S02E03: Stake Out

[opening theme music]

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

[softly, under his breath] Zero zero five A.M. 

White male, 5'10, 180lbs, Caucasian, light on his feet, polo neck, cords, appearance... pleasing. Appears to be prowling, no lurking. Is he prowling or lurking? Loitering. Outside number four. Oh, hang on, that's Ollie from number four, yeah. He's going in. False alarm. Scribble that out. 

You're listening to Alan Partridge, it's just gone midnight and you will, unless quite thick, have noted I am speaking in a soft, low whisper. Kind of a hushed tone, usually reserved for snooker commentary, Springwatch, or trying to cow a fox that's wandered into your kitchen. From my experience, it's harder to cow a fox than it is to fox a cow. It is, but it's easy to fox a cow. You just cover your mouth and moo. 

In a similar way, of course, you can badger a ram by poking it with a stick. But if you want to ram a badger, you really need to be in your car. Likewise, you can ape a dog. Just get on all fours and bark. But if you attempt to dog an ape, well, that's an ethical minefield. And I'm not comfortable talking about that. For my money, there'd just be too many welfare concerns, for me and the selected ape. But as I've said, I'm not- I'm really not comfortable talking about that.

As you can tell, I've been going through the permutations of animal verbs, and it would have been a great game to play in the car with your kids, as long as you could avoid the ape-dog one. But these days, you don't need games. Now they have tablets to keep them quiet. I mean the devices, rather than medication. 

No, the reason I'm talking in a hushed tone is that I am in the backseat of my car, parked up at the end of my cul-de-sac on a stakeout. You see, I am a one-man covert ops team employing surveillance techniques to catch the man, or woman, let's be fair, who in the last month has been fly-tipping building materials on a patch of grass just behind our cul-de-sac.

You need to be invisible, blend in, don't draw attention to yourself, be as unremarkable as possible, like a chameleon, or the male presenters of The One Show, or the moth in a wardrobe. If they stood out, you'd say, "Get off, that's cashmere! I've just bought that, you little bastard! Where's that electric tennis racket that makes killing insects so enjoyable?". Sorry, keep my voice down.

So, to paint the picture, you know the ones that make them fizz and burn. To paint the picture, I am lying across the backseat of a borrowed Range Rover, shrouded in a dog blanket, specifically chosen so it blends in with the upholstery. In an ideal world, I'd disguise myself as an actual seat, which they did to smuggle people across the Berlin Wall during the Cold War.

I've often fantasized about catching car thieves by dressing as the seat, waiting for the thief to get in, sit on me, and then wrapping my arms and legs around him and hugging him, you know, squeezing him hard until the police arrive and hopefully, if the cop has his head screwed on, he should arrest the right man. They'd have to decide which is the more serious crime, and I would argue that grand theft auto is a more serious offence than sexually hugging a man from behind. One man sexually assaulting another.

You might disagree. We could talk for hours about that one, for another time. But as I say, I've managed to blend in. It's a Range Rover with an espresso leather interior, and I've managed to cover myself with what I'd describe as a brown blanket which looks about the same. Small gap for my face, and the blanket is bound around my head with a woolly tie. So close up, I probably do look like a shepherd in a school play.

I was going to make my face match by using some shoe polish, but I thought better of it. Roger Finch's wife caused a bit of a stink locally when she did that to dress up as Diane Abbott for a Conservative party fundraiser and a few people objected. I mean, there weren't even party members, it was just a few of the waiting staff, but these days you can't even offend them! I rang Grant Shapps because I was concerned, and he said, "Be careful! A white woman making herself up as a black woman to make people laugh could be taken out of context".

He's a wise owl is old Shnapsy! In fact, one second, someone else is coming. Oh, it's Roger Finch. Dressing gowned and slippered, coming out of his house to... Yep, he's putting up his retractable driveway bollard. No one's going to steal your car, Roger! It's a 2019 Volvo Estate, for crying out loud! Anyway, people who do like Volvos don't steal things. It's perfect Catch-22.

I mean, if you want a ride with a five-star NCAP rating for its safety restraint system, airbags to you and me, you're by definition not a gangster. And he's just peering over his car at my car, so I'm going to stay perfectly still. I'm talking to you right now without any perceptible movement on my lips.
I sound a bit like Paul Daniels, who, by all accounts, is a very unpleasant nan. Or is he dead? I think he's dead. He's turned away.

This is a standard Special Forces technique for any covert operation, whether you're trying to recce a munitions store in Iraq or jump out on a shepherd and garrotte him in Iraq. A bad shepherd, I mean. A bad shepherd. I don't mean his sheep are getting away, I mean a shepherd who also, in his spare time, makes IEDs. Improvised Explosive Devices.

A good soldier will be able to maintain undetected like this for several days, in fact once holed up, a sniper can actually slow down his heart rate and achieve a kind of zen-like calm, enabling him to get the perfect shot. In the Second World War, the Russians used women as snipers because their hands were steadier. And I'm sure the fact that they could kill a man in cold blood and sleep like a baby the same night won't have done them any harm either. That's it, Roger. Nice and still.

If I had a custom-made rifle, I could pop that head of yours open like a beef tomato. Three... two... one... boom. RIP Roger Finch. Nah, he's all right, does my lawn sometimes using my lawn mower that I lend him to do his. So it's quidpro quo.

I mean, that's how communities originally formed, you know, through people being neighbourly. I will get you some cheap chicken if you get me some cigarettes. Neighbourliness. 

And be sure to sustain yourself with quiet, non-crunchy food. Muffins, raspberries, ice cream, yoghurt, cream cheese, hummus, peanut butter, raspberries, porridge, pulled pork are all fine. You can mix them up if you want. I bung it all in a blender and then suck it through a fat straw, and I do mean a fat straw. And people say, that sounds disgusting. But I've got to say, it doesn't taste horrible! And it's packed with nutrients but fibre, alas, will have to wait for another day.

[upbeat electronic music]

Alan's Swap Shop. 

Does anyone want a lunch with Sir Ian Botham? Bought by me at a charity auction before someone told me he's not very nice. Will swap for any Red Letter Day voucher or £500 in cash.

Also seeking £100 for Sandi Toksvig Bake Off Experience. 

So yes, all this is a sacrifice, but the situation has become pretty serious. They're dumping this stuff up to three times a week. You wake up and one of the neighbours is screaming blue murder because the fly-tippers have been at it again and left, well, you name it! Sacks of building site rubble, a snapped-off headboard, big tracts of unwanted roof insulation. I hope it's not asbestos. I should find out. I suppose I will find out in about twenty years. Old radiators, some carpet rolled up lino, long sheets of that bumpy wallpaper you used to get, why did that ever catch on? 

It's unpleasant, these unsightly piles of useless junk. I mean, you do find the odd thing that's useful. I've been making a model solar system in the garage in case the grandkids come over again, and trying to find things that represent all the planets has been a nightmare.

But when the fly tippers dumped a toilet system, I thought, "I'm having that ball cock, that can be Mars!". I've already re-inflated a discarded Casey football as the Earth, painted a yoga ball to make Jupiter. Someone said, "If that was to scale, that ball should be in Birmingham", I said, "It's for the grandkids! Get out!". 

Still yet to find something to represent Venus, but there's no rush. I'm not sure exactly when they're next coming round - I used to pea for the moon - I'm going to leave a message saying, "If you're ever in my orbit, I'd love to show you the solar system". Just a little joke, yeah, but I bought loads of Milky Bars, Mars bars, Galaxy chocolate, picked up a Star Bar, put that back. But yeah, anything space-related. I was in the garage with my friend Gregor, showing him my handiwork and he said, "Can I see Uranus?". I said, "Mate, I thought you were back with your wife!". He said, "No, I was making a planetary joke". He said, but... I don't think he was. 

But aside from that, the neighbours and I are unanimous that something has to be done. 'Operation: Excalibur', as it's known, was launched four days ago after an emergency session of the Glyndebourne Close Steering Group - we don't use the name 'Neighbourhood Watch' - was convened by Chairman Paul Beesby.

Beesby will be in post for three more months with Ken Tatchell as his deputy, at which point the chairmanship rotates on to Ken, with Roger Finch stepping up to number two. People laugh, actually, at the formalized structure of it. But Paul always says that, "The rules are what makes me a Beesby, and not just an anarchic bee". He's not a funny man. 

The meeting itself was at Beesby's, normally we go up to Roger Finch's house because he has a shed-cum-man cave in the garden that he lets us use. There's a sign above the door that says 'Dog House', so whenever his wife answers the front door and you ask if Roger's in, she'll say, "He's in the Dog House". You sort of have to be there, but it's always really funny.

Yeah. But Paul said Debbie had made sausage rolls, so we went round there instead. And yeah, as teenagers and muscle-men in action movies say, 'Shit got real!'. The guys were insisting we call the police, I said, "Guys, grow a pair!". They just looked at each other. I said, "No, grow a pair each! You think the Norfolk Constabulary are going to drop everything to catch a few illegal fly tippers?". These guys will scramble all units if there's a missing kid or some students are sitting in the road insisting Black Lives Matter. You know... So do I, but I want to get to work!

But illegal fly-tipping is at the bottom of a very long list. We need to do this ourselves. We need to run nightly stakeouts to catch the fly tipper in the act, but none of the others want us to keep watch, which is a shame because they're normally pretty proactive when it comes to stamping out criminality.

Not long ago, we learned that doggers were meeting to, erm... dog behind the big hedge over there... where I'm pointing now... to do- to do dog. We drove them away eventually using floodlights and a sound system playing deliberately unsexy music. We couldn't decide between Antiques Roadshow or the theme from Emmerdale. In the end, we just tossed for it. Erm... Yeah. [mutters something inaudible] And it worked, they relocated. Unfortunately, after they left, we realised they'd actually been doing us a favour. They're an unwitting anti-fly-tipping task force, dogging do-gooders.

It was later on that the fly-tipping started. We said we should get them to come back, but apparently they meet by the golf course now and they're very happy. Anyway, I'm sure it's fine, we're a pretty vigilant bunch. I have always, always been switched on about home security ever since they built an affordable housing estate on the other side of the playing fields. 

We have no issues whatsoever with nurses owning homes near us. It's more that if one of them comes home late from a nightclub, who's she bringing with her? A nurse coming off a late shift isn't going to be mixing with people who play golf. She'll be cosying up to Johnny Goodtime, Liam Likely-Lad, Nobby No-Good. They finish their business together, she falls asleep but he's full of testosterone and he thinks, "I wanna to go on the rob!", which might sound judgmental but you have to identify risk in order to mitigate it! I was told that by a security consultant I engaged to help run the rule of my home security. Fascinating woman, actually, Tracy Maskell.

A real economy of words when she spoke. She spent fifteen years in the British Army, and not on the phones, as a soldier. Gets you thinking, though. I mean, if anyone did get into my home, what would I do? Kirsty also actually sent me a list of household items that can be quickly repurposed as a weapon. She said the curtain rod can be used as a jousting pole, and you can kill a man or woman with an ashtray. Very much a make-do-and-mend, waste-not-want-not type when it comes to domestic weaponry.

She's trying to electrify her cattle grid, but she was told if a trespasser died after walking on it she'd be the one prosecuted! I've never seen her so angry, and that's saying something. I did suggest we erect high wire fencing and a retractable gate, turning the cul-de-sac into more of a gated mews. That way, if a chap does get in to pinch a telly, he's got to get out carrying a telly. The last place you want to be is pinned against a ten-foot gate holding a telly while angry residents walk towards you with golf clubs. I mean, I don't play golf, but I've got a three iron, which I think is definitely the best one.

Shit, there's a vehicle! I'm just going to slide down in my seat again. 

No, false alarm. It looks like Carl from number nine. Just checking the breadsheet. Yep, he's just returning from seeing 'Jersey Boys' at the Lyceum with his barbershop pals. He's fine, really. Yeah, Trevor Mendel from number sixteen put this together. He just popped a form through our letterboxes and asked us to provide details of any planned comings or goings between 9pm and 7am each night for the next month. It just means we can rule people out of our investigation more easily, and I think I said breadsheet instead of spreadsheet. 

Why has he not gone into his drive? He's just pulled over outside. Ah, hang on. It'll be too tight a turn for him. Yeah, yeah. Yeah, he doesn't cross his hands when he's turning the steering wheel because several decades ago his driving instructor told him it was unsafe to do so. Hence, any manoeuvre harder than the most slow and rudimentary is beyond him. He'll be waiting there for Susan to come out and do it for him. I mean, I know that'll raise eyebrows, but plenty of women are better drivers than their husbands.

You get bad male drivers and you get bad female drivers. I mean, we can argue about the percentages, but the fact remains. Carl never lets on that she does it for him, of course, but when he gets in and you can see him put the seat back and you think, hang on a minute. Some of the fellas rib him, but I say nothing because I know if I had that problem and someone found out, I'd want to kill myself. 

What's the time? Twenty past twelve, almost halfway through the witching hour. I might have a sandwich. Less 'witching hour', more 'sandwiching hour'. Mmm. Gotta try stand up. 

[music; bombastic drums]

Life Hacks.

Want to chill a glass of wine without ice cubes watering it down? Simply freeze some grapes and pop a couple in the glass when needed. Make sure you use white grapes as the purple ones can look like testes. 

Life Hacks, with Alan Partridge.

Huh, wha? Shit! Oh, sorry. I think I dropped off there, probably not too long. Oh, no. Oh no, shit! Oh, fuckshit! Oh, this is a problem! Stay calm. Stay calm. Breathe in. Breathe in. Breathe in... and out obviously! Eight bags of rubble have been dumped while I was asleep! There's an old wardrobe.
There's a bathroom sink and insults are injured, there's a fucking mattress too! Why didn't they wake me up when this is so bad? I can't believe I've done this.

The others are going to have a field day. Beesby's going to be unbearable even more than usual, I can't stand Beesby! He and Debbie and his kids are all going for bike rides together like a big fat duck with his ducklings in tow. I need to calm down. There's a van. There's a van driving off. I didn't get the reg-plate. Shit!

I don't know what to do. I'm going to climb through to the front. I'm going to go after him. Right. [car starts up] Right. Okay. Here we go. I don't like driving after waking up. I tend to get quite groggy, especially if I sleep with my mouth open, which I increasingly do. Come on, Alan, wake up! Wake up! [slap] Ow! Now, the trick is to remain close enough to see where they're going, but not so close as to attract attention. Okay. Okay. 

Okay, they're heading into an industrial estate. No, no, they're turning off. Where does this go? It's a dead end. Shit! Shit! Okay. I'm just going to stop. He's getting out. Okay. I'm just going to pretend I'm checking this out now.

[a couple of hard knocks on the car window]

"Oi. I know you can hear me". 

Oh, hello!

"Wind the window down". 

Do you mind if I only wind it down an inch? 

"What are you following me for?".

Following you? I could just as easily say you were following me. 

"Yeah, except I was in front, you tit".

That's true. 

"Is there something you want to say to me?".

I just wonder if you're the person's been dumping rubbish in that area back there. I don't know if you know, I think it's not very clear, but I think it's prohibited. 

"What are you going to do about it?". 

No, nothing. I'm just saying that you might... I thought you might like to know, that's all. It is prohibited. 

"Right". 

But I'm not going to... I've got... I mean, I don't mind. It's just some of the other people that live near me might be a bit... Yeah. Yeah. Quite nosy people.

"Shut up and go home, mate". 

Yeah. All right. Thanks for letting me have the window down an inch. Bye. Cheers, mate. Bye! 

[pause]

[belligerently] Did you hear that, calling me a tit? Breathing cheese and onion breath through my car window! Thinks I'm going to take that like a big chicken?! I'm going to have him for that. Fucking wally! I know it sounds like I'm in shock, but I'm not. I'm just angry. I'm going to call the police. [phone ringing]

"999, what's your emergency?".

Hello, I'm Alan Partridge from Glyndebourne Close. Police, please. 

"What seems to be the problem?". 

Someone's been tipping building materials at the end of our road. I just caught them doing it.

"Are they with you now?". 

No, but I spoke to him. 

"Can you describe him?".

He's a man. 

"What does he look like? How tall is he?".

He's not sure. I mean, I'm not sure. He's sure, he knows his own height, erm, probably.  Is he high? He is high, I suppose. 

"How old is he?".

Somewhere in the region of eighteen to sixty... six.

"18 to 66. Is he white?".

Is he white? 

"You don't know if he's white?". 

It happened quite fast.

"So fast you can't remember if he was white?".

He was white. Well, pink, actually, really. His nose was red. Every now and then he looked yellow. I'm not being racist, it's because the hazards were on so he looked intermittently yellow. He was a white-faced fat man with a big head, a very big head like Humpty Dumpty, but his face was Humpty's whole body. I don't mean he had trousers over the lower half of his face. He did have a bit of stubble, but it wasn't tartan or anything. 

"What did the rest of him look like?".

Very well built. Sort of like a wall. I mean, the more I think about the Humpty Dumpty thing... 

"All right, we'll try and send some around in the morning". 

Actually, don't do that. It's fine, I'll sort it out. Thank you, 999, sorry!

[theme music sting]

Right, it's 6am. I'm cramming what I can into the boot of the Range Rover. I've folded down the seats, which I haven't done since I was taking Seldom to be buried. So in there I've managed to fit the bathroom-ware, the building sacks, I've dragged the wardrobe into a bush. God, I'm sweaty. I just thought, "I can't have them see this. I'm going to move it", so I've been at it all night. Yeah, I've probably got about half an hour until people start getting up. Let's have a look.

What's left? The mattress, obviously. A bag of old beer mats, a jigsaw. The puzzle, not the tool,
I'd have the tool. And a squash ball. Actually, that's not a squash ball. That's Venus! Oh, I'm dead pleased now! 

[closing theme music]