S01E16: Spa

[background chatter of a lightly-populated public place]

Hello, I'm Alan Partridge. Welcome to From the Oasthouse. Um, let's just step in through this door here.

The reason I'm speaking in slightly, uh, lowered tones isn't that I'm sifting through old library books in the British Library or attending the funeral of a dead friend, it's because I'm in the plush, fragrant surroundings of a spa. [to someone passing] Morning!

"Morning".

 

[theme music]

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

Yes you join me today, padding around in complimentary robe and slippers, a rolled cylinder of towel under my arm, and the scent of lemon, or grass, or lemongrass, really filling my nostrils! Um, it doesn't come cheap, but if you skimp on a spa, you might as well be at the municipal baths with its lost property, verruca socks, and, uh, you know, the sound of someone blowing the whistle and saying, "Hey!", and then giving a very short, 'come here' gesture with four fingers in the right hand, you know, expending as little effort as possible in summoning you to their high chair that they think makes them look like the king of the castle, but you think makes them look like giant babies! But, uh, yes...

[other spa user] "Ssh!".

Yeah, no, I'll keep it down. Okay.

So one thing I've noticed about the spa is there's absolutely no, there's no sign saying no bombing, no running, no petting. I mean, if you want to pet in a spa hotel, you just retire to your room or or if you're quick enough, you can have it off in the steam room.

Uh, but as regards bombing, as far as I know, it is permissible as long as there are no other patrons in the vicinity. That's from my wording. I perform- I actually performed one myself this morning at 6:30am just to blow away the cobwebs, and who doesn't enjoy the occasional bombing? I think you'd have to be pretty mean-spirited not to agree that doing a bomb helps you forget anything from a niggling relationship worry, to a professional problem to, yeah, a bit of loneliness.

Just simply don your trunks, walk quickly along the side of the pool, then launch yourself out and up, knees tucked up under your chin, hands clasped around your shins, eyes wide open and kaboom! You are subaquatic in a split-second with all the concomitant sound compression and bubbles that that entails. Other than that, I embrace fully the sweet sophistication of the spa.

[theme music sting]

There's an uber-sophisticated atmosphere in a spa. Everyone is equal, wearing white towelling dressing gowns. You can't tell if someone's a bank manager or a scrap metal dealer. And often you'll find both those people in a spa.

Every detail here is considered! And the music that you might be able to hear down here in the, sort of, massage area is a whale song, one of my favourite sounds. A lot of people think it's common to all whales, but they're really only made by the humpback and blue whales, primarily during mating season. But, you sometimes make out what's known as a feeding call, used to alert other whales to the presence of food. Wonderful sound! No, beg your pardon, it's Björk.

Anyway, why have I felt the need to- uh, excuse me, I think you've dropped your key card.

[woman's voice] "Oh, thank you".

I'll get it, I'll get it. You don't want to be bending over when the robes are this short, with a chap behind you. There you go.

Now this is one of my favourite areas in a spa. No spa is complete without a sitting area, such as this, where there's lots of wicker furniture, you can just pick a chair, sit down with a glass of cucumber water. I mean, there are no people here at the moment, I've got it to myself. But normally there'd be two, three other people, other towelling-robees, as t'were, sitting at other chairs. And you might exchange a nod or a very thin smile, but what I like to do, and many others will understand this, is to sit down, take a magazine from the pile next to you, and then just sit back and relax, looking at a magazine with other places to go on holiday.

It doesn't get much better than this. And, uh, as I say, it doesn't come cheap.

[upbeat electronic music]

Alan's Eat.

Today's review of a local eatery is of Casa Vecchia in Hetherset. I ate the cheesy garlic bread and spaghetti with meatballs, with carafe - just a jug clad in wood - of red wine. My guest ate lasagne and later ate one of my meatballs. 'Er, do you mind?!' .

The scores were Atmosphere 5, Food 5, Decor 5, Staff Attitude 5, but Toilets 1, they were an absolute disgrace and stank of stale piss! Sort those and they'll be on to a winner.

If you're in a spa, it's very relaxed. If you're not wearing your underpants, it doesn't matter. Unless, of course, you're sitting in one of these relaxation areas opposite a woman - or a man - in which case, it's probably best to either cross your legs or pop back up to your room, pop your underpants on, pop back down.

Why have I felt the need to spend time in a spa? Well, I think a bit of quiet relaxation can help open the mind. Just as Vick's nasal spray up the nose helps to open your airways, a day like this can help you open up the mind-ways. Because my mind-ways, or my mind, have or has gone kaput the last few days. Ever since I was asked to host a product demo for Massey Ferguson, the US tractor giant, showcasing its new bale-and-wrap hay baler. They wanted gravitas and excitement. Did I know anyone who could present alongside me? Do I? Eamon Holmes! He's a friend, he loves farm machinery, and he's a safe pair of hands.

Eamon jumped, or nodded, at the chance. Come the day, on I go, introduce myself, and then give Eamon the big intro. "Such an honour", "Very great pleasure to introduce", "Proud to call him a friend", the whole lot. Eamon wanders on and immediately turns his dial to banter! His introduction was all, "Get a load of Partridge!", and about him "Drawing the short straw to work next to this reprobate", i.e. me. I stood there thinking, "Eamon, you fucking dick!".

Don't get me wrong, I'm fine with banter, I enjoy it even! As long as it's been cleared in advance! Heck, if he'd gone first, I would have been fine. I would have been able to switch styles and reciprocate, roll my eyes a bit, "Look what the cat dragged in", "Here he is, hide your sandwiches", the full nine yards!

But I hadn't. I'd been effusively earnest, vulnerable even, exposing a flank of soft underbelly which he was gleefully gutting. On he went, joshing that I knew nothing about tractors, that I could barely drive a car. That I didn't even drive one with a manual transmission. When he knows full well I own a classic MGB, and the transmission is a four-speed manual with overdrive, and he knows that! He even borrowed it once! Came back with crisp crumbs all over the seat. I was livid!

When he mentioned that I drove an automatic transmission, bells started ringing right, left and centre. It caused an idea to germinate in my head before swelling, fermenting, calcifying, then hardening. I found myself thinking, this is the troll who'd been terrorising me on Twitter. High Noon is Eamon Holmes! I snapped, held him against the wall by some of his throat, and said, "You're High Noon! You're High Noon! You're High Noon!".

[spa patron] "Sshhh!".

What? Yeah, sorry, I'm just telling a story. I'm not, uh, yeah. Yeah. No, I know the time.

I said, "You're High Noon, you're High Noon, you're High Noon! You're High Noon!", I said it over and over. I sounded Chinese, but I just didn't care. He looked at me and I suddenly realised what I'd been doing, before mumbling an embarrassed apology. He was fine with it. He can fly off the handle himself if he needs a nap or thinks you're about to touch his hair. So we're cool. But I've not been able to shake the realisation that High Noon has a grip on me.

And since then, I've been in a funk. Even the most basic creative tasks are beyond me. I mean, for example, I've been trying to finish a children's book, because I've worked out that writing a children's book is the easiest way to make a lot of money without having to do much work.

Mine is about a Scottish Jack Russell, a sort of cuddly, child-friendly vigilante called Jock McRussell, who's brilliant at judo and goes around the community finding bullies and giving them an absolute hiding! Then he sits them down and says, because he can talk, "Right, now I've given you a good hiding, but have you learnt something from that?". And at the end of each book, they make friends and Jock goes and steals some sausages from a butcher, then comes back and says, "Come on, let's all have some sausages!". And they have a big feast, mainly from the contraband sausages.

Some people have said, well, "Isn't that a bit like Hong Kong Phooey?" I say, "No, that was a different kind of dog. And Phooey did kung-fu, not judo. It was also animated, whereas this is a book, it's totally different. Jock is a normal Jack Russell. The only thing he can do that a normal Jack Russell can't is judo and speaking".

People say, "Oh, if he's anti-bullying, how come he's okay with stealing?" I say, "Oh, for Christ's sakes! He's a complex dog! He's a Jack Russell, they will steal food if they want it. That's in their nature! I don't know why you're fixating on the whole stealing thing!".

But apart from that, people seem to think it's got legs, someone said it's got four of them and I love that kind of humour! I can normally knock out a book in an afternoon, but since the incident with Eamon, I've just had a mental-block on a bit where the dog is looking at himself in the mirror saying, "Jock, you are the most-", with a Scottish accent, "You are the most something dog in the world". And it's not generous, it's not philanthropic. "You are the most...", he says to himself, "You are the most...", it's not altruistic. I know it begins with P. I just can't think of it!

My assistant said, "Oh, don't let it bother you", you know, as if it's that easy. And perhaps she shouldn't let it bother her when a pretty woman is also clever. So what did I do? I just thought, "Sod this. You need to disconnect from everything and rediscover what it is to be alive". So I yanked my router from the wall, I pulled it horizontally so as not to damage it, and I just went and did analogue things like making toast, drinking tea, running, dancing, having a picnic in the garden on my own. I spent a pretty blissed out 36-hours off the grid.

I even took my mobile phone to the safe in my back bedroom, tapped in the code, year of my birth, placed the phone inside the safe alongside my other valuables. Then I rehung the landscape painting over it, it's just a copy of The Hay Wain by Constable, then I stepped out onto the balcony by opening the French doors, which I always leave unlocked in case of a fire. And it was pretty wonderful, actually. The world just seemed different somehow.

I felt like, hurgh! I just let everything go, unshaven, wearing a lumberjack shirt, eating an apple with a knife, sporting chunky sheepskin slippers and baggy underpants. I felt like Grizzly Adams. And I thought, I get it. I get it. I really get it! And I recommend it!

I went outside at one point and I looked at a leaf for ages! We see them on trees, we rake them up in autumn, we burn them, we sometimes walk on them. Occasionally, we might even use a large one to pick up dog dirt. But do we ever really look at them? I did. I looked at the intricacy and I marvelled! We can put men on the moon, but ask NASA to make a leaf and they just say, "We can't do it. What for?". Well, what they'd be hiding would be they can't. They just can't. Even NASA can't make a leaf. Sure, they could draw one on paper and cut around it with scissors but that wouldn't fool anyone!

I looked at the leaf and just thought, "...God!", marvelled at its intricacy and beauty. And then I said, out loud, "There's loads of these! Do we ever really look at them?". I did. Oh, I looked, and stopped only because my neighbour shouted over the wall, "Are you all right?". I just said to him, I said, "It's all right, Paul. I'm just looking at a leaf. They're so intricate. They're so intricate. If you had to make a leaf, how long would it take you, Paul?". He just went back inside.

We all know that phrase, 'Turn on, tune in, drop out'. My philosophy has been broadly similar, 'Turn off, wise up, muddle through'. So instead of on, in and out, mine was off, up and through. I'm sure you'll have your own variants. Let me know what they are, if they're good. Use your judgment!

But yes, I just want to spend some time without any of the stresses and strains of normal life. And I threw the question out to you guys too. I said, "What would be your perfect day?". Looking forward to reading your responses on that.

As for the spa though, well, I started my day early in the pool with my crack-of-dawn bomb, and so far I've been in the sauna and the steam room. I also sat in the jacuzzi, but my feet kept floating up and touching the leg of a hedge fund manager called Paul. When his friend got out, it was just the two of us. And he caught my eye and smiled. I panicked and he used the phrase 'my wife' four times in one sentence, "Oh, it's my wife's birthday. I must phone my wife and wish my wife happy birthday, you know what wives are like".

Then he noticed the bubbles kept seeping into my shorts, making them balloon. He said, "If you sit in the wrong place, you end up getting an enema!". I said, "I'm getting out now". So instead I'm now making my way to the flotation tank. I think this is it. Yes, looks like it.

[light guitar rock music]

Hello, Alan Partridge here. If you're visiting Norfolk and you want to use public transport to get around, it's not going to be easy. Instead, try a car!

As Norfolk's newly-named car laureate, it's my pleasure to promote car ownership and car hire across the Norfolk region. Comfortable, quick and value for money, cars are the ideal way to enjoy everything this wonderful county has to offer. Choose the people you travel with.

Cars, the way to experience Norfolk!

Well, it's an hour later, after a lively chat with the reception desk. I couldn't get them to agree to open the flotation tank. That's fine, though, because I got talking to a fascinating man called Stephen Bovis. Just another guest who was eating melon with a fork. Very easy-going guy.

He takes huge forkfuls, then uses the fork to gesticulate while chewing exaggeratedly and breathing loudly through his nose. It's... how you imagine Simon Sharma might eat a melon. Anyway, he didn't want to speak on mic because he's here with a woman other than his wife, but he told me it is possible to make your own flotation tank, which is why I've paid £40 of my own money for the kitchen to supply me with a sack of salt. And now back in my hotel, my plan is to create my own flotation tank. That is to say a salty bath with the lights out, which I'm in right now. [long sigh] It's like being in the Dead Sea, but I'm not surrounded by those annoying people.

I've got to say, I do feel better. I can feel my mind cartwheeling into new directions, because modern life can be such a hurly-burly. Our minds are always chocker, thoughts spinning around them like trainers in a washing machine. So sometimes it just helps just to take a minute to tune in to all those thoughts and... let them flow, let them flow.

So I'm just closing my eyes. I'm going to spend a minute just waiting for a thought to enter my mind and then saying it out loud, owning it.

So here we go.

Got to insure the car.

What's for lunch?

I must call Bill Oddie.

Why can't I see my eyelids?

My knees are cold.

My bum's warm. Bum's hot, actually.

Is my bum too hot? How hot can a bum get?

If I get a heat rash, I'll have to cancel the massage.

That'll do. I think you can... yeah, you can think too much. There's a reason we try to order our thoughts instead of just letting them be random. It's just organised thoughts. I prefer battery-thoughts rather than free-range ones. That's what I'll have for lunch, chicken. Ha ha ha. Haaaaaargh. [relaxed noises followed by a short panic]. Oh, ha ha ha, I think I was going to sleep there for a second!

Actually, it's probably the perfect time to check your tweets on what you think is a perfect day. As I say, I'm in complete darkness in salt water, so not a good time to drop my phone into the bath. To that end, I've popped the phone into the hotel's free translucent shower cap, blown inside for buoyancy and tied a knot in the end. And it's lovely, it's just bobbing there. A see-through bag with an iPhone inside, like some kind of robot jellyfish. Hopefully I can still navigate the screen. And yes, I can.

So, a series of tweets here from Mr. Ken Minsk. He says, "My perfect day is what I do most Saturdays. I pick a point on the map. Can be anywhere in the home counties. Then I drive around it, photographing and documenting all the Victorian follies in a 30-mile radius". Sounds wonderful! "And then it's into London to the Red Light District, where I hand out leaflets to the sex workers, along with sandwiches, soup and, I hope, a few kind words before picking my favourite and taking her to my car for half an hour of kisses and cuddles".

The fascinating thing about follies is that many were built as a form of poor-relief to provide employment for peasants and unemployed artisans. So it goes to show, you know, rich people can be quite benevolent!

Benevolent! That's the word! "Jock, you are the most benevolent dog in the world". "Jock, you are the most benevolent dog in the world!". I've got to get up and write that down. [crashing noises and pained cries]

[theme music sting]

This is Alan Phartridge, life from the Oathsthouse. Just to let you know, the sound you heard was me chinning nyself on the sink after slitting on a wet floor. I was knocked out cold and lost a tooth which was replaced this afternoon by a superior one. I'm fine, but I do have a fat lip and find talking difficult.

I would have waited for the anaesthetic wore off, but a time constraint with my Audible contract meant that I had to deliver this today. I hope my hat lipf hasn't spoiled your enjoyment of this po- on this po- on this pff-pffplodcast.

[closing theme music]