S01E17: Magpie

[opening theme music]

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

Hello I'm Alan Partridge, From the Oasthouse, and this is me enjoying some fresh air. I'm in the Norfolk countryside, set the scene, there's some trees over there, some over there, there's a couple just over there, in the distance. So, there you have it, on we go! Oh, and there's a dead sheep in the vicinity, I know because I can smell its rotting carcass. It's similar to the smell the UN inspectors have when they discover a mass grave, and that's why they have that white stuff under the nose, to stop them vomiting. I don't have any of that, so hold my breath, and on we go!

Ah, finally able to gulp down mouthfuls, huge mouth and nose-fuls, of clean air. Norfolk air really is the FIJI Water of fresh air. There are other places that have nice air, the home counties are sort of the Perrier of fresh air. Sussex, I would say, is the Badoit of fresh air, and Buxton is, well, is is is is the Buxton of fresh air! Bristol's fairly clean, sort of the Volvic of fresh air, and Manchester is sort of, it's all right these days, it's tap water! 

And that's the end of my fresh air slash spring water list of regions. I made that up on the spot and I'm happy with it! It's amazing when you think about it, once inside me the air is gathered into my lungs, in seconds these huge baggy organs are able to extract the oxygen, "We'll take that thank you!", before replacing it with an identical quantity of unwanted carbon dioxide, so there's no obvious shortfall. That air is expelled from the mouth and nostrils, with the outside world unaware anything has ever been taken. It's ingenious!

I've just happened upon a gravel path, if you're wondering about the footfall sound change. Of course, in a city that system goes to pot. The air- because the air is gulped down, the lungs set to work removing the oxygen but then, "What's this?! Carbon monoxide, bits of dirt, diesel fumes, someone's BO?! The boss said there'd be oxygen, what the fuck is this shit?!" . The lungs then descend into rancour, turning on each other, each convinced the others double crossing them. Meanwhile carbon dioxide is being carried into a loading bay, causing a log-jam.

"This should have been in and out by now!". One of them hears a noise, "It's the cops!". Someone screams, "GO! GO GO!", and a van bursts through the double doors to freedom, but minus the oxygen they'd come for, and then someone says "What about the oxygen?", "Leave it! Go, ninety seconds!".

Anyway, that's basically why we cough.

What I'm saying is sometimes we need to head for the hills and just breathe, mentally as well as physically. I'm sorry about before, I sort of went a bit mad there with the description of how our lungs work, but I'll leave it in, leave it in, leave it in.

Truth be told I've been a bit cooped up of late, not answering the phone, staying offline ... leaving the mail in a big pile in the hall like when old ladies become infirm and their porches fill up with pizza flyers so they can't open the door. I've even taken to covering my laptop's webcam with gaffer tape, which is a little bit paranoid, but probably unnecessary, but you know when someone's trolling you and they want to bring you down, it's better to be safe than sorry, especially because I like to walk around wearing a cashmere jumper, slippers and nothing else... on occasion. Nothing odd in that.

I say 'walk around the house', I mean within the house, I don't mean around the outside. I don't mean I do laps of the house bottomless which would be weird, frankly. It's very- I just like to get some air, fairly static air, but nonetheless I like to get it to my genitals. It's actually quite a healthy thing to do, I know there are ancient tribes in the Amazon who do that. I presume what they think is that if you imprison your genitals, you imprison yourself or your soul. I'm sure they think balls are sacred, or something. I certainly like mine!

I don't sit down on anything, if I do, I just pop some newspaper down. I keep old copies of The Guardian, which I found when I moved in. I once looked down and saw a crossword between my legs, I found myself trying to solve it in my head and ended up getting a crick in my neck and a print of Alistair Darling on my backside. Ah. Just clearing a stile there. Quite high that one!

I don't see anything particularly weird in the old 'kecks-off' sauntering. It can be an issue when the window cleaner comes, but you know... map out your sight lines. You'll find blind spots in every room. Back of the sofa, up against the wardrobe where he won't see you. Although you do have to relocate whenever he moves windows. It reminds me of 'Confessions of a Window Cleaner', a saucy movie with titillation. It wouldn't get made any more. That's where a window cleaner would clean the windows. He'd see a lady in a bubble bath with her breasts exposed, but soapy! The suds conceal the old er... breasts for the most part. Occasionally, you'd get a glimpse of - Morning! - tweakers.

[to passers-by] No. No, no. I'm doing a podcast.

As I recall, it's been a long time since I've seen one. It's got to be at least... a year. Yeah, they wouldn't make those any more, not with the current political sexual climate. He's what you'd call a voyeur, in our day we called them Peeping Toms. I don't know why they became French, but they did.

But er... no, tastes have changed. You think back to Benny Hill, of course, now we realise that the closing sequence of that programme was basically a series of sexual assaults against women, speeded up to jaunty music. I mean, slow it down, take the music off, and you'd just think, "Benny, Benny, Benny, Benny, what are you doing? Jesus, Benny, you're going to ruin your career!". Yeah.

So yes, I've been something of a recluse this morning. I just thought, no, get out, Alan. Get out and breathe! So I've popped on a chunky cable-knit, pair of jeans and new shoes. Slightly out of character this, but the other night I suddenly fancied buying a pair of Doc Martens. Couldn't work out why. Then I remembered the night before, I'd just been enjoying an episode of 'Doc Martin', with Martin Clunes, so it must have been that. And if clothes maketh the man, then footwear maketh the mind, because it's given me a whole different vibe!

As soon as I put them on, I felt like I was in my mid-30s again! I rolled the bottom of my jeans up. Then I rolled them down again soon after. But I really felt I got some of that punk rock spirit. I'm not going as far as spitting or saying vulgar things about Her Majesty the Queen or His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales, but certainly cocking a snook at respectability. For example, the other day I was at Hampton Court Palace, and I saw a sign saying, 'Keep Off The Grass', I just walked over it. It was the most direct route. I thought, fuck it. I'm pretty sure that was because of the DMs and their Airwear soles.

So yeah, Hampton Court Palace, home, of course, of Henry VIII. Now that is one royal I will be rude about. Awful man! Keep it in your pants, fatty.

Not you. Good morning!

Just passed a fat man there. Good that he's out walking, though. I'm just going to lean on this gate. I know the owner, and I know he'd be more than happy for me to lean on it. I'll text him later. Just saying, "Hi, Chris. Leaned on your gate".

[theme music sting]

And already I feel more vital, a countryside ramble can really help you work through those nagging little quibbles, those quibbling little niggles. At home, these thoughts can consume you. It might be small issues like, where do you keep your eggs? Clearly, there's no scientific basis for keeping them refrigerated. Quite the opposite, eggshells will maintain their integrity in room temperature for at least 21 days. But at low temperatures, the outer mucoprotein cuticle dries and shrinks, exposing the pores in the calcium carbonate shell, thus increasing the probability of bacterial contamination by about five percent.

But the fact is, most people believe that you should keep your eggs in the fridge and won't be told otherwise. And ultimately, I want people to be confident in my eggs, so do I ignore their misconceptions and store my eggs correctly, or do I pander to their mistaken belief that a chilled egg is a safe egg, even though I know it's not? And don't get me started on tomatoes, although almost exactly the same thing applies.

Might be medium-sized issues like, 'Why does Greg Wallace drive a better Vauxhall than me?'. We're both on the VIP scheme, but I was told I could have any insignia apart from the GSI, and he's driving the GSI. Why is that? Genuinely, why is that? I want to know why that is. I'm going to start walking again now. Stitch is gone.

Then when it comes to the big issues, the ones that really matter, there's just no time left. So that's why once a quarter, I put a day in the diary to sling on my walking gear, come out here to my favourite style, perch atop it, and open up this! This is my notebook, and it comes everywhere with me. It's a place for me to scribble down thoughts and ideas, anything that occurs to me, really. And yeah, when I die, I'm going to donate this to the British Library. A British library, yeah. Or The. A or The. The, ideally but, you know, A is fine.

Yeah, I did a will. Body, science, notebook, library, Power of Attorney, Lynn. She'll love that if I get incapacitated, especially if I can't talk. One page I've got a doodle of Draclia, with a big head, blood dribbling from his teeth, but on a small man's body. I love doing those. I'm not sure when- oh yeah, the phone was out of battery, I was at the dentist. I mean, that's just a doodle, but there are some serious attempts at drawings.

There's a picture of a naked woman. It's quite tasteful, you can't see her face. I quite like to draw nudes in pencil. I normally do them reclining. This one's on all fours, but I haven't finished her face. In the main, I like to use this book to consider the big questions in life, of which I believe there are many.

I can see - let's have a look - here, I've got, I can see I've just- I've just got a crayon and scribbled, "Imagine a world without Costa coffee", then under it in pen I've added, "Not very nice, is it?". So just a sort of a thought, a thought to consider. Some of them go nowhere, but that's a good one.

What does this say? It says boat, shoe, boot show, boot show, boat show. Not sure what that was about. I think if I studied a little bit harder at school, I could have been a real wordsmith.

Sometimes just to free my mind, I'll spin the book ninety degrees and just write up the page. This one says, why are doors called doors? Doors, doors, doors, doors, doors. Sounds weird when you say it a lot. I'm going to keep going. If I do it long enough, maybe it'll sound normal again. Doors, doors, doors, doors, doors, doors, doors, doors, doors, doors, doors, door.

No, it's getting, it's getting weirder. I don't like that. I don't like that. I don't like that. I don't like realizing that words, if you say them over and over, just become weird and strange. It's like losing a grip on reality. I did it the other day with fridge. Try it with fridge. I won't now, but you can. It took me ages to make saying fridge sound normal come back again.

[clears throat loudly] On we go. I won't give this to the British Library until I've finished it. Unless I die first. I think I'm mad, but people love notebooks of people who've achieved something. [distant birdsong] Oh, listen to that. I think that's ... some sort of bird. Wind, sing. [a breeze rises] Goodness, goodness, goodness, that worked! Sing wind! Sing wind- [to passers-by] Morning! Sounds like it's singing sometimes.

Pardon? No, the wind sounds like it's sing- I'm saying the wind sounds like it's singing sometimes.

No, no, it's not. I'm saying that sometimes it sounds, it's sometimes- I know- I know it isn't, I'm saying sometimes it sounds like it's singing. Goodbye!

You meet all-sorts in the countryside, you really do. Fridge, fridge, fridge, fridge... frudge, fridge... fridge, fridge. I say you meet all-sorts, you know, you meet one sort just, but you'd meet a lot of them at once- [more birdsong] Ooh what's this? Hello! Ssh! It's okay, it's just a little guy. It's okay. It's okay. It's a magpie, I think he's injured. He's flapping around, getting precisely nowhere. Sounds like my assistant. Where's your mum, mate? No, I think he's injured. I'm going to scoop him up. Hello. Heyhey, come here. Come here. There we go. There we go.

Where's your mum, eh? Eh? Oh dear! Well, what's your name? I'm going to call him Morris.

Morris, would you like to come and live with me? My house is quite big because I work in television. All en-suite! He doesn't care!

Where's your mum? Where's your mum, matey? Perhaps she died in a car crash. Who crashed into your mum, hm? He looks so vulnerable. I mean, people say magpies are thieves. They take bits of everything to make their own nests. People say they're thieves, but so was Robin Hood. In fact, I think he was Prince of them. Come on, Morris. I'm going to make you a nest. 

I've got a drawer containing old phone cables and earphones, which have somehow formed into a serviceable nest, which is usually infuriating, bet er... [frenzied flapping and chirping] Don't try to get away. No, no, no, don't try to get away. You're coming to live with me now. You can't fly yet, you'll die! Come with me if you want to live. I've always wanted to say that.

[theme music sting]

Well, it's an hour later, and I'm back in the toasty warmth of the Oasthouse. The Toasthouse, I sometimes call it, with a new friend. Just to describe to you, Morris is sitting atop a stack of books. The very top book, interestingly, is the autobiography of Ian Duncan Smith. Morris has no idea what it is. As far as he's concerned, it's just a nice flat surface with a good vantage point.

He probably has no interest in it as a memoir, as many people don't. Perhaps magpies aren't so very different from us after all. Might write that down in my notebook.

It's funny. This podcast was meant to be about me, or I, heading for the hills and tackling some of the big questions, finding meaning where there is none, or 'Where ther in't none', if you're from the North. But for the time being all the meaning the I need. It may sound silly, it may sound daft, but I know that right here, right now, the only job that matters is to nurse this bird back to health until once again he can soar above the Norfolk sky, occasionally stopping off to steal bright shiny things like jewellery from ladies' bedrooms or foil.

You know, I think there's a bit of me in Morris. I sometimes feel vulnerable, like you. You're proud, aren't you? [flapping and chirping] Yeah, you're still up there. Won't be silenced. I know, I know. You'll show them one day, Morris. You'll learn to fly again. No, you're nobody's fool. One day, you will soar. Morris, you ... are a really good television presenter.

[theme music sting]

He's looking quite perky this morning, and I think from standing where he is on Ian Duncan Smith's face, effectively, he can see all around. He's got a real three-sixty. He's obviously no fool, this magpie. Earlier, he flitted his wings. I wouldn't say it was flight, more of a jump aided by about three flaps in quick succession, which tells you it must be intuitive because the whole thing about, you know, 'Is it nature or nurture?', I was worried that flight was going to be something that was nurture, and in the absence of a mother, I thought I'd have to flap my arms up and down whilst walking around the kitchen, because he watches me.

He watches me, does Morris. He has a very assured manner about him, I must say. The way he regards me with his head to one side makes me wonder if within him, and I know it's a long shot, is the spirit of my dead friend John Meeber, the celebrated voiceover artist. Maybe he's come back again to say, "Hello, Alan. Remember when we used to talk about Formula One? Perhaps we can again!. You'll never believe how many British Grands Prix Lewis Hamilton has won now!".

He just cocks his head to the side again. Hello, Morris. Are you a messenger from John? Or if, Morris, you are John, please join me on the sofa. Let's watch it together.

[theme music sting]

Well, you heard me there talking to Morris, and I have to say, I spent two hours after that watching Formula One, with Morris the magpie sitting on the arm of my armchair, and all was well until I shouted at the TV, "That is awesome!". And it startled him, and I think he's flown into a gap behind the sideboard. So I'm just going to try and coax him out with a light meal.

I've scraped the bits off the top of a seeded loaf and gathered them in a ramekin. I've finely chopped some cucumber, in case birds like cucumber, and I've got a little saucer of milk here too. I know people say it's cats who like milk, but I'm not a cat, and I like milk.

There you go. Just in case it is John Meeber in there, I know it's not, but just in case it is, I've lit a cigarette for him. It took me then minutes to rifle through my man-drawer to find some, but I remember the dog groomer I dated a few weeks ago left some Marlboro here when she had to leave in a hurry after we had a blazing row about Crufts. But John adored cigarettes, and smelled of them more than anyone I've ever met.

If the bird is some kind of reincarnation of him, I know it's not, but just in case it is, it will fly through the plume like a German bomber emerging from a cloud of smoke above the burning ruins of Coventry, but with a broad smile all over its beak.

I'm still a bit unsure what to do with the poor thing. I've asked Twitter what should I do with the magpie I've found, lots of responses coming in, most of them variations on 'dispose of it'. One guy just says "Bin it". One guy says "Get another one and make them breed".

Barry in Solihull, West Midlands, says "Take him to the vet". Take him to the vet? I'll never get him back! They'll try and release him into the wild. He's not ready! He won't be ready for ages. Several of you are suggesting I put on bird-related films or TV programmes to make him feel at home.

You suggested Hitchcock's 'The Birds', which might incite him, I think, to attack me and peck my eyes out. Kes and Birds of a Feather, that's not really about birds, though, is it? It's a comedy. Or at least it's listed in the Radio Times as a comedy. Someone here - I'm sorry I can't pronounce your name, it's just consonants - says "The best way to mount the bird is to snip the neck with very sharp knife or scissors, separate the skin by peeling each side towards the wing, and it should automatically come away from the lower membranes. Use tweezers to remove the contents of the head and the torso, then stuff the animal as you normally would".

Hmmm. Bit off-beam, there. Bit off-beam. This is like when I did a phone-in suggesting what can we do with refugees, and people said things like "Close door".

Sandy from Liverpool says "My late grandmother made up a rhyme for magpies. One for sorrow, two for joy, three for a girl, four for a boy", yes, Sandy, the nursery rhyme is quite an ancient one and certainly pre-existed your grandmother. So if she was telling you that she invented it, I'm afraid your late grandmother was a liar.

Tweet here from High Noon, here we go, probably telling me to wring its neck or saying something vulgar about partridges being intimate with magpies. He says, "Magpies can be timid at first, so try not to alarm it with loud noises or sudden movement. They're amongst the most common British birds, but are no less majestic for that. I think the much maligned, misunderstood magpie is magnificent". Hmmm.

Then another tweet, "If it's distressed, keep the lights low and the heating on. It may have exhausted itself, in which case place it gently in a large box lined with straw as they find comfort in warm, dark places. Be sure to keep it hydrated". Huh, hydrated. Let's have a look. Hydrated with what? [typing on phone] Hydrated... with... what? Honestly, this guy! This guy just can't help himself!

There's no doubt some sort of intricate ruse. Hang on, here we go. He says "Just water". Another says "Good luck with it". All right, all right, two can play that game. [typing] Thank you.

What's all that about? No idea what that's all about. Idiot.

[theme music sting]

Well, it's five days later and Morris has become quite the pal. Sometimes I whistle and, you know, six times out of ten he'll come and perch on my shoulder, or near my shoulder or facing my shoulder, and that gives me great comfort. Sometimes I'll place seeds in a line up my arm, Hansel and Gretel style, and he'll peck them off, hopping further up my arm until he's on my shoulder. And I'll stand up and walk around pretending I'm a pirate. Not one of the Somalian ones, one of the good ones from the olden days, the disabled ones.

As for Seldom, I'd love to tell you that he and Morris have become firm friends, but Seldom has made his feelings pretty clear. He absolutely despises the birds, so he's not allowed in the front room while Morris is there. I felt a bit sad for Seldom. I mean, he was here first, but he's got to learn that not everything is about him. You know, other people matter as well, even if they're birds.

It's not as if he's being cuckolded, he's just being magpied! Ha ha ha! Goodbye.

[closing theme music]