S04E05: Speeding

Hello and welcome to a very different edition of From The Oasthouse, an episode where we rip up the rulebook, 'F' with the format, and confound expectations like nobody's business, which of course is what it is.  For some context, I'm at my breakfast bar tummy-level peninsula, where I like to eat nutty porridge and watch YouTube videos of Nazis. 

A week ago, at a service station on the M11, a man in a high-vis jacket handed me a leaked internal report in which Audible described me as "A content provider who may have optimised his reach". That's a direct quote. I was placed on a list of podcasters with only limited local appeal. I won't name them, save to say I was between Sandy Toksvig and Josh Widdicombe. It was their contention that The Oasthouse had reached a natural ceiling and that negotiations over a future series ought to reflect that. Nice try, Audible! Nice try!

Now, with the greatest respect for Audible - not least because the details of my contract preclude me from doing anything other than that, although I'd probably say that anyway - if you don't like to consume books through your eyes and prefer instead to use your ears, perhaps because you're blind or you just don't like looking, then, as I say, I recommend Audible. But talk about wrong!

I mean, when I read that, I was... I just laughed my head off! I just don't get it! They're sitting on a gold- well, they're not sitting on a gold mine, I don't know, or even an oil field, but I would say there's certainly fracking potential in me. I've got gas in my cracks and I'm going to bottle it, pound a pop, capisce? I'm being a bit facetious, but one thing that really annoys me is people who go around saying I've optimised my reach. 

I have listeners in every corner of the globe, even though globes don't have corners. Babatunde Mbemba, Hiroshi Takahashi, Anastasia Petrova, Jean-Pierre Dupont, José Luis González. Is it González? Yeah, I think it is. And Yngwie Sarklan, to name but a few. And if those ten listeners tell ten listeners to tell them to tell ten listeners who each tell ten listeners, pretty soon that's a million listeners! Ask them to pay a tenner each, then that is seven and a half million pounds per calendar month. So, I think Audible just aren't making tough decisions about podcasts that are genuinely topped out. I'm sorry, but we live in a world where people are afraid to use the word 'losers'.

While some podcasts are losers, we can't all be above average. If there are ten people, nine can be above average, but the other one has to be really shit. Ditch the podcast on Thinking Like a CEO or Helping Men to Understand the Menopause. Men already understand the female menopause, they don't need a podcast on it. You just tiptoe around them, maybe say I'm popping out to the shops for some things that you can't buy online. You need to see them, hear them, and hold them. I don't mean your wife, I mean the things you can't buy online, e.g. plastic ducting to hide wires. Do I need it? Gun to my head? No. Would I like more of it in the house? Absolutely.

You need to axe those podcasts and divert the funding into podcasts that have genuinely global potential. Because if it's global appeal you want, I am your man! For weeks, I've scoured the planet to find podcasters whose shows have a Oasthouse or its regional translation in the title, and I found sixteen. And we have coalesced into an informal ragtag posse of podcasters that I call The POINT, P-O-I-N-T, the Partridge Oasthouse International Network Team. 

So what's the point of POINT? Well, today we've come together via Zoom to record a special international episode. It's a bit nuts. Might be a bit gonzo, can't think of a better word. Raucous, even. But the idea is that sixteen of us jointly host a podcast where we can say whatever we like about anything. They're looking at me from little boxes on the screen like some futuristic Supreme Court.

Hi, guys. 

[various voices] "Hello". 

Let's meet them.

The French podcast, La Oublionniere, translates as The Oasthouse. And from a converted oublionniere, its hosts examine French politics with a zippy, anti-immigration vibe. Jean-Paul, are you there? 

"I am indeed. Thank you so much". 

In German, Oasthouse is Hopfenkasten. And while I couldn't find a podcast related to oasthouses, I did find one following the hilarious hijinks of the Hopfenkasten family, who are very funny in a very, very German way. Hi, guys. 

"Guten Tag". [comedy trumpet]

Hysterical. Already hysterical! From China, we're joined by Xiaoyun, a student from Guangdong Province, whose podcast focusses on the unique history of kudzu drying houses similar to oasthouses and has so far made just two episodes, the last of which aired in 2017. Hello.

"Hello". 

Yeah. From the US of A, the smash hit parenting podcast, Bringing Up Baby with Cynthia Oasthouse. Hello, Cynthia. 

"Thank you, Alan. I'm sure there are English parents...".

[cutting Cynthia off] From Tasmania, we've tracked down two farmer and cum brewers, sorry, farmer-cum-brewers, whose podcast, The Hophouse Boys, which once again is, just to be clear, they are brewers and they're also farmers. 

"I wonder if we should make a start and just introduce people as they crop up?".

Great advice. Great mumsy advice from Cynthia there. So... you can hear you've got two kids in the background, two little rascals. They're passing through, are they? 

"I guess I can mute myself?". [Cynthia mutes]

Great. So there you go, you've heard some very different Oasthouse-based podcasts. Some are advertising funded, others follow a subscription model. I know that Gerard in Canada, you don't use either model.

"Well, no. My podcast, Who Killed John Oasthouse, is about tracking down my brother's murder. So commercials wouldn't seem...".

Yeah. Wouldn't seem appropriate. I think that's a really good call, John. 

"I'm Gerard. John's dead".

Hm. Fascinating. Yeah. Well, I do hope they catch the bastard. Or bastards. Or bitch, or bitches. Mind you, a woman can be a bastard, can't she? A man can be a bitch. I mean, some men want to be. Is that Zhou Yang there, nodding his head in China? 

"Hello".

Hello. Okay, so my podcast, just to kick things off, is From The Oasthouse with Alan Partridge, The Alan Partridge Podcast. It's truly a one-of-a-kind piece of content. No other podcast in the world can so nimbly flit between the hard-hitting and the cosy. One minute we can be talking about abortion, the Middle East, kids having sex changes.

Next minute we're flipped to whether people think duvets are better than blankets and sheets, for which there is no right or wrong answer. Or just other fun stuff. Which rucksack? Can man fly? Bad fences. Family van shakedown. Next week, we've got a section about female actresses called Swim, Hike, or Bath, you have to pick whether you'd swim with them, hike with them, or bath them. You know, make them nice and clean. 

Other times I will be guided by real events, I'll make toasts, chat to couriers over my mail. I can see today I've got a letter from... a listener asking for money. And what's this? Letter from Suffolk Constabulary.

Rosa? Rosa?! 

[Rosa, distant] "Mister Partridge?".

Sorry about this. Rosa, when did this come? 

"It come today!"

Right, right. "Notice of intended prosecution for the offence of exceeding the speed limits on the A12 in Woodbridge". My vehicle was "Recorded at 62 miles per hour on a 50 mile per hour road. I have 28 days to return the section 1724 by identifying the driver of the vehicle at the time of the offence. This is a legal obligation and failure to provide this information can result in a separate offence".

I don't think I was driving that day. I hope I wasn't. I've got nine points on my licence, so three more and I'll get a ban.

Guys, great start, but I've got to jump off. I've got a bit of an emergency that I need to strangle at birth. Sorry to use that phrase. Cynthia, I know you've got a kid. 

[Gerard] "And my brother was murdered". 

Yeah, but he wasn't strangled.

"No, he was strangled". 

Sorry, John! 

"Gerard, John's dead".

Fascinating. So could you just talk amongst yourselves? 

[new voice] "You invited us".

What would you want from me? I'm hearing a lot of negativity. 

"Okay, I'm out".

Yep, me too. Bye. [disconnects]

Nice idea, though, that they all have a connection to Oasthouses or the word Oasthouse. I think that's interesting. 

"I thought it was interesting too". 

You can go now, Hopfenkastens! Thought I'd hung up. 

[theme music sting]

I've composed myself and I'm ready to crack this thing. For the avoidance of doubt, I deny these allegations vehemently, which is what newspapers say when a royal is accused of doing something wrong. "Greg Wallace denies the allegations". "Prince Andrew denies the allegations, vehemently". Just a little helping hand from Fleet Street to add a bit of oomph to the palace's version of events.

So very much a race against time. I need to work out who the hell was driving my car before the net closes around me, because I will not be the fall guy. I know how it looks, it was my car! It stands to reason I was the driver, right? But that's not how my vehicular situation works. My car is more like a pool vehicle, a handy run-around used by all and sundry, like a golf buggy at a retirement village.

I have a small staff and tight circle of friends and they all have access to it. Lynn, my assistant; Rosa, my housekeeper; and my gardener. Lynn's church friend, Chastity, she's driven it before. My daughter, Denise, drove it when she came to visit after breaking up with her... life partner. Grant Shapps drives it if he's using one of his pseudonyms and doesn't want to drive his own car in case he gets confused. My friend, Michael, borrowed it for a long weekend not long ago, not sure why. My girlfriend, Katrina, has... actually, I take that back. I would never accuse her of wrongdoing. I apologise, actually, for raising it.

The point is, it's just as likely to be any of them as it is me. In fact, more likely, because I am an advanced driver. I know I have nine points on my licence, but I know I have diminished responsibility for every one of those infractions, ranging from cramp to bumblebee in footwell to wasp on windscreen to girl in hotpants at bus stop.

It's not an excuse, but they are mitigating circumstances. My friend was once going to court and was going to claim he'd been distracted by laughing at a Radio 4 comedy. I said, well, that's obviously not going to fly! But he said, "Alan, these people are magistrates!". And of course, he's right, magistrates are exactly the kind of people who laugh at Radio 4 panel shows. And he walked. 

You know, it says here you can request photographic evidence. You know what? I'm going to do that, call their frigging bluff. See if we can shed some light on this, because it seems to me there's a very strong insinuation in this letter that I was the driver, and I do not appreciate the stain of wrongdoing hanging over me. I am an innocent man, and I will not have the Suffolk Constabulary dragging my name through the shit just because, to use the parlance, 'those slags want to flip me up as a patsy'.

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Well, it's two weeks later, and as regards my speeding accusation, the plot thickens. The pulse quickens. Cats are among chickens. What the dickens am I on about? Well, the 'photographic evidence', inverted commas, has come in and does indeed show my car, with the reg number clearly visible. It is without question my vehicle that was speeding on the A12. No argument there. I guess that's that! Case closed.

Oh, just one thing. The driver. Because on the photograph of the vehicle, I'm afraid the glare on the windscreen has regrettably made it impossible to make out anyone in the car. And, the more I think about it, the more certain I am that I was not the driver of this vehicle. For added certainty, I have called a team of photographic experts to analyse the photograph. 

These guys are the best of the best. Les Gifford is a wedding photographer I play squash with. Philippe Giroux used to be regional manager for Max Spielmann and has developed more photographs than I've probably ever seen! Debs Wilson is a neighbour of mine and one of the most gifted photo analysts I know. She discovered her husband's affair by spotting a busty woman in the reflection of a TV screen when her husband took a selfie in a travel lodge. These guys have poured over the police photos, and not one of them has been able to identify the driver. So the case against me seems pretty flimsy.

Not that I'm worried. They can get me. Sure, if they want to. They can find me, track me down, get my car off me. They can prevent me getting behind the wheel. But what they can't do, what they will never do, they will never get inside my head. That's where I'm free. In my mind. I'm driving like the wind through the endless winding roads of the Scottish Highlands with no one to stop me. Where am I going? You'll never know. But I'm planning to stop at some of the locations used in Monarch of the Glen. 

So if they want to ban me from driving, let them. Let them do their worst. I ain't going to crack. If nothing else, I think it would be a welcome change of pace, free from the shackles of the motor car, I'd finally start to live life. I'd walk. Want to start riding my Brompton folding bicycle. And I tell you what, they can have that when they prize it from my cold dead hands, if they know how to unfold it. I'd take in the scenery, breathe the fresh air, feel the soft squelch of mud underfoot, the crunch of gravel. I'd enjoy taking local minicabs, maybe even get to know some of the drivers by name, asking them about their families and their countries of origin.

Eventually for a bit of fun, pitting them one against the other by saying, Amir doesn't go this way. He knows a quicker way. Or how's everything back home? You able to visit your mum? 

[outbound call ringtone]

Lynn, I've had the photo from Suffolk police, it's inconclusive. 

"But Alan, it wasn't me!". 

Look Lynn, I'm not saying it was you. I'm just saying it sounds to me, and it'll definitely sound to the police like you're obfuscating...

[Lynn tries to protest]

...When actually, if it was you, where's the harm really? I mean, Lynn, three points on your licence is nothing. Three points on mine means a ban.

And if I can't drive, that means opportunities are going to dry up. The podcast where I drive Massey Ferguson agricultural vehicles to some of the most remote gastropubs in the UK, can't happen, which means I don't get paid, which means you don't get paid, and means the crew doesn't get paid either.

"But Alan, this is wrong!".

Actually, yeah. Lynn, you're right, you're right. Forget I said anything. I take it back. That's fine. 

"I mean, I'd like to help". 

No, it's fine. I'll tell the guys it's off. They'll understand. I know Joey was hoping to raise money to fly to Canada because his mum's not well, but maybe next year. Maybe the old girl will hang on. 

"But Alan, I can't go to prison. I mean, I've seen the film!".

Lynne, you don't go to prison for speeding. And even if you did, the inmates would leave you well alone. What good are you? They either want a bit of muscle to help them run the wing or a cute bit of stuff they can sleep with, whereas you're neither fish nor fowl. So think hard, Lynn. Could you have been the driver? 

"Yes, I could have been". 

Thank you very much. You're sure? Because I'd hate to think I was gaslighting you. 

"Gaslighting?".

Gaslight. You know, where a man coerces a woman by undermining her confidence. The origins of the film Gaslight. You've seen the film Gaslight. 

"No!".

You have! 

"No, I haven't!". 

You have seen it! I was there while you watched it! What's wrong with you, Lynn? You're losing your mind! 

"I don't remember!".

Lynn, relax. Lynn, no, you haven't seen Gaslight. But me telling that you had is an example of gaslighting, that's all that was. I was just doing a little joke to illustrate what gaslighting actually is. That's all it was doing. I'm sorry. I didn't realise it would upset you. Are you all right now? 

[Lynn nervously chatters] 

Okay, speak later.

[theme music sting]

I'm in Norwich town centre, just posted a letter to Suffolk Constabulary, standing up to their bully-boy tactics, taking a stand for the little guy. I've submitted my Section 172 form explaining that the car, while belonging to me, was at the time being driven by Lynn Benfield. And I feel good about it, actually. I feel really good. 

History is littered, no, bejewelled with quiet heroes who've stood their ground and said, "No, I shall not roll over, even if Simon says roll over!". Does that make me a rabble-rouser? I don't think so. Was Mahatma Gandhi a trouble-causer when he enacted a policy of peaceful resistance against India's British overlords? I don't think so. I'm actually one of the few people I know who agrees with Gandhi. The British were a bang out of order, you know? Not to be critical of His Majesty's armed forces or the British government, I'm sure neither the king nor his government knew anything about the atrocities. I can only assume it was the actions of a few hundred bad apples. 

[phone rings] 

Sorry, I've got to get this. It's my solicitor, Graham. 

"Alan, I just wanted to ask you about the NIP, the speeding thing". 

Yep, sent the form back.

"Well, you should really talk to me before you do that. Who did you say was driving?".

I remember it as Lynn, and Lynn remembers it as Lynn. 

"And at the time of the offence, you were...?".

Mentoring a group of neuro-divergent TV production students. Yeah, got to give a bit back. 

"Right, and you're absolutely sure about that? I don't know if you want to have one final think".

Don't think so. 

"Well, it's just that if your recollection was slightly awry and the police decided to check phone records and saw that while you were claiming to be at the University of East Anglia, your mobile was pinged on the A12 in Woodbridge, and that would strongly suggest you were with the car, and that would see you convicted of perjury and in all likelihood face a custodial sentence. So I don't know if you want to have one more quick think? Are you there?". 

Oh, God, do you know what? I just... No, I just remembered it bloody... It bloody was me in the bloody car! 

"Right". 

A bloody memory like a bloody serve, I tell you!

"Mm-hm".

So can you ask them to ignore that form? I've only just put it in the Post Box. If I wait by the Post Box can I take it off the postman when he comes, if I ask him? Will he give it me back? 

"No, that's not legal". 

What if I just, when he opens the door, I just say 'I think that's mine' and just grab it? 

"No".

It's my letter! I wrote my letter. I didn't mean what I put in it. I mean, can I just tell them to void the section 172 form, to ignore it? 

"Well, it's not as simple as that. I mean, it means you failed to provide the section 172 within 28 days, they may choose to prosecute. And if the person processing at Suffolk Constabulary is in a bad mood or has got a gripe against you, all it takes is for them to look at your form and they'll see you've made a false statement, which is a further criminal offence".

Who is the... Do you know who the person is who processes these speeding tickets? Do we know who the person is? 

"Hmm... Margaret Bentham". 

Oh, shit. 

"Is there a problem?".

A big one.

[closing theme music]

I once briefly dated her but I had to stop because she has quite a big nose and jabbed it into my cheek when we were kissing. I said, "Are you aware that your nose is big and jabs my cheek when we kiss?". She said that's insensitive and now she's sticking her nose not into my cheek, but into my business. So, yes, I have a nose-shaped problem and it's very big.

[closing music continues to fade]