I, Partridge (40 page)

There are few men alive who can pull off a haircut that’s longer at the back and sides than it is on the top. I am one of those men. On windy days I would go outside and run into the wind, just to feel it billowing behind me like a superhero’s cape. I was very wary of having it cut off. I didn’t want to become a broadcasting version of the guy from Samson and Jemima. But I’m glad to report that when I did get sheared the impact on my career was minimal. For old times’ sake I kept the cuttings. They’re in a Waitrose Bag for Life in my shed. There’s probably enough to stuff a loose pillow or a compact lumbar-support cushion.

As soon as I heard that Roger Moore had agreed to appear on
Knowing Me Knowing You
, I rushed outside and ordered a subordinate to take a photo of me standing against a wall with my thumb up. In this shot the cold indifference of the brick contrasts beautifully with the wild elation that swirls inside me. In Western cultures an upturned thumb is a sign of contentment. In Middle Eastern cultures it translates as something very different. Had you seen me doing this in Tehran it would have meant I wished to molest Roger anally. Nothing could have been further from the truth.

Superman had Kryptonite, I had Tony Hayers. Here he is, standing behind me before the filming of
Knowing Me Knowing Yule
, during which I punched his lights out with a dead turkey. It’s hard to describe the pleasure I felt as the free-range meat crashed into the cheek of the mealy-mouthed commissioning editor. But I’ll have a go … Let me see. It was like the combined ecstasy of sneezing while driving over a humpback bridge. That’s how good it felt when I punched Hayers’s lights out with a dead turkey. Afterwards, it occurred to me that you could have a turkey-glove boxing event in
It’s a Knockout
. I looked into it but came up against a wall of bureaucratic red tape regarding the contestants’ potential contraction of salmonella. I offered to have all the ‘gloves’ cooked in an oven beforehand but this failed to satisfy them, which proved that the salmonella excuse was just a ruse. It all boiled down to that insidious new cult/fad of ‘animal rights’. No one ever mentions
human
rights.

Me, Sue Lewis, a stable lad and a horse (second left). There were concerns that it might get spooked by the noise from Glen Ponder’s band and run into the audience. We knew there were going to be school kids in the front row, and Health and Safety estimated that if things went wrong, up to 20 children could be trampled before the horse could be lassoed and destroyed. In the event, however, the beast behaved impeccably. It was a credit to itself.

Singing an Abba medley with lovely-shouldered American
chanteuse
Gina Langland. Many people felt that despite having no formal training, I actually out-sung her, certainly in terms of volume. I’ve always been able to hold a tune, though. As a child I’d sing in the shower, often when it wasn’t turned on. I just liked the acoustics in the bathroom.

Me, giving an inspirational address to a roomful of teenagers at an event to promote careers in the Norfolk media. I’d arrived wearing a tie but quickly switched to a cravat in order to blend in better with the 16–18-year-olds. I would have gone open-necked but there was a pretty chunky pimple on my chest, the result of forgetting to shower after I’d got home from squash.

Paddington Green Police Station, the UK’s highest-security police station and the scene of my incarceration on 21–22 October 1994 following the sad, bad death of chatshow guest Forbes McAllister. In a desperate attempt to be released I pointed out to the policeman that I had laid on hot food for my colleagues as part of my show’s wrap party. Unless I turned up at the Pitcher & Piano to pay for the grub up front, they would be deprived of around eight dozen mini Kievs. I’ll never forget the police officer’s riposte. He simply said, ‘Sounds like they’ve been spared a fate WORSE than death.’ Well, I laughed my head off and for a moment clean forgot that I was on a manslaughter charge. DI Lance and I became lifelong friends after that, and he is to be technical adviser on my Norwich-based detective series
Swallow
(should it happen).

Highgate Cemetery, the final resting place of Karl Marx, Jeremy Beadle and Forbes McAllister. For the first three years on the anniversary of his death I would go to visit him. I’d wait until his wife had left his graveside (usually biding my time tucked away behind the massive stone head of Mr Marx). Then I’d go up and say a few words. Nothing too profound. Just an apology. And then, more often than not, there would be an awkward silence. After a while I’d puncture the silence with chit-chat, normally about the news, the weather or whatever reality TV programme was on at the time. I haven’t been back since July 2001, however, due to the fact that I had begun to find the visits boring. Also, hiding behind that giant communist head gave me the heebie jeebies!!

My best-ever blazer. It actually belonged to Lenny Henry but I stole it from his dressing room at
Comic Relief
. He came after me and demanded the jacket back, saying it was his. I simply stared him down and replied, ‘Prove it.’ ‘I’m going to report this, Alan,’ he called as I walked off down the corridor. ‘Oh yeah?’ I shouted, without even looking back. ‘And who do you think they’re going to believe?’ The next year I decided to give it to a charity shop, but they didn’t want it. So I just threw it in a bin. Easy come, easy go.