A recent piece by Fellow bearer-o-quill and long time associate; Steve Dunt

Book Review: Alan Partridge: ‘I, Partridge: We Need to Talk About Alan’. 
This article is written by Steve Dunt; Co-Presiding Chairperson(man) of the South- Norwich-Branch-Alan-Partridge-Fan-Club©.

“...Jesus hasn’t returned yet... Alan has!”

So rarely in life do things come full circle. So rarely does this road that we are all on (metaphor) take us through the dark and ugly, and yet somehow through sheer perseverance bring us back around to where we wish to be. Take for instance the Norwich ring road, the circumnavigation of which is in fact broken up by the Bixley-to- Bracondale bypass. Yet, Alan Partridge, with his second autobiography ‘I, Partridge: We Need To Talk About Alan’, has rightfully returned to the soaring heights of yesteryear and continued the Partridge saga embarked upon in his debut book ‘Bouncing Back’.

However, before ‘critics’ begin to ask the question; ‘why the second book Alan, why?’ let us remind ourselves of one thing; after the success of his own best-selling autobiography, even Jesus himself hasn’t managed a return yet. Alan Partridge has. And Jesus could perform miracles. So, perhaps it’s worth remembering, ‘critics’, that if that little carpenter lad had the creative talent of Mr. Partridge, he might have released a second work as miraculous as Alan’s (perhaps the Black and Decker WM536 – a miracle in its own right). It’s a humbling thought.

Alan has structured this book to Toblerone-like perfection. The story, like all good stories (and Toblerones) has a clear beginning, middle, and end. And, each of these sections is split into rich yet easily digestible chunks containing nuggets of genius to really get your teeth stuck into, as well having a point (like a Toblerone).

Alan begins with his much-rumoured birth; the moment he heroically escaped from the fleshy confines of his mother’s loins like an eagle hatchling taking first flight from its twiggen nest, or perhaps from some kind of jam-filled Ginsters Slice. One of my favourite moments of the book however, was truly an historic one (and yes that is the correct grammar). It is a moment that changed not only Alan’s life, but also my own. For were it not for this glorious moment, I, the curator of the South-Norwich-Branch-Alan- Partridge-Fan-Club©, would not be standing before you (or writing – for those not at Wednesday’s club reading) as chairperson - guardian of Partridge - but would have travelled a very different road (metaphor). The moment of which I speak is the moment when Alan discovered his calling, his fate. Like all of the brightest-burning careers, Alan’s started at Boy Scouts. It was during his post as Officer that he was first exposed to the world of showbiz. As he and his North-Norwich-District-Branch Boy Scouts performed for their parents under the glittering lights (and glitter) of showbiz, Alan knew what he was destined to do. He was to become a presenter. Nay! The presenter. The wheels of change, upon the axel of hope and hubcaps of dreams, had finally begun to roll into motion.

Alan’s book goes on to chart his meteostrophical rise to stardom; how he shot from his first broadcasting job in hospital radio, all the way up to join the ethereal constellation of Norwich’s biggest stars; snooker’s Barry Pinches, Hi-De-Hi’s Gladys Pugh, Percy Weasley out of Harry Potter, and the Norwich star that’s so massive that he has metaphorically imploded in a gravitational-collapse causing a supernova so dense as to form a black-hole and in turn create a space vacuum... Sir James Dyson. And, like that man’s greatest achievement (the DC24 Multi-Floor), Alan clears the air. He clears up the controversy surrounding his early BBC career; ‘On the Hour’, the series of events leading to ‘The Day Today’, and about how he found his specific niche as sports presenter/interviewer/anchor.

With the man himself as our guide, we strip away Alan’s outer layers of legend until nothing is left but a man; a man standing before us, naked and quivering, with his extensive body (of work) clutched in his palms. And, hand in clammy hand we explore that body, poking an inquisitive finger into his highs; such as the dawning of the historic catchphrase - ‘Ahaaaa!’ - which came 84th in Channel 4’s ‘100 Best Catchphrases’ below three of Jeremy Clarkson’s hilarious Latin-American-themes quips.

Alas, celebrity has its dark side. Like all presenters, Alan became a slave to the bright lights of fame, toiling away under that hot fluorescence like a university-educated prostitute. And, like many stars (not literal ones), he burnt out far too early. Leading up to the disaster of Knowing Me Knowing You’s final episode, the giddy heights of London destroyed his personal life in much the same way it destroyed South-Barling’s Green Belt system. At his lowest point we find Alan entangled in a battle to re-sign, and not resign, with the BBC, and living in the Linton Travel Tavern off the London-to-Norwich A11 trunk road. With Alan’s life ripped apart and scattered across two cities, Linton was halfway betwixt the twain. It is equidistant from Norwich, which Alan claims to be “the nuts”, and London, the arsehole of England. Thus, Alan was stuck in England’s guiche. Yet, the Partridge’s wings were not yet clipped, and the book’s latter chapters witness the man soaring in a vertical trajectory towards North Norwich Digital Radio, and a return to his rightful glory.

Over this book’s 34 chapters, Alan captures the man behind the legend with far more insight than, for example, Richard Blackwood’s extensive series of autobiographical films did in as many hours. The writing is clear and no-nonsense. It avoids avant-garde gibberish by explaining which lines are metaphors and which are not. This is something that for too few writers take the time to do these days. There is, of course, a place for experimentation, but it should be kept within socially acceptable conventions and rigid pre-established frameworks, like a bottle of passionfruit J2O.

This book is perhaps the finest I have ever read. But, by no means should I, Steve Dunt, be accused of bias purely upon my role as curator of Partridge. I too have criticisms. Firstly the writing isn’t even joined up (although I suspect this is an error on the part of the publisher – most likely a women). Secondly, of all the books I’ve read, this book is made from - by far - the worst quality paper. It is far coarser than the other 9. However, the fact that such genius can be born from such poor quality pulp speaks volumes. Never since the bulldozing of Epping Forest for the Woolworths car park has something so elegant been born from something formerly made from trees. And, like that motor-vehicle-temporary-storage-facility, this is a work that will keep on inspiring, keep on giving, for many a year to come.

Steve Dunt

(Co-Presiding Chairperson(man) of the South-Norwich-Branch-Alan-Partridge-Fan- Club©)