S04E04: Modelling

Hello! This episode is about being given another go at something, because who doesn't love the heart-warming plot twist of a second chance? I think everyone deserves a second chance apart, from serial killers, and my ex-wife.

The Birmingham Six got to move out of prison and they seemed angry but pleased. Malala famously bounced back from a gun attack by some fun-sponge fundamentalists - love that phrase - and went on to get a place at Oxford University! Clever clogs! Prime example, Lance Armstrong, who overcame cancer to win bicycle races, albeit jacked up on drugs and super-blood. They've all had setbacks, all spent time in the doldrums, or the doldra, but hung in there until fate gave them another chance.

Me, well, years ago as a well-known public figure, with youth on his side and twig brown hair, I'd often be asked to lend my face to a magazine cover or public service campaign. TV Quick, The Open University, public breastfeeding campaign that was actually in favour of public breastfeeding. I was a model, you know.

One heck of an ego boost! All eyes on you, warm room, they bring you hot drinks if you ask for a hot drink and there's a steady stream of praise and flattery from a photographer. Obviously for a supermodel the photographer would be saying things like, "Oh wow! Loving it! Work it! Give me some attitude!". But it's obviously a bit different for me. I tended to get instructions like, "Why don't you put your thumb up? Look normal now. Spread your arms and say yeah. Jump in the air, if I get one with both your feet off the ground, that'll be good!" 

Anyway, over time those offers, of course, ebbed away as the crow's feet of experience and the jowls of wisdom started to appear. And I thought it was just another avenue of my life that had, er... cul-de-sac'd into a dead end. Today though, I get the chance to scratch that itch again - ah shit, I forgot my cream - And have a bit of fun for old time's sake.

It's fine, they're not going to photograph my back. And of course there is a dark side and there certainly was to modelling. You know, you've read all kinds of abusive behaviour towards vulnerable people. And I was, in my own way, one of those vulnerable people. The photographer Maureen offered me a lift home in her Fiat. You might not know her but you'll certainly know her work; baby boy with a top hat on, boy putting toy boat on lake, and of course boy on jetty fishing.

That ended up on a lot of birthday cards and apparently she made a shit load of money from it. But I know she didn't ask permission and that boy is now an alcoholic. But anyway, Maureen offered me a lift but I made my excuses and left. The next week though, I wasn't so lucky, because I got in her Fiat. I was on my way home, she asked me if I wanted to see her darkroom and winked at me. And now, of course, it seems very sinister. I mean I was 29, she was 52. It's twice my age.

But I was interested in photography so in the confusion I agreed. Once inside her house she led me down to the darkroom and turned on the red light. And because that red light is quite sexy, I accidentally slept with her. Looking back now, I shudder to think that I might have ended up with a girlfriend twice my age. 

The next morning, after showering and quickly making myself sausage, egg, bacon, beans, mushrooms and toast with lots of brown sauce, I made my excuses and left. I would have stayed to do the washing up but I didn't feel comfortable. But things are very different now, I'm older, wiser, and Maureen has died of old age. 

But today's shoot has just landed in my lap. A month ago I was recording a voiceover to attract advertisers to an exciting quarterly magazine. The session went well, the sound engineer nodded and said "You da man", even though he's white and went to Durham University. And he wasn't the only one impressed, the magazine's publisher was in attendance and recognising me from my broadcasting career, asked if I'd agree to be cover star of the next issue of Gateway, the quarterly magazine for Harwich Ferry and Freeport. I agreed.

So today I've been given a second bite of the modelling cherry. And I have to say this cherry feels rather more appetising!

[intercom chime]

Hello, Alan Partridge to see Mick Jensen.

[receptionist] "Just come to reception, end of the corridor".

Okay. 

[sober piano music]

Get ready for the charity event of the year. What better way to raise much-needed funds for Norwich Accessibility Services than musical theatre? Which is why, this autumn, The Partridge Players present an unofficial stage musical version of Forrest Gump, starring Alan Partridge as Forrest Gump.

"My name's Forrest Gump. Peppercorn Forrest Gump". 

Using a treadmill and projector screen for the bit where Forrest runs across America, and a collapsible hydrotherapy pool picked up from a dog rescue centre shut down by the RSPCA for the bit where Forrest and Buddha wade through that river in Vietnam, Forrest Gump: The Musical will be playing at Diss Community Hall from the 1st to the 30th of May.

Book now to avoid disappointment. And special offer this week only, buy one ticket, get three extra tickets free. That's four tickets for the price of one.

All songs written by Glenn and Sarah Ponder. 

I'm now sitting in the, er, not quite very tasteful ante room. Very, very, very, very trendy, they've got, er... what once would have been, you know, a building site is now de rigueur, so there's plaster falling off the walls. And it looks very, um... incomplete. But, er, that's the fashion, as they say. Great if you live in a war zone. Yeah, if you squint, you could be in a Soho house.

Sid Vicious on the men's toilets. And Blondie, Debbie Harry, on the ladies. So obviously they're thinking outside the box, that's great. Yeah, it really gets the synapses firing. It's been a while since I've done any modelling. And as I say, I'm not a model per se, but I have modelled. And that's indisputable. 

As a public figure, my face has been in demand quite a bit over the years. I've been on billboards for Armadillo security blinds. I've modelled gardening trousers and lawn mats for a well-known gardening centre. I won't name them, they were late paying. And I've been on the cover of several TV listings magazines, a smattering of housewife puzzle books, um, including The Puzzler. Not to mention leaflets to encourage men over 50 to check inside the bum for lumps. I remember we used the Star Trek analogy, "To boldly go where no one has gone before"... which is a split-infinitive, but, you know, just to inject a bit of fun because there's absolutely no shame, no shame at all in having a doctor, a doctor of medicine, inspect and probe your bottom.

It won't affect your image, won't harm your employability, and will only cause a fleeting knock of confidence. In a couple of days, you'll be able to hold your head up high, walk down the street, and feel absolutely tip-top, feeling no shame. No shame! And why should you? I'd see no reason why any man should feel less than because another person has looked inside his bum. Just, just your bum. 

So get a doctor to check you out, however well you know them. Could be a family doctor you've known for years, could be a locum who barely speaks English. Your friend's wife might be a GP. Uh, could be the doctor on board a cruise ship. It matters not one iota who performs the procedure. They've all got rubber gloves. Disposable, not, you know, Marigold. I mean, I've not had it done. I feel fine down there. You wouldn't get me down there for love nor money. I know some people would do for either of those things, and I want nothing to do with them. 

But modelling was always a real pleasure because I've always taken pride in my appearance, I'm a man who likes to look good, a man who practises his posture, a man who washes his hair with a caffeine shampoo that strengthens, thickens, and darkens, a man who applies apple cider vinegar to his face to plump and tighten the skin. Although I had no apple cider stuff left today, so I just used a saucer full of Sarson's. It's about self-care because if you don't respect yourself, how can you expect anyone else? 

Time was if I saw a guy who was over 40 wearing a sports jacket with skinny jeans and no socks, I'd have walked past him and chuckled, shaking my head from side to side in the hope of making him feel small. I'm a bit more mature these days, if I see a larger man over 40 in skinny jeans, it's a red flag, a cry for help. I used to think you look like a baked potato on two sticks, whereas now I'll put my arm around his shoulder and say, "Hey, what's going on, fella?", suggesting that if he put on socks and reintroduced to Chino that all the other problems he was dealing with in his life would slowly start to fall into place.

[theme music sting]

I'm bloody lucky in that I get better looking as I get older. Lynn, my assistant, says, "Do you have a picture in the attic that's getting older? Because you seem to be getting younger", she's trying to flatter me by making a reference to A Picture of Dorian Grey that she thinks I haven't read, which I haven't, but then neither has she. And I delight in telling her Oscar Wilde went to prison for homosexuality, which, yeah, just... quietens her down a bit. 

According to Lynn, I'm maturing like a fine wine, at which point my partner Katrina pipes up and says, "Wine turns to vinegar!", which is typical Katrina. She is very quick, very witty, comes out with withering comments at lightning speed, but as I say, they're all very mean.

[studio staff] "Hi there, is it Alan?".

Yeah, Alan Partridge here for the 3pm shoot. 

[staff] "If you just want to wait there". 

Just here, Lynn.

[Lynn] "Okay". 

Shall I put it there out of the way?.

[Lynn] "That's what I'm doing". 

[staff] "What's on the trolley?".

Costumes.

[staff] "Oh, you... didn't need to do that". 

Yeah, but, I mean, they're there if we need them, if we don't, no biggie. Are you junior wardrobe? 

[staff] "Um... yes?".

You are? Okay, well, FYI, just options. I've distilled it down to three looks, which I've called 'La Dolce Vita', it's kind of a Vespa-infused, carefree style; short shorts, a neckerchief, pastel polo and sunglasses. There's 'Shetland', which is a, sort of, more rugged aesthetic with a chunky knit and pipe. And 'Zuckerberg Cool' with a more tech bro, weekend vibe - [supressed belch] pardon me - comprising a plain t-shirt, normcore sneaker and tousled hair, although I would ask to tousle it myself because I've got quite a wayward crown and you cannot train it, you have to let it lead. I'm sorry again for the burp, today I'm quite gussy. 

[staff] "I'll let them know you're here". 

Coolio.

I'll be honest, I'm excited. In the September of my life, I resigned myself to the fact that people didn't want to take or look at photographs of my face. My modelling, while fun, was very much a relic of a bygone age, like smoking, drink driving, smacking kids and pinching bums. All of which are now taboo! I stopped winking at girls at 48 after realising that more than fifty percent of them would wince.

Smiles that were once returned are now more likely to be greeted with pepper spray or a tut. Now, here I am preparing to be on the cover of Gateway, which I may have told you already is the official magazine for Harwich Ferry and Freeport. It's a complimentary magazine for travellers. Not that kind, I don't think they read magazines, when I say travellers, I mean travellers who have paperwork in the glovebox. A normal legitimate traveller. 

It's aimed at travellers and hauliers who are entering the UK at Harwich to let them know what's on, what's happening, where's cool and what's cooking... and wagwan in the east of England. And since getting the offer, I have to say, I've been walking on air! My confidence has taken a real boost. On hearing I got the gig, I decided to have a little swagger around Norwich Market, I felt six feet tall. A woman selling veg adjusted a bra strap when she saw me. Hello!

A girl who can't have been a day over 35 smiled at me near the cheese counter, popped a cube of salty Cheshire in my mouth, winked and was on my way. Ditto at the butcher stall, but with a slice of sausage. I nearly bought a red leather jacket from a girl called Giselle before my assistant finally caught up with me and led me away.

But the overall effect has definitely made me feel vital and brooding, like His Royal Highness Prince William, the Prince of Wales. Now, obviously, it's not high fashion, I'm not delusional, this ain't the cover of Vogue or GQ or even the Sunday Telegraph magazine. This is a freebie periodical containing adverts aimed at ferry users. But a cover shoot is a cover shoot, and I'm not going to downplay it. I'm pleased. So it's important the photos are on point.

To that end, I've specifically requested a photographer by the name of Mick Jensen, one of the most gifted snappers of Britain. Mick usually photographs dogs, then prints them onto mouse mats. But the mouse mat market has gone through the floor because mice got killed off by Apple. But the fact remains that Mick has a quite wonderful eye. He has a genius for bringing his canine subjects to life. He once told me that he'd smear dog treats with hot mustard and the consequent grimace on the face of the animal would look for all the world like an infectiously wide grin. Even though in reality, the dogs were in mild distress, but there's no hint of that in the finished product. You look at them and you can't help but smile. Much like the dogs. 

So I'm reassured that in Mick, we've got one of the best in the business. Not that I'm worried, but this is a big gig. Yes, I've been on the Radio Times cover on a few occasions, but bear in mind each issue of the Radio Times is only on newsstands for a week. That means there are fifty-one cover stars every year. Take out Doctor Who and that's still twenty per year, which is quite a rapid churn. Yeah, no disrespect to the flagship listings magazine, but that makes any cover star pretty disposable. Tomorrow's cover star is next week's fish and chip paper.

Although Radio Times is printed on coated glossy paper, which contains synthetic polymers and the pigment from the ink can transfer on contact with grease. Neither of which are ideal for fish and chip paper. Again, do not wrap hot food in the Radio Times, it will poison you. 

But Gateway is a quarterly magazine. Scooping the cover means my face is out there from Burns Night until the clocks go forward, and that's a hefty chunk of time! The summer issue would have been better, as there's obviously much greater footfall through a ferry port in the summer months. But while the circulation is down for January and March, it's still there for a quarter of the year, that means I'm in people's eyeline. And it only takes one lorry driver to toss that mag on his passenger seat, glance down, and they will see me. Even if it's only to think, "Yeah, my dad used to like him, but he's dead now".

His dad, I mean. Although some people do think I'm dead. Research I commissioned myself recently showed that fifteen percent of people aged 30 to 40 think I'm dead, but I'm told that that's well within acceptable parameters. Michael Parkinson told me loads of people think he's dead. It doesn't bother him.

[staff] "Hi there!". 

Oh, yes. I'm just... I'm not talking to myself, by the way, I'm recording a podcast. 

"Uh-huh".

So, if you say anything, [nazi voice to lighten the mood] I must varn you, anysing you say vill be taken down and used in my potcast. 

"Can I get you a drink?". 

Ah, ooh tea, please.

"We've got some specialist teas, or you can just have a builders?". 

Specialist, I think. 

"Sure, one of the girls can rustle that up. Macha, ginseng, ginger, twig? [awkward pause] Something else?". 

Sorry, I thought they were the girls. I'll have the second one, please. 

"Coming up". 

Back in the day, there were big egos at play. Full of... So many characters, though, you know. I mean, it wasn't a particularly secure profession, but my goodness, we had a lot of fun. People vying for the same modelling work, whether for cagoules or body warmers. There was the odd bit of tension, photographers throwing their weight around, I remember at one point wearing a cotton t-shirt under a buttoned up corduroy jacket for the Duke of Edinburgh Awards magazine.

The photographer wanted me to hook my thumbs through my belt loops and put all my weight on one leg. To point of fact, slouch. And I thought that was slovenly. I'm all for making the DoE scheme look more with it, but I have certain red lines. And for me, hooking your thumbs in your belt loop on something that is not a jean is a line I will not cross. He said, no, he just wanted that cowboy feel, but this was not a jean, it was a twill trouser. I would not, and I will not loop a thumb in a twill trouser. There's a time and a place for doing that.

I went up to him, looked him straight in the eye and said, "What part of I won't put my thumb through a twill belt loop because it's not jeans, don't you understand?". He pretended not to hear, so I just sauntered out, overarm-cricket bowling my free egg sandwich in the bin, but it missed and landed in his camera bag, so I had to pretend I did it on purpose. And yeah, that was the end of that.

Little did I realise it would be the last time anyone asked to use my face for a magazine until the guy who publishes Gateway effectively said to me, "It's face-time". There's a sweet spot between looking attractive, but not so stunning as to intimidate, and that's where my face sits. Women look at me and think I look pleasant and can tell I smell well. Men look at me and think the two of us could chat up two divorcees in a bar and the evening would end well. 

Whereas I'm aware I appeal to an older, quite affluent demographic, certain people are of an indeterminate age. Japanese women, myself, William Hague. And it means I can appeal to any magazine producer from 48 to 88. You just have to make some modifications with age, instead of a grin, I now adopt a knowing smile. Just a small one. Do not show your teeth if you're over 50. You're not a horse! Believe me, it's not going to work. Your teeth might look okay to you, but they don't to anyone else. 

A quite confident smile is all you need. If you're on the cover of a board game that's a bit chess-like, tent your fingers together, raise an eyebrow. On a magazine cover, you need a face that asks a question. And if people want the answer, they have to pick you up and thumb you...

[staff] "Mick's just coming".

Great, thank you. 

...Hopefully he'll have a style that compliments and draws out the character that resides in the lines and folds of my face. Unfortunately, there's a tendency amongst picture editors to heavily airbrush cover stars, removing any imperfections, which creates an unattainable notion of beauty. Oliver Cromwell famously said before a portrait, "I want to be painted warts and all!". That's my attitude, because I don't have any warts on my face. I had one on my neck, which I removed. I was going to use scissors, but in the end, I grossed it with a piece of dental floss, which I tied in a knot, and after a year, it just fell off. 

With plastic surgery, you need to be very careful. A friend of mine, a lovely feller called Gavin, had a lot of work done on his face, and now he looks like a smooth giant cat. We call him Gavin Cat. So I said, I do not consent to being airbrushed, let alone touched up. 

Obviously, there'll be some Photoshopping needed to tidy up the old glitch, even out my complexion for a consistent tone, remove acne, defreckle me, light and dark circles, and reduce puffiness around the eyes, paint out broken capillaries, make my pores smaller and fewer, reduce shine on the ball of the nose, remove chapping and plumping both lips, correct hairline, and make nose symmetrical.

Otherwise, I just want to be me. 

[Mick] "Alan, we're ready for you!". 

Mick! Let's do it!

"Has someone had fish and chips?". 

No, my face has got vinegar on it. Let's go.

[closing theme music]