S02E10: Alpha Male

[opening theme music]

The world ain't all sunshine and rainbows. You, me, or nobody is going to hit as hard as life! But it ain't about how hard you hit, it's about how hard you can get hit, and keep moving forward!

That wasn't an actor, that was me, Alan Partridge. The rousing words, there, of Philadelphia boxing meathead Rocky Balboa, in the film of the same name, and a passage I've been told to recite once a day, in front of the mirror, as part of an online course I'm taking.

The course, 'The Confidence Muscle', by Chip Keeble, is basically a refresher course for men who've had their confidence gradually pecked away, for whatever reason. Be it physical decline, sexual impotence, early baldness, the #MeToo movement, cuckoldry, or a combination of all five, and are keen to build it back up again.

And in week one, Chip offers a list of movie monologues to choose from, that he says will re-engage your machismo; Liam Neeson in Taken, the Braveheart one, that's popular. Clint Eastwood makes the list a couple of times, a smattering of Steven Seagals. Hugh Jackman was there, which raised an eyebrow, but if you commit, it does work.

That's the thing with Jackman. People say he's playing a man with long nails, and you think, "What, does he work on a checkout?", and you say "No, Wolverine!", and you go, "Well, yeah, fair point. Fair point!".

And you're simply instructed to pick a monologue, and say it out loud in front of the mirror, every day as part of your shower and shave routine. It's a way of puffing out the old chest, and projecting an attitude that says, "I am done wit' your shit!". Is it working? I think it might be! I'm not cut from the same cloth as a lot of Chip Keeble's followers, American chaps who like to wear wraparound sunglasses, and what they call wife-beaters. In England, we call them white vests. I wouldn't dream of wearing anything called a wife-beater, nor would I ever beat a wife, even at Scrabble.

No, no, they're not like me. The bulk of his followers are called things like Big Dog, or Mad Dog, or Hound Dog, or Alpha Dog. No, I've not seen someone followed by that many dogs since 101 Dalmatians! I have got to try stand-up! And you know what? You know what? I might try stand-up, because thanks to Chip and his Confidence Muscle masterclasses, I am a more confident man these days. Certainly, I'm speaking with more authority. I stand with a wider stance, like a doorman, or George Osborne, and I'm chewing more gum than ever. "This punk got swag!", as Chip likes to say.

Not that I buy into the entire Chip Keeble philosophy. Of course I don't, I don't know if it's because he's American, but he refers to women as 'females'. Always a bit of a red flag, I think. He's a redneck, and has a red neck and wears a MAGA cap, whereas I think Donald Trump can be a bit of a dipstick. But Chip does get results. 

So what prompted all this? Well, a new relationship always invites a bit of self-examination, and I'm very much in a new relationship. In an earlier podcast, I said I was about to open my heart to Katrina, a neighbour who is fifty-plus and fit. I actually went to tell her how I feel in the car park of a garden centre, but in the end, I just bought her a bag of compost. She said, "You know the way to a woman's heart!". I said, "Well, there's plenty more where that came from!", we just clicked!

We agreed to see a show together, I suggested Billy Elliot. She said, "What's it about?" I said, "Well, it's about a gay boy in the Miners' Strike", and she mimed hanging herself! So we went to see Cats instead. 

And now, after a few encounters, I've gradually introduced the idea of my courting her, and Katrina has agreed to let me try and do that. Oh, listen to me, "Agreed to let me". That's exactly what I've been trying to eliminate from my attitude, because I just had a feeling I'm playing it wrong. Simpering can work in the early stages of a relationship, but it is diminishing returns. Eventually, there's a tipping-point where, in the blink of an eye, you've gone from accommodating to pathetic, as Chip Keeble says, "Less feeble, more Keeble", because his name's Keeble.

Don't get me wrong. I love the fact that she's no-nonsense, for example she doesn't say goodbye at the end of our phone calls, something I've only ever seen in cop shows. But I've started to think maybe I need to stand my ground with Katrina a bit more, especially with us dating. She's a fast eater, and I sometimes think I should say, "Can I at least finish my meal?", when she tells the waiter to call a taxi, or just cut back on some of the sorrys.

She can be a little bit cutting, and I catch myself trying to insulate from any onslaught by carpet bombing her with apologies. "Sorry I spoke over you". "So-so-sorry for using the good crockery".
"Sorry for not finding your gay hairdresser that funny". But heck, I'm an Englishman! It's in our nature to be accommodating, that's what England does. It accommodates. As long as you go through the proper channels, or you're Caucasian.

But am I being too weedy? Would she respect me more if I pushed back a bit? Because Katrina and I are in that exciting phase when we're learning about each other. She's coming to realise that I - dunno -drive a bit slower than she does, or that I like us both to take our socks off before love-making, or that I don't like food on top of other food. I like peas, but I want them kettled in a quartile of the dinner plate, not strewn over the potatoes as a garnish!

I'm learning things about her. The other night, we were watching a Netflix documentary about the Second World War, and after Neville Chamberlain had signed the Munich Agreement, when he was coming down the steps of the plane, waving the piece of paper, you know, he said, "I have in my hand a piece of paper", she just cut right across him and said, and I know Audible will bleep this, and of course they should, they're quite right to, but she said, "Neville Chamberlain is a f-[bleep]-ing pussy!".

Usually, chats like that are a helpful barometer. Early on, on a first date, I might make a reference to the Battle of the Bulge and if a woman makes a comment about, I don't know, the Atkins Diet, then I'll know we probably don't have a future. But if she remarks that despite the Allies' numerical superiority, the Germans' Panzer tanks were just a better piece of military hardware all round, it gives me pause to think we might enjoy a welter of history-based chats to see us through to old age.

I hadn't expected Katrina to have anything more than a rudimentary knowledge of military history. Of course, that would be silly. But when she was on nodding terms with Chamberlain's capitulation in the Munich Agreement, I got to admit, I, and I told her, I found it disarming.

She said that's exactly what Chamberlain was hoping for, and that worked out about as well for him as a chocolate fire guard! My God, we laughed. But behind the laughter, alarm bells were ringing, and thinking about it afterwards, it didn't take a Bletchley Park expert-decoder to hear the clear message she was sending, which was, "I don't like wimps".

And I looked at Chamberlain waving his piece of paper about it, and I thought, "Hmm, is that what I'm doing?". Am I pursuing a doomed policy of appeasement? When I agreed to mow her lawn as an act of diplomacy so as not to inflame a potentially combustible situation, am I just allowing her to mass troops on the Czech border? Am I letting her take the piss or the... Sudetenland? Maybe, maybe this Lady Führer doesn't actually want a Chamberlain. Maybe she needs a Churchill. 

Because all good relationships are founded on mutual respect, unless, of course, you're Will Smith seeking the approval of your wife by publicly thumping a chap, not realising that she will, in all likelihood, never truly respect you. I'm not painting womankind as bossy harridans, far from it, but I do wonder if men can be a bit too meek. Perhaps if Adam had said to Eve, "Where did you get that apple? Can you put it back, please?", and if she started to protest said, "I wasn't asking you, I was telling you". Then maybe we'd still all be prancing naked around the Garden of Eden and having a lovely, sexy time.

[jangly-yet-gentle and inoffensive guitar music, a bit like Crowded House]

Unseen Norwich. 

Away from the glitz and glamour of the Norfolk you see in holiday brochures, there's what I call a secret Norfolk of hidden gems! 

An early riser who fancies a dog walk? Then feel free to use one of Norfolk's many golf courses. Thousands of acres of glorious countryside that cannot be the preserve of their tedious members. And although the golf players don't like it much, if they're up before six, they're unlikely to have reached the back nine holes, leaving your dog free to run, play, burrow, shit or chew to their heart's content. 

Come the evening, why not visit one of Norwich's unlicensed pubs? These clandestine drinking-holes are especially popular among labourers and the retired. A local favourite is The Bulldog, a double garage and gazebo in Sheringham, operated by a husband and wife team, Paul and Elaine Jarrow. It's a lively drinking hole and no mistake! And while, twice a month, it's a venue for dogfighting - and I can't emphasise that enough - if you can't hear barking or smell dog dirt, you're perfectly safe to knock on the door and enjoy home-brewed ale in a space where absolutely nothing you say will get you cancelled, and where drinks are served with nuts, laughs and a few home foods.

Unseen Norwich. 

Because it only takes a cursory glance at popular culture, from Woman's Hour to Loose Women, which is Woman's Hour on white wine, to see that women sometimes want their men to be the alpha, to take control, to dare I say it, sweep them off their feet. But how? We don't actually get to that until week six of Confidence Muscle. So instead I put the question to my Twitter followers and asked for their tips on the best way to sweep a lady off her feet. 

Alistair in Dartmouth says, "Effectively it works the same way as if you were doing it on a man. Unbalance your opponent, drop to your haunches, then sweep one of your legs in an arc, making contact with the heel of her weight-bearing leg. She. Will. Drop". Not exactly what I meant, but certainly worth bearing in mind. 

Carl from Chesham says, "I'm from a polite Home County's background and have always found it hard to woo women. But that's all changed when I started acting like a...", no, that's the word I'm definitely not reading. I'm not even sure what he's getting at. Right, okay, no, he's talking about negging. He's used a pretty clumsy construction for someone who negs. Yeah, someone who negs would be... I'm still not going to say the word myself. It's too close to the bad one. 

But what Carl is saying is altogether more innocent, that he began to find success with women when he employed the technique of negging, in which a man wins a woman's interest by flirting with her friend, undermining the target-woman's confidence and in so doing increasing her need for his approval. 

I know it's a technique Jeremy Clarkson uses on Richard Hammond if he sees him starting to stray. He'll start complimenting James May, "Oh, I like your new leather jacket with zips on the arms!" or "Oh, I love those boot cut jeans you've got on. They're every bit as boot cut as mine!". Well, Hammond will go green with envy. He'll be very quiet, he'll walk into the bathroom, look in the mirror and think, "What's wrong with my leather jacket? I'm wearing boot cut jeans, but he didn't mention mine!". 

And Clarkson will know this, thinking he's played him like a fiddle, while Hammond stands there kicking one foot with the other, looking down at his Cuban heels, but somehow still feeling small. But for Clarkson, it's job done. He'll down his pint, grab his leather jacket, which also has pocket zips, and head back to Diddly Squat Farm. Such a good name, it's such a good name! He says it's the most sarcastic farm in Britain. I don't know what it means, but it's a corking line!

I saw Jeremy at a garden party recently, and I shouted above the melee. I said, hey, "Clarkson, have you test-driven the new Grenadier? The handle is like your farm. Agricultural!". And he rolled his eyes and gestured with his hand. Yeah, he's a good guy. Good guy.

Me, though, well, as a feminist, I'm not really into negging. I prefer what I call 'pozzing' or being positive. Toss out the compliments, "You've got thick hair", make her feel good. "You look like former Olympics winner, Sharon Davis, athletic, but it doesn't bump into your femininity". I know Sharon campaigns against trans women in female sports, I'd like to see her play tennis against a trans woman.

She'd get thrashed! 

Leonard in Wiltshire says "Dancing is the ultimate aphrodisiac. I go to nightclubs and try to dance my way into women's hearts, and if that doesn't work, I'll start working my way around the men". Leonard, I do exactly the same with women. I mean, just with women, I only do women. But dancing really does work. Key thing is don't overthink it, keep things simple. Shift from side to side, where possible on the beat. Movements should be fast, but not jerky. Arms-wise, a ninety-degree bend at the elbow with a lightly clenched fist will see you through most scenarios. 

Next, control your face. You want your expression to be relaxed enough that you can look mysterious, but not so loose that you gawp. If a song comes out where you can't control your face, e.g. one featuring a dangerously thumb-slappy bass, turn away from the woman you're wooing and let your face do what it will, typically by frowning and pulling the top lip up to reveal the gums. As your back is now facing her, use this as an opportunity to show her what you can do with your hips. But judge your audience! If she's timid, sway. Got a flirty one? Gyrate. 

Lydia says "Flowers. Twenty-three years ago, my husband swept me off my feet by giving me eleven red roses. It should have been a dozen, but one fell out! Now we laugh about it, and he always gives me eleven", that's lovely! Always giving you one short, and it's cheaper. 

Hey, I didn't mean just with the guys giving the flowers, an ex of mine once gave me flowers! Did I feel emasculated? A little bit, yeah. But did she know it would have that effect on me? In hindsight, yes, she probably did, but it was a toxic relationship.

And so, armed with a bulked-up confidence-muscle, courtesy of Chip Keeble and the wisdom of my Twitter followers, I'm going to give it a go. 

[calling downstairs] Rosa, have you seen my carry-on wheelie? 

"What did you say, Mr Partridge?"

The wheelie? 

"The really?".

Not really! Wheelie! My wheelie flight case. The flight case with wheels, the compact flight case with wheels!

"I find it for you, Mr Partridge!".

[sombre strings-music slowly fades up]

In Remembrance, and now in association with the Norwich Chamber of Commerce, we take a moment to remember those from the Norfolk business community who we've lost this year. 

Eddie Griggs, Brian Andrews, Johnny Mitchell, Tony B. Ward, Philip Shreve, Trev de Freitas, Malik Borghera, Steve Trammell, Belinda Trammell, Giles Plant, Sidney Wilphur, Bob Head, Molly St. Edward, Paul Trammell. 

God [swallows, inaudible], and forever in our thoughts. 

Well, it's a day later, and the new Alan Two-Point-Zero is a veritable hit. Two words, it worked! Chip would have been proud of me. I'm proud of me! Did it go well? My goodness, did it go well? It did go well. I spent the day making preparations, and I delivered an even more tantalising proposition than I suggested last night.

Picture the scene. It's Katrina's kitchen, immaculately tidy. Her mum comes to clean twice a week.
I went over to Katrina. She poured herself a big glass of Pinot wine. I said nothing at first, I just let her register my stance. One hand leaning on the wall, the other on my hip. One leg straight, bearing my weight. The other is bent and crossed in front of it, toe on the floor, bent at the toe knuckle. If it feels right, stick one thumb through the front belt loop, and let your hand hang. Not both hands, unless you're Garth Brooks, it will look like you're about to start a line dance.

I planned the stance in advance because I was about to assert myself, and you can't do that straddling a pushbike or from the seat of a ride-on lawnmower. I fixed her with a steely glare and said, "Now listen here, Madam. Your lunch with your tennis friends, Sandra and Caroline, is going to have to wait, capiche? You're going to call them and tell them your man has said no way José, ain't happening!".

She frowned slightly, almost amused, if that makes sense, and said, "What are you talking about?". I said, "I am taking your sweet tush on a Dubai mini-break". Boom! You could have heard a pin drop. 

I think she was in shock because she just said, "Can you drink in the hotel?". I said, "I should say so. I booked the Ambassador Suite, which is only one down from the Presidential Suite, and after we get there and freshen up, you're going to put on a dress, join me in the bar for cocktails, sit down with me for a slap-up dinner, then return to the room at then-thirty for another activity, TBC. We could, A, watch a Bond film, B, watch a Bourne film, three, play backgammon in fluffy dressy gowns on the floor, or D, have an underwear cuddle in bed. Yep, you heard me right, and in case you didn't, I'll say it again and a little bit louder, have an underwear cuddle in bed!". 

"Keep talking", she said, so I played my ace. "Two words", I said, "Club World". She said, "Does that mean business class?", I said, "Oh yeah. Yeah. (Near as dammit). Oh, and while we're away, a man is going to valet our Range Rover Sports, giving yours the five-star luxury detailing, including deep upholstery clean, and mine the same but without the upholstery because mine is brown, also cost".

Then silence. For a second, I thought the whole thing had backfired. Then she just looked at me and said, "The last man who spoke to me like that lost the ability to walk!", and I wasn't sure how to respond, I was frozen, and then it came to me. I just said, "Promises, promises!". It just came out of me.
I thought, wow, Alan, you should change your name to Quick-Draw McGraw, and I was going to say that out loud, but I decided it wasn't good enough. 

She said, "Now, come here, you". I said, "No, come here, you". She said, "No", I said, "All right, let's compromise. I'm going to stroll to the other side of the island by the hob, and I'll meet you there!". She did join me, came up to me and pressed her chest against mine, so my chest was pushing hers upwards like a human bra, and she'd kiss me so hard like she was vacuum-packing some perishable food, namely my tongue. Pulling her away, she said, "Well, I'd better pack an overnight bag, then". I said, "You'd better, and don't forget your toiletries!".

As she disappeared, I went to the window, narrowed my eyes, and chuckled. Not a bad day! Not bad at all! I smiled to myself, looked down at my drink, swirled the contents round my glass, and necked it in one gulp. Sometimes nothing beats a cold, fizzy drink. Then I let out a really, really long burp.
I muttered a very quiet, "Yeah!". 

[jaunty music-hall melody with muted, gramophone vocals]

Katrina, have you seen her? 

She's funny, careful with her money. 

She always has a weekly wax, she hates paying tax.

Katrina, have you seen her?

She's a trooper, she reads Jilly Cooper.

She's got a laugh that I adore, she owns a Labrador.

We'll have a natter, she tells me all lives matter.

She likes Help For Heroes, the Caffè Neros.

She'll park in a disabled bay if it's a busy day.

Katrina!