S04E10: Day in Court

Good morning. First, they came for the Communists, and I did not speak out because I am not a Communist. And to be fair, they needed dealing with.

Then they came for the, well, various other groups. Same again. To date, the British judicial system, one of our most respected institutions, along with the Ministry of Defence and the Royal Family, apart from Andrew, has come for me, and it feels lonely. Am I surprised? Not really. As a white middle-aged man, you're used to getting a raw deal. Comes with the turf. Women with dyed pink hair, big glasses and big earrings want to take us down. 

But that don't make it any easier when it's your head in the crosshairs. I used to wonder why the Soviets used women as snipers. Not anymore, but I'm getting ahead of myself. For now, despite the allegations levelled against me, I remain Alan, a free man.

Just to make clear, that's Alan, a free man, not Alan Freeman, the late Radio 2 DJ who was clean as a whistle. Actually, one of the few former BBC Radio 2 DJs to have emerged unscathed from the whole Operation Yewtree fiasco. For that section of my audience who are under 30, which is about 3% of you, a quarter of 1% of whom are women, and probably unfamiliar with Alan Freeman, I'll briefly explain. And for those who are older, feel free to press the skip thirty seconds button now. 

Alan Freeman, also known as Fluff, not sure why, was an Australian-born DJ with hair a bit like mine, but greyer, known for his deep voice, transatlantic accent, and the famous catchphrase, "Not 'alf!". He presented long-running radio show Pick of the Pops, which ran from 1960 until the early '70s before being brought back by Radio 2 in the '90s because people can't leave things alone. In the '70s he voiced the adverts for Brentford Nylons, which was a company that made nylon bedsheets in an array of colours, now discontinued. Lovely man, very private, no black-marks against his character, and on we go...

But Radio 2 very much was a focal point for Operation Yewtree. For those of you under 20, Operation Yewtree was, sorry to do this again, the rest of you can skip forward 30 seconds now, was a witch hunt against middle-aged broadcasters to identify those who had wrongly regarded a bit of a grope as a perk of the job, along with the subsidised canteen and a free parking space. 

It was essentially just a very, very big misunderstanding and was investigated for about a year, leaving a lot of people like me terrified. You'd be scared every time the phone rang, dreaded a knock at the door, got into a habit of saying "I can't remember", even though a lot of things you could remember. Seems to have blown over, rock stars apart from Gary Glitter seem to have gotten away scot-free, because people like their music, and on we go....

No, this is Alan Partridge coming to you live from Norwich Magistrates' Court where I'm about to defend my good name against a very serious criminal charge. My crime might not have a cool snappy name like murder, treason or assault, but failing to respond to a Section 172 Notice to identify the driver following a traffic violation is every bit as criminal as the two I just mentioned, and if found guilty the court does have the power to sentence me to as many as six points on my licence, an unlimited fine, or theoretically up to six months in prison. So, plenty riding on this.

In fact the owners of this platform, Audible, messaged me to say that while they wished me well, they were pleased the potential for a custodial sentence however remote would provide the kind of jeopardy that's been sorely lacking for all of this series and large sections of the previous three. They said they wanted some sort of narrative, I told them, "Sorry but this is reality, I don't have a narrative, my life just bobs along". 

Well it did. And now I've gained the worst kind of narrative, because if they want jeopardy, by god they've got it. By god they've got it! You're listening to Audible. 

[futuristic synth bass]

Facts and figures.

From the Oasthouse couldn't be easier to access, but making the series? Well, that's a little trickier. Did you know every series of From the Oasthouse uses over ten metres of cable? It requires not one, but three microphones. The series is devised using eighteen pages of written notes. When finished it contains over 50,000 words, and the same number of spaces between words. 

And, in terms of digital memory, the series weighs in at two million bytes, the same as 140,000 copies of the original Pac-Man game. So, instead of sending emails pointing out minor factual errors, next time just say "Wow!", and "Thanks".

Facts and figures. 

I am sure there are a fair few people out there rubbing their hands with glee at the prospect of me being, let's face it, buggered in a prison shower by a big chap. Or small chap with a couple of big chaps as friends. And you think "Well, just avoid the showers!", it's not that easy because I'm someone who likes to be clean, making me a prisoner even more likely to be targeted. I'd effectively be a PILF. 

So with that in mind, in this episode you join me at a crossroads like no other. This is the moment of truth, a time of reckoning. Welcome to Judgement Day. 

[loud rush of air] 

Apologies, there's someone using a hand-dryer. I'm actually recording from the toilet. [dryer stops] I'm actually recording from a toilet cubicle in the men's lavatory here at the court. Not as grim as it sounds. To the credit of the ushers here, this is actually a very pleasant lavatory. Well maintained, clean, fragrant. Surprising, given the nerves you'd expect in a place like this. And it's provided a welcome haven, even a sanctuary, in which I can hide away and take pause.

A moment just for me, and also you guys - which could be anywhere between five hundred and five million listeners, Audible don't release audience figures - to mark what should be a seminal juncture, an inflexion point that might see me transform in this cubicle cocoon from Alan the upstanding respecter of law and order to a different Alan. Alan the Bad Boy. Rogue Alan, Alan Outlaw. Not a group I want to be in, believe me. A criminal conviction would change my life beyond all recognition.

I like to visit Florida once a year and that would have to stop. So yes, life would change beyond all recognition. I admit I'm scared, I don't want to be Borstal Boy Alan, Tearaway Alan, Orphan Alan, Foster Alan, not Foster and Alan. I've always taken a very hard line on the criminal facility. I argued long and hard for removal of television sets in Her Majesty's Prison.

I believe prisoners should spend their time not being pampered and getting to do GCSEs, but forced into hard labour, which at a stroke could fix the epidemic of potholes that blight British roads. I know that will involve them leaving the prison grounds, but all you need is a few prison officers in sunglasses walking up and down with pump-action shotguns to make sure the prisoners don't run off or escape through the back of a service station having offered to get everyone coffees. From Costa Coffee to the Costa del Sol, I've got to try and stand up. [hand-dryer] Sorry about that. Yeah, hand-dryer again.

So yes, a day fraught with tension to think what a criminal conviction would do to my brand. Remember, I'm the voice, the face, the lead-endorser of Armadillo Security Blinds. I've become a watchword for personal safety, domestic security and thick metal shutters, but then if word gets out I am myself a common criminal, then my position becomes untenable. And that is something we've already discussed. John Armadillo, previously John Shaw, took me for lunch and over burgers. He said, if I'm found guilty, they'd have to let me go. And I appreciated him taking the trouble to do that. 

I said, "John, I get it. Ours has been a great partnership. And over the last seventeen years, we've put Armadillo on the map and I will forever be proud of that. Remember what they said? They said, 'You can't make a business out of security blinds and aluminium shutters!', oh, really? I'd love to grab those doubters by the scruff of their necks and march them through the pedestrianised streets of Norwich City Centre after 6pm and say, "Well, what's all this then? Show me a shop without security blinds and I will show you a charity shop. We did it, John. We did it", I said.

Six o'clock used to be signalled by the ding-dong of church bells, until you replaced it with a clang-clang-clang of metal shutters. Fast forward three years and you're selling plastic ones. Again, they said it couldn't be done, but there you were, six o'clock, replacing the ding-dong ding-dong and clang-clang-clang with a clack-clack-clack of plastic. I looked him in the eye and said, "You did that, John. But if someone says you can't do something, it's a guarantee you'll bloody do it!".

I should say to you, "You're never going to get your wife back", and he laughed before he did the usual staring-off-into-space ex-wife thing he does. But if I have a criminal record, I become toxic, you wouldn't need to let me go, John, I would walk away. And we hugged for about thirty seconds, which is a lot longer than it sounds. But then we looked at each other, lumps in our throats, only partially down to the burgers. Was it gristle? Was it emotion? It doesn't seem to matter. 

But as he turned to me, some burger sauce was dribbling from his mouth and half his face seemed to be drooping. He said... [hand dryer] He said... [hand dryer again] They're dry! Why do you keep drying them for? They're only hands! How dry do you need them to be? Walk them back in the air like everyone else does! [dryer stops] Thank you. Thank you. I can't remember what I was talking about now. I think I'm going to leave these toilets actually, just in case I'm called.

Leaving the cubicle. Just going to do a quick mirror check. Looking... good, actually! Not too snazzy. I've gone for a fairly sober look today, fresh white shirt, striped tie in the colours of NatWest Bank, simple grey suits. Hair-wise, I've gone easy on the volumising mousse to leave the hair not bedraggled, but certainly flatter to the head, like a chorister. And, for today only, my lapel is adorned with the bird emblem of the Liberal Democrats, because I happen to know the magistrate votes yellow. Liberal Democrats! That's the level of desperation I've reached, even wearing my lucky pants.

They're just M&S briefs, but I wore them one day back when I ran a production company called Pear Tree Productions. It was the day we won a tribunal case against a woman in accounts, claiming unfair dismissal after we let her go for breathing too loudly due to what she said was asthma. In actual fact, she wasn't asthmatic. She had an inhaler, true, but that was to alleviate a basic pulmonary disease. It wasn't asthma, meaning she'd effectively perjured herself. It didn't matter that she had a different condition, the important thing was we'd established her as a liar! So yes, a sweet victory.

And I've worn the same pants ever since on days when I need the gods to smile on me, which so far they have. In fact, I've worn them so much, the gusset has gone. It had to be reinforced, so I used the most hard-wearing material I could find, which is the flap of woven polypropylene, the plastic stuff they used to make post office sacks out of, but I then double-lined it with a square of satin cut from the negligee of my ex-wife. Balls on polypropylene feels awful, balls on satin feels really, really, really nice. 

I'm here with my assistant Lynn, her health problems seemingly now behind her, who has very kindly packed me an overnight bag of essentials in the event that I'm sent to jail. I had to make a few edits to what she packed, she included a pair of pyjamas, which I do like to wear at home but a friend advised me that wearing a pair of pyjamas would draw unwelcome attention from the tougher boys. I told him they were judo-jamas, that is pyjamas in a judo style, but my friend said he didn't think that would make much difference and may, in fact, make things worse. Yeah, I think on balance he's right.

And with me, somewhere, is my solicitor, Graham, who is not the best brief money can buy. In fact, he lives in a trailer, but as he points out, so did Jim Rockford from the Rockford Files. I suppose the difference is Jim Rockford lived on the Pacific Coast Highway in Los Angeles, whereas Graham's is in a picnic area off the A31, but he says he's allowed to be there.

It's like a doctor's waiting room, this. You find yourself looking around, thinking, "There, but for the grace of god, go Alan". "Judge ye not!". I look back to my teenage years and wonder what kind of criminal world I had fallen into had I taken a wrong turn. Thank god for Mr Garside. I wouldn't be up for GBH, but I certainly have ended up working as a foreman, cutting corners on a building site, using aggregate instead of cement for the foundations, which would only really reveal itself after five to ten years, after which time I'd be a long gone. A chilling thought. Or, only laying a veneer of tarmac and using the excess to cover people's driveways for cash in hand. A Dickensian tragedy! 

I'm making a promise to myself, if I get out of this, I'm writing a novel, set in Edgware, called Popeye, McLean and the Edgware Embezzlers. Don't know what it's about yet, but it'll be long. Oh dear. I've got a really bad feeling about this trial. Oh christ, I can see a smattering of photographers outside. That's my fault, that's on me. I made the minor tactical error of trying to suppress the story and succeeded in only making it much, much bigger.

Basically, the editor of the Norwich Gazette was a friend of mine, we managed to rope this editor into a squash tournament at the rackets club, all very above board. Afterwards in the shower area I approached him, asked if he'd heard about my case and he said "Vaguely", I said, "I suggest you don't give it any coverage". He said, "We probably will though". 

I said, "That's a shame because, correct me if I'm wrong, but you're only able to operate thanks to the revenue you get from advertisers. What if I told you I know dozens of people, every one of them is a big deal in Norwich, who will pull their advertising like that. I could bankrupt you".  I said, "You think I can't fold a newspaper?", he said, "Everyone can fold a newspaper, it's made of paper", and everyone laughed as they talced themselves down, it was not the effect I'd intended. I just wandered off and put my clothes back on. 

Anyway, from that point on, the Norwich Gazette had it in for me and they now had to mete out rough justice. I saw them ruining a dinner lady just because she smoked in the canteen. Apparently second-hand smoke is worse than first-hand Turkey Twizzlers. Really? Anyway, I've made an enemy of the Norwich Gazette who have now turned up mob-handed to cover the story in detail. 

Okay, okay, this is fine, this is fine. I might just have a quick leaf through some of the messages I've received, I've been inundated with dozens... or one dozen of supportive messages, and as long as they're relatively concise, I read every last one. Thank you so much, your loyalty means the world to me. And whatever the verdicts say, I will keep them in a file on my laptop for the rest of my days or until I replace my laptop. 

So your messages. Trevor in Cromer says, "Good luck mate". Gareth in Wisbech emails to say "They can take your freedom but they can never take your spit!". I think he means spirit. Also here, I've got a postcard with a picture of Horsey Windpump, the classic Norfolk windmill, it's from Josh who's seven and he says, "I hope you like the picture. If you put it on the wall of your cell, it will look like a little window". Aaw! What a lovely little boy! 

He adds, "My dad went to prison for something they said he did, even though he never. He's from the McDonald family, you probably know us, and when he gets out, the people who fitted him up will wish they'd not been born. If you know who shopped you, dad will help. Just give us a name". That's touching. He's drawn a picture of a little car, with gun barrels pointing out of the window firing, well, a hail of bullets, no other way to describe it. Two men with a speech bubble saying, "Die, you grass!".

And finally, one from Delilah in Barford who says, "If you're in real trouble, you can always run away and come and stay with me. I live in a flat above a chip shop, with my husband who works in the chip shop, which means most evenings I'm alone. And if you don't mind the smell of chip fat,"... 

Can I help you, mate? 

[juvenile] "Don't think so". 

You just thought you'd come and stand right next to me, did you? Hey, wha... Hey, what're you doing?! [sounds of a pursuit] Come back! Stop, in the name of the law! Hey! Aaaah, dead end! What'd you do that for? 

"Just felt like it".

Yeah? You just give that back now, that is the property of Audible!

"Who's Audible?".

Audible is a kind of platform, or a network of some kind, that makes, or hosts, in some way... I don't actually know what they are, but they get very angry! 

"They can fuck right off".

Hey! Excuse me, you should not use language like that in the street, never mind in a court of law. Now hand it back.

[recording device changing hands]  

Thank you. What'd your mum and dad say, they heard you use words like that? 

"Don't have a mum or dad".

Ahhh. Siddown here. Yes. Come on. Sit down. What do you mean you don't have a mum and dad? Everyone's got a mum and a dad. 

"I live in a care home".

Oh, I'm very sorry about that. So what's it like in care then? Is it ... [fades] 

[voiceover]

As this juvenile ne'er-do-well told me the story of a life of care homes and petty crime, I decided to help him. In an attempt to win over the magistrate trying his case, I later made some calls and persuaded my former radio sidekick, Simon Denton, to give the boy work experience in North Norfolk Digital. Management at first reluctant, but I instructed Simon to say the boy was his nephew, and he knew him to be a decent lad of good character, a lie that held for just five days before the boy stole £4,000 worth of audio equipment. Simon was reprimanded and is paying the money back out of his wages. 

...The choice would be yours. In a few years, I could see someone of your calibre, maybe have your own van, eh? The things in the glove box that belong to you, because you bought them, because you could afford them. Because you've got a job, you see? 

"What are you in for?".

Section 172, failure to produce information related to a fixed penalty notice. Fucking pigs. Any tips? 

"Tell them you're sorry, and say you're depressed". 

Oh, all right. 

"They'll let you off".

Really? 

"That's all you've got to do". 

Do you know, that's pretty much word for word what my solicitor said, although he charged me a grand. 

[registrar] "Case number twelve, please come forward".

[juvenile] "Oh, that's me". 

[registrar] "Case number twelve, Manfield". 

I didn't get your name.

[juvenile] "Hurricane". 

Hurricane? 

"Hurricane Manfield. You're all right, you".

Oh, yes, so are you. Good luck, Hurricane. 

[registrar] "Case number four. Case number four, Alan Partridge". 

[Lynn] "I think that's us, Alan. They just said your name, court four." 

Right. Lynn, was I just talking to a boy then? 

[Lynn] "I don't know. I was working on a puzzle". 

Yeah, so was I, Lynn... So was I. 

[closing theme music]