I, Partridge: We Need to Talk About Alan

by Alan Partridge

My relationship with her went way back, although we weren’t close right from day one. During those long hard months in the womb, she’d been less my mother and more my house. I didn’t interact with her, I just lived inside her. And then when I’d made good my escape from her cervix (see Chapter One) she’d become less my mum and more my canteen. Although her teats weren’t much of a chef – it was milk every day for goodness sake!

It wasn’t until after I’d made toilet that things started to fall into place. Whether it was a brainwave triggered by the exhilaration of one of my best ever slashes, or the blissful relaxation engendered by crouching in the half-light, flannelling sweat from my undercarriage, I’ll probably never know.

Yet every night in bed, there was a nagging doubt in my mind. I’d lie there absent-mindedly tossing my ball bag from one hand to the other, and I knew something was missing.