S03E08: New Friend

What?! 

If this is an April Fool...

Do not tell me you're gay! You're my husband!

No, I won't accept this!

Hello, this is a recording of me on the phone to a closet gay friend of mine, recorded earlier today. 

Pardon? Don't you dare, don't you dare say you love me, you selfish gay bastard! If you loved me, you wouldn't have done this! 

He's planning to come out and came to me for advice. 

All right, you want to talk about it? Let's talk about it. How many? How many men have you been with Adam? 

I suggested roleplaying the moment he breaks the news, with me playing the role of his wife, Helen. As you can see, I'm not a great actor. I'm a good actor, I'm solid. And I generally end up giving, as I say, a solid performance to generally positive reviews. 

I got a good one from Andrew Treadwell in the Sheringham Independent, of a performance of Guys and Dolls, with which I am pretty pleased. He writes, "Elsewhere, Alan Partridge played Lieutenant Brannigan, and was reasonable enough, but quite why...", blah, blah, blah blah blah, "Performed in a loud, booming voice", that's because I do vocal warm-ups, blah, blah blahblah... "He more than made up for with sheer enthusiasm, but more baffling was", blah, blah, blah, "In all my years as a critic", blah, blah, blah, "But despite all that, you have to give him ten out of ten for effort. He was solid if...", blah, blah, blah, "So if you're stuck for...", blah, blah, blah, "All in all, a nice enough way to pass an evening in Sheringham". Delighted with that! And that was what we put on the poster; "Alan Partridge; solid, and a nice enough way to pass an evening". 

And I have that framed on the wall in the downstairs loo, next to a photograph of me and Sue Barker, my hand around her waist, and a framed letter of apology from Harry Ramsden's restaurant in Harrogate. I won't go into it, but a long story short, there was hair in my fish. I complained. The young waitress who dealt with me said fish do sometimes have hairs. But anyway, this is me role-playing pretty-well with my closet gay friend, Adam. 

It's those bloody [phone rings] muscle mags I found in the garden shed hidden beneath the grass trimmings in the [mock crying] lawnmower bucket.

Actually, Adam, can you just put me on hold one second? Lynn? 

"It's about Adam". 

Yeah, I'm on the phone to him now. 

"Does he want my help?". 

No, he's going to tell her, Lynn.

"And have you broached the treatment with him? He's  a prime candidate!"

Stop going on about conversion therapy. It's unethical. No, he's fully gay.

[Lynn laughs incredulously]

Why are you sniggering, Lynne? 

"Well, I mean...".

How do you find gay people so funny? Lynn, I've got to go, gotta go... 

Adam, sorry about that. That was Lynn. Just going on about conversion therapy again, but you are adamant, aren't you? You are adamant? Yep. Okay. Where were we? Thank you.

Why can't you bottle it up, for God's sake? We all have thoughts. I'm a woman. You think I've not been tempted by the fairer sex? We've all been tempted, Adam, but we resist! When I go camping with the girls, you think I've not spooned one of them when it gets nippy and then thought, mmm, this is nice? 

All right, mate, I'm just trying to give it a bit of colour. Let's jum- Okay, let's jump back. 

So what is it you do with these men? I have a right to know.

Really? Is that quite common, then? Yeah. Yeah, yeah, okay, I get the picture. Shall we stop there, Adam? Okay, I'll speak to you soon. Be well. 

[theme music sting]

That was me earlier today, pleased to be doing my bit as a pal. Why would a gay man be reaching out to me? Simple, it's because we're friends. Nothing less, nothing more. Even if he wanted more, I am straight as an arrow, always have been. An ex-girlfriend of mine assured me I was one of the straightest men she'd ever met, and she's kissed David Gandy.

We all get physical with the same sex. It's normal. It's healthy. I've rugby-tackled guys on a muddy field, but that's a million miles from what this guy was up to! Full disclosure, in the mid-'80s, I once wolf-whistled at a man I mistook for a woman, but in my defence he was strutting with one hand on his hip and he had very big eyelashes, which I don't mind saying. He was batting to great effect.

I whistled. He said, "You all right, darling?" I said, your place or mine, it was a playful banter! I had no intention of following through. He approached, someone whispered a crucial piece of information in my ear and on realising my error, I ran off in the opposite direction and hid in the branch of John Menzies. 

But Adam knows where I stand. We're good friends. We were introduced by a mutual friend called Sandy, with whom I became friendly during my days volunteering for the Norfolk Hunt. Fantastic days, actually. It was fun, I was good at it and, yeah, I took it seriously, damn seriously. Put simply, with a high-vis J, I am comfortable to commandeer and direct.

I help shepherd away the bystanders so the huntsman, and huntswomen, can bring the fox to heel and let the bagels finish the job, and I'm aware I just said bagel instead of beagle. 

People think being a steward is just saying stuff like, "Can you move back, please?", and "You have to stand behind the cordon, please!", and "Riders and huntspeople only, riders and huntspeople only, and if your dog unseats a rider, it will be destroyed!".

But it's so much more than that. It's checking each horse, rider and beagle, sorry, bagel, sorry, the correction was wrong, against a list. It's marshalling the orderlies and making damn sure Sir Richard has everything he needs to protect the land that was bequeathed to his forefathers, forefathers, forefathers, fore... hundred years ago.

Just think about that for a second, four hundred years of unbroken property ownership. That's quite wonderful! You have to remember, every year, foxes kill up to three thousand chickens nationwide. KFC ate your heart out, which is something KFC do to chickens. They will mince the lot.

People don't realise that exterminating them contributes a lot to the rural economy. People think the Countryside Alliance is a closed shop. No, nothing could be further from the truth. Workers, old aristocrats and new members too, they all muck in together. The workers have no need to unionise because they're treated well by their masters and they're grateful and they're humble and they happily welcome new people who get lucky, move to the country, buy a Range Rover, a shotgun and a cap and say, "My name might be Gavin but I'd like to join the Countryside Alliance and contribute to the rural economy... by killing things in the air and on the ground".

And right now, Adam does need a friend. At a certain age, a lot of chaps start to work out who they are. After the kids have gone to university or their wives have died, many men, e.g. John Bevan from my Rackets Club, the broadcaster Philip Schofield, Philip Scullion from Scullion Bathrooms, Tim Turner from TT Kitchen Solutions have all embraced late-onset homosexuality, relishing the inner contentment and access to other like-minded men that have been denied them by the strictures of a busy home life or a wife who is still alive, and more power to them! 

Philip and Tim funnily enough knew each other for years, their showrooms were on the same retail park with neither supplier of specialist home furnishings, realising the other was gay and it wasn't until Andrew Daniels of DT Conservatory suggested that they go and get three cappuccinos together that either of them came out. 

They said, "Now is there anything anyone wants to say?", and they all just burst out laughing and they said it was as if a huge weight had been lifted from them and since that day, that they now call the Cappuccino Confession, they haven't looked back. They ended up making Don the best man-slash-maid of honour at their wedding and he really took to it, his speech was full of spice and not a little innuendo. 

Tim's mum got a bit upset but... to be fair she had to be frog-marched to the ceremony as it was. She had to swallow the whole kit and caboodle and never really got over it. But my goodness it was funny! 

But Adam's in a slightly different boat. I've known about his true sexuality for some time, I have a very finely tuned... I don't like to say gaydar, I don't like that word, I prefer just to say radar for gay people. And I just noticed little things that made me go, "Hmmmm!".

I won't say alarm bells went off, that feels wrong, but the wind chimes of monosex tinkled gently in the breeze. Like a voice saying, "Ooooh! - ting-a-ling-a-ling-a-ling! - do you think Adam's gay? Ooooh! - ting-a-ling-a-ling-a-ling! -  he smells nice! - ting-a-ling-a-ling-a-ling! - He doesn't drive - ting-a-ling-a-ling-a-ling!". Eventually we spoke about it and he trusted me enough to share his truth. Why? I don't know. Maybe these guys just instinctively sensed that I too understand what it's like to carry a secret. Because I do. 

It's not easy to talk about all this, but well, my great, great, great aunt was a madam in Taunton in the 1880s, providing a service to soldiers at the nearby barracks. I can talk about this now, but for years it was a very dark family secret. I remember finding a picture of Barbara, a lovely sepia-tinted photo taken somewhere in probably the 1880s, in a big black dress, a wonderful buxom, formidable woman, but with a twinkle in her eye. But within the family it was one of those things whispered in dark corners. [sotto voce] "Great, great, great aunt Barbara ran a prostitute farm for soldiers!". Which I assume is what they called brothels in the Somerset area, at least. 

In the 1880s, "You're nowt but a Bab's lass!" was a common taunt in Taunton city centre. I discovered she bore many children and it bothered me that I might be the progeny of a guileless Private's birthday treat. That I was the issue of a five minute fumble, it gnawed at me likely what the young whippersnapper did to my aunt, or one of her team. When I dug deeper, it was only part of the story, far from being just a strumpet supervisor, she was a source of enormous support to her clientele. These soft, pillowy bosoms of these marshmallow-breasted fallen women were a real comfort to these skinny, homesick lads. She was always there with a kind word, a warm drink, and a sexy cuddle for a bit of pocket money.

In my mind I have a sense there was a kind of baked-bread, Hovis warmth to the place. Who wouldn't want to visit if you were a bit down in the dumps and needed to pick me up? "Eee, it were grand!". Lovely stuff!

She also helped women who were unable to provide a full service, thanks to genetics or a poor grooming regime. Or perhaps some of the women just didn't want to do that sort of thing. Instead, she taught them nimble-fingered theft, or pick-pocketry, only stealing from the wealthy or the hapless. 

She was like a sexy Fagin. Yeah, not a bad idea for a reboot. I can imagine, actually, a bit like Hamilton, a largely female cast, dressed up like the Folly Berghet, with high-kicking and petticoats.
There's an element of fun, I think, to a brothel that's often dismissed. It's a story of self-empowerment, of women taking control, but there's also something for the fellas to look at, so the best of both worlds. 

Maybe get Tim Rice to knock up a few raps, he'd bloody love that and he'd be good at it, that's the point. He'd be more than capable of turning out a bopping, hopping, knocking shop hip-hop, as long as he captures that urban attitude. I imagine he'd need to go to America, see the families of deceased rappers, offer a few kind words, and I'm sure they'd be more than happy to share a few tips over tea and biscuits. 

I mean, he often does a comedy rap at his summer garden parties, so not entirely alien to him. But, as I say, for that ring of authenticity Sir Tim would need to consult U.S. rappers or their next of kin. 

[gentle piano music]

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And a warm-hearted sex-working ancestor isn't my only secret. For nearly fifty years, I have harboured an uncomfortable truth. Since my late teens, I have been telling people I attained four A-levels, when in actual fact, I only got three. And one of those was in General Studies. 

Of course, the longer it goes on, the greater the burden becomes. I found myself telling friends, employers, loved ones, even my own children that I was a more decorated scholar than I was, each retelling more nauseating than the last. But I was terrified of the truth getting out until I heard that John Craven admitted he'd lied about his O-levels and the BBC dismissed him. Or he may just have retired, I'm not sure which, but I thought... John Craven, in that moment, in my mind, became John Braven. And I get quite emotional when I talk about this. But I thought, if he can come forward, then why can't I? Very much inspired by the #MeToo movement, I have to say. 

The compulsion to lie and lie and lie about the lie becomes all-consuming. I wanted to join a self-help group and I was told about a guy who ran a group called Liars Anonymous. But when I asked him about it, he denied all knowledge. And I thought, well, hang on.

I mean, you can see the problem, can't you? So those were my secrets. Adam had his. And it was I who encouraged Adam to come out.

Is there a selfish component to this? You betcha! I was fed up with having to lie for the guy. He kept giving his wife my number and I ended up marshalling an ever-growing web of lies. It is an administrative nightmare, forever having to invent mutual friends and business acquaintances and hope to god I remember which name I've assigned to them. I came up with Sean, George, Roger, Timothy, Pierce and Daniel. So far, so easy, you go with the actors who played James Bond, of course you do. 

I said we all played crown green bowls together. Lovely idea, actually, the Bonds all on the bowling green. What a wonderful English idyll that would be! James Bond's Licenced to Clack. "Pay attention Double-O-7, this bowling ball contains a tracking device!". "What for?". "Dunno!". Love it. Love all that stuff. 

I thought she's never going to twig. But one day she phoned me looking for Adam and it came up.
She said, do you realise all your bowling friends have the same names as the actors who played James Bond? I tell you what, I had to bring my A-game at that point. I said, "What? That can't be right!". She said, "It is". 

I went through them one at a time and said, "Good God, you know what, I think you're right. Well, I will definitely pass that on to them because they're all here now in the house with me and Adam". She said, "Oh, can I talk to him?". Well... I was seriously caught on the hop!

I said, "No, I'm afraid you can't!", she asked why, I said, "Because I can't see him". "Why?", "Because we're in a dark room". She said, "Adam's not into photography!", I said, "No, but I am". She asked, "Since when?", I said, "Oh, for ages, my garage is a dark room!". She said, "Oh, I wouldn't mind seeing that", well, I panicked and said, "Yeah, come over, come over any time!".

Well, I ended up having two days to empty out my entire garage, getting everything into my car. I had to fill the entire garage with camping tables, a clothes-line, red light bulbs... With minutes to spare, I painted the words 'Dark Room' on the garage door with a big pot of red paint that dribbled down the side, it literally looked like the gates of hell! 

[staccato acoustic guitar strumming]

Thought for Food, with Alan Partridge.

The traditional dessert blancmange dates back nearly a thousand years. Made from milk, gelatine, and sugar, the name 'blanc mange' literally means white eating!

Now more common as a dessert, in medieval times, it was served as a dish containing chicken. Absolutely disgusting! 

Thought for Food, with Alan Partridge!

[in car] What's going on? Well, Adam had a change of tune and says he wants to hold out until Helen dies, but I said, "Come on, that's not going to happen! She's in rude health, she's vegan, she loves going on hiking weekends, walking with a women-only rambling group".

And that's when I realized it had been staring me in the face. She's gay! She has short hair, she's always hiking, for all he knows she may have long, dormant desires ready to be unleashed. I said, "Adam, this is your perfect get-out-of-jail-free card! She'll probably be relieved!". He said, "She's not gay. She's just Christian". Entirely my mistake, Christian hikers can look very similar to lesbian hikers and can even be the same thing. Anyone can make that mistake. Easily done. Easily done. 

So, I've just seen him, and I found him loading suitcases into the car. Turns out she's convinced him they should relocate, start afresh and put his whole gay lifestyle behind him. But I told him, I said, "Adam, you can't run away from who you are. You can run away from a lot of things! A steamroller, a swan, an angry old woman, a water pistol, but you can't run away from the secret man inside you!". He sniggered, I said, "You know what I mean!".

But he didn't reply. He just got in the car. I leant through the window and said, "Adam, you are a pressure cooker gay. If you don't let off steam, one day you're going to explode and I will not be there to mop up the mess!". 

She said nothing, just stared straight ahead. She was driving, of course she was. Not heard from them since. A shame, because I've now lost the only gay friend I had. Sure, I'm a well-connected guy, I have a phone book heaving with media contacts who are happy to bitch about Clive Myrie getting the Mastermind gig or Gary Lineker more generally. And, yeah, there's a camp guy on reception at the Racquets Club who will always greet me with a "Hello, look what the cat dragged in!". Or, "Did someone order an Uber?", funny, funny guy, but it's not the same. 

No, right now on the gay friend count, I score a big fat zero. But, uh, I live in hope. There's always tomorrow. 

"Yes there is always tomorrow, my friend! I say this-"

No, I wasn't talking to- sorry, that was my Uber driver. 

"Are you recording?"

I am, it's my... do you have podcasts in... where are you from? 

"I'm from Syria!"

Oh, right, yes. War-torn Syria. Well, we're all rooting for you. Pray that you defeat the forces... Sorry, remind me, who is it against? 

"Other Syrians".

It's a civil war! 

"Yes, well it doesn't feel very civil!"

Well, we've all had them, the Americans think they're the only ones to have a civil war but we had two back-to-back in England, ended up cutting the head off King Charles. Not the new King Charles. Not the new King Charles? God, no. You'd have to make a real dog's dinner of his reign to make that happen. 

So, uh, which side of the war are you on? You're not the Prince chap, are you? The one that looks like a simpleton Hitler? 

"No, we fight against that side".

Oh, right, yeah, he's awful, yeah. He used to be a dentist, horrible bastard! Not even a good Hitler,
his eyes are too close together and his moustache is wispy. 

"That's true, my friend!"

Yeah, I am your friend. You're my friend, too. 

"Thank you". 

I wish I knew more about Syria. I ought to learn. 

"You haven't tried Haaretz? Syria TV?".

No, but if it's legal, I'd love to!

"You love music?".

Absolutely! 

[Uber driver sings a Syrian song]

Lovely, lovely. Lovely.

Ha ha! Lovely. 

[voice-over] I didn't really enjoy the song, but the fact that he enjoyed singing to me filled me with happiness. I wish to thank him and wish him luck. Mostafa, wherever you are, this podcast is dedicated to you.

[closing theme music]