S04E02: Results

[singing, stadium rock-style]

He's the greatest rock god, like a fire to ice. 

Come meet my friend, his name is Jesus Christ. 

Mmm, mmm, mmm, yeah, yeah, yeah.

Mmm, mmm, mmm, yeah, Jesus Christ!

Hello, I'm Alan Partridge, and you're listening to From the Oasthouse. And today, I'm sitting in the passenger seat of my assistant's Daewoo Tacuma, which - Ta-kew-ma? Ta-koo-ma - I've been here for, let's see, an hour and fifty minutes so far, so I've had my sandwiches, figured out my Wordle, and you just caught me listening to one of the four Christian rock stations that my assistant, believe it or not, has pre-set in her car! Which was fun, but square. Talk about, uh, talk about Virgin Radio! Pleasant singing voices, some great drumming, but, as I say, strong Gary Barlow energy.

What, what am I doing here? Well, I'm sitting in a car park outside Norfolk and Norwich University Hospital, having come to support my Personal Assistant, who, in what I'm sure is a fuss about nothing, has had a couple of very simple tests to check its whole tickety-boo in the old bowel. And it is an old bowel. Well, same age as she is. 

While I'm waiting for her to emerge, I thought I'd use the time to record one of the eleven episodes I'm contractually required to deliver to Audible in order for them to activate payment. And, uh, you know, a very pleasant car park it is, too. Thanks to my assistant's blue badge, I am in a disabled bay, giving me an unimpeded view of the outpatient's reception area, so I can see her coming the second she's released. 

And, by the way, what a parking space it is! No one ever talks about that. Of course, a larger, better-appointed parking bay, or a roomier toilet doesn't make up for whatever misfortune has befallen the less-abled. That's not what I'm suggesting at all, but it does feel like there's a secret omerta around disabled facilities, a veil of silence under which no one is allowed to say just how superb their parking and toilet facilities are. Well, not me.

This is a quite wonderful parking space, and the other day I had a number two and a wash in a very generously-sized toilet, spoilt only by the fact that I pulled the red emergency cord, thinking it was a super flush. But once I pulled the door behind me, I explained everything to the manageress, and she went on her way. So, in general, in the UK, bigger, better facilities all round. And in that respect alone, the disabled have it pretty good! And I think you should be able to say that. Yellow grab bars in taxis, not bad! 

[sound of finger squeaking on glass] 

Come on, Lynn, what's keeping you? She's probably had the all-clear, I'm sure she has, and she's now bending the doctor's ear about the many minor ailments she lists on her phone's notes app, poor fella. Lynn likes to jot down a quick notice if she's feeling grumpy or sleepy or sneezy or dopey. And it does read like a register of dwarves, but... it makes her feel better!

So, yeah, just killing time, really. You'd be surprised how quickly you exhaust the potential avenues of interest when you're sitting in a Daewoo Tacuma, which is the car Lynn trundles around in these days. She's never going to have the same affection for it she had for a Mini Metro, which was British. She keeps telling people the Daewoo's Chinese. It's not, it's Korean, I tell her. But she says, "Oh, you know what I mean!", and then chuckles.

I told her that Daewoo actually used to make fridges, and you can tell because the car handles like a fridge! She didn't find it funny, but I found it funny. A lot of people I know who like cars find it funny. She said, "Well, I like fridges!". She just... she just doesn't get it. And I don't think she ever will. I said I'd no more like to drive a fridge than I would like to put chilled, perishable food in my car. Again, didn't find that funny. 

I've precious little to do in here, I've adjusted the seat because Lynne has the back of the seat pitched forward like some mediaeval torture device. I've turned off the fog light, god knows how long that's been on, and I've played with the fader on the stereo to achieve the correct front-to-rear audio balance because clearly Lynne doesn't concern herself with effective sound distribution.

And, since the windows have fogged up in the hour and twenty minutes I've been here, I've done a couple of childish doodles on the glass just to pass the time. I've kept it classic, I remember as a child, you'd always draw a couple of boobs on a steamed-up window; two semicircles with a fat dot on each one for the nipple. "Them's the rules!", as they say. 

If a child sees fresh snow, they make a snow angel. Smooth sands, they write their name with a stick. With a fogged-up window, as sure as eggs is eggs, you're drawing two very simple boobs. It's just a shame to be sitting in a Daewoo Tacuma. I suppose you should pronounce that 'Daeyoo', It's probably the correct pronunciation although, you know, you can get in a lot of trouble for that these days. 'Die-yoo Tak-oo-ma', I'm sure that's how they say it. Well, that will be how they say it, Koreans. I've never met one.

I asked my housekeeper, who's Filipino, to say it and it was there or thereabouts, I would say. It's not as bad as blackface, isn't it? What would it be? Yellow voice? I don't know. I mean, I try to stay away from that area because for one reason or another, I always end up coming bloody unstuck with someone.

I mean, they say Peugeot or Citroën. If you can say Peugeot or Citroën, why can't you say Daewoo? [German accent] Volksvargen! That's how they say it. "Volksvargen. Ze people's car. Zat is vot it means!". I do like doing voices. You're listening to Audible.

[synth guitar music]

Need a haircut? Certified blind? You need White Stick Stylists. Norwich's first hairdressers for the blind. And because you find it hard to go places, we'll come to you! And the best bit, haircuts can take as little as five minutes. We're that good! Just WhatsApp your address confirming you live alone and we'll be there within the hour. Cash only.

Because even the blind deserve style!

The Daewoo Tacuma is, objectively, not a good car. I'm sure they're fine to carry wool to a friend's house or take a cat to be put down, but they're not really designed to carry humans for any length of time. I'm sure Daewoo would be the first to admit that. I would have driven Lynn in my own vehicle, but the health scare has given her a bit of a wobble. And I think she wanted to feel like she was in control of things, so we agreed to come to the hospital in hers.

Which sounds like come to the hospital in a hearse, which is a kind of joke. It's fine to make, because as I've explained to Lyn, there's absolutely nothing to worry about. No one is getting into any hearses for a long, long time. Well, for a long time. Don't try telling her that. Lynn is not what you would call an optimist. She's a catastrophiser. 

She convinced herself she had sciatica recently, because she felt a sharp pain and stiffness in her back when it was actually just a coat hanger and a cardigan. And that sounds like a made-up story, but it's not! It's always worst-case scenario with Lynn. Whereas me, I'm very much a glass-half-full kind of guy. As long as I've been charged for half a glass, I haven't been short-changed after ordering a full one. No, it's all gravy. 

Half a glass of gravy, which might not sound appealing, but if you have a plate of slightly dry chicken, potatoes and sprouts, the gravy now has currency. Whoever has his hand on that glass, suddenly you want to be his friend. And that's an example of positive thinking. And anyone can be that way. By exposing myself once a week to a tightly-curated blend of positive-thinking podcasts and a new audiobook, narrated by Paddy McGuinness, simply called 'Cars Saved Me From Depression', which is not as bad as it sounds! 

But the cumulative effect is that I'm able to shrug off the slings and arrows of minor inconvenience and instead see a world of possibility and joy, rather than Lynn's outlook, in which she sees a world of drizzle and Muslims. So this health thing has really knocked her for six. 

I keep telling her, stop panicking! This is a routine examination, and this is a routine appointment, you'll get some routine results! Just because the doctor sucked air through his teeth when he looked at the blood results doesn't mean it's bad news. There are a million reasons why a man sucks air through his teeth, he might have had a very strong Trebor mint or was trying to rein in some saliva. There are loads of reasons. Loads! Loads of reasons. This is just routine.

Let's have a look in Lynn's glove box, should be a laugh. Hairbrush, loads of grey hairs in it. Never know when you're going to need them. Five cassettes. 'Aled Jones reads the New Testament'. Oh, that's all four of them. Christ! And Shakin' Stevens. 

Oh, dear. Not that I'm minimising the importance of good health, particularly among my staff. As a responsible employer, and a decent fellow all round, I put the health and wellbeing of my staff above everything, and that includes my dry cleaning. Lynn's been dogged by a bowel issue for a while, which is her business. I don't propose to get into the grisly details here, for one thing, I think it's a breach of the Data Protection Act, but she won't know that. What I will say is her toilet breaks were becoming noticeably longer, which was fine as long as she took her phone with her. With modern smartphones, your office is wherever you are, and she was able to organise a spa day for me and Katrina plus evening meal, including tuxedo hire for the Round Table Man of the Year dinner, in a single toilet trip.

But I wasn't going to rest until I was certain she was A-OK. I said to her one lunchtime, we have to get you checked out, your health has to come first unless it's something trivial like hay fever. The well-being of my staff is top priority here, so listen up, I'm getting you checked out right now. No ifs, no buts, as soon as you've completed your tasks for the day, we're getting you checked out. And so, in the blink of an eye, or it would have been if she'd had private health care, she was whisked, again, if private, into the finest health service in the world.

Had she, as I say, gone private, as it was, she was welcomed into the matronly bosom of the NHS, and she's been prodded and quizzed and perused and sampled. She had some blood tests, and the results showed elevated markers which are sometimes - sometimes - associated with cancer. And also the ultrasound revealed a suspicious mass near her colon, so she went for a colonoscopy and a biopsy.

But it's not conclusive, and today I'm pretty sure her mind will be put at rest. I'm confident the bowel and surrounding organs are absolutely fine. There are millions of explanations for having an upset tummy, and it doesn't mean it's cancer. And she said, "What if it is?", to which I said, it's not. To which she said, "Yes, but what if it is?", to which I said, it isn't though! To which she said, "Yes, but what if it is? ", at which point, mercifully, James Martin called, because the conversation was getting quite tedious.

And I'm not saying she doesn't have a minor health complaint. She has been feeling peaky, as she puts it, which is one of those words used by women of a certain age to describe physical ailments, along with puffed out, bunged up, queer, gammy, manky, off-colour, and rum. In modern parlance, she's... slightly unwell, which keen listeners might detect was said in heavy quotation marks. 

Not that she's lying, Lynn doesn't really lie, it brings her out in a red neck, but I can't imagine it's anything to fuss about. Although it's been happening more and more, you find you employ someone in their 70s, their attendance starts to flag. Some of that is genuine physical decline, some of it is in her head, because she gets bamboozled by health scares in the Daily Express, and some of it is because she wants an excuse to be in and around Boots.

You have to remember, for her demographic, the pharmacy counter at Boots is a social club. There's always a few people she knows, each with a fascinating tale to tell about earache, or a bladder issue, or swollen feet, and they'll have a cackle of a cough, say their goodbyes, and for Lynn, that constitutes a night on the tiles. And if, if, if it's anything more serious, then obviously your mind starts to dwell on perhaps what would you have done differently, you know, if anything, if anything. Well, that's just human nature. 

I mean, there's bound to be a bit of reckoning and inquest when you tot up the cross words and tuts that might have been a bit hurtful, and you set them off against the things you've done, e.g. recorded Prince Philip's funeral off the telly and turned it into a souvenir DVD, which she can enjoy whenever she likes, and see which column scores highest. I mean, I don't think I've ever been horrible to her.

If I have been exacting, it's only ever been to make her better at her job, because I know that makes her happy. And I'm sure the things she wishes she'd done differently, she threw away the collar and lead of her late dog Seldom shortly after he died, when I clearly wasn't ready for that. She called it tough love, but I thought it was just quite mean. But her failings are few and far between. I hope she knows that.

She's diligent, mild-mannered. I don't think I've seen anyone peel a hard-boiled egg faster than her. She can shuck a dozen eggs in thirty seconds, so I hope she's all right, because. erm... [genuinely concerned] she's bloody irreplaceable!

She's set in her ways, of course. There are younger assistants who'd be able to do things she can't, these Millennial / Gen Z types can get online and within minutes order you shoes and a book, while Lynn's still putting on a duffel coat to head to the shops. I tried telling her the world is increasingly online. I mean, if you'd have told me ten years ago I could insure my car without speaking to a single broker, I would have had you sectioned under the Mental Health Act! But, you know, Lynn's ways have always worked reasonably efficiently. And by God, if she does pull through, and she will, she will, she will, she will, she will, she will, she will... She will... er, there'll be changes.

I've already said I will drop her hours down to five and a half days a week, whether she likes it or not. I've decided while sitting here that I will buy her an oilcloth for her dining room table, and I noticed in the boot of this car she needs a new spare tyre, so I will personally take the spare to Quick Fit and have it replaced. 

Some people don't even own a spare tyre. It's a funny quirk of English law that it's illegal to have a bald spare tyre, but legal to have no spare tyre. Strange, but true! The legal minimum tread-depth for a tyre in the UK is, I think, 1.6 millimetres across the central three quarters of the tyre's circumference, and being in possession of a bald spare tyre can result in a fine and three points on your licence, which could ultimately see your licence revoked, whereas you can drive around without any spare tyre whatsoever, and the law cannot touch you. I suppose if you're pulled over, the smartest option would be to run round to the boot and hurl your spare tyre into a hedge, then deny all knowledge. But the point is, they might have cancer.

Wonder what the horn sounds like. [long press of the horn] Sorry, just trying the horn because my assistant might be dying of cancer.

[window winds down]

"Are you all right?".

Yeah, yeah.

"Are you sure? You look a bit teary".

Well, I'm perfectly well, thank you.

"You're Alan Partridge!".

Yes, I am.

"Can I get a selfie?"

Yes, okay, yeah, I'm not stopping you.

"I meant with you".

Oh, right, okay. Well, that's not a selfie, is it? As long as on the capture you make it clear it's not my Daewoo Tacuma.

"Right. And cheese! Great, thank you. Why have you drawn boobs on the window?".

They're not, they're not. They're iced buns with a cherry on top.

"Are you sure?".

It's- alright they're breasts, then.

"Well, still, why have you done it?".

I don't... I'd have to explain to you why I've drawn breasts on the window.

"Well, you do if you're driving around in public".

They're only cartoon breasts.

"Still, it's offensive".

Alright, okay, alright. Goodbye. 

[window winds back up] 

I think I'll rub these tits off the window now. [window squeaking] ...and to the final nipple, that just looks like a giant cloud now. And, yeah, Lynn prefers clouds to tits, which is the opposite of most men.

Oh, there's Lynn. Lynn's coming. She's... Oh, she's crying. Oh, Christ. Lynn! [getting out of the car] Lynn, why are you crying? Lynn! Why are you crying, Lynn?

[theme music sting]

Hello again. I'm here in The Juniper Hollow, a wonderfully quaint gastro, wait for it, pub, in the Norfolk countryside. Winner of A Norfolk Life Foodie Award for Best Gravy. They steep it overnight with giblets to make it very, very savoury, and very much a fixture on the gastronomic map of Norfolk, if such a thing exists. 

And I'm here with my assistant Lynn for a slap-up lunch, something we probably haven't done enough. She's actually off choosing a dessert from the specials board and I can see her gawping at it from a yard away. She didn't bring her glasses and she says she's blind as a bat without them, which is odd because she's driving. I can see her squinting at it, looking slightly concerned. It's quite upmarket, so not the kind of menu Lynn's used to.

I said to her before we arrived, "Don't expect your usual pub fare. Gammon and eggs is not served here, Lynn, so you're going to have to be brave and maybe try something with garlic! And when they say pulled pork, don't snigger into your hanky before tucking it up your sleeve, there's nothing rude about it". In the end, she went for a butternut squash soup with a dash of crème fraiche. So she waited until the waiter had gone, bless her, then leant in and said, "Am I allowed to stir it in?", I said, it's yours now, Lynn. So she did. Good for her.

It's something of a celebratory luncheon. Lynn's had some good news, the consultant oncologist, who she's told me ten times is from India, said the biopsy revealed that the mass isn't malignant, it's something called diverticulitis, an inflammation of the small pouches, the diverticula in her colon, which can cause significant discomfort and mimic more serious conditions. 

It is treatable with dietary changes, antibiotics and monitoring. So she eases off the dumplings and the faggots, and eats more greens, which is a challenge, but I know for a fact she likes cabbage, so I'm sure we'll find a way.

So we've had a nice bit of lunch, and Lynn has regaled me back to her old self with all manner of chit-chats. I did record it, but it yielded very little of note, unless you're interested in her son's friend who went to university in York but didn't like it.

"What's a banoffee?".

'What's a banoffee?', There's no such thing as a banoffee.

"Well, they've made a pie out of one".

No, banoffee is a portmanteau of banana and toffee.

"Don't think I've ever had a portmanteau".

Oh, my God. This is going to be a very steep mountain to climb, but I'm still glad she's not dead.

[closing theme music]