I, Partridge (41 page)

The meeting of two chat heavyweights. Clive asked me back to his dressing room afterwards to reminisce about our best-ever interviews and take a shower with him. I declined the shower but we had a lovely natter.

Me, moments before staging a mock execution of Elton John. I shot the former Watford chairman straight in the mouth. It was probably the most realistic mimed celebrity assassination I’d ever pulled off. I’d slit the throat of Monty Don the year before at a Christmas party but it was nowhere near as convincing. Elton and I later went for cocktails where he spent the best part of two hours outlining the plus points of homosexuality. I’m still not convinced, Elton! Love the songs, though.

When behind the Radio Norwich mic, I’d always be turned out in shirt, tie, buffed footwear, quality sweater. Just because you can’t see the people you’re talking to, doesn’t mean your standards should drop. That’s something I learned from my good friends the blind. It’s equally important for TV newsreaders. They always look good up top but there are some who refuse to wear trousers – Trevor Macdonald (cut-down jeans); Kate Silverton (PE skirt); James Naughtie (Captain America).

A Toblerone. This is a 750-grammer, one of the tastiest in the Toblerone range. Although I’m salivating profusely as I look at the photograph, I steer well clear of them these days. Have I given up Toblerones? Ha ha. No, you can never say you’ve given up Toblerones. I just say, ‘I’m not going to eat one today.’ And if I make it until bedtime without eating one, great. I’ll then celebrate with half a Yorkie.

Still in the grips of my Toblerone addiction, this shot shows me sprinting to the corner shop, desperate for my next Swiss-choc high. By this point I’ve sunk so low that I don’t even care that my groin is peppered with splash-back from a recent foray to the urinal. Incidentally, during this period I wore exclusively C&A. I found the cut of their garments wonderfully forgiving.

Attleborough Leisure Vehicles, the dealership that sold me my Delta static home. I got a discount for paying cash, although the guy got annoyed when the last twenty quid consisted of small denomination coins stored in a large whisky bottle. To lighten the mood I said, ‘What are you going to do? Call the
coppers
?!’ He didn’t laugh but I knew I was on to something. I raced home and faxed the joke to Terry Wogan for his exclusive use on that year’s
Children in Need
. I tuned in to see if he used it but quickly grew bored and flicked over to ITV to watch
What Women Want
. How Mel Gibson did not win an Oscar for his performance is beyond me. Not least because it was shot years before he became Australia’s best-known anti-semite. Ironic really, because Mad Max was a Jew (CAN SOMEONE CHECK THIS?).

Me, in the caravan. In the wine rack is a bottle of plum wine given to me by a local farmer. It was one of the worst liquids my mouth has ever played host to. It was almost as bad as the time Michael spiked my coffee with WD40. I got him back by claiming I’d seen him inappropriately touch a female guest in the Travel Tavern car park. He was suspended for a month. Great days. (It was a lie, of course, but I didn’t feel bad because I know for a fact he did once touch a woman but got away with it.)

On the right is my ex-Forces confidant Michael, with his ‘thousand-yard stare’. I often practise this look in the mirror but just can’t get the hang of it! In the centre, my former girlfriend Sonja. Our relationship was 80% physical, 15% small talk, 5% Don’t Know.

Standing outside Classic House. In the top-right window, Michael can be seen peeping. During the building’s construction I employed him as a security guard. He offered the ideal combination of military know-how and borderline post-traumatic stress disorder. He would do whatever it took to defend the property, and hang the consequences. Thankfully, the closest we ever came to a burglar was a fox that wandered in, lost. May it rest in peace.

My stall in Norwich train station, where I once spent a week selling copies of
Bouncing Back
. It’s probably fair to attribute the lack of takers to poor literacy rates in Norfolk. In the more rural areas many kids are simply beyond the reach of the education system. It’s rumoured that some go their whole life and never learn to speak.