Week 25: Homeward Bound

Type of Writing: A travelogue in the voice of Norfolk's finest Alan Partridge. 

Hi,

It’s me Alan Partridge: monsieur, flaneur, raconteur, presenter and rambler. Before continuing, I should add that I mean rambler in a walking sense – never conversational. When it comes to chat I never stray from the compass, go off the beaten track, take the scenic route. No, I’m a consummate professional in discourse. I put my conversation in the cross hairs and pull the trigger, ensuring a direct hit from my mouth to the person's head.

I’m writing the blog this week because I’ve told the usual author that I would be much better qualified to write it.  He agreed on the condition I posted some pictures of his child. Reluctantly, I complied, knowing full well many of you would prefer to see the stunning rolling hills of my home county. You see, the author’s family went to Norfolk this week on holiday. And who is an expert on Norfolk life? No, not residents Janet Street Porter; nor, BT Sport presenter Jake Humphrey; and certainly not, Yes’ Rick Wakeman. No, it’s me Alan Partridge.

How did I end up taking this long A road journey home? Like Odysseus I was feeling pretty beaten following my own Trojan War: promoting my podcast From the Oasthouse with local disc jockeys that should be turning tables at Nandos as opposed to the radio. One such ordeal involved a 4am interview on BBC Three Counties, which is based in Dunstable. Dunstable is famous for hosting the first wedding of Faye from Steps – need I say more. This was the last leg on my press junket and let’s just say I was on my last legs. I wanted to promote my avant-garde venture; less a podcast, more an excavation of my soul – and what did these DJ’s want to do: ask me questions about accidentally shooting a restaurant critic and the time I punched my boss with a turkey. People forget Cheryl Cole assaulted a toilet attendant, but they have long memories when it comes to me and manslaughter. So anyway, I was bloody, ruddy tired of it all, aware that I’d have to go underground, overground like a womble to get home (the Lexus was in the garage and Audible offered to pay my expenses) when lady luck shined. One of the producers told me her friend was going to Norfolk that day. After some innocent enquiries I got the address and turned up at their door.

It being 5.00 the street was dark but their lights were on. Ringing the bell, a man in a navy dressing gown came to the door.

“Alan Partridge? Why are you at my door?” he asked.

By this, I know he meant, “I’m not worthy to receive you. Why have you Alan Partridge, broadcast extraordinaire, given up your time to see someone as lowly as me?”

I replied, “You’re going to Norfolk. I am Norfolk. So I’m going with you.”

I stepped through the front door before he had a chance to thank me. Inside was wife and baby. The child was called Kit, which is one of these new names; the mother was called Harriet, which isn’t. Seeing this happy family reminded me of the days when I was happy with Carol and Fernando (Denise too, but I’m sure you’ll understand a bond between father and son is much tighter than father and daughter. Take local businesses for example: it’s always Smith & Son or something similar. Fathers very rarely go into business with daughters, for the reason women can’t entirely be trusted.)

I could tell Harriet was pleased to see me in her living room, even more so to make me the cup of tea I requested; she was speechless after all. Fame does that to some people. It’s a shame as I’m just a regular guy that lives in an oasthouse with a dog called Seldom. Just a regular Joe. Or a regular Alan. (Reminds me of asking for a drink in a fast food joint: ‘No, I don’t want large. Just a regular Alan will do.”)

So as they packed the car, I watched BBC Breakfast and had a smile to myself. I remember those early mornings, up before it was light. Those days are long gone silver. My time is prime time as I present This Time at the time of 9 o’clock.  I’ve heard on the grapevine that Charlie Stayt isn’t so great with the early mornings. He sleeps past his three alarms and his driver has to shout through the letterbox, appealing for Stayt to get up.

Once everything was in, we were ready to go. Initially, I just wanted to hitch a lift to Swanton Morley, but when the family said they were having a short tour of Norfolk, I thought “What the hell. Live and let live. I’ll go where they go.” Again, Harriet was speechless. A trip with a celebrity! Oh the stories she would tell on Zoom to her coffee morning pals.

Our first stop was a roadside café along the way. There we met up with Kit’s grandparents and their dog Kipling. The grandad chap, Rod, said it was where bikers usually stopped for a bacon roll. Bikers are quite sad in my view. A lot of them want to be Peter Fonda and Dennis Hopper in Easy Rider, blazing a trail on the highway of freedom; instead, these old duffers look like they should trade their Harleys for mobility scooters and tear through shopping malls.

After, we stopped in Sandringham. Allyson, the grandmother, had been here before, which made me fear she may be a royalist. I was all for the Queen and her racist husband up until the point I was spurned from the Honours List. I had it on good authority I was in line for an MBE for Services to Broadcasting, but it never materialised. Jimmy Savile got the letters S I R in front of his name, but I couldn’t even get any after my name. As a point of principle, I stayed in the car; I wouldn’t put any money through the café to fund those parasites. I did accept some chips from Harriet on their return, but that’s only because it was her money.

Not as cute as Seldom.

At 4 we arrived at the Caley Hall Hotel. With No Vacancies available, I gave the grandparents and Harriet and Ryan the opportunity to put me up for the nights. Both were too polite to claim me. In the end I decided to stay with the younger ones because I didn’t appreciate how the grandad seemed to think he knew a lot about the military. I’ve actually flown out to Basra myself to entertain the troops. Did it off my own back with my own money. And you know what? Best £5000 I’ve ever spent.

 Wednesday 28th October

I wake up to hear a baby crying. Relieved the only tears that wake me up these days are my own. We head off to Blakeney where we stop for lunch at The White Horse. All of the family seemed more engrossed in what Kit was eating (a bowl of broccoli) than they did in their own meals. I had the Scotch Egg to start, but in all honesty I had it to finish too; as I spent the rest of the meal in the bathroom.

He can eat. Big deal.

A walk to Morston was abandoned after 45 minutes because of high winds. I know the family have a baby, but how is it meant to survive the urban ghetto that is Bedfordshire if it can’t cope with a squall?

In the evening they went for another meal at The Lodge. A bar restaurant that I disapproved of. It should be one or the other. A place to drink to some boom boom pow music or somewhere to eat a carvery. Why must the two elements be combined? Focus on one thing rather than spoiling both. I guess there’s no accounting for taste. 48% of people voted to stay in the EU after all.

 Thursday 29th October

We make our way to Sheringham where we stopped at the Mulberry Café. Rod asked if they did a Flat White. He may as well have asked if they did bypass surgery. It would loath of me to criticise Norfolk, given the people here love the publicity I’ve given them, but the fact is some of them aren’t very forward thinking. I mean they would look at my iPhone 3GS as if it was the holy grail.

Following our filter coffees we took Kit on the steam train. It made me regret the lack of time I spent with Fernando when he was a boy. But I was busy being successful; that’s the price a child pays when their dad is loved and revered. Kit’s father doesn’t have to worry about being a success. It is in many ways an easier cross to bear.

Standing on the seats like a lout.

On arriving we stopped at the Owl Tea Rooms, which was under a marquee cover because of Covid restrictions. Marquees are really in fashion at the moment. What with Bake Off, and pubs and cafes using them. There’s an idea there: Marquees with Marky Mark Wahlberg, a documentary series where he tracks the development of the tent from sleeping quarters to entertainment hub.

Following a ride back on the steam train, we stop at The Orange Tree for dinner. A gastropub. A gastropub in my view is a restaurant without confidence. They’re like, “How great is our food! We’re a pub and we’re serving food on chopping boards in a pretty display.” And I’m like, “If you want to sit at the chef’s table with Gordon Ramsay, then call yourself a restaurant, otherwise you’re just a damn fraud.” The family stayed quiet whilst I explained this to the manager.

Friday 30th October

So the family headed to Ely to stop off on the way, leaving me at Norwich City Centre to make my way home. I would have preferred to be dropped off in Swanton Morley but Ryan and Harriet explained they were in a rush, as they needed to be back for work. I understood completely: preparation is the key to success. I spend hours rehearsing for This Time, with Lynn playing the role of co-host. Incredibly, my improvised banter is even better live than it is when I’ve practiced with Lynn at home. And I guess that's why I had the last laugh and ended up back on the BBC at primetime.