Alan Partridge: Nomad

by Alan Partridge

My bottom is itchy so I stop in the middle of the landing and scratch it lightly. The fiddling merely tantalises the itch, and it becomes more aggressive. I respond in kind, dragging my fingernails across my fundament in a frenzied jerking motion. With one hand braced against the wall, I’m now grabbing and clawing at the angry aperture, slashing and scraping in a bid to ease the sensation. It’s a delicious relief but I know it’s merely stoking the irritation. And so after a final flurry – scrit, scrit, scrit, scrit, scit, scrit, scrit, scrit, scrit, scrit, scrit, scrit, scrit, scrit, scrit, scrit, scrit, scrit – I stop scratching. My backside pleads with me to continue but I resist, and in a few seconds the itch subsides on its own, as I knew it would.

‘Like the name of a cartoon Belgian detective said in a Scottish accent, it’s 10:10.’

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.

The race will be two lengths of the pool and I will beat her comfortably; ripping her, to use a piece of modern-day parlance that personally I find deeply unpleasant, a new arsehole.

I’m well aware that males of all species are randy in the morning, and the blackbird is no exception. But surely his desire to make love to a lady bird (i.e. a female bird) has such a low chance of success at that time in the morning that he’d be better off flying down to ground level and finishing himself off in a bush.