I, Partridge: We Need to Talk About Alan

by Alan Partridge

The father, Trevor, was an asthmatic, but what he lacked in being able to breathe quietly, he more than made up for with his parental skills.

Snowflakes fell from the sky like tiny pieces of a snowman who had stood on a landmine.

Putting a damp spoon back in the bowl is the tea-drinking equivalent of sharing a needle. And I did not want to end up with the tea-drinking equivalent of AIDS.

My guess is wrong. Maxwell twists my arm and fixes me in a headlock. Clever. He knows that one wrong move from me and my head will be ripped clean off. I have to act fast. Quick as a flash, I elbow him in the nuts, nodding as I hear the satisfying thud of bone on gland. I’ve just turned his testicles into a couple of bollock pancakes. And it feels good. ‘Would you like lemon juice with them, sir?’ I roar, inside my head.

My intention was to resurrect Peartree Productions but with better, cheaper personnel. It had been wound down but not dissolved. I thought of it as more of a sleeping volcano, dormant for several months but always ready to ejaculate hot TV content into the air and over the surrounding land.