Alan Partridge: Nomad

by Alan Partridge

Her yelling continues until I answer the door to find her on her knees shouting through the letterbox, like a gynaecologist bellowing into a woman.

To even attempt a walk of this scale, you need seriously big balls. Thankfully for me, I’ve got a pair of ’em. Although it’s funny, because if my actual ones were the size of my metaphorical ones, I wouldn’t even be able to stand up, let alone walk. Effectively stranded on top of a couple of giant hairy beanbags, I’d have to see out my days in a care home for the clinically big-balled.

These days, however, I see the world a little differently. My longing for revenge, much like the foreskin of an adult Jew, simply isn’t there any more.

This is the same woman I once caught raising her hand when she wanted to make a bid on an eBay auction.

Using a hotel’s own wireless internet to slam it on TripAdvisor is such a sweet thrill it damn near gives me a boner, and today is no exception, although with the bulk of my body’s blood busying itself in the lower legs to help them recuperate, there isn’t enough in the loins to bone me up as well!

I remember in 1982 seeing a performance by the Ants. It was supposed to be Adam and the Ants, but Adam was stuck in traffic. And as they belted out an instrumental version of ‘Stand and Deliver’, I remember looking around the packed arena and just shouting, ‘CULTURE!!!!’

‘You’ve got a welly on.’ For a terrible, terrible, terrible split second, I convince myself that a ‘welly on’ is pensioner slang for an erection. I surreptitiously paw at my Speedos to flatten the boner, but there is none, and then I realise she’s referring to my improvised footwear.