S03E09: Newcastle

Hello, I am Alan Partridge and I'm leaving. Packed a cagoule in my rucksack, it folds away into a sort of a matching bum-bag. It's quite ingenious, the pocket becomes the packet. I won't go into detail about it, don't have time, but I like it. In the pocket there. Rucksack, on the back. And an umbrella that says Legal & General [clattering] that's the sound of the umbrella stand there. Because you're joining me today as we embark on a special journey! [door slams shut, we're outside]

While London journalists only travel north for a party conference in Manchester, or to see one of their friends doing stand-up at the Edinburgh Festival, I'm cut from different cloth. And so the sound recordist called Wilf, whose footsteps you might hear not quite in tandem with mine, you alright there, Wilf? 

Wilf has worked on documentaries for Radio 4 and Netflix, and an audio drama, no less, that didn't go anywhere because it was poor. But I am off to Newcastle in northern England to try and answer, once and for all, a question that has burned within me, like acid indigestion, and you can only take so many Rennies or Alka-Seltzers before you say, we've got to deal with this!

The question, quite simply, is my friend Michael still alive? You hear the circular saw? You think how long it used to take carpenters of old, when they whittled and sawed and fashioned, they had to do it all by hand, all manual labour, just using an old-fashioned hacksaw, normally a bone or wood, with a blade under tension between two anchor points. 6am he starts off with that shit! 

Yeah, it's a bit of a departure from... - I'm just approaching the station now - the rough and ready one-man-and-his-mic style you've become used to today gives way to an altogether more polished piece of factual programming, with a crew member in tow! I'm sure we'll get along famously. You're not in a union, are you? 

"No". 

Yeah, we'll get along famously!

So, who was Michael? Well, he was a friend of mine. Not a high achiever, not even a middling achiever, a low achiever. A troubled man with a string of motoring convictions, a twenty-year cider dependency, and a tendency to stare at women and smile, even when they're not smiling back.

Michael threw himself off a pier ten years ago. Sounds strange, but he was doing it to distract a deranged deejay with a 12-bore, twin-barrel shotgun. It's always bothered me that his last act was an act of [Alan's voice breaks, showing his sorrow] self-sacrifice. And the Coast Guard was unable to locate him, and within a month, a coroner - big jowls, looked like a giant frog, god help him - he pronounced Michael "Dead in absentia". On his death certificate under the next of kin, it just said social services.

A man lost at sea... and lost in the system. Forgotten. But not quite.

The broadcaster in his sixties didn't forget him, and never bloody will. No body was ever found, and the possibilities always remained that Michael could have survived, not least because the only trace of him in the water were his shoes. Woolworth's trainers bobbing about, tied together with the lace, interesting. 

Michael once said to me, if you ever need to swim away fast, always remove your shoes first.
Advice that stuck with me. To this day, whenever I go on holiday, as precaution, I'll spend half an hour underwater at the shallow end of the pool, doing and undoing the buckles on my jelly sandals. 

What has got me so hooked on this case? Was it the dream I had about him living underwater in the lost city of Atlantis? Was it because we'd just had the tenth anniversary of his disappearance? Was it related in any way to the fact that my assistant, and her friend, have spent the last three months researching it? It's a combination of all three, I think.

All I know is when she showed me the CCTV footage she'd found of a man looking like Michael emerging from a storage facility to which only he and I had the keys, I instructed her to step away from my laptop and give her twenty-four hours to surrender all materials related to the case to me. Now, at first, Lynn was reluctant. She said, "I'm not just going to give this away!", I said, "Okay. Name your price". She said, "A summer open day at Balmoral. Two nights in a bed and breakfast with return train fares for her and Moira".

I said, "Whoa-whao, whoa, whoa!". I said, "You can have one night and Moira pays her own way". We shook on it and the case was mine. She's going by National Express. 

So what you're about to hear is the story of a man on a mission. I've split the episode into three parts, or chapters, to show Audible there's the potential in the idea for a supplementary podcast that could run alongside From The Oasthouse called 'The Finder'.

Welcome to Searching for Cider-man. 

[pensive cello jingle]

Chapter One; Tentacles.

Well, I've just hopped off the train at Newcastle Station, a five-hour journey from my home in Norfolk, and although my mission is a sombre one, it's good to see London North Eastern Railway is having a laugh with my return fare of some £457! [sigh] For the same money, I could honestly have flown to Nigeria. Something I may one day do. 

That said, I still believe privatisation was the right model for many previously state-owned monopolies, and while the theory that any profit would be folded back into improving services hasn't materialised, with the money instead paid as dividends to shareholders with only enough fed back into the business to keep the service just about functioning, even though that's the case, I, like Keir Starmer, think we should just give that free enterprise experiment a chance to work!

At that price, it's a good thing my assistant couldn't come too. She would have been in standard class, which is £300 cheaper, but still, the cost I could do without. 

But, yes, unfortunately, Lynn has had to sit this one out. Her friend, and fellow researcher, Moira, is a bit under the weather and needs some help. So Lynn, a woman with a bedside manner more suited to a Soviet prison hospital, is providing some TLC. Or LC. Or more likely just C. Still, nice woman. 

[cello sting]

 

I know what you're thinking, "Newcastle is a big place, Alan", but I do have something to go on. You remember in an earlier episode I was given CCTV footage of a pub car park behind which you could make out a man entering a storage facility. The geriatric sleuths, and this was partly my idea, were able to make out the reg place of the van he arrived in, and found it was registered to a Newcastle-based van hire company, Snappy Car & Van Hire which is about thirty feet in front of me. So, we begin. 

[cello sting]

[unitelligible Geordie grumbling] OK, thank you very much. Thanks for your help. Yeah, good luck. Sorry about the misunderstanding!

Well, I spoke to the owner, a perfectly nice fella, one of those deep Geordie voices where they sound like they're talking to you from down a well. I know people think they've heard Geordie accents on Channel 4, but there's Geordie and there's Geordie, believe you me. My God, he was Geordie. I nodded with a slight smile, hoping he wasn't saying anything that wouldn't warrant that reaction, because I couldn't tell what the eff he was saying. Kept glancing down at his chest and I hoped there'd be subtitles. 

Well, I asked the man if he could supply the name and address of the man who'd hired the van, but he said, [imitated, basic Geordie] "We don't ask questions, we just rent the vans out".

[more unintelligible Geordie dissent]

I think we're too close, he can hear me. 

No, so we're just... I'm doing something else. Thank you!

Let's move, let's move, let's move. Move away. Out of earshot. His belligerence actually did remind me of a minor character in an episode of Minder, which reassured me that my own detective work was similar to the portrayals I've seen in successful police procedurals. If this was a film, it was fictional and not a podcast, and I was tough and it was the 1970s, I'd have grabbed him by the nipples and shoved him against the wall and just said, "Hey, you slag! Where's Michael?". And then I'd have just done a pee on his shoes and walked off, but, er...

[unhappy Geordie in the background]

We're not far away. We're not far enough away. Let's just walk and talk. But in the end, I just... 

[distant, but not distant enough 'Howay']

Okay, we're leaving! In the end, I just leaned towards him and hissed, "If you do hear anything about Michael, please do let me know". Let's go this way. 

[rising, tense synth chords]

Chapter Two; The Net Closes

Well, as you can tell by the way the sound faded down then up again, there's been a passage of time and we're now in a new place. And just as an experienced sound recordist is adept at recording the ding-a-ling of a shop bell to indicate we're in a shop, or the clunking of machinery to show we're in a factory, Wolf has captured the 'gadum' of a staple gun which means only one thing, it's the next morning and we're on the streets of Newcastle putting up posters asking, "Have you seen this man?".

Normally, I'd be loath to deface trees and lampposts with a printed sign, few things look uglier than the trunk of an oak tree with a flap of A4 hanging off it but, I must say these ones are nicely designed using Microsoft Word, and are printed on good paper stock. I used a professional-looking font, I'm not sure of the name. I think Asda use it. 

I'm not especially hopeful a poster of Michael will bear any fruit, Like Nick Clegg or Patrick Keilty, Michael has one of those faces that's quite easy to forget, lacking as it is in any memorable or discerning features, like one of those blank faces you stick a beard or hat on as a kid. I mean, I've never seen a photograph of Michael where he doesn't look alarmed, as soon as you put the word 'WANTED' above  it seems to make sense, so I put that into Wild West font and said, you know, do not approach. If you see this man, simply shout, "If your name's Michael", quote, "Please call your friend Alan". And just underneath said, information leading to location and positive ID will net the finder a financial reward of £350 sterling. Left it at that. 

Ah, it's a long shot, but no harm trying, it's like sending out an SOS, a message in a bottle. Words brought brilliantly to life by my favourite reggae artist, Sting. He was from round here, and Chris Rea and Jimmy Nail. What a combination; a sting and a nail in your rear. Try explaining that at A&E. [laughs quietly to himself] I've got to try stand-up.

[cello sting]

Time to throw the dice. Michael was proud of his military service, claiming to have fought in the Falklands, the Gulf War, Kosovo, Iraq and Afghanistan. And whilst that's almost certainly a lie, it's quite possible he fought in one of them. 

As he'd spent much of his time catering for thousands of soldiers, I joked that he'd probably killed more people than Bomber Harris, but he didn't get it. But perhaps that could be a way in! Military veterans like to say they're united by a lifelong bond, a band of brothers, not like the Osmonds or the Jackson Boys, but a band who are a bit like brothers and not in a band. Time then to pay a visit to the local British Legion club. 

[outdoors background ambiance] Yes, I've just been back to my B&B for a quick change, I'm now wearing military colours that are the closest I had in my rucksack. My sweater's quite khaki, more of a light sage-cashmere, but I've popped on a pair of Dr Marten black boots just to give the vibe of someone who might have seen a bit of action, and I'm currently outside the British Legion club in Jesmond. Glad I wore the boots, I must say. A lot of people wearing similar no-nonsense footwear.

You can tell by the upright posture and Freddie Mercury moustaches that there's a lot of ex-military around. Mind you, their boots have seen a bit of wear and tear, mine look quite new. Do I look silly? I think I might look a bit silly. I might just scuff them up on this wall. 

[Geordie voice] "What the fuck are you doing?".

Hello? 

"What are you kicking the wall for?".

I was just trying to scuff my shoes up a bit.

"By kicking the British Legion club?". 

Sorry, it's not a reflection of my feeling towards veterans, I'm pro-military. Yeah, pro-war, actually. I think Britain should expand the army, possibly bring back national service, but that's part of a wider conversation. What do you think? 

"Well, I think they should look after the lads they've got. Give them some decent kit for a change".

Hear, hear! Yeah, I was actually saying the same thing to a friend, I'm just going to lean on this wall.
Give a man a kit, he'll fight all day. Ah, shit. I'm thinking about the fishing one, aren't I? [something metal and thin falls over] Sorry. Is this iron thing...? [fades out]

If my voice appeared to go quiet then, it's because my sound recordist, Wilf, panicked slightly and sidled away, leaving me to handle the irate veteran alone, with good reason! The man was approaching aggressively, but when I opened my jacket and showed him the Union Jack sewn into the lining, this seemed to quell him.

We began to talk and I noticed his tattoo, identical to the one Michael used to have. He told me he was in the 5th Battalion, the same unit in which Michael had served. My fumbling fingers frantically felt for a flyer. I yanked it free from the pocket and held it to the man's face, "Do you recognise this man?".

The man replied quietly, "Aye", meaning yes, "I think I remember him. Loyal. Friendly. Erratic. A bit thick. Carver, he was called. First name...".

"Michael?", I interrupted.

The man raised his eyes to mine. "Aye", he said. "Michael Carver".

Finally I had a name to go on, Michael Carver. I thanked the man and relayed the news of the breakthrough back to my assistant in Norwich via a FaceTime call. She squealed like a stuck pig, I've not heard her that delighted since the Bishop said she'd baked nice shortbread and she broke into a funky dance, flapping her arms against her sides like a chicken. 

Having trawled military records and the registrar of births, marriages and deaths, Lynn and Moira had ascertained that today happens to be the anniversary of Michael's mother's death. Yes, Thursday May 11th saw his mother, Alice, pass away, the death certificate simply stating; "Cause of death: Fell over". 

She'd been buried in All Saints Cemetery. And if Michael is anything like his northern working class counterparts, an anniversary like this means a visit to the cemetery to bedeck the gravestone with wreaths, flowers, cards and tat. If he does that, I hope to catch him in the act. It was time to act. It was time... to get Carver.

And to those people who suggest I came up with the phrase 'Get Carver', then made up the fact that Carver is Michael's surname purely to make it fit, shame on you, and fuck off! 

So I'm here at All Saints Cemetery, one of the largest cemeteries in the North East of England. "Sorry!", [quieter] funeral over there. Bloody planes, all right for some. "Yeah, I'll shush". [loud whispering] It's a good reminder that life goes on, hearing the birds. "Yeah, I'll shush now, yeah".  [birds squawking in the background] These crows are so rude! 

Gotta say, All Saints Cemetery, love the name, most cemeteries, heck, most churches saddle themselves to just one saint, but this one's teamed up with the whole bloody lot of them in what, let's be honest, a naked attempt to accrue maximum holiness. Very clever move, it's like those Avengers films. Why make a Spider-Man film when you can chuck in Iron Man, Captain America and, er... the big Shrek as well? Similarly, if you're Team St. Peter, I guess you could buddy up with the whole bloody sainthood.

It's a good idea for a superhero film. You team up all the saintly people who're no longer with us, there's Mother Teresa, Superman, Gandhi, Batman, Jesus... Pit them against Pol Pot, Wolverine, Pinochet and the Penguin. I mean, that'd be amazing. That would be amazing cinema! Imagine a fight between Mother Teresa and the Penguin, or Jesus and Wolverine. I don't want to call that! 

[cello sting]

After an exhaustive search, I'm pleased to say I've identified the gravestone of Michael's mother. A big, wide slab covered in moss and bird shit. Sorry, I'm obviously I'm talking about the gravestone. I'm pretending to lay flowers on the gravestone nearby so as not to look like I'm loitering.

All these people are born and then die. Yep, it comes to us all. Whose grave is this? David Elton. Ah, "Loved by all who knew him", wish I could say that. 

I'd keep mine simple, nothing fancy. Just, "Here lies Alan Partridge. Live and let die". No, just, no.

"Tomorrow never dies". 

No, "Die another day". 

No, "No time to die". Yeah, if I'm under 80. 

No, actually, no. "Here lies Alan Partridge. Thunderball". Jokes wear thin.

Hang on, who's that? There's a man, there's a man! He's just put something on the gravestone. What is that? What is it? He's walking away, he's walking away. It looks to be a snow globe, a kind of nativity scene. Virgin Mary and the Christ child, could that represent Michael and his mother? I'm assuming Michael came from a single parent family. Was that man who put this on the gravestone Michael? My God, I think it was! 

"Excuse me! Excuse me! Hello? Hello, excuse me, can you turn around? Michael, it's Alan. Michael!
Michael, it's Alan!"

[cello sting]

I picked up my pace, hurrying to catch him. I couldn't believe it, I'd found Michael! Thoughts tumbled round my head like trainers in a washing machine. I had so much to tell him, about me, about my quest to find him, about all the things that had happened in the intervening years! 

Where to start? Ten years ago I was driving a Kia Optima, now a 2019 Range Rover Sport! Should I tell him about the house I'd built? About the holiday I'd taken to Orlando when I'd seen a man dressed as Mickey Mouse being sick behind a hedge? About the documentary I'd seen about the Falklands? Would I tell him about the time I'd rappelled down the side of Norwich Town Hall for charity? Lynne had taken photos and it looked a lot like the storming of the Iranian Embassy!

My mind was a-whir! I ran to catch up, placed my hand on his shoulder and span him around. "Hey, you big Geordie idiot!", I said. The man rounded on me angrily, he looked younger than Michael, with a nicer neck. And when he said 'I could have warned him' instead of 'I could of warned him', I knew it couldn't of been Michael.

I realised the man was just a guy who worked at a cemetery and was merely tidying up the graves. I mumbled an apology for calling him a big Geordie idiot, although to all intents and purposes calling the groundsman at a Newcastle cemetery a big Geordie idiot is unlikely to have been too wide of the mark.

The chap walked away, my shoulders slumped. Another dead end. 

[cello sting] 

Chapter Three; Horizons

9pm and darkness has fallen. I've come to Arthur's Hill, a hilltop overlooking the entire city of Newcastle for a chance to reflect just me and my thoughts and obviously my sound recordist, Wilf. Before us, a blanket of twinkling lights that is the city of Newcastle, each one a home, a life, a thousand stories we will never hear.

That one over there could well be a young couple curled up on the sofa wasting their life in front of Holby City. Perhaps that one could be a big tough man who's secretly gay and daren't tell his wife that the visits to his mother involve a diversion to a truck stop. Over there, one can imagine an argument over Brexit with a family and their son who managed to get into university. Raised voices, perhaps raised fists, but it's resolved with tea and hugs. 

In that house, a boy who... wants to be a girl. His mum is supportive but his dad just doesn't understand and thinks his son is, well, just a word that Audible won't even let me repeat, but they will let me say 'cunt', which is weird. 

Perhaps in that home a boy bullied by his brother who finds salvation in painstakingly teaching a wild duck to fly. Meanwhile his mum is, I don't know, shagging a bricklayer in the back of a Ford Escort. Weird to think that somewhere in that orchard of sparkles is a room that, I believe, contains a Michael. A Michael called Carver. Where are you, you daft Geordie bugger? Where are you? [fades out] 

As my eyes danced across the meadow of lights, my fingers danced into my coat pocket. I took out the snow globe and stared at it. If this was a film, you'd just have a close-up of the fake snow falling on the smiling figurines. And then, as if compelled by an unseen force, I turned the snow globe over. On the underside, the words, 'Camping Tavira Algarve', the name of a resort in Portugal. This must have been where the snow globe had been purchased. 

And then I remembered! Michael had spoken fondly of Portugal, often mentioning a man he knew who'd sold fake timeshares and made, in Michael's words, a million and a half pounds. Could it be that Michael had been drawn to the well-known Iberian nation? Could it be that he wasn't in Newcastle at all? 

The next day, I thanked Wilf, said maybe we'll work together again one day, even though I never will, and headed back to Norwich. Life went on. The realisation that Michael could have been a thousand miles away seemingly bringing my story to a close. That was until one day at my racket's club, a friend of mine, an orthodontist who administers cosmetic dentistry and Botox, said, "Have you tried googling it?". The shuttlecock we were playing badminton with, and it was my go, tumbled from my hand. Of course! How could I have been so obtuse? I'd forgotten about the internet! 

I ran home, opened up my laptop computer and typed in the words 'Camping Tevira Algarve'. I took a deep breath, raised my hand, jutted out a finger and brought it down on the keyboard. I pressed Enter, and waited. What was about to happen would change my life forever. 

A page of results came up. I directed the cursor towards the word images and soon my screen was filled with thumbnail pictures from the resort. My eyes landed on one photo in particular of a man working behind the bar. 

There, staring back at me, was a thick-set man in a branded polo shirt holding a beer with his arm round a holidaymaker. Tanned, healthy, but still damaged-looking, there was no mistaking the face. Staring back at me...

...was Michael.

[ominous synth chords rise, then fade]