S01E09: Break-In

 Show yourself, let's have a fight! I'll smash your head!

This is Alan Partridge, recording a live testimony. I want to document exactly what is happening to me right now, in case it forms part of a criminal investigation. 

I, Alan Partridge, being of sound mind and body, although I currently have heartburn, but I hereby make the following statements which can and may be used as evidence, the time is 10:12,  I believe I have been, and and may still be the victim of a home invasion. By the way, I may occasionally break off to shout at the man who I think is in the close proximity - I'm scareder than a bee than you! I mean, I'm more scared than a bee than you! - the man who I believe has broken into my home.

Oh my god, my heart is beating like one of those dustbin lids in STOMP.

I was meant to be recording a podcast, but... Actually, no, this is the podcast. You're listening to Alan Partridge, From the Oasthouse. Apologies for the shouting, but I just received a letter from a man who has been targeting me, sending me abusive messages, trying to bring me down for months now. He goes by the name of High Noon. 

And, well, he's a troll. Or an internet troll. Actually, I wouldn't be surprised if he if he does live under a bridge. To defend myself. I'm carrying a rolled up newspaper, poke him in the eye and it will blind him. I mean yes, yes, he will still be able to fight, but his ability to judge distances will be critically impaired. They say that the in kingdom of the blind, the one-eyed man is king, but in the kingdom of the one-eyed man, the two-eyed man is king because he's got depth of field!

[theme music]

I'm Alan Partridge, and this is my podcast. From the Oasthouse.

Well I've got myself a cup of Options, it's a low-cal hot choc, with my trotters in a foot spa and I'm feeling a bit calmer. An effective technique to just empty your mind of anything controversial or interesting that might spiral into negative thoughts is to imagine a garden, but not one that's too interesting, quite a bland one, like my neighbour's garden. No wonder he's always poking his head over the fence, looking at mine. Trying to nick ideas. See this can happen, you end up getting riled, but the idea is to relax.

A bit of background to what's happening; I've received correspondence from this chap before, he normally emails but I get the odd letter via the BBC. Now as a rule, I take this person's letter, read it to my assistant or anyone else in the vicinity and we'll pick out spelling mistakes, grammatical errors, clumsy phrasing, for example he often says 'misunderestimates' rather than 'misunderstand' or 'underestimate' and, obviously I'll have a good laugh at that, about the person's shortcomings of which there are many. You know, stupidity, poor handwriting, bitterness, professional jealousy, he puts a line through his sevens like he's French or something [laughs mockingly] it just, it beggars belief! And very obvious sexual inadequacy, he's unable to satisfy a woman and that eats him up! 

What to do with these letters? Don't wanna to throw them away, the cops might want them in case I'm found brained in a hedge. Don't wanna to keep them because I'll keep reading them, and it makes me feel crummy! Neat solution, [chimes in background] I skewer them on a spike, rather like you'd imagine a man in a sheepskin coat would do with receipts in a minicab Portakabin in the past.

The dinging that you heard was my long-case clock, which I have in the hall, from the 18th century. I'm very much interested in horology and... it makes me laugh some people come around, they call it they call it a grandfather clock which is not the correct term, you know, I don't mind I, you know, I don't make a fuss about it and I don't mention it, well I do mention it but I don't make a fuss about it. The point is, I just treat this trolls entire campaign against me as just something to enjoy and mock, much as one might enjoy watching Nigel Slater trying to parallel park, y-y-you get the picture.

Today though, I'll come downstairs to see if we had any yoghurts because I wanted to eat a yoghurt and on the doorstep there was a letter. I hurried to open it because I was hoping to receive an invitation to the launch of a new big car, instead I saw the atrocious handwriting of my troll, as higgledy as it is piggledy, and my blood ran cold. 

Because every other letter from this individual had been addressed to my production company. I never, never give out my home address, even to taxi drivers. I make them drop me at a farm and I run across a field. Yet this was addressed directly to me and it bore no stamp, which means, that's right, it was hand-delivered. This muppet has been at my gaff. He's been at my house, my oasthouse, and that is not. Happening. Right?!

I'm rather nervous, I'm about to open the envelope. I always slice away from the face in case it's anthrax or sneezing powder, they'll try anything! You should open an envelope like that even if it's not from a stalker, because if you open it with a knife pulling towards you and you slip, you can stab yourself in the heart and that happened to a man I knew. There was one day that he read the letter and then stabbed himself, but it was just a pretty decent offer for car insurance. Anyway, here we go. 

[sound of envelope being opened and the letter within unsheathed]

"Dear Partridge, thought I'd drop this in by hand seeing as we live in the same area", right that's a veiled threat. "Heard you mentioned me again on From The Outhouse", it's From the Oasthouse, an outhouse is a toilet, oh I see. "Heard you mentioned me again on 'From The Outhouse', would of thought-", would of thought, that's would of instead of would have which is how people who work in call centres say it, "Would of thought you'd have more things to worry about than me, like making sure someone doesn't tip manure over your car. Never had you down as someone who drives an automatic by the way. Are you a woman?".

No, I'm not a woman. Nothing against women, but if I were a woman or I had transitioned into one, then that would be fine, of course it would. I wouldn't complain, I'd just get on with my life, try to make the best of myself, make the best of the good features I do have. I mean, I'd avoid cocktail dresses, anything that was figure-hugging. I've got good legs, I'd wear something above the knee. I've got a nice back, so I might wear a backless dress. The point is I'd adapt. 

But I'm not a woman. I am a man - oh, I'd also swap my bike for one with a drop crossbar - and I drive an automatic because it's a premium feature, it's the choice of the executive driver! And I make a lot of phone calls, during which I gesticulate with my left hand, I don't want to be pausing mid-sentence to drop down to third if I overtake a caravan, probably driven by you because that's your main home and you're only doing twenty miles an hour,  A. Because you've got nowhere to go, as in nowhere to be, and B. Because your car's only 1.2 litres! Why is your engine so small? He'd probably say because he cares about the environment. Bullshit!

No, that's fine. That's fine, because I know people, okay? I'm not threatening anyone, but what I will say is I know people, big people. Big, loyal boys who've done menial work in my garden and would be happy to earn an extra five hundred quid for fifteen minutes work. They're strong, like oxes. The benefit is they don't question instructions. I mean, one of them is not all there, you know? [sips from mug] I once saw him brain a rabbit with a pan.

[sting: jaunty acoustic guitar music]

Hello, Alan Partridge here. Every year dozens of people in the UK injure, dismember or cripple themselves through improper use of lawn mowers. So remember; wear sturdy footwear, keep your cable to one side, lay off the booze and if you must strim, strim safe!

Don't be smart. Be Lawnmower Smart!

Sorry, bear with me, I'm just drawing the curtains. I mean if this guy can mosey up to my front door then there's nothing to stop him hovering a drone outside my bedroom window and filming me having a shower, or stretching in the shower.

[phone rings] 

Hang on a second, excuse me.

[phone rings again]

Lynn, quickly. No I don't- I don't need you now. No, I'm podding. I know, I was ringing to ask; where do I keep rolling pin?

Because I want to clock someone with it.

The man who sends me all those tweets. Yeah, him, he's- yes. He's been in the house.

Lynn, Lynn, Lynn, Lynn, Lynn, Lynn, Lynn, Lynn, Lynn, Lynn, Lynn, L-Lynn, Lynn, Lynn, Lynn, Lynn, LYNN, LYNN, LYNN, LYNN, LYNN, LYNN, LYNN, LYNN! LYNN! LYNN! CALM DOWN! You're getting me frothy now! Where are you? Well, keep your voice down then! You're getting your hair done? Right. Okay. Is that your usual place, or...? Oh really? I didn't know the church did that.

Why would anyone come after you? No one knows who you are!

What woman from the church?

Oh, her! Is there... is there still bad blood? Christ! I mean, sorry. Sorry! But I thought it might calm down.

Oh [sigh] so she's doing biscuits and flowers? Okay, well, that's... that does sound like she's, yeah, she's on your patch. Yeah, you're gonna have to do something. Er, couple of options; one, make better biscuits. Two, sabotage her process but you're getting into Black Ops territory there, do you want me to go on?

Okay, well here's what you do. You take some of her biscuits home, crush them up into a base for a cheesecake that will knock the vicar's socks off! When she tries to out you, you just say "I'm sorry, I just wanted to turn it into something special!". That's right, yeah negging, how do you know about negging? 

No, I just thought you always talked about the bible on coffee mornings.

Anyway, I've gotta go. I've gotta go. 

I don't need a reason!

[Alan hangs up]

The thing about my assistant is she's the kind of person who says "There's no such thing as bad weather, just inappropriate clothing", so she's the sort of person you don't want to spend too much time with because...

[a distant but loud noise]

Sshh! Sshh! There's someone in the house.

[chime]

[Alan is in hiding, whispering close to the mic] That's just the long case clock. I'll wait till it finishes chiming. He might use the chiming as cover to move across the creaking floor.

That was five chimes... which means it's five o'clock.

I'm hiding behind the triangular gap between the back of a small arm chair and the side of the Welsh dresser. I'm in the foetal position. It reminds me of when I was at primary school and the teacher would say, "Make yourself as small as you can!". And then I think she'd just read a book for a while. It wasn't a very good school. When I finally left the infants, I remember just a big weight was lifted off my shoulders.

[another distant noise]

Ssh! Hear that? That was definitely a noise!

The builder asked me a couple of years ago if he could put some screws in the floorboards on the landing to stop them creaking, I said "No! Creaks are good. I know where the creaks are, burglars don't know where the creaks are!". Wish the builder was here now, he'd realise the point I was making. Plus he could hold down the burglar while I thumped him, or her.

I sometimes play a game on my landing, where I pretend I'm crossing a minefield. If I make a creak, I have to go back to the beginning again. It's sort of an OCD... because I'm the one making me obey my own rules. On one night it took me eight attempts and in the end that did a wee in my pyjama bottoms, it was a bit of a wake-up call for the OCD thing. I just took my pyjama bottoms off and threw them in the bath, slept in my pyjama top with no bottoms on. It felt really nice. I do it all the time now!

I should go and investigate. I'm trying to weigh up my options. I try not to rush any big decisions, I learned that when I was buying a new washing machine. Basically, I bought a tumble dryer as well as I didn't realise the washing machine had a built-in- [another noise] ssh ssh ssh!

Anyway, it had a built-in drying function. So effectively, I had a washer-dryer and a dryer, so one-and-a-half dryers and half a washing- ssh!

The result was, my clothes were never damp. I never had mildew, but washer dryers are never quite as effective at washing as a dedicated washin- Oh christ, ssh!

Okay. I'm gonna go for this now. We're gonna go for it now. There comes a time in your life when it's like, "I'm not running anymore! I'm not a chicken. I'm Partridge. I'm game!".

Okay, let's roll.

[theme music sting]

Well, it's ten hours later, I traced the sound to the bedroom and tripped into a curtain where I thought I was having a fight, but the curtain wound round me and the more I struggled to get out, the tighter it trapped me until I was swaddled in it. I couldn't get out at all. In the end, I thought I might as well go to sleep, and I have to say it was the best day's sleep I've ever had! It was like one of those cocoon sleeping bags that cost a bomb at Blacks.

I managed to work out that the noise was because I'd opened the window in the toilet - I won't go into why - and I pulled down the blind - again, won't go into why - and it had created a through-draft making the cord of the blind clank against the toothbrush holder.

Yeah, so I felt like a bit of a 'nana! I I I... but I felt like I learned a lesson, not to leap to conclusions and be afraid of the unknown! Like the Wizard of Oz, I don't know if you've seen the Wizard of Oz, but they build up the idea of this big, all-powerful monster, booming voice, and behind the curtain there's just a pathetic little man. A bit like when John Birt was in charge of the BBC.

Oh well, I have just finished a another lovely sachet of Options, mint this time, followed by a chat with a friend who's an injury lawyer and on his advice, I'd very briefly like to retract the comments I made earlier about poking a visitor in the eye with a rolled up newspaper to deprive him of depth of field. 

Although it is effective in a combat situation, depth of field is crucial! Without it, you wouldn't know if your attacker is big and far away, or small and close. E.g. if Kylie Minogue was attacking you, you'd think she was yards away leaving plenty of time to adopt a defensive posture, but she's not big and far away, she's small and close! Suddenly, she's on your back like a gnat! I'd just grab the hood of her Parka and... err... swing her into a pond.

And I'm not saying it would happen, it's just a bit of nonsense isn't it? I mean, she doesn't even live around here!

[theme music sting]

I actually feel sorry for my troll. I think of him sitting in a bedsit somewhere, probably Swindon, in a nasty plastic chair with a big, fat, brick-like laptop. That's actually rather sad, actually. Really rather sad! I can talk tough, I can do all that, but God's honest truth, you know, given a choice between peace and war, choose peace. It's not because I'm a chicken, I don't always opt for peace. If you were a Nazi, I'd choose war but I don't think you're a Nazi, I just think you're a troubled guy who lives in a bedsit with his mum and drives a car with a 1.2 litre engine. 

It's shaken me up though, and I'd be the first to admit that. Second, if you count my assistant. I'm already in negotiations to have a series of metal shutters fitted to the windows and doors of my house, and once they've agreed to drop the price I can have my house turn into a giant armadillo at the flick of a switch! 

But I am flummoxed as to who would target me like this! Could be someone close to me. Or, you know, someone familiar and I'm not going to name names but a former presenter of 'Ross Kemp on Gangs' has made some very sniffy comments about me hosting a nightly primetime magazine show. Truth be told , his beef goes back a good ten years. He was going through a period when he just got a bit carried away in the gym and I made a few light-hearted jokes about his physique. 

I said to the owner of the gym that he thinks he looks like James Bond, but there are so many bumps and ripples he just looks like some sort of SAS walnut, and this got back to him. Another time I saw him in the swimming pool changing rooms and I mentioned to him his trunks were too small, he got annoyed and told me that they fitted him fine. He said "I've had these trunks for fifteen years!", I said "Yes Ross, but that's before you went bananas on your glutes!". It's Ross Kemp.

[sting: klaxon]

Hey, I'm Alan Partridge. Love my listeners, hate cancer! So listen up guys, I'm not gonna muck about. You know the drill, check your balls, check the inside of your bum. Message over, back to the pod! Cheers!

[sting: klaxon]

You join me at the control centre of my security room. It's essentially a large antechamber that houses my home alarm control pad and my monitor for my security cameras, plus a torch or, as the Americans call it, a nightstick. It's a long, black, heavy rod of iron filled with batteries and a little light on the end, which means you can dazzle people so they're squinting when you attack them! It was designed for American policemen to batter students in the 1960s. If anything disturbing happens at the Oasthouse; a burglary, a motorist using the driveway to turn around, or just my gardener leaning on his shovel texting, it's recorded ready for playback! 

I have nine external cameras and one internal one. I won't say where the internal one is, it's nothing seedy! It's not a peephole camera secreted in the wall of the shower, I would never do that. No need for one thing, if you wanted a view of the shower you could just crawl into the eaves of the loft space and lift out one of the spotlights, you know? Push your eye up to the hole and literally get a bird's eye view. Which, if we're being honest here, is not the best perspective. You just end up being frustrated and thinking to yourself "I want to be lower down!". And if you became so preoccupied with it that you wanted to slide in beneath the shower tray and look up through the drain hole, you're just gonna get... sudsy, showery, women's water in your eye or mouth!

But the nine external cameras have been specially positioned and angled to cover almost every inch of my property, dotted around like a rash on a baby's backside. So this should prove fruitful viewing!

Right, right. Yeah, yeah. Yeah, I just remembered that I remotely swivelled them a week ago to point at the lawn because there was a crow with an empty crisp bag on its head, and I wanted to see if it would do anything funny like sneeze or fly into a telegraph pole, so I could record it and show it to friends. And I forgot to swivel them back. So that's annoying.

Yep, nothing here.

Oh hang on, what's that? Just spool back... There! Computer enhance! Sorry, I don't know why I said that. I'm excited. Okay, Camera G, 0-9-1-0 A-M, I can make out of the bottom two thirds of a person aged between 10 and... 70... 180lbs... Judging by the front of the trousers, it's a man.

That's it right now. I am going to add some music over this because you know what, [sinister piano background music starts] as of now, this podcast has transitioned into something very different; a very successful True Crime podcast because that's the great thing about this podcast, no-one can tell me what to do! Say what you like about this 'podcast', but it's exactly what I want to do.

Who was this person? What do they want? And what would they do next? If you want to know the end of this sentence, you have to tune into the next episode.

The person who posted the letter was-

[sound of a mechanical stop button being pressed, the haunting piano music continues until fading out]