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.
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.
When I wake up each morning, this is what I see: a new dawn, a glittering horizon, a vista ripe with opportunity. It really is one of my favourite posters. I take a sense of boundless optimism with me wherever I go. Along with mouthwash, a clean shirt and a piece of paper containing the phone numbers of my next of kin. Oh yes, I also like to think of myself jumping into that hammock to give the young lady a big kiss and a cuddle, whether she likes it or not!
10 kilometres, 20, 30! Here you can see me eating up the ground on a static exercise cycle. 40 kilometres, 50, 60! I’m throwing my weight behind a campaign to encourage cycling among fat kids. 70 kilometres, 80, 90! This was quality public-service radio but also compelling TV, thanks to the studio webcams I’d suggested we install. 100 kilometres, 200, 300! (No one knows how far I cycled that day. What we do know is that the campaign itself ran into funding difficulties and was discontinued later that month.)
This is yours truly with Sidekick Simon. He is a genuine original and an unbelievably funny man but lost his job on Mid-Morning Matters because he basically has an attitude problem. Also, many webcam viewers said they didn’t like his beard – and I agree. It’s too wispy and not a good colour. In this picture we’re pulling funny faces, which was my idea. These impromptu moments of goofing around were an almost hourly occurrence before things turned sour. After I sacked him he threatened to take me to an industrial tribunal. But I put a big Jiffy bag of dog dirt through his letter box and he soon backed off!
Here I am at the North Norfolk Digital desk. I’m not actually on air; it’s just a publicity shot. I keep a few autographed copies in my glove box at all times, in case I get accosted by a fan or need to bribe a bent copper. At the time of writing, I haven’t needed to use them for either. I did once get stopped by a fan at some traffic lights but I just drove off.
Acknowledgements
Pete Gabitas (1958–2005)
Norfolk Range Rover
Dave Millicent
William ‘Bill’ Oddie
Steven Eastwood
All those who have ever doubted me – you only made me stronger
Alvin Krysko (1986–2009)
HRH Prince Charles
Lynn Benfield
Copyright
First published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2011
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
© Rob Gibbons, Neil Gibbons, Armando Iannucci and Steve Coogan 2011
Rob Gibbons, Neil Gibbons, Armando Iannucci and Steve Coogan assert the moral right to be identified as the authors of this work
Picture Credits: Page 1, top © Albanpix Ltd/Rex Features, bottom courtesy of author; page 2, top © Getty Images, bottom courtesy of author; page 3 © Adrian Sherratt/Alamy;
page 4 © BBC Photo Library, inset © Tim Rooke/Rex Features; page 5 © Colin Mason/LFI/Photoshot; page 6 © Fremantle Media Ltd; page 7, top & bottom left © BBC Photo Library, bottom right © Brian Rasic/Rex Features; page 8, left © David Pearson/Alamy, right © Andy Drysdale/Rex Features; page 9 © Justin Canning/Comic Relief; page 10, top © BBC Photo Library, bottom © Ken McKay/Rex Features; page 11 © BBC Photo Library; page 12, left © Hera Food/Alamy, right © BBC Photo Library; page 13, left © Alvey and Towers, right © BBC Photo Library; page 14 © BBC Photo Library; page 15, top © BBC Photo Library, bottom © Yuri Arcurs/Alamy; page 16 © Baby Cow Productions/Fostersfunny.co.uk
A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 978-0-00-744917-0 (hardback)
ISBN 978-0-00-744919-4 (trade paperback)
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I, Partridge: We Need To Talk About Alan Page 29