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Episode 1 – A Room With An Alan
[Radio Norwich. Alan sits behind the mixing desks in the radio studio, wearing a pringle sweater.]
Alan Partridge: That was Big Yellow Taxi by Joni Mitchell, a song in which Joni complains they ‘Paved paradise to put up a parking lot’, a measure which actually would have alleviated traffic congestion on the outskirts of paradise, something which Joni singularly fails to point out, perhaps because it doesn’t quite fit in with her blinkered view of the world. Nevertheless, nice song. It’s 4:35am, you’re listening to ‘Up With The Partridge’.
[Plays cock crowing, followed by a trademark ‘A-ha!’]
Alan: And now it’s time for Alan’s ‘Fact of the Day’. Crabsticks do not actually contain any crab, and from 1993 manufacturers have been legally obliged to label them ‘crab-flavoured’ sticks. Another one of those same time tomorrow.
[Plays jingle, elderly male voice – "Radio Norwich, the best music"]
Alan: Pray silence please, for the Electric Light Orchestra.
[Title Music, ending with a short monologue from Alan in his car, talking about his driving gloves: "The string-backs just give you a bit of extra purchase"]
[Back in the studio, later that morning]
Alan: Time now to hand over to mine breakfast host, Mr. David Clifton. Good morning to you, sir!
Dave Clifton: And good morning to you, Mr. Alan Partridge, sir! And I heard your phone-in, and I liked your chat with the guy from Swatham. Er, he was a wacky fella!
Alan: Yeah, yeah, he was. I... I actually think he was a bit simple.
Dave: Er, heard you laying into the criminals again there Alan. Vandals got to your car again?
Alan: ‘Fraid so, third time. Scum. Sub-human scum.
Dave: OK! It’s seven a.m., wakey wakey it’s the breakfast show. Here’s Yazoo.
[Music plays, Yazoo]
[Tracking shot of Alan’s Rover 800 driving down an A-road. It’s metallic bodywork is graffitied with the words ‘Cock’, ‘Piss’ and ‘Partridge’ in large, black lettering]
Alan: [In car, speaking on hands-free headset] Lynn, message from Alan. Something to pitch to Tony Hayers at BBC lunch, Friday. Idea for film extravaganza. Plot, thus: Malcolm McDowell is trapped in the future. He’s being pursued by a cyberpunk from the past, played by Rutger Hauer. Erm, terrible idea. No-one will watch that. I’ve not thought it through, Lynn. I’ll call you back.
[Car pulls into the forecourt of the Linton Travel Tavern. Alan jogs up the steps to the lobby singing ‘Killer Queen’ by Queen. Inside the lobby, still singing loudly, he walks up to reception. The manager, Susan, smiles at him as he approaches]
Alan: Guaranteed to blow your mind!
Susan: Good morning, Alan! How are you today?
Alan: Classic Queen! I’m very well, thank you, how are you?
Susan: I’m fine.
Alan: I like the, I like those ear-rings. Are they gold?
Susan: Yes, they’re rose gold.
Alan: Well that’s not really gold, is it? But, er, they’re very nice. Like little tears, little wax tears dripping from you’re ears because they’re sad. Don’t cry, ears! You’re on the side of a lovely head!
[Susan giggles. Alan sighs – "ahh" – smiling at her]
Susan: Good show this morning?
Alan: It was a belter! Did you hear it?
Susan: No.
[Alan’s face falls.]
Alan: Oh. Any messages?
Susan: Just the one. From Bill Oddie.
Alan: Did he leave a message?
Susan: No.
Alan: No, he never does. Right, well, I’m afraid, Susan, I’ve got some very bad news.
Susan: Oh?
Alan: [Shouting] I’m leaving you, you cow!
[Susan looks bemused, and slightly scared. There is an awkward pause.]
Alan: Sorry, bit of a joke there. Backfired. No, I’m basically just saying that I’m going to be checking out at the end of the week.
Susan: Are you going back to your wife?
Alan: No! No, God, Carol? No, God, no. No no. She’s living with a fitness instructor. He provides all her, er… sexual, er… intercourse.
[Alan picks at the back of his ear.]
Alan: Sorry, I’m er… dry skin. I’m flaking again. I’m sorry about the cow earlier, by the way, you’re not a cow. And if you were you’d be a lovely Jersey, ripe for milking.
[Sophie, a hotel employee, appears behind the desk]
Alan: [To Sophie] Just talking about cows. D-Do you like milk?
Sophie: No.
Alan: Oh. [To Susan] Actually, can I talk to you? There’s rather a delicate matter…
[The phone rings.]
Susan: Oh, excuse me. Sophie, could you deal with this?
[Sophie looks worried.]
Alan: Er, Sophie…
Sophie: Mr. Partridge?
Alan: As you know, at the end of the week, I’m meeting Tony Hayers, at the BBC. And, he is Mr. Numero… one…. And the problem is I’ve got some rude daubings on the side of my car.
Sophie: Can you still drive the car?
Alan: Well, yeah, yeah, obviously. I mean that’s not… do you know what it says on the side of my car?
Sophie: Tosser?
Alan: No. Well, you’re in the right ball park. No, it actually says ‘Cock’, ‘Piss’, ‘Partridge’.
[Sophie turns away, trying not to laugh. Susan returns from the phonecall]
Susan: [Brightly] Is everything alright?
Sophie: Mr. Partridge, erm… has got some rude… graffiti… on –
[Sophie runs out the back of reception, trying to control her hysterics]
Susan: [Alarmed] Graffiti? What, in the hotel?
Alan: No, no, God. There’s never any graffiti in the hotel. Although in the Gents a couple of weeks a go I did see someone had drawn a lady’s part. Quite detailed. The guy obviously had talent, that’s the tragedy. But no, it’s not the… it’s on the side of my car, it says ‘Cock’, ‘Piss’, ‘Partridge’.
[As Alan says ‘Cock’, ‘Piss’, ‘Partridge’, Sophie attempts to return, and has to immediately turn back.]
Alan: [Distracted by Sophie] Which is… which is illegal. Is she new?
Susan: Yes, she is.
Alan: I mean, I’m basically driving around in an obscene publication. I’d love to get my hands on the bastard. Or bitch, might be a lady. [Smiles]
[Sophie returns, still grinning.]
Sophie: Susan, can I take 5 minutes?
Susan: Yes, of course.
Alan: [Disapprovingly] Nipping off for a fag?
[Alan walks towards the lift, shaking his head. As he does, Susan shouts after him]
Susan: Don’t worry about your car, Alan. I’ll get Michael to sort it out for you.
Alan: OK.
[Alan meets Michael coming out of the lift]
Alan: Oh! Talk of the devil!
Michael: Morning Mr. Partridge.
Alan: Yeah, Michael, I was just saying to Susan. Bit of a job for you. Unfortunately some vandals have sworn all over my car again.
[Michael shakes his head and sighs. He speaks with an impenetrable Geordie accent.]
Michael: Vandals, eh, Mr. Partridge? You know, it makes you wonder what it’s all about.
Alan: Aboot?
Michael: Aye. You know, vandals. You know, what is it all about?
Alan: Oh, about. Sorry, sometimes it’s difficult to understand the Geordie… people.
Michael: [Even more impenetrable] You know, what I reckon is, if they had themselves proper jobs, they wouldn’t be up to all this, you know, larking every night.
Alan: [Slightly annoyed] What?
Michael: What I’m saying is, like, if they had themselves proper jobs, you know, for them to go to, they wouldn’t do it. You know, a lot of them’s from broken homes.
Alan: I’m sorry, that was just a noise. All I got there was broken homes. And a broken home is not an excuse for evil. Look at you - do you go around drawing, I don’t know, peep-hole bras on the wall?
Michael: Aye, but it was different for me, like, cause, you know, I was in the army when I was seventeen.
Alan: [Stepping into the lift] Well there you go. They taught you a trade. Minor repairs.
Michael: Aye. That and killing.
[On hearing this, Alan jams open the doors just before they close, and emerges with a fascinated look on his face.]
Alan: Really?
Michael: Oh aye. I’ve seen some terrible things, mind.
Alan: What, like three men burning in a tank, going ‘uuurghhh’?
Michael: You wouldn’t want to know, Mr. Partridge.
Alan: I’ll be honest, I’m pretty curious. I mean, I’d basically like to understand man’s inhumanity to man… and then make a programme about it. Anyway, regarding the graffiti, if you could… [mimes shooting a handgun at the ground a few times] kill that, then, [imitates Michaels accent, badly] I’ll see you reet, me old fishy on a dishy.
[Alan steps back into the lift]
Michael: I’ll tell you what I’ll do, I’ll do, just like, a quick fix on it for now, and-
Alan: [Interrupting] You’ve gone again!
[Cut to Alan’s room, close-up shot of an article in the Guardian newspaper, headline "Hayers to sweep away ‘dead wood’ at BBC". Alan is sitting on the side of his bed, reading the article. He sighs. His hotel room has been personalised with an expensive looking hi-fi, on top of which are framed photos of Roger Moore and Jet from Gladiators. Getting up, he speaks into his personal Dictaphone]
Alan: Idea for a programme, ladyshapes with Alan Partridge. I look at the changing shape of ladies through the ages, from fat, chubby ladies of the Renaissance, to hard-faced Cromwellian sourpusses, right up to twentieth-century well-toned women like [picks up picture of Jet] Sharon Davies and Jet from Gladiators.
[Still holding the Dictaphone, Alan sighs and lies flat back on his bed.]
Alan: Jet from Gladiators to host a millennium barn-dance at Yeovil aerodrome. [He puts the Dictaphone down for a second. A worrying thought then occurs to him and he switches it on again.] Properly policed. It must not, I repeat not, turn into an all-night rave.
[Alan switches the Dictaphone off. He sighs, and as he lies on the bed music fades in and we cut to a fantasy daydream sequence in which Alan, dressed in a pringle sweater and leather thong, dances on the stage of a seedy nightclub under various coloured lighting. In front of the stage is a small table at which sits Tony Hayers. Alan moves towards him.]
Alan: Would you like me to lap-dance for you?
[Tony Hayers offers the gyrating Alan a ten-pound note]
Alan: [Shaking his finger] Uh-uh. I want a second series
[Cut back to the hotel room. Someone is knocking at the door. It is Alan’s PR woman, Lynn. Alan wakes up, startled.]
Lynn: Alan?
Alan: [Clenching his fist, still half-asleep] Mmm – fight you! Sorry-
[Alan shifts to the end of the bed]
Alan: Come in! Doors open.
[Lynn walks in]
Lynn: Just me.
Alan: There’s tea in the pot.
Lynn: Oh good.
[They both wait for a second, then Lynn realises Alan is waiting for her to offer him a cup.]
Lynn: Do you want a cup?
Alan: Thank you. What have you got for me, Lynn?
Lynn: Well, I’ve arranged for you to see a show house at ten o’clock.
Alan: Good. Got my fungal foot powder? [Alan takes the powder from Lynn and dusts his feet with it] Ah, it’s a lifesaver, you know. I’d effectively be disabled if it weren’t for these.
Lynn: I also rang all the companies on the product list you gave me. Foster’s Menswear said yes, if you get the second series, and you wear one garment a week on air. Monza said ‘no’ to a free caravan and ‘yes’ to a towbar.
Alan: I’ll take it. Dolphin Bathrooms?
Lynn: No, they said they didn’t do that sort of thing.
Alan: That’s rubbish. I know for a fact Martin Lewis got two power showers out of them. One for him and one for his brother-in-law. Right, dry skin cream. I’m having an attack of the old flakes again. This morning, my pillow looked like a flapjack. [Walks to bathroom] OK, Lynn, quick practise for this meeting with Tony Hayers this Friday. You be Tony Hayers. Hello, Tony! How are you?
Lynn: I’m fine. How are you.
Alan: Oh, very busy. I’ve been working like a Japanese prisoner of war. But a happy one.
Lynn: Good. Would you like a second series of your chat show?
[Alan pokes his head around the bathroom door.]
Alan: I think he’ll be a bit tougher than that, Lynn.
Lynn: We might give you a second series.
Alan: Yeah that’s about right. OK, smalltalk. Would you like a Cuban cigar, Tony?
Lynn: Yes please.
Alan: Rolled on the thighs of a virgin.
[Lynn looks uncomfortable. Alan pops his head round again]
Alan: I’m being bawdy, Lynn. Enjoy it.
[Lynn makes strange grunting noises. Alan comes back from the bathroom with cream on his face and sits on the bed]
Alan: Well, he might make that noise. Be a bit weird. Right, you said you might give me a second series. Why is there any doubt?
Lynn: Things have to be compartmentalised, Alan. For example, in this drawer you-
[Lynn opens a drawer next to her in the cabinet and freezes. Alan slowly gets up from the bed, looking embarrassed.]
Lynn: You, erm, have, erm… things… Sometimes you can have too many things…
Alan: Er, abandon that, Lynn, it’s not working. [He shuts the drawer and goes back to sit on the bed]. OK, doomsday scenario. You, Tony Hayers, have decided not to give me another television series. Why? Be tough.
Lynn: Well, Alan, the ratings for the first series started poorly and went downhill from there.
[Alan looks unhappy]
Alan: Are you being Lynn or Tony?
Lynn: Tony.
Alan: Be Lynn again. Can I have a second series?
Lynn: Well who am I?
Alan: [Agitated] Just say yes!
Lynn: Yes!
Alan: Thank you. [Points at the drawer] They were there when I moved in. [Walks out]
[Cut to tracking shot of Alan’s car, again on an A-road somewhere near Norwich. Lynn and Alan are listening to Radio Norwich on the car stereo. Alan is driving, Lynn sits next to him.]
Radio Norwich: [Same elderly man’s voice] From Swaffham to Cromer on 106.5 and now in Hensbury on 106.9FM, you’re listening to Radio Norwich.
[Alan’s car pulls up outside a large, detached, modern red-brick house with a For Sale sign in the front garden. Inside, Alan is being shown round by the Estate Agent.]
Estate Agent: Living room…
Alan: Oh I like this, yes. Certainly enough room to swing a cat in here, isn’t there?
EA: Swing a tiger in here, really!
Alan: You could, couldn’t you! [Seriously] Wouldn’t want to, though. Not unless it had been stunned. Even then it’s going to weigh the best part of a tonne.
EA: [Looking past Alan to Lynn, who is hovering in the background] Do you like the room?
Lynn: Oh, it’s very nice.
Alan: Lynn’s not my wife. She’s my PA. Hard-worker, but there’s no affection.
EA: You’d be living alone, then?
Alan: Yes. In fact, you know, the best thing I ever did was get thrown out by my wife! [Snorts with false machismo] She’s living with a fitness instructor. He drinks that yellow stuff in tins. He’s an idiot! Erm, is there a neighbourhood – sorry I’m very close to you there [steps back] – is there a neighbourhood watch system?
EA: I think so, yeah.
Alan: Right, well, I’ll do my stint. I’d want expenses, though. Otherwise people start taking liberties, before you know it you’re mowing their lawn.
EA: Shall we have a look at the rest of the house?
Alan: Yup.
[Alan barges Lynn out of the way and steps in front of her to meet the Estate Agent at the door.]
Alan: One more question. On the way here, quite nearby, I did see a community centre with a mural on the side.
EA: School for the deaf.
Alan: Right. That mean, there will be noise or there won’t be noise? Difficult one to figure out that. But they’re just deaf, they’re not deaf offenders?
EA: They’re just deaf.
Alan: After you.
[Alan follows the Estate Agent out of the door, but just as Lynn tries to walk through Alan holds his hand up to her face]
Alan: Er, not you Lynn. Stay here, get on the phone, pester Debenhams for free lamps, free lampshades, anything you can blag. [shuts door].
[In the kitchen.]
EA: The kitchen, obviously…
Alan: Oh lovely. Has this kitchen been distressed?
EA: Yep, it has, yes.
Alan: Right. What’s this? It’s a cast-iron egg-tree, lacquered. Is that included? I mean, it’s not a deal-breaker but I would like to know.
EA: Everything you want to keep here, could be kept. It’s…
Alan: …optional.
EA: As you wish, certainly.
Alan: What’s this little sink here?
EA: That’s a rinser.
Alan: Yeah. Get rid of it.
[In the bathroom.]
EA: Bathroom…
Alan: Do you know what this bathroom says to me? Aqua. Which is French for water. It’s like being inside an enormous Fox’s Glacier Mint. Which, again, to me is a bonus.
[In the dining room. Alan is fiddling with the table. He succeeds in opening it up]
Alan: Yes, it’s an extender! Fantastic. That is the icing on the cake. Do you know, if King Arthur had had an extender on his table…
EA: It’d have been a different story, really, wouldn’t it?
Alan: Well it wouldn’t have been round!
EA: No.
Alan: …for kick-off.
[They are both now walking up the stairs.]
Alan: It’s very Cluedo this house, isn’t it? Colonel Mustard in the en-suite bathroom with the lead pipe. Battered.
[Upstairs bathroom.]
Alan: I do like that toilet. It’s very futuristic, isn’t it? Very, sort of, high-tech, space-age. I can imagine Buck Rogers taking a dump on that. In the twenty-first century. Can I… have a go?
EA: Sure. Help yourself.
[Pause]
Alan: Can I have a go on the loo?
[Another short pause before the penny drops]
EA: Oh! Sorry, sorry.
Alan: I’d prefer to go alone.
EA: Sure, sure. [Turns to leave]
Alan: Most times. [Closes the door]
[Cut to the lounge downstairs, where Lynn and the Estate Agent are waiting in silence for Alan. Alan then bursts in through the double doors.]
Alan: It flushed on the first yank! I love this house!
Lynn: Alan?
Alan: One yank, gone!
Lynn: Alan, that was Tony Hayers’ office on the phone. They’ve put the meeting forward to 12:30 today.
Alan: When did you get this call?
Lynn: Three minutes ago.
Alan: So why didn’t you tell – what have you been doing for three minutes?
Lynn: You were on the toilet.
Alan: Was I on that long? [Lynn and Alan both turn to the Estate Agent]
EA: It was in that area.
Lynn: We’re going to have to zip.
Alan: Right, OK.
[Lynn helps Alan put his jacket on.]
Alan: One more question about the house. Petrol stations nearby?
EA: Shell, about a quarter of a mile away.
Alan: Right, does it have a mini-mart?
EA: Mini-mart?
Alan: Scaled-down supermarket, fits inside a petrol station. Sells pies, anti-freeze…
EA: Yep, it’s got one of them.
Alan: In that case, you’ve got yourself a deal! I’ll take the house.
EA: Well, are you going to make an offer?
Alan: Oh, yes of course. Erm, how much is it?
EA: It’s on at three hundred and twenty-five thousand.
Alan: Will you take three hundred and twenty… four?
EA: Yeah.
[They shake hands.]
Alan: How many bedrooms has it got?
EA: Five.
Alan: Five, cor. My five-bedroomed bastard house. Great, Lynn, let’s go off to the BBC. [To the Estate Agent] I’m going to be back on TV, I don’t know if you – did you use to watch my TV show?
EA: Oh yes.
Alan: Did you like it?
EA: I loved it.
Alan: [Opening his arms wide]A-haaa!
[The Estate Agent looks confused. He clearly never saw the show. Alan leaves awkwardly.]
[Shot of Alan’s car entering the car park at BBC Television Centre. The graffiti is still there, but has been crudely altered with purple spray paint to read ‘Cook’, ‘Pass’, ‘Babtridge’.]
Lynn: What if Tony Hayers sees ‘Cook’, ‘Pass’, ‘Babtridge’ painted on your car?
Alan: Don’t worry, Lynn, I’ll play it down.
[Inside the BBC restaurant, Alan walks in alongside Tony Hayers. A waiter greets them.]
Alan: …and it says Partridge, I can understand, but then it says ‘Cock’, and ‘Piss’.
Waiter: A table for two, sir?
Alan: Yes…no, sorry, you… [gestures towards Tony Hayers]
Tony Hayers: Yes, in the name of Hayers.
Waiter: If you’d like to follow me.
[Walking past quiet diners, Alan continues his story in a loud voice.]
Alan: We managed to rectify it, though, because it now says, by adapting it, ‘Cook’ where it once said ‘Cock’, and it says ‘Pass’ now where it once said ‘Piss’, so it’s slightly less rude.
[The two are now seated at their table. The waiter goes to hand Alan the menu.]
Alan: I’ll have a pint of bitter.
Tony: A mineral water for me, please.
Alan: Actually I’ll have a mineral water, too.
Waiter: Will you be having wine with your meal?
Tony: Not for me.
Alan: No, no. [Sighs] All this wine nonsense! You get all these wine people, don’t you? Wine this, wine that. Let’s have a bit of red, let’s have a bit of white. Ooh, that’s a snazzy bouquet. Oh, this smells of, I don’t know, basil. Sometimes you just want to say, sod all this wine, just give me a pint of… mineral water.
Tony: I don’t think wine’s an elitist thing anymore, you can get good wine in Tesco’s now. I’d love to make a genuinely popular wine programme.
Alan: Can I just shock you? I like wine. Despite what I just said earlier. At any one time I have nine bottles of wine in my house.
Tony: Really?
Alan: Interesting fact.
Tony: Well it’s my weakness I’m afraid. I’ve got a cellar.
Alan: So have I. There’s no wine in it, just a couple of bikes, some smokeless fuel, and an old bag of cement. Gone hard.
Waiter: Are you ready to order?
Tony: Yes I think I’ll have the Fettucini a’la Arabiata please.
Alan: And… can I have the same, please? But with different shaped pasta. What do you call those pasta in bows? Like a bow-tie, but miniature? Like an action man bow-tie.
Tony: Farfalle.
Alan: Yeah, that with action man bow-tie.
Waiter: Anything else?
Alan: Yeah, I think I’ll have some wine, actually. Erm, just give me half a bottle of Blue Nun, please. [Turns to Tony Hayers] I loved your article in the Guardian, by the way.
Tony: Really?
Alan: I loved that phrase you used, it was very clever – ‘Revolution not evolution’.
Tony: No, it was the opposite. ‘Evolution not revolution’.
Alan: Well whatever. Because that is me. I ‘evolve’, but I don’t… ‘revolve’…. Or vice-versa. I suppose what you’re trying to say is, you don’t want another Chris Evans on your hands.
Tony: No, that is what we want.
Alan: I’m your man.
Tony: That’s what I wanted to talk about, Alan. Your career. I can see a lot of very exciting opportunities ahead for you, really I can.
Alan: Oh, can I just say this is music to my ears.
[The waiter has appeared with Alan’s wine. He starts to pour]
Alan: Whoa, whoa, whoa! What are you doing!? What are you doing?
Waiter: Pouring the wine out.
Alan: I want you to pour a little bit, let me sip it, then pour the rest.
Waiter: Well I’ve already poured half.
Alan: Well it’s alright.
[In one long gulp Alan empties the contents of his glass.]
Alan: That’s fine, fill her up. [Turns to Tony] Here’s to our future relationship at the BBC.
[Alan goes to chink glasses with Tony, but realises Tony doesn’t have a drink yet, so instead touches the empty wine glass still on the table]
Tony: You know, I don’t think you should see your future just at the BBC, Alan. I just think it’s time for you to consider moving on to new pastures.
Alan: Have I got a second series?
Tony: There’s so many opportunities for a man –
Alan: [Interrupting] Let, let, let me rephrase that. Can I… no, in fact I’ll just repeat the question. Have I got a second series?
Tony: No.
Alan: [Quietly] Thank you. That’s all I wanted to know.
[They are then interrupted by a colleague of Tony’s, Peter. Tony and Peter greet enthusiastically.]
Peter: Tony!
Tony: Oh, Peter, hello. How are you?
Peter: Fine, fine.
Tony: Alan, this is Peter Linehan, he’s revamping our current affairs output.
[Alan shrugs wordlessly. He isn’t interested.]
Peter: We haven’t met but I liked your chat show.
Alan: Thank you very much.
Peter: Has he given you another series?
Alan: No, he won’t give me one.
[Tony and Peter laugh, Alan forces a smile.]
Peter: [To Tony] Give him another series, you swine!
Alan: Yeah, give me another series you shit.
[Tony’s smile is frozen on his face. Alan begins to look very anxious, and Peter stands in awkward silence.]
Tony: Look, Alan, I don’t want you feel that the – I’ll see you later, Peter [Peter walks away] – I don’t want you to feel that the doors have all closed here at the BBC. If you come up with anything else, then please, I don’t want you to hesitate to call…
[Suddenly, the camera cuts from a shot of Alan’s worried face to another daydream sequence, in the same seedy nightclub. Tony Hayers still sits at the table with a bottle of Blue Nun. Alan moves towards Tony, as before.]
Alan: Would you like me to lap dance for you?
[Tony Hayers holds the bottle of wine in his hands and laughs manically – "Blue Nun!". The camera cuts repeatedly with different shots of Tony Hayers, in each one with less hair on his head until he is finally nearly completely bald. Just as suddenly we cut back to the restaurant, and an anxious Alan.]
Tony: …don’t hesitate, if you have any other ideas. I’d be very interested…
Alan: Got them here, got them here! [Alan reaches down and picks up a blue file.]
Tony: Right…
Alan: Right, OK. ‘Shoestring’, ‘Taggart’, ‘Spender’, ‘Bergerac’, ‘Morse’. What does that say to you about regional detective series’?
Tony: There’s too many of them?
Alan: That’s one way of looking at it. Another way of looking at it is, ‘people like them, let’s make some more of them’. A detective series based in Norwich called ‘Swallow’. Swallow is a detective who tackles vandalism. Bit of a maverick, not afraid to break the law if he thinks it’s necessary. He’s not a criminal, but he will, perhaps, travel 80mph on the motorway if he, for example, he wants to get somewhere quickly…
[Tony Hayers shakes his head.]
Alan: Think about it. No-one had heard of Oxford before ‘Inspector Morse’. I mean, this will put Norwich on the map.
Tony: Why would I want to do that?
Alan: Yep, fair point. OK, right. ‘Alan Attack!’. Like the Cook Report, but with a more slapstick approach.
Tony: [Shakes his head again] No.
Alan: ‘Arm Wrestling with Chas and Dave’.
Tony: I don’t think so.
Alan: Pity, because they were very keen on that one. Right, ah, now you’ll like this one. ‘Knowing M.E., Knowing You’. I, Alan Partridge, talk to M.E. sufferers about the condition. You know, we intersperse it with their favourite pop songs, make it light-hearted, you know, give them a platform, you’ve got to keep the energy up, because…
[Tony shakes his head, horrified.]
Alan: You don’t like it?
Tony: No.
Alan: That’s alright, that’s OK. ‘Inner-City Sumo’.
Tony: What’s that?
Alan: We take fat people from the inner cities, put them in big nappies, and then get them to throw each other out of a circle that we draw with chalk on the ground.
Tony: No, no it’s a bad idea.
Alan: Very cheap to make.
Tony: No.
Alan: Do it in a pub car park.
Tony: [Laughing] No.
Alan: If you don’t do it, Sky will.
Tony: Well I’ll live with that. Is that it?
Alan: Well, no, no. Cooking in prison.
Tony: [Laughing] Oh, no.
Alan: [Desperately] ‘A Partridge Amongst The Pigeons’.
Tony: What’s that?
Alan: Well, it’s just a title, I mean… erm, well, opening sequence, me, in Trafalgar Square, feeding the pigeons, going "Oh God!"
Tony: [Holds his hands up] No, I’m sorry, no! Stop!
Alan: Whoa, whoa, whoa, erm, ‘Youth Hosteling with Chris Eubank’.
Tony: [Laughing and shaking head] No!
[Pause]
Alan: ‘Monkey tennis’?
Tony: [Seriously now] There is to be no second series, and I’ve listened to your ideas, I’ve listened to them all, and I haven’t liked a single one.
Alan: Tony, I’ve, look I’ve just bought a house. It’s got a Buck Rodgers toilet. One yank, all gone!
Tony: We don’t owe you a living. You are someone who has a proven track record of making mainly bad television programmes.
Alan: That’s – that’s – that’s bollocks, but carry on.
[Alan is now nervously playing with his lower lip. He looks to be in great pain]
Tony: It’s not bollocks. Your programmes were appalling. The ratings were a ninth of what we could have expected, they started badly, they got worse…
Alan: [Interrupting in child-like imitation] They started badly, they got worse…ooh, your programmes, your programmes…
Tony: Alan you’re making a fool of yourself.
Alan: [Beginning with a painful, high-pitched whine] Who-oo…who-oo… who do you think you are?
Tony: Well unfortunately for you, I am the Chief Commissioning Editor of BBC Television.
[The two men stare at each other for a second.]
Alan: [Forcing a smile] Oh, let’s forget about all this!
[Alan takes his fork and stabs it deep into a large block of cheese. He holds it aloft in his right hand.]
Alan: Do you want some cheese?
Tony: [Sitting back, slightly worried] No thanks.
Alan: [Sniffs it] Mmm. Quite nice. Smells. Do you want to smell it? [Alan offers the cheese, still on the end of his fork, to Tony.]
Tony: No thanks.
Alan: Smell the cheese.
Tony: No I don’t want to.
Alan: [More forcefully] Smell my cheese!
Tony: Alan, please.
[Alan gets up from his seat and thrusts the cheese into Tony Hayers’ face]
Alan: [Shouting] Smell my cheese, you mother!
[A waiter then attempts to restrain the hysterical Alan. Another stands by the table.]
Waiter: [Angrily] I think that’s quite enough, thank you!
[At this point Alan takes fright and charges out of the restaurant, cheese and fork still in hand.]
Alan: I’ve got cheese! This is cheese!
[Outside, running towards the car park, still holding the cheese, Alan mutters to himself.]
Alan: …bloody BBC… [to some people sitting in the sun] What are you sitting around for? Haven’t you got programmes to make? No, you’re all on the BBC gravy train. I wish I was. [Getting into the car] Take this cheese [hands the cheese and fork to Lynn].
Lynn: How did it go?
Alan: I’ve been bad, Lynn.
Lynn: Ooh, smelly.
Alan: It’s got walnuts in.
[Quickly as he can, Alan puts his seatbelt on and drives off]
Lynn: Right.
Alan: Let’s go.
[At night-time, Alan and Lynn talk in the car outside the show house that he earlier went to view.]
Alan: I wasn’t expecting that, Lynn. That was a negative, and right now I need two positives. One to cancel out the negative and another one, you know, just so I can have a positive. Oh my God.
Lynn: You know, one can find some strength, when you’re at your bleakest moment, if you open yourself up to new choices…
Alan: Lynn I’m not coming to your baptist church! They always get people when they’re down. I don’t want salvation, I just want to be able to say "I’m Alan Partridge. Join me tonight when my guests will be," I don’t know, "Chris Rea". Actually, he lives in the area. I could have had him over. "Alright Chris!", "Hello Alan I didn’t know you’d moved in", "Yeah, just moved in, last week. I’m having a barbecue, fancy coming over?", "I’d love to! Do you mind if I bring my guitar?", "I’d rather you didn’t, it’s not that kind of area." "Do you like Mini Kiev’s?", "I love them! But my wife’s vegetarian", "Doesn’t matter. She can have fish", [gradually getting irritated] "No she won’t eat that either", "Oh forget it!". You people. Go on, Lynn. These people are starting to annoy me. I’ll tell you something, you know. They may have very nice Tudorette-style housing but can they order an Irish Coffee at three a.m. in the morning and get it delivered to their bedroom?
Lynn: Nope.
Alan: Nope. I can. I’ll drop you at a cab rank.
[Back in his hotel, Alan puts ‘Jet’ by Wings on the hi-fi and telephones room service.]
Alan: Hi. Can I have an Irish Coffee delivered to the room, please? No? Er, right. Tea? Er, right. Can of Fanta? Minibar, right. No, I’ll get it myself.
[Alan puts the phone down, and sings along enthusiastically, standing on his bed. His eye on the minibar, he begins gently jumping up and down on his bed]
Alan: Right, minibar.
[After a few warm-up jumps, Alan tries to jump off the bed, but falls awkwardly, and on his way down knocks a lamp off a table and the lights go out.]
[Next morning, and a profile shot of Alan back in the radio studio.]
Alan: Kate Bush, there, the lovely Kate Bush with the ‘Man With The Child In His Eyes’…
[Credits start to roll.]
Alan: …which brings us on very neatly to my next guest, Mr. Stephen Brai, whose father invented Cats Eyes.
[Alan turns to his guest, revealing a large black eye, presumably from his fall the previous night.]
Alan: Stephen, what was it like living with, er, being the son of the man who invented cats eyes?
Stephen: Well I remember he came home from work one night very excited, and he, erm-
Alan: [Interrupting] Do people, er… did he ever turn all the lights off in the house and, sort of, run towards you with a torch hoping to catch the reflection in your eyes?
Stephen: Well the idea of reflection of course is what Dad was interested in, the idea of…
Alan: [Interrupting again, uninterested] Can I just interrupt you there, Stephen, it’s time now for Alan’s Fact of the Day. Most cornflakes come from the USA, we’ll have another one of them tomorrow. I remember I hit a fox once. Yes, in the Peak District. I remember seeing the reflection in it’s eyes just before I hit it. It was too late, of course. But I didn’t kill it, that was the tragedy, I had to go back and finish him off with a jack. This is Hewey Lewis and the News [The Man With The Child In His Eyes starts playing again], no it’s not it’s Kate Bush. What am I doing? Sorry. Hewey Lewis, there we go. [A radio jingle plays]. Oh Christ. I’m sorry…
[Outside, the camera pans back from the studio window to Alan’s car, parked in the forecourt. Added to the words ‘Cook’, ‘Pass’, ‘Babtridge’ is now a fourth, in red – ‘Twat’. Yet another jingle plays as the camera fades to black.]
Alan: …no, sorry about that…
-
CAST
Alan Partridge Steve Coogan
Dave Clifton Phil Cornwell
Susan Barbara Durkin
Michael Simon Greenall
Lynn Felicity Montagu
Sophie Sally Phillips
Tony Hayers David Schneider
Peter Linehan Terence Booth
Estate Agent Philip Fox
Waiter Matthew James
Stephen Brai David Prescott
Additional material written by The Cast
Casting Director Andy Pryor
Music John Whitehall
Studio Resource Manager Patrick Steel
Vision Mixer Paul Wheeler
1st Assistant Director Sam Dawking
2nd Assistant Director Alice Mayne
Stage Manager Louise Grime
Location Manager Dee Gregson
Floor Manager Michael Matheson
Production Accountant Penny Anderson
Production Co-ordinator Emma Ramsay
Script Supervisor Hayley Boyd
Props Master Andy Beales
Art Director Jo Sutherland
Production Buyer Laurie Law
Costume Designer Marcia Stanton
Make-up & Hair Designer Christine Cant
Editor Nick Arthurs
Dubbing Mixer Paul Harris
Cameras Colin Aitken
Andrew Ribeiro
Gary Sterne
Simon Tooley
Sound Supervisor Nick Roast
Lighting Director Rob Kitzmann
Production Designer Dennis De Groot
Line Producer Alison MacPhail
Head of Production Sally Debonnaire
Executive Producer Peter Fincham
Director Dominic Brigstocke
Producer Armando Iannucci
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Thanks to Chris Pople cpople@nationwideisp.net for donating these Alan Partridge scripts. All respective copyright acknowledged. This site © Copyright 6th August 1999 Gary Mc Keown. gary@gazmac.freeserve.co.uk