S04E07: Office

"Hello, Alan Partridge, putting you through now".

"I want that contract faxed to Hong Kong yesterday!". 

"Someone get me Carl Chevron now!".

"If you want to turn to page six of your...".

"Janice, take a letter for me". 

"So that's breakfast in Norwich, lunch in Rome..."

"Buy low, sell high!"

"...then cocktails in Dubai!".

"We're clearing 200K...".

"Oasthouse. Hi Glenn, it's AP at OH. Put me through to Grant Shapps now! Grant!"...

If Alan Partridge's house was a working office, what would it sound like? Well, you'd probably imagine it'd be a little bit like this. Ringing phones, pinging emails, whirring bubble jet printers, the excited hubbub of a motivated team, a macho sales floor of men in tight shirts, the chit-chat of a typing pool, a gay guy on reception, the energy of a start-up, the quality of a blue-chip multinational. But the reality is this.

That's a stapler. That's a punch hole. Because, thanks to modern technology, the dynamism, the connectivity, the sheer industry you heard in the bustling office environment can be replicated right here in the humble study of a one-man enterprise. In this space, I am, in every sense, Partridge PLC. In previous episodes, I've broadcasted from a cave, a river, a car. I've podcasted while walking, while rambling, while driving, while cooking, while jogging, even while washing myself.
And others have followed my lead, there's a real trend towards out-and-about podcasts where the podcaster comes live from a historical village or castle, all while pretending to be on a countryside ramble while, in fact, doing laps of their garden. Every Tom, Dan, Ben, Dick, and Prince Harry is doing a podcast, even though podcasting is a format that I, and Adam Buxton, jointly pioneered.

These days, it seems anything is the basis for a podcast, you know? Two celebrities asking another celebrity, what's your favourite hat? Just an incredibly flimsy idea for a podcast. I've got two caps, a tweed cap with fold-down ear flaps for winter and a simple, foldable, floatable Tilly Panama with mesh vent to prevent head sweat.

But quite how you can talk about that for an hour is beyond me. The good thing about Tilly, by the way, is it has a lifetime guarantee, so if it does fall apart, you just get a new one, no questions asked. I mean, you could cut one up with a pair of scissors and they'd still have to replace it. But, yeah, it wouldn't sustain an hour-long podcast, even though, as I say, lovely cap and hat. 

Yeah, some happy memories wearing that. I remember walking along one of the remaining sections of Hadrian's Wall, not on the wall, slightly to the side. And who did I bump into? The actor Robert Glenister, and he was wearing a Tilly hat almost exactly like mine. I said, "I love the hat, and I loved you in Life on Mars". 

He said, no, that was my brother. "Oh, yes," I said, "Ah, you're from Hustle!". He said, "It's funny, you do a whole body of work and people always want to talk about Hustle". I said, "Yes, but that's the only thing I've seen you in". Now, that is not a good story, it doesn't earn its place in any podcast. I only get away with it because it's there as an illustration and because, as I say, I partly invented the medium of podcasting. With Adam Buxton. 

But today everyone's at it! I joked to the guys at Audible, can you imagine a podcast where Alan Partridge and Jeremy Hunt, or if he's not available Philip Hammond, travel the length and breadth of Britain trying to find people who've never done a podcast, you know, driving together in a brand new van. Ideally a camper, but a van's fine. Mattress in the back, portable stove, toilet in the trees. People overthink campers. And the guy from Audible said, "I'd love to hear more". So, weirdly, yeah, meeting him for lunch tomorrow, I think me and one of the former Chancellors of the Exchequer would do a good job of it. [derisively] Rachel Reeves! 

But today I'm not out and about. Instead, I present a very special episode of me simply sitting at my desk. Why? Well, observant listeners will have noticed the listener interaction that was once the hallmark of the podcast has this series withered to almost nothing. Not out of choice. The pipeline of emails that used to slosh into my inbox simply dried to a trickle. 

Also, I thought so, until my son, Fernando, said, have you checked your spam? Now, checking your spam doesn't mean giving yourself a prostate examination. It actually means having a look in your junk. Again, not a prostate exam. 

I opened the folder, and sure enough, I found a huge trove of messages from listeners, which today I intend to answer. A metaphorical pile of letters that if you spied it through a letterbox, you'd think the inhabitant was dead in bed. Anyway, that's how many emails I received.

Now, full disclosure, it's not how I intended to spend my day. I was due to be shooting a poster campaign for a Norfolk-based footwear brand called Stroders, who are competing with Sketchers to corner the brightly coloured comfort shoe market, hugely lucrative among the over-60s. Their shoes are so comfortable, you can wear them on either foot, umm... which I know, because I did it myself by accident one day, and only felt marginally uncomfortable. 

What happened was I bumped into the brand manager at a casino when I was having dinner with TV chef James Martin. The guy approached our table, slightly worse for wear, with his tie round his head, Rambo style, and his shirt untucked. But his pitch was impressively lucid, he told me they wanted to undercut the Sketchers shoe by forty percent. I thought, well, how's that possible? He said they make the shoes in Myanmar, which is very, very cheap, because they don't even meet working regulations in Myanmar. 

I had misgivings, I said, well, they probably employ six-year-olds to make the blummin' things. And James simply interrupted and said, "You're micromanaging again, Alan! That's not your concern!". He said, it doesn't matter how big the person is who makes the blummin' shoe. And so when the guy said he wanted me to be the face and feet of their entire line of shoes, I accepted the offer. Well, James could not be more supportive, squeezing my neck and saying, "Well done, mate, well done!", before clapping his hands twice in the air to summon the waitress and ordering a glass of Prosecco each. 

It had all been signed off, and I was due to be collected by a driver at 9am for a photo shoot which would depict me, a man, striding through Thetford Forest with a stick. And the tagline was going to be 'Never too old to stick it to the man', to show the brand is kind of punchy. And another one of me doing a karate kicking motion, which I can do, and it says 'Kicking ass with slip-on trainers', a simply fantastic strap line. 

In fact, last night I had workshopped some poses in the countryside behind my home. Foot on a log, both feet on a log, jumping over a log, purposeful stride, purposeful stance, checking map, sipping from flask, fist bumping a tree, because tree huggers don't sell trainers, and squatting with binoculars, which I haven't seen before, but which came to me when I was squatting in some woods. 

The other great reason is squatting brings your face closer to your shoes, which is great for a shoe photographer. While I was doing this, something must have been lurking in the undergrowth, because I was bitten or stung by a countryside spider. And I thought a little more of it until this morning when I noticed my ankle had, at a rough estimate, doubled in girth. I couldn't describe the way I looked as someone with a very fat ankle. I felt no pain, no discomfort even, but it was swollen pretty grotesquely. My partner, female, said it like I was proving a sourdough in my shoe. For any working class people listening, sourdough is a kind of bread that... you won't like it. You have to slice it yourself. 

Now, obviously, I ran to the bathroom mirror to see if the rest of me had swollen too, and it's strange. You think you know the dimensions, or dimensions, of your face intimately, but when you're frightened and you think you might be swelling up, you can't for the life of you remember if your tongue has always been that size or if that's how wide your head is. I had to put on three hats to check. But having calmed down, my second thought was Stroders, because with a swollen ankle, it would mean the shape of the trainers would be deformed. 

I'd considered posing with just one foot visible, but you want customers to know that they do come as a pair, and the price they see isn't per shoe. I immediately contacted the brand manager, and he said, don't go anywhere. We'll discuss internally and circle back, i.e. telephone me. That was an hour ago. Yeah, I just want to know where I stand, literally. I don't know if we can work around the fat ankle. 

But let's crack on with your emails. The first is from Eddie Paul, who says, "Where do you actually make your podcasts?". Eddie, it's a great question and one that's prompted me to devise this episode of the podcast, in which I lift the lid and welcome you into the nerve centre, the flight deck, the coal face, from whence the Oasthouse is hewn.

I'll give you the tour. My desk is a triple-sided affair, which horseshoes around me to create three distinct areas. A setup reminiscent of the keyboardist in a prog-rock band. Here on my left-hand side is my podcasting zone. It has an iPad, a music stand for scripts, a flask of water for dry mouth, a headset and a mic stand, plus a range of office toys including stress ball, mini basketball hoop, and a yo-yo to create a millennial Silicon Valley tech-bro vibe. 

To my right is a very different mood. This is an area set aside for paper-based work, and stationery with a mahogany and leather aesthetic to match. Here I have a printer, fountain pen, letter-writing set, envelopes, a book of stamps and a leather cigar box containing big marker pens, which says in gold leaf on the lid, simply S.O. 

There's also a signed first edition of Angels and Demons by Dan Brown, which I bought in an auction. It's not signed by Dan Brown, it's signed by the Bishop of Liverpool who I met on domestic flight to Edinburgh. It was the only book I had on me. And a paperweight in the shape of York Minster and another one in the shape of the Millennium Dome. Both places I hold very dear to my heart. Those who know me will know why. The Dome makes me smile, the Minster makes me cry, those who know me will know why.

The third area in front of me is my communications hub, a bleeping world of screens and cables. Here is my landline telephone, a mobile phone charger, laptop computer, Wi-Fi router. This is my connection to the wider world, and through this, anything is possible. "Yes", said my gardener, "Unless burglars cut through your phone cables while you're stuck inside", which was both a weird thing to say and wrong. 

Around the room there are potted plants, a globe, which is basically a fat, round atlas, and here on the wall a logo bearing the letters TDM, because as well as being my study, this is the registered office of the podcasting company I set up in 2021, many assume the Oasthouse to be the work of my production company, Pear Tree Productions, which I co-own with four angel investors, but not so. While my TV projects are the property of Pear Tree Productions, my podcast is made and owned by Turtle Dove Media, an offshoot that manages to be distinct from, separate to, and nothing to do with Pear Tree Productions. As such the profits, if any, accrue solely to me. I get paid from that company, even though I don't actually own it. It's incorporated in the name of my five-month-old grandson, which I'm told is the best way to do it. 

Oh, and in the corner, a very small camping table and stool. That's for my assistant, Lynn, who works there most days. Lynn has a desk in her own house, and has campaigned, through a series of tuts and email, to spend more of her working time there. What with its ergonomic chair, hot water bottle, large monitor, so she can read in large prints, and much, much shorter commute. In the end, I allow her to work two days a week at home, and four days a week here. 

She says, "Yeah, but you're often not here on a Saturday". I said, that's because Saturday is Friends Day, which it is. Most Saturdays, me and my friends just head to Beacon Hill in our best cars, with frothy coffee and pastries, sit on our bonnets, and we swig, munch, and natter. And I say, "And that is non-negotiable", and she stops talking.

I don't know, perhaps it's me just being a little stickler, but I happen to think, if you pay an employee to do a job, they should have to come in and do it in front of you. And working at a kitchen table, with the slowest Wi-Fi in the UK, she's going to get distracted. You know, she says she doesn't watch daytime TV, but that's like crack cocaine to a woman of her disposition. I was just clearly saying, "Look, you being on my premises works better for me". Even during COVID lockdown, I said, "Lynn, I'm going to need you to come in. I know what the rules say, I see the public health argument. Obviously, as a vulnerable high-risk person, the last thing I would want is for you to contract the well-known superbug. But the guidance needs to work for me and my business.

So in the end, we found an elegant workaround, where she would drive to the Oasthouse, park up in my drive, where, if she got close enough to the sidewall, she'd be able to connect to my Wi-Fi, and do her work in the backseat of her car, which is very roomy. Very roomy car. She recently upgraded to a Citroën Saxo using the Motability scheme, so bags of room! Yes, the windows occasionally steam up, but then she just winds down the window once in a while to vent it out. 

If there was any need for me to physically pass her anything, e.g. a scone, to go with a soup, cheesy one, then I would toss it underarm through her passenger window. You need to be accurate, you only get two or three goes before the scone starts to disintegrate. In the end, she took to standing up with her head out of the sunroof to catch it. I said, "You look like a Panzer tank commander!". She loved that. She said, "That should be my new nickname, Tank Commander!", haha! I said, "Nah". 

Lynn's fine. 

[Vangelis-style synth rhythm]

From The Oasthouse wants you! 

Yes, Norfolk's best podcast is looking for an assistant producer, and is pleased to offer graduates, ideally of science or one of the maths, this exciting role that promises to be a launch pad into this fast-growing medium. 

The successful candidate will boast excellent written and spoken English, a wide knowledge of digital media, an aptitude for online corporate strategy, a bulging contacts book, boundless enthusiasm, and a sly sense of humour! 

Responsibilities will include assistant producing, light admin, collecting lunches, errands, including dry cleaning, weekly recycling, visiting the post office, domestic cleaning, laying out Mr Partridge's costume and brushes, minor household repairs, and some basic secretarial tasks. 

The position has a starting salary of £1,000 per calendar month, with a guaranteed pay review within five years. The salary might be low, but what I can guarantee you is a family atmosphere where the feeling of being part of a team that gives its all six days a week is priceless.  Diverse applicants may also apply, but I should point out the premises do not contain a lift. 

Come and join the team.

[phone vibrates]

Oh, here we go, text from Stroders. "Don't worry about photos. Stand down. Looks like Jim can do it". Jim. Who's Jim? Send. 

But back to your emails, Lindsay in Tooting says, "Alan, what do you sleep in?". Well, Lindsay, I dress for bed seasonally. In the winter I wear a thick woollen full-body long john with groin zip and button-up back flap, which does get used. In the spring, neatly-pressed cotton two-piece pyjama shirt in classic blue and white stripe, like the late Andy Pandy. In summer, it's about fending off my night sweats, so I wear a small pair of underpants and three vests, which I discard sequentially as they moisten. 
I don't believe in sleeping nude. I think it's childish, unhygienic, not to mention just plain rude. A very rude way to sleep. In autumn, I just wear my Grandad Graham's big cotton shirt. He's no longer with us. [mournfully] Grandad. 

[phone vibrates]

"Jim is James. James Martin". James Martin? I wonder how he even knows James Martin? 

Next email is from Dennis, who writes, "Alan, do you believe in conscription?". I do. I have long argued for 18-months mandatory military service for all able-bodied people under the age of 30, including gays and vegans, with exceptions for a small number of essential professions; nurses, firefighters, DJs and the police... and so on and so forth. 

After basic training, conscripts would be deployed to support British Army peacekeeping units around the globe with a specialist force of two hundred retained at home to serve in a new base on the English-Scottish border, because it's as well to be prepared. And it would have to be an elite unit because intelligence assessments indicate that in the event of hostilities the enemy would be likely to engage in close-quarters combat, a.k.a. punching. And that's where Hadrian's Unit would come into play. 

[phone vibrates]

Stroders again. Let's have a look. "James introduced himself at the casino after you'd gone home. 
Guess we just stayed in touch". Yeah, 'guess' you 'kinda' did! What a snake, giving me that 'Well-done mate', plying me with one glass of fizzy wine all the while licking his lips at my brand partnership. I'm gonna send him a voice message. 

James, time for a few home truths. The only reason I made friends with you is because of your car collection and because you let me drive your Ferrari Dino down the road. If Reinhard Heydrich, or any lesser Nazi, had a car collection, I'd probably have made friends with them too. I take that back. By the way, it's Alan Partridge here, please don't contact me again. We are done. P.S. Everyone I've spoken to, including your friends and members of your family, i.e. wife, have told me that they think Aunt Bessie's frozen Yorkshire puddings are better than any - any! - fresh Yorkshire puddings you've ever made. Best wishes, brackets, I'm being sarcastic, Alan Partridge.

[slams phone down]

God, that feels good. Amanda writes, "Alan, have you ever been convicted of a criminal offence?". I expect this refers to my being charged with a traffic offence, a case which has gotten out of hand and is due to be heard at Norwich Magistrates' Court. I've been advised by my lawyer not to discuss the specifics of the case, but instead read a prepared statement which should provide some clarity.

[clears throat]

"I, Alan Partridge, would never say I did not do something that couldn't have been mistaken for not doing it, but that doesn't mean I did what I can't confirm I didn't unknowingly not do", and that's as much as I'm allowed to say at this time. I hope that helps, Amanda. 

A question on a similar topic from Glyn in Neath, who I think is our first ever Welsh listener. Welcome, Glyn. Foga chlanyd el... Foga chlan yd el... Foga llan yd el.... Foga llan yd el. [extended period of attempting to say something in Welsh] Sorry, was I talking for a long time then? Glynn asks "Alan, what would your remedy be for fixing the log-jam in the English court system? To my mind, it needs fundamentally reforming", he says, "After all, you can't make an omelette without breaking eggs". 

Well, first of all, Glynn, you can make an omelette without breaking eggs. Simply take an egg, better if it's older, shake it vigorously to blend yolk and white, then place the egg in a boiling pan. Eight minutes later, voila, an omelette made without breaking an egg. Granted, you won't be able to eat it without breaking an egg, but you can make it. 

As for the court system, my solution would be to get rid of the red tape and regulation around becoming a judge. We need to be wary of handing the keys of the justice system to those whose sentencing decisions would be influenced by their own prejudices. But in my proposed system, we would screen for that, e.g. no cabbies could apply. They'd be hanging people for stopping in a box junction. By the way, for which there's absolutely no excuse. 

With the entry threshold widened to a sensible level, there'd be an influx of new judges who, while not actual experts, would probably make reasonably good decisions most of the time. And I, for one, would be happy to throw my hat, or wig, into the ring. Would I reintroduce hanging? That's a complicated one, but yeah, yeah. I'd reintroduce it for murder, with malice of forethought, the murder of anyone in uniform, including the RNLI, the RAC, the AA, Kwik-Fit, Homebase, and Hare Krishna. But not bin men, for obvious reasons. And just to add a small caveat, the sentence should be carried out within 48 hours. Just to help with the backlog. 

This question is from Marcus, a chartered surveyor from Northampton. "Alan, are there any foods that you didn't used to like, but now you do? For example, I didn't used to like mushrooms, but now I quite like mushrooms. Or, for another example, I didn't used to like aioli, but now I quite like aioli. Or for another example, I didn't used to like curly kale, but now I quite like curly kale". Thanks for the question, Marcus, and thanks for the examples, too. I certainly feel clearer as to what it is you're asking. 

Back in my days as a DJ, I once hosted a family fun day at Sizewell B nuclear power station on the Suffolk coast. You know, "This is Alan Partridge putting the 'radio' into 'radioactive'". So that was the vibe of the event, there was a lot less controversy around nuclear power then, in fact, I think there was a wet t-shirt contest. Yes, people were a lot more easy-going when it came to both the national grid and women. But great days, great days, particularly if you're on the judging panel for the wet t-shirt contest! My goodness. But no, we can do better than this, which I think I used to say on the panel. But as I say, I had a very different mindset.

But to answer the question, I remember at lunchtime, I put on a long song, wandered over to the queue for a burger van, stood there for ages, ran back to the booth because a long song was ending, put on another long song, re-joined the back of the queue and eventually got served. But when they handed me my burger, it was in a brioche bun, something I'd never seen before. To me, brioche was always too yellow and French, and I'm not normally averse to trying new things. And I was popping a few pieces of dark chocolate into my chilli con carne as far back as 2003, maybe even 2002. But no, for me, this was a bridge too far.

So I slunk back behind the nearby cider van, ignored the member of staff having a wee, and let the semi-chewed brioche fall from my mouth into a napkin. I then ate the frisbee of beef that remained and headed back to my DJ booth. But years later, I tried one and I said, "This is buttery! Why did no one tell me?". Now, not only will I make a burger with a brioche bun, but I'll also use one to make a fish finger sandwich. It's funny, isn't it, how things work out? 

Keanu, who's seven and lives in Cirencester, says, "Alan, I love to exercise and have big muscles for someone of my age. Is exercise important to you?". Well, my exercise regimen is incredibly important to me. And using the word regimen instead of regime is just one indication of that. How often do I crack a sweat? Pretty regularly, actually. I avoid doing it at weekends because that's my time, but the rest of the week is very much nose to the fitness-grindstone, unless it's a work day where a work commitment means I'll be seen in public. 

Why can't I exercise on those days? Well, because I get a very red head. I'm one of those people where my heart rate elevates, my forehead, cheeks, ears, neck and nose become blood-flushed, so much so that if you were to see me, you'd think, "Oh, my God, look at that man's face! What's wrong with that man's face? Why is that man's face like that?". Or, you might simply think "He's got a big red head". 

And, for some reason, my face stays puce for a good ninety minutes post exercise. Fine if I'm slobbing around at home after a workout, less good if I'm in the city centre cutting the ribbon on a new bowling alley, or, heaven forbid, if I'm one of the local dignitaries in attendance as Prince Michael or Princess Michael of Kent open a new civic centre for able-bodied servicemen, which did happen. I remember I was wearing a white linen suit which made my red head look redder. And I remember someone saying I looked like a giant match. Obviously, my first reaction was, "I want to have a fight with him", but someone said, "Alan, you're being too hot-headed". I said, "Not you as well!".

And I realised the best thing to do was to go home and put my head in the freezer for about sixty seconds. The very idea that I could bring a red head to an event presided over by the Royal Michaels makes my blood run cold, which ironically is exactly what I needed to do. 

Just time for a few quickfire questions. "What's your favourite colour?", that's private. 

"If you could front a documentary about any subject, what would it be?", a definitive history of Scotland. 

"When was the last time you got into a physical altercation?", six weeks ago. A bin man wouldn't take recycling. 

"Should we be worried about Norway?", I wasn't before. I am now. 

"Do you believe in AIDS?", yes, I do believe in AIDS. 

And finally, "Would you ever do a podcast where you co-hosted with someone, and if so, who would it be?", yes, Seb Coe.

[closing theme music]