S04E11: Verdict

[traffic noises, press hubbub and  camera shutters]

There follows a statement by the broadcaster Alan Partridge.

Good morning. My name is Alan Partridge. I stand before you, a convicted criminal. Seven words that pain me, seven words I hoped never to utter, and yet I have today appeared in Norwich Magistrates Court, charged with failing to return a Section 172 Form identifying the driver of my car at the time of a traffic violation, an offence under English common law. 

Having reviewed the evidence, the magistrates have found me guilty, and I accept that decision. This is, without question, the darkest day of my life. I've been fined the princely sum of £1,000, money with which I had hoped to buy a chair. Now when I look at the space where the chair would have been, I see only a yucca plant and my own fallibility. 

I will of course step down as patron of both Visit East Anglia and the Norfolk Milk Marketing Board, and I hereby resign my position as media liaison for the Friends of Fossil Fuels, a grassroots movement dear to my heart that represents the best and brightest in coal, oil and gas. My contract as Brand Ambassador for Corsodyl mouthwash, P&O Ferries and Rymans are also under review. 

I get it, I have let people down. There'll be friends who now cross the road to avoid speaking to me, whose wives will instruct them not to come to my birthday barbecue, who cancel plans to attend the Southampton International Boat Show with me. To them I say, I understand. 

I understand much else besides, too many times I have thrown the finger of accusation at people I had no right to, whose stories I do not know. Drug dealers, shoplifters, the Boston Strangler. I dare say even a few Nazis are just blokes who simply lost their way. Well, today I join their ranks as a trans... - [cough] pardon me - as a transgressor, a cross-gressor. The point is we are all of us, all of us gressors, trans or otherwise. 

The Americans have a saying, "Calm as a bitch", or as the St. James Bible would have it, "You reap what you sow. My late nana used to say, "What goes around comes around", and hers is the best one. If you're looking down at me now nana, I'm sorry, I've been a naughty boy. I'll go and sit in the cupboard under the stairs for three hours again. I loved her, but she was a bad nana.

And so where to now? All I can say is, from this point, I will strain every sinew to make right what I done wrong. While I reflect on what the future may hold, I intend to spend the next two months reading books to young offenders, and blind people of all ages. Shakespeare, Grisham, Rowling, Blyton.

Finally, today's verdict for me is a chance to say to the little man inside me, "I've had my chance, now it's your turn. I'm going back inside. But if you need me, just tap your tummy, open your mouth and I'll be there". Thank you. 

[hubbub stops, with a lingering echo]

That was the statement I had been planning to deliver had I been found guilty in court today. However, as you might be able to tell from the jauntiness of my tone, the smidgen of smugness in my smile, the hint of Michael Ball in my demeanour, I speak today once again in the Men's Toilets of Norwich Magistrates Court, an innocent man! I've been found not guilty. I've been found not guilty! The state has failed to convict me, I have fucking won, you sack of shit losers!

Which means I can take this snivelling statement and flush it down the lavatory where it belongs. What a load of shit, "Reading to young offenders"! And the blind have got braille.

[flush]

There, because I have in the last few minutes been formally - not quite gone down. No, no, no, no. Still there, never mind - [clears throat] Because I have in the last few minutes been formally acquitted of any wrongdoing whatsoever. To paraphrase Clash, "Alan fought the law and Alan won". Simple as that. 

So I've come here to take stock and record a snap-reaction to my victory. How do I feel? I feel absolutely amazing! Utterly, utterly elated, I feel like doing a nude cartwheel through a funfair, or singing a Jon Bon Jovi song on a motorbike, or just spending shitloads at John Lewis! I feel back to my old self. 

Which isn't to say it was a slam dunk in there, for a time, I was very frightened. And that's not easy to admit, I'm part of a friend-group made up of seriously macho bachelors and if you admit to being scared of anything, ever, be it a car that's too powerful or simply a woman in HR, they'll have a field day calling you names ranging from ninny to chicken to sissy to scaredy cat. 

But scaredy it was, the magistrate was clearly ready to throw the book at me. Not literally, although I've seen him around Norwich and he definitely drinks, and I was resigned to defeat. And that was when my assistant Lynn stood up brandishing a mobile phone, she asked if she could approach. At which point she showed the court a photograph, it was sent to me from a woman on the day of the driving offence and it is, in effect, a selfie of said woman standing beside my car with the driver's door open. The message beneath it said, "Thanks again, I'll bring it back in one piece". It is a digital footprint that proves that she was in possession of the car at the time of the offence. And it completely exonerates me.

Well, at that point, both the courtroom and my tummy were rumbling. Which was when the CPS prosecutor said that was all well and good, but I was still in violation of the law because in not contacting this woman to see if she'd been driving, I had failed to take all possible steps to identify the driver before the deadline. 

And suddenly my solicitor leapt into action, and bear in my mind, solicitor doesn't leap anywhere, unless they ring the bell for last orders. He's not someone over-encumbered with detail, he's a man who will sit in the courtroom and openly Google the law on his phone. But for some reason, inspiration hit. And he said, "Your honour, my client was not obliged to take all possible steps. He was obliged to take all reasonable steps, and it's surely not reasonable to expect him to contact on the off chance everyone he knows, and surely that would include this woman who's not even his friend". 

At which point I took over and said, "Graham, sit down. Strike all that from the record, none of it matters, because my name is Charlie Bucket and I've got the golden ticket to the Chocolate Factory. Allow me to explain, if I may step forward". So I stepped forward. I said, my loaned friend is Chris, this is a woman I know who didn't love her husband, she needed a car so she could go and have sex with another man, but didn't want to use her own car in case it was recognised. I owed her a favour because she lied to me when I'd cheated on a woman I was seeing some years earlier who I didn't really like. She said I owe her one because she'd kept the secret from the woman behind whose back her and I had been having sex.

In return, she asked to use my car because she wanted a car that was big enough for her to have sex in if they couldn't find a place to go and have sex. My car fits the bill, the seats fold, they aren't fabric, the leather can be wiped clean. I wouldn't allow a promiscuous woman to borrow a car with fabric seats for sex, whatever the size.

In the end, she didn't need it and she was able to find a small room with a lock on it and they did it in there. But her name is Margaret Clitheroe, same name as the martyr, and she works with children with special needs. I must emphasise that this did not affect her work, the children were in no danger and these events only ever occurred during her lunch hours. She's done nothing illegal, apart from obviously the traffic violation. 

She didn't want to pay for a hotel, as she said, she'd only be there for an hour since, in her words, she fancied the man but didn't want to spend time with him. His name is Geoffrey Daughton and he also works with children with special needs. Again, his work was not adversely affected by the extracurricular sex activity.

Well, you could have heard a pin drop! And although the magistrate frowned heavily for the remainder of the session, he agreed with my solicitor and I was found not guilty. And the court erupted into, if not jubilation, then certainly a hubbub. I stood and smiled a small smile, small smile, I gathered my things, strolled up to the CPS prosecutor and said, "Bad luck mate. Looks like this Legal Eagle can't even catch a Partridge!" and then moseyed on out. 

It was a stunning victory. Thanks in no small part to Lynn, my assistant, who... just, I don't know why she sat on the information for so long, I think she just wanted to be in a courtroom drama. I thanked her, made a point of thanking her. I said, "Thank you, Lynn, for being a contributory factor to the wider efforts to exonerate me". And she didn't respond, she just looked down and smiled. I know her well enough to know she was imagining it was the penultimate shot of a courtroom scene that would then cut to an aerial shot of her walking away with a quiet dignity, as much dignity as she can muster.

But the expression she had on her face, you'd think she was representing Rosa Parks! At which point I came here to take a moment, capture my feelings on the mic and flush my prepared statement down the lav. So... still doesn't want to go. Maybe weigh it down with some loo roll. Uh, let's have a look. No, no, that's made it worse. No, um, no, that's not worked at all. I suppose in many ways, the toilet is a useful metaphor for our court system, chuck in something that has no business being there, i.e. me, and you're just clogging up the system for everyone else. Sometimes it needs the intervention of a sturdy bog brush, i.e. my assistant, to free the log-jam.

Let's have a look... Yeah, that's blocked. I'm going to leave it. I'm gonna leave. Someone will go on it eventually and the weight will just push it down. Once it's fully sodden, it'll break up, but I can't wait around for that. Erm... should I wash my hands? No, I didn't do anything. Scrunch up my cuffs, open the door. 

[accordion music]

Norfolk facts.

Facts about Norfolk. Fish fingers were invented in Norfolk. Frozen food impresario Clarence Birdseye first thought up the fish finger in the 1920s, production starting in 1955.

Often served with chips and peas, the fingers are formed from a rectangular rod of cod or haddock, pebble-dashed with breadcrumbs sourced from the finest orange loaves. So go out and treat yourself to fish fingers, any brand, anywhere. Simply buy fish fingers!

God, the relief! I'm not too proud to admit I... I enjoyed a long dark night of the soul last night. And, even though I've never done this before, on the advice of my assistant, who is a Baptist, I prayed. Nothing grand or eloquent, just a humble prayer with a Church of England vibe.

"Oh Lord, our heavenly father, almighty and ever living God, maker of heaven and earth, dad of Jesus, not husband of Mary but... who had a very holy one night stand with Mary, in thy mercy, hear my prayer. Like your son Jesus, I have been falsely accused of wrongdoing. Unlike your son's trial, I would ask you to use your powers to save me. Not sure why you didn't with him. If my son was in trouble, I would speak to a chief constable. Not having a go at you, I just thought it was a bit odd to leave him to it, but this is your chance to right that wrong. Yep, yours, et cetera, Alan Partridge, amen". 

Lynn, are they still here? 

[Lynn] "They are, but it's thinning out".

 

Okay, let's do it. You go ahead and open the door for me. 

[Lynn leaves to deal with the assembled press while Alan looks on]

Gather them! Shepherd them, flock them together, so they're in a group! Shepherd the hacks, Lynn, shepherd them!

God, this feels good. I'm a free man. I'm not a number. I mean, I am in the court system, but this is going to be like Mandela's walk to freedom, except instead of taking me past political prisoners and murderers, my walk takes me past people who... basically haven't paid their TV licence fee. 

Yeah, there are few things as good as total vindications, that sweet sensation of being proved one hundred percent right, whether it's a legal issue or just a pub chat. I remember being scoffed at when I told friends that one of them BBC newscasters would end up embroiled in a sex scandal. I absolutely pissed myself. I was delighted that Nelson was free. Mandela.

Okay, here it is. This is gonna be like The Guilford Four. Okay. Don't overdo it. Don't overdo it. Just nice and easy. Easy as you like. It's your time. It's your time. Okay, here we go. Right. Don't overdo it. Don't overdo it. Easy as you like. 

[walking outside]

Ladies and gentlemen, Alan Partridge would like to make a brief statement.

As you can see, I'm addressing you without notes, speaking very much from the heart. You'll forgive me if I don't deliver the usual prepared statement. My name is Alan Partridge, for three months, I have had to deal with lies, innuendo, slander, stares, spitting, and tutting. Well, now the tutters become the tuttees, ad today, I intend to take my turn to tut!

I've spent six months of my life being told I was a criminal, waking up every day caked in shame. I saw my best friend's mum die in a retirement home while I was defending this case. Three months ago, I had four chickens! I've seen two of them die while I was dealing with this! Killed by a fox, or foxes. Not sure which. It's hard to tell. 

Someone somewhere at the CPS knows something. I want the people responsible to face the consequences. Who were they? Why did they do this? Why did they think it acceptable to hunt down an innocent man like a common criminal?! Sorry, I went a bit hoarse when I said common. This isn't just about me. There are hundreds of thousands of innocent men assumed to be driving cars they were not.

How many more good men are out there getting points on their licence? How many more go through the pain and anguish of receiving a fixed penalty notice? How many more will be crushed under the wheel of a justice system no longer fit for purpose? I say again, shame on you. If you fix this, we'll let it go, that will be the end of it. But if you do not, I will track you down. I will find you, and I will call you. 

To everyone else, I say this; It gets a bad rap, this land of ours. First-time visitors might struggle to see the appeal. You wonder what William the Conqueror thought when he first set foot in England. I suppose he wasn't William the Conqueror at that point, he was just William. I don't mean the fat public schoolboy with a catapult, who frankly could have taken someone's eye out. But then again, so did this William. Because, anyone? 

[man in crowd] "Like Harold, with the arrow?". 

But you know, yep, he knows. But stepping onto English soil with his local quirks and grunting Saxons, he must have thought, "What the hell have I conquered here?!". But that is to misunderstand what makes us who we are. Because beneath the surface, we're not such a bad country. I'll admit over the last few weeks, the court case taking its toll, I've had my doubts! 

[coughing from the crowd]

How could the country I love so dearly get things so wrong? But out here on the streets, I've seen the best of Britain. It's the people who've come forward to support me, people I barely knew, well-wishers in their dozen. Can you stop coughing, please? I'm trying to deliver a statement.

[cougher] "Sorry".

Well, can you...

"I've got a cough".

I know you've got a cough, you can go and cough somewhere else. And I can see you're trying to stop one now, you've obviously got a condition. Go and cough somewhere else. Thank you.

I want to thank the public who've supported me. They've come from all walks of life, people I've never met, school friends I've not seen in years. Keith Wellington, who we used to know as Beef Wellington, because he was quite beefy. A boy called Rizzo, never knew his second name, who's now the proprietor of a car wash. Robert Whitter, boss-eyed Bob, we called him, on account of his boss-eye. Not seen him for years, he came up to me, stood in front of me, he looked me in the eye and said, "Alan, well done", pretty sure he looked me in the eye.

And three others, too numerous to mention, pledged their wholehearted support. They never doubted me, even when I doubted myself. Even a little girl, age six, who bounded up to me, she pressed a pound coin into my hand and said, "That's for your defence fund and any related costs you might incur", then she scrunched her little face up and ran away. And very briefly, a word from me, to a woman who has been my rock.

I may not say it enough, but her loyalty and support mean the world to me and it is no exaggeration to say, without her, I would not be standing here now. She is a very, a very special person. Her name is Katrina Ellis. She is my girlfriend and I love her. And even though she couldn't be here today because of a pre-existing nail appointment, there's no one who means more to me.

She is a woman who never takes it lying down without a fight. Katrina, Katty, if you're listening to this later on on the tea-time bulletin, baby, I am forever grateful. And there's a present waiting for you upstairs, in the bedroom. It's on the bed wrapped in scarlet silk. It's me, freshly showered and dying to give you a big cuddle! 

Gentlemen of the press, go home to your wives. Cherish them. 

"What's your name again?" 

Alan Partridge. Yeah, Alan with one L. Partridge, P-A-R-T-R-I-D-G-E. Thank you. 

[closing theme bed]

From the Oasthouse was written by Steve Coogan, Neil Gibbons and Rob Gibbons, starring Steve Coogan. 

Also featuring Felicity Montagu, Lourdes Faberes, Dan Skinner, Neil Gibbons and Rob Gibbons.

Directed by Neil Gibbons and Rob Gibbons. 

Produced by Joe Fraser. 

Associate Producers, Ben Rouse and Will Farrell.

Production Coordinators, Chloe Patterton and Emily Betts. 

Sound Recordists, Will Whale and Alan Hill. 

Edited by Jonathan Cronin.

Sound Design and mixed by Sounds Like These. 

Head of Production for Baby Cow, Justine Randall. 

For CH Podcasts, the Executive Producers were Louise Barry and Jessica Stone.

For Audible, the Executive Producer was Sam Bryant. 

The Production Executive was Hayley Nathan, and the Commissioning Editor was Sam Bryant.