S02E09: Brand Ambassador

[opening theme music]

I'm here with Mike Blanc of Armadillo Security, we're next to a normal double-glazed kitchen window. Mike, tell us more.

"Well, windows and doors, they're your common entry points, they're where the building's at its most vulnerable". 

The soft underbelly, the Achilles heel. 

"Exactly".

But when we do this... [loud, prolonged mechanical whirring] Lockdown. I suppose, like, it's the same principle as an Armadillo. 

"You could say that".

Could I?

"Yeah, you could, yeah!" 

Cheers. 

Hello. This is me in conversation with Mike Blank, a former military man who serves as the security director for Armadillo Blinds, Norfolk's leading provider of aluminium security blinds, shutters and grills. He spent time in Iraq, Afghanistan and Kuwait, and though the last one was just a holiday, it brings real credibility to the brand. In this promotional YouTube video, Mike's walking me through the security blinds. Not literally, that's the one thing, they're designed to prevent, and the PR team will either pop it on social media or turn it into a piece that appears as paid-for content in local press. 

I've enjoyed a long and lucrative, or lucratish, relationship with Armadillo in my capacity as brand ambassador. And earlier this month, I was delighted to have my contract renewed for three more years.

A massive vote of confidence in me and my brand! Am I surprised Armadillo kept me in post? Not really. We have brand-synergy. They're reliable. I'm reliable. They're affordable. As am I. 

If I'm hosting a corporate event and it's near the end of your tax year, I'll let you pay in cash to keep it off the books. Are the blinds beautiful? No. I'm not either. But we're both smart, neat, and look our best when clean. They're rust-proof. I look good for my age. Their most popular finish is high-gloss white, I'm Caucasian! 

And they're made in Britain. Ditto me. I love my country, if Britain was a woman, I would happily marry her, with everything that that entails. You'd have an affair with Italy, you wouldn't want to be married to it. Britain may not be sexy, but it's not going to go crazy and throw crockery at you just because it caught you looking at videos of other countries on the internet.

Armadillo and I share commonalities. So when people see Alan Partridge in the back of a magazine, my face inset next to some aluminium blinds, they think, "Yeah, that makes sense!". It's like Eamon Holmes talking about funeral costs in a comfy armchair, "Yeah, that makes sense!". Richard Hammond waxing lyrical about hair clay or chunky insoles. "Yeah, that makes sense!". And I slide nicely into that canon. I'm happy to associate myself with a security firm for the same reasons I wouldn't align myself with a brand such as Interflora. Some brands just fit. So Gore-Tex, yes. Solomon, yes. Wilkinson Sword, you betcha! Nivea, no. Persil, no thanks. Debenhams, no! 

And yet, my contract renewal isn't reaping the dividends I thought it would. As I mentioned in an earlier episode, I had encouraging talks with my former employer at North Norfolk Digital about a return to the airwaves. Nothing concrete, no idea whether it would be The Breakfast Show, which is currently on a life support system waiting for someone with the balls to switch off the machines, drive-time, or an entirely new weekly debate show called something like 'Back Chat with Alan Partridge' or 'Bullhorn! With Alan Partridge'.

But they've seemed keen and, to grease the wheels, I've been cultivating a relationship with station controller Graham Wilford. Wilford's the kind of guy who thinks he's funny, but he isn't. How to handle him? It's a balancing act, laugh too heartily, and it encourages more jokes. Laugh too meekly, and he could go off me, and the job offer will never arrive. So if he says, "Alan! Just had a phone call from the 1970s, they want the jumper back!", I'll go, "Ha haha! That's a good one, Graham!".

And that would be just right. The trick is to shake yourself loose, relax your diaphragm, rotate your head at the neck like a nodding dog or an Asian shopkeeper in a sitcom, and laugh. Failing that, just saying, "Excellent humour!" will also do the job. But as I say, nothing beats a quiet chuckle, followed by a slight shake of the head, coupled with a sigh. 

Where does my deal with Armadillo fit in? Well, with North Norfolk Digital in my crosshairs, whatever I can bring to the table is a bonus. You want to present yourself as the full package, know your way around the knobs and dials of a radio studio, whoopie-doo! Have an easy conversational manner that listeners warm to, don't we all, mate? Have sufficient heft among local businesses to bring advertising revenue with you, and enough brand-recognition to front campaigns across print, digital, and bus stops. Now I'm listening, and you know what? So will the audience... be.

A positive identity needs to be nurtured, ask Ross Kemp! His tough guy image has taken a long time to cultivate. None of it comes naturally! He told me that when he was a young man, he was at a fork in the road, and had he gone the other way, he would have ended up in a dance-troupe. But he took the road less-travelled. In his words, he just swapped the pan stick for the camouflage gear. There's not much difference, in his words, between hearing, "All units, go, go, go!", and "It's your five-minute call, Mr. Kemp!". 

And what gave me even more cache was the fact that North Norfolk Digital's early breakfast show presenter, Ken Cheddar, was angling for the gig himself. He didn't get it, I did. Now I'm not going to bad mouth Ken, I like Ken. Ken has a knack of making a list to think you're the only person he's talking to, which at five in the morning, you may well be. But if the Armadillo News were to percolate back to Graham Wilford, let's just say the optics would be very good indeed! I love the word optics! Ever since I heard James Corden's producer use it five times in a minute! 

And yet a week later, nothing. No call, no email, no text saying we need to talk. I mean, I know Graham's heard of getting brand endorsements. He must have heard by now, and yet he won't pull the trigger. [mobile phone buzzing] Excuse me.

Lynn. No, I've not heard a thing. Anything on your end? 

So weird.

Well, it is like a murder mystery. That's a good way of getting to the bottom of it! All right, who- who-
what is the chief suspect? My age? No, no! Danny Franchetti, who does the Jazz Show, is 81 and has a nasal whistle whenever he speaks. When people say, "I'm going to tell the guy to blow his nose", I have to put a hand on their shoulder and say, it's not a build-up of mucus. It's an anatomical defect. He has a collapsed nostril due to a deformed nasal cartilage. In short, he's got a handicapped nose!

No. What else? No, they don't think I'll be disruptive. I did exactly as Grant Shapps advised and made it clear I would be on the side of management.

It just means being their eyes and ears on the inside, giving them a nod about any livewires or attempts to elect themselves as a shop steward and so on and so forth. Grant knows all about industrial relations, he says it might seem a reasonable concession to, for example, say you will always ensure there are fresh hand towels in the toilet.

But to a firebrand, they will see weakness! As Schnappsy says, "If they want fresh hand towels, provide them, but wait a few days! A week drying their hands on the trousers will do them no harm whatsoever and remind them of where they sit in the hierarchy".

Lynne? No, she's gone. She hates it when I talk about Shnaps. 

[a capella sting]

[long groan and a sniff] I didn't get the full eight-hours last night.

I was up late chatting with my new friend Nathan in his recording studio about doing a musical about the life of Isambard Kingdom Brunel. And we really were so buzzing, we didn't stop talking until after 2am! 

Just a fascinating engineer, and the idea of celebrating and bringing Isambard Kingdom Brunel to a new audience through the medium of music is irresistible. If one man could be described as a one-man industrial revolution, it's him. He dug the very first tunnel underneath the River Thames. He dug a tunnel! A tunnel underneath the River Thames, that trains ran through. Imagine that, digging a tunnel underneath the Thames!

Imagine that, imagine that, a tunnel with trains going through it. Dug it underneath a river! Unbelievable! Sorry, I'm off-piste there. 

[theme music sting]

Morning, Oasters! You join me twenty-four hours later as I make a brunch of egg-scramble, or as some people call it, scrambled eggs, or as others call it, ruched or banjaxed eggs, as they say in those cafés where the waiters have beards but no moustaches.

It's always the same. A knob of butter. A pinch of salt. Two hen eggs and one duck egg. The duck egg for creamier finish, the hen eggs for the high-protein content. I know some people, such as my assistant, think there's something unsettling about mixing duck with hen. "Unholy", she calls it, but she's a staunch Baptist and only recently came round to the idea of mixed-race marriage. 

Me, I like mixed-marriages and mixed-eggs. Mmmm! Smell that! Love the smell of eggs. Just spatula the mix round the pan. There we go. There's a real knack to this dish. Take them off the heat too soon, yellow sneeze. Leave them on too long and it's yellow rubber crumbs. Some people like their eggs like that, but they shouldn't. The key, keep the heat low and caress them round the pan. Shepherd them from liquid to solid. Easy does it! Like you're helping a drunk wife into a taxi. 

By the way, sorry about yesterday. Sorry for being such a Moping Minnie, a Sulking Sally, a Melancholy Melanie, er... leave that there. Today is a new day and I'm feeling light and zesty.

I know what you're thinking. Sounds like North Norfolk Digital have a new DJ on their hands. But you'd be wrong!

It's quite the opposite. I've come to accept that I will not be working for that or any other radio station. And it's weird, but I... I kind of feel fucking okay with that! This morning I stepped out onto the veranda with a bowl of toasted almonds, paleo cereal scattered over spelt bran flakes with flax, blueberries, fat milk and a dollop of yoghurt, and I scooped the first mouthful that had a bit of everything on it into my mouth and just let the flavours overwhelm me! 

I had a glass of Tropicana, a copy of the Daily Mail and I thought, this is all anyone needs! I thought to myself, "Alan! You are happy!".

Being rejected by North Norfolk Digital is the best thing that ever happened to me and I know I'll look back and think that this was the day I really changed because... none of it matters! Instead I've realised that the things that really matter are right here in abundance!

First thing I did when I woke up this morning, or second after my pee, grabbed a Parker pen and a Post-It pad and made a gratitude list. A list of things that don't cost a penny because the best things in life, as they say, are free. And they're right, and I made a list, and here it is.

The smell of freshly cut grass, free. 

Smiling, free. 

Humming, free.
Scratching, free. 

A loud, funny trump, free! 

Doing impressions of people from different countries, free.
Staring at a beautiful woman, free. 

Seeing how deep you can make your voice go, free. Ha haha!

Seeing how camp you can make your voice go, free! Free! Free- Free-hee! Free-ee! Free!, Free!  No, no, hang on. Free-heeeee!. 

"You okay, Mister Partridge?"

No, it's alright Rosa, just doing camp frees!

I look back and I can't believe we fixate on all this BS! The other day I spent four hours on Photoshop trying to make my shoulders broader, my jaw squarer, my beard pointier. And whilst initially pleased with the results, I went too far and I ended up looking like a thin genie!

And I thought, "Why do we do these things?". And it just hit me like a thunderbolt. I thought, none of this actually matters! And yet we still do it! 

So instead of fixating on career and material things, I'm waiting for the beep of a car horn because I'm going swimming with friend and Tory Grandee, Grant Shapps. We don't just swim, we get in the water and just play. Sometimes he lies on his back and spits water in the air pretending to be a whale, it's just fun! 

My friendship with Schnappsie, that's the kind of thing I should be cherishing! Schnappsie and I go way back, we met at a disco. A true friend and also the man who's agreed, in principle, to be godfather to any future children I may have. We'll meet in person when we can and WhatsApp regularly, or WatchSchnapp, as he always says. A genuinely funny man! [car beep outside]

Oh. No time for the eggs. Put them in the bin. 

[prolonged sound of plate scraping and another beep] All right, I'm coming! Fucking dick!

[theme music sting]

Well, a bit of an update. Back in the car, I enjoyed my swim with Grant. Wasn't in there long, he swallowed some water and was pretty shook up about it. But afterwards we had a brief chat about my predicament and he had some interesting thoughts. Not that it means anything anymore, but I told him that he was looking at the official brand ambassador of Armadillo Blinds for the next three calendar years! And we laughed about the whole North Norfolk Digital thing. As he laughed his head off, he said, "Well, no wonder! Partridge, you nutcase!", he said, "North Norfolk Digital is in bed with HomeGuard Security. Whereas you, Partridge, are aligned with Armadillo! That's why the station's dragging its feet, bozo. That's a commercial conflict right there!". 

Nailed it! Schnappsie always nails it! And at first, of course, I tried to protest. Pointing out that they're provided entirely different suites of products, one offers shutters and steel blinds, the other, state-of-the-art audio-visual equipment. It's like saying Pringles and Walkers have a commercial conflict when actually Pringles are discs made from reformed and reconstituted potato, Walkers are slices of potato. He said, "They're both fucking crisps, Alan!".

He was getting angry now and he sped up. "Home Guard and Armadillo won't stop you getting robbed. Who's going to need security cameras if your windows and doors have steel shutters over them?". Then he swam away to show me he could do two widths underwater, which, to be fair, he can do. 

Well, I bolted out of the pool. Within minutes, I'd showered, shampooed, conditioned, towelled, talc'd, moisturised, deodorised, dried, combed, styled, dressed and buckled. All as fast as I could because you're not allowed phones in the changing rooms after they caught a member videoing his friends engaged in nude towel flicking. 

Once outside, I texted Graham Wilford, head-honcho of NND, with the words, "Would it be problematic to promote an advertiser's main competitor?". He wrote back, "What do you reckon?". I wrote back and said, "I reckon yeah". He wrote, "Right you are". And right I was. So, I'm currently getting Schnappsie to drive me to the home of Vincent Edwards, commercial director of Armadillo. We thought it honourable to end the association in person, didn't we? 

"Yes".

It's straight on the lines. Oh, and Michael? 

"Yes?" 

Ah! Gotcha! Ha ha! I'm only teasing. You're not speaking to me now. He's not speaking to me, he hates it when people use his real name. 

Just thinking how to break it to Vincent. I mean, I've had plenty of experience when it comes to giving bad news. Generally, I like to think I approach it with tenderness and tact. I remember meeting my ex-wife in a local park one crisp March morning and informing her that I didn't want to be married to her anymore and that I'd be filing for divorce. 

It was all about tone. I spoke in a gentle voice, one hand on her shoulder, gave her the opportunity to ask any questions she might have, which she didn't and that's fine, and I offered her a small bag of hankies in case she wanted to dab her eyes or blow her nose, which again she didn't and that was fine too. 

But Carol's a trooper. I mean, even she would concede that she's more handsome than pretty. And it helped, I think, that she'd already moved out six months earlier and was boffing another chap who was fifteen years my junior and quite obviously more capable in the bedroom. So that's going to cushion the blow. 

Other times you need to cut the pussyfooting and be brutal! I remember once sitting my assistant down and saying, "Lynn, I know I said you could come and see Torville and Dean's Dancing on Ice Tour with me, but I've given your ticket away to a woman I met on Tinder and I'm going to need you to drive us there because we both want to have a drink". No faff, no fluff, just the facts. Did she sulk about it? Hard to say. For all her hard work, Lynn has a natural scowl and has a mopey quality at the best of times. It means if she's in a mood, you tend not to notice. 

The toughest news I've ever had to break, probably coming home here to the Oasthouse one evening, Rosa was just leaving and she said, "Where good boy?", which is what she used to call my dog Seldom.

And I had to say, "Rosa, Seldom... he didn't make it. He passed away at a funfair. He ain't never coming home". And she just crumpled, Rosa could be quite tough with Seldom because she used to own oxen back in the Philippines, and I think he respected that. So as a result, they'd become quite close. Telling her he was gone, it was hard.

But the second-toughest time was when I had to break some news to a young boy called Spencer. He couldn't have been more than eight or nine years old and had won a competition to spend the day in the BBC to see how he'd made an episode of This Time. Well, Spencer was over the moon! He'd always been fascinated with TV. He turned up with Granny Pam, packed lunch under his arm and it was like all his Christmases had come at once. But after twenty minutes, a member of BBC management pulled me to one side and said "Pam was actually the mother of his mum's boyfriend and as she wasn't his parent or legal guardian, we weren't covered under insurance so they'd have to leave".

I said, "No way! Absolutely no way!", but then they showed me the guidelines and I had to admit they were right. I took the kid through it and he was really good about it. As a consolation prize, I gave him a brand new pair of men's slippers I had. They said 'Pointless' on them, they were from the game show, but I could tell he was disappointed. And as they left, I said to Pam, "Listen love, next time, read the small print, give the kid a break". And she got it. She got it. 

The prize didn't go to waste, I knew the owner of Yarmouth Powerboats was in London with his son so I said, "If you guys aren't doing anything, come along!". Ended up bagging him a bit of work experience and now I get a free day with a powerboat twice a year! I couldn't have known it would work out that way. But, as my grandmother used to say, what goes around comes around. I had two nannas, right-wing nanna and Granny Grumps, who was also right-wing. 

[pastoral, English-garden orchestral music]

On behalf of Norwich Heritage and Archaeology Norfolk, an open letter to the British Museum.

The British Museum is currently in possession of the Tavernham Shield, a monumental brass plate engraved with coat of arms and sinister lion rampant, produced by Stokes of Tavernham in the 16th century. 

The shield must be returned to the people of Norfolk immediately! For the British Museum to appropriate and retain this wonderful artefact against the wishes of some of our county is nothing less than, yes, I'm going to say it, cultural rape!

Retaining this priceless slice of Anglian heritage is a stain on an otherwise wonderful museum, and it really is wonderful. If you're visiting, be sure to check out the Elgin Marbles, which are stunning and make for a fantastic day out. 

Please, British Museum, do the right thing. Give back the Tavernham Shield. Thank you. 

So, yeah, how do we navigate bad news? I asked my Twitter followers for their views and while many were poor, others were really quite thought-provoking.

Col in Preston says he uses what he calls the Fred Dibnah approach, named after the famous demolitions-expert and steeplejack. He says he lays the groundwork by sitting a friend down and saying he cares about them and hopes that they can be friends for many years to come. Then he retreats to a safe distance, such as the car, and, as he puts it, detonates the bad news by sending a text saying, "Christmas gone. Drunk snog with wife in hallway. Soz". It means it minimises damage to the surrounding area while delivering a full payload of explosive news. I like that a lot, Carl!

Bob Bench says, "As a Buddhist, I avoid conflict at all times. If I feel myself becoming involved in a difficult conversation or a heated negotiation, I simply pull back and let the other person have their way. I always end up short-changed, but that's fine because, as Buddhists, we aren't supposed to be arsed about things anyway", for Christ's sake, pull over Grant, and get yourself a coffee! You're the fucking transport minister!

[theme music sting] 

 

Well, it's three days later, I've just received a voicemail from North Norfolk MD, Graham Wilford. Keen to talk! Wants me to come in whenever suits. I won't reply today, that's pathetic. As is "Lovely to hear from you, Graham. I'd be delighted to come...", no. Fire him a text tomorrow. Brevity.

"Chat sounds cool. Diary TBC". If you do send a kiss by mistake, we've all kissed a builder, we've all sent a kiss to a builder by mistake, let it go. There's nothing to be gained from a follow-up text. 

I tell you what, I am feeling good! And just as a little treat, I bought myself a Bremont watch. I know I said earlier the best things in life are free, and by and large I still stand by that, but it's nice when you can buy the kind of watch that means, in theory, I could rock up to a polo match on the Sandringham Estate, shake hands with a guy in red trousers, he'd clock the watch and that would give him all the intel he needs to say, "Why don't you join us in the pavilion?".

Best things in life free, but the stuff I just said also true. It's a lovely watch. I love those Bremont guys. They love the Royals. I'm going to have some eggs now.

[bassy riff with echo effect, a bit like Nirvana's Come As You Are]

Diggin' in a tunnel underneath the Thames.

Diggin' in a tunnel underneath the Thames.

Diggin' in a tunnel underneath the Thames.

Diggin' in a tunnel underneath the Thames.

 

Diggin' in a tunnel underneath the Thames!
Diggin' in a tunnel underneath the Thames!

Diggin' in a tunnel underneath the Thames!

Diggin' in a tunnel underneath the Thames!

 

Diggin' in a tunnel underneath the Thames!

Diggin' in a tunnel underneath the Thames!

Diggin' in a tunnel underneath the Thames!

Diggin' in a tunnel underneath the Thames!

 

Diggin' in a tunnel underneath the Thames!

Diggin' in a tunnel underneath the Thames!

Isambard Kingdom Brunel, Brunel!

Isambard Kingdom Brunel, Brunel! 

He's unwell! 

He's not gone to hell! 

(He's gone to heaven)

Diggin' in a tunnel underneath the Thames!

Diggin' in a tunnel underneath the Thames!

Tunnel, tunnel, tunnel! He's digging in a

Tunnel, tunnel, tunnel! He's digging in a

Tunnel, tunnel, tunnel, tunnel!

Isambard Kingdom Brunel, Brunel!

He's unwell! He's diggin' in a tunnel!

[clears throat, out of breath]