wished.

Chapter 10
My Own Show

MY STAR WAS RISING
, like the bubbles in the glasses of champagne I would have been enjoying if I liked the taste of champagne. I was being recognised in hotel bars, train station WH Smithses and the local branch of Do It All.

It was a pleasantly warming sensation at first, before a stern lecture-to-self in my bathroom mirror (bought from Do It All funnily enough!) made me wise up. ‘These people don’t care about you,’ I said. ‘You mean nothing to them. They’d sooner earn an extra £1,000 a year than worry about whether you’re going to be the next presenter of
Sportsnight
.’

And that realisation – that these people would stab me and spit on my jolting corpse – probably did colour my approach to the general public.

Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t become a recluse. But I steeled myself against hangers-on and well-wishers, typically meeting their so-called compliments with a snort or a stony silence.

In the BBC things were different. I worked on a style of glad-handing that I felt sure would ingratiate myself to more important people and earn me a reputation of being a charming TV personality. It had worked for Dale Winton, who could switch from air-kissing a commissioning editor to screaming hot spittle into the face of a researcher in about three seconds. But he was inhaling a lot of nail varnish remover around that time, I’m told.

Back to me. I was becoming known for my no-nonsense interview style, and my never-say-die attitude, certainly in my opinion and I’m sure in the opinions of a great many others.

Sometimes that meant being ruthless, a trait I demonstrated when grabbing the first interview with javelinner Steve Backley after a quite lovely throw at Crystal Palace. Seeing ITV’s Jim Rosenthal jostling for position, I sidled up behind him, muttered ‘Hello Jim’ and, as he turned to respond, he fell/was pushed off the media rostrum. He landed on a stack of hurdles, suffering cuts and bruises as well as some seriously duffed-up pride. Well, Gary Newbon went spastic.
⁷⁴
The two of them were the Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Doo of ITV Sport – great friends on and off camera – and our feud was real and long-standing.

Newbon tore his jacket off, then his shirt, pounding at his belly and tits and shouting ‘Come on then! Come on!’ It was incredibly unseemly and I know Gary was kept away from athletics events for a good while after that.

I secured the interview and asked Backley some searching questions about his training regime, skin-tight sportswear and marital status. The piece went out that night. You could see Newbon in the background, facing away from camera but slumped on a folding chair (by then in tears), but needless to say I had the last laugh.

I hated ITV back then – and that loathing spurred me on to be the man on the scene whenever a sports star or their attractive spouse had anything to say. I had an easy way with people, and much like Piers Morgan today, was able to flit effortlessly from the high-brow to the utterly juvenile, from the serious to the inconsequential in a heartbeat. Unlike Morgan, I can also flit back the other way, whereas he is often stranded in thick alley for the remainder of the conversation. You can actually see his eyes swivelling as he struggles to break free of the tabloid moorings. Still, he’s a good interviewer and a solid guy.

But I was a bloody good interviewer and a bloody solid guy.
⁷⁵
And I began to wonder if I was fulfilling my potential. My son was teaching me about quadratic equations at the time and although I convinced him that they were genuinely irrelevant in real life, it convinced me that I should look for a fresh challenge. Like so:

Alan asking sports questions = a bloody good sports interview.

Which means, if you divide both by ‘sport’:

Alan asking questions = a bloody good interview.

It went something like that anyway. Fernando’s had algebra in them, but his maths homework wasn’t important back then. That might sound cruel but my focus was almost exclusively on my continued career progression.
⁷⁶

At a BBC party that autumn, I introduced myself to a commissioning editor by the name of Adam Walters. I remember the moment well.

‘You’re Adam Walters, aren’t you?’ I said.

‘Yes,’ he replied.

Walters was being talked of as the next big thing in BBC commissioning, something I found hard to understand (and still do) given that the role of a commissioner is basically to put a tick or a cross in a box. Who knows? Maybe he had neat handwriting. Or maybe he had friends in high places.

Either way, Adam was a good person to know. So I found out where he played squash and would make sure I happened to be having my shower and talc there at the same time as he/him.

Quaffing a juice afterwards one day, I suggested that I come in to talk about the idea of a chat show, in which I, the chat show host, would chat to guests on the show. He was intrigued at what was a really fresh idea and an appointment was duly arranged for that afternoon.

I ran home, excess talc spilling from the bottom of my trouser legs. I popped on my newest blazer, brushed my teeth, waited six hours, brushed them again and called a cab. As I zoomed towards Shepherd’s Bush, I opened the window, imagining my face on the billboards that massively spruce up Holland Park and that make Shepherd’s Bush roundabout a pleasure to circumnavigate. It would be called ‘Alan’s Show’, I’d decided, and would be absolutely ace.