Big Beacon, page 5
Quickly! someone would say. Let’s turn on the lighthouses so people can see where the bloody hell they are. Ah. Just one problem. We forgot about their upkeep. We let them crumble into the sea. Or we demolished them to build an authentic seaside café that sells £15 fish and chips. Or they’ve been turned into Airbnbs and there’s a bathtub where the giant lightbulb should be. We thought we knew it all and now we’re paying the price for our own stupid, stupid arrogance.
An unlikely turn of events? Perhaps. But do you wanna take that risk?
Anyway, aside from their admittedly far-fetched practical use, how about a bit of respect? Chances are, your elderly parents have zero practical benefits either – but you still respect ’em! Would you let granny and grandad fall into the sea, or be destroyed by diggers? Of course not. So it seems insane that we don’t afford the same privileges to coastal buildings.
When I look at a lighthouse, I see a certain majesty. A proud defiance. A structure of solemn fortitude that says, Let the rain lash at my flanks, let the wind pummel my face, let the sea feed on my feet, let time ravage my innards. I shall still remain standing. Ready to shine my light.
You may be dazzled by the new. The vagaries of fashion may draw your eye elsewhere, to one of those glass and steel office blocks that for some reason looks like it’s leaning because architects think straight lines are naff, or to a high-rise apartment complex because apparently the phrase ‘block of flats’ is considered shit. By all means, shower these new buildings with acclaim. But here the lighthouse shall remain, distant from other structures, noble, selfless.
Its walls may not house a start-up company that makes apps, or an indoor skate park or a fleet of Mercedes-Benzes. But what does it offer? It helps people. It offers guidance in times of need. Yes, these misunderstood cylinders think only of others. And I reckon it’s time we remembered that.
Just a really nice piece of writing. And there are always going to be cynics. People who say, ‘Are you really talking about lighthouses, or are you talking about yourself because you’re worried you’re past it?’ To which I say, I’m on about the first one.
I need to think. Something wants me to dwell on all this. Could it be that this is what Seldom wants me to do with my life? Like Field of Dreams, but instead of Kevin Costner building a baseball stadium because a ghost told him to, it would be me, Alan Partridge, restoring one of our nation’s most important monuments because a dead dog told me to – not actually any more ludicrous than the Costner one.
Nitpickers (e.g. my editor) will doubt the veracity of this vision, or complain that it is broadly the same construct I used to motivate the revival of my TV career, that I’m taking the idea of honouring the wishes of a dying friend and retooling it with a dog – and in adjacent chapters, as well. Think about it, though. Who would structure a book like that? That’s how you know it’s real.
The morning after Esther’s barbecue, still sheepish at having been asked to leave, I slink back to collect my coat. I’m feeling a little awkward but I have to say Esther could not be nicer – she’ll bend over backwards for anyone as long as they’re not on benefits and speak English as their first language.
She ushers me into the kitchen where, just my luck, several of the previous day’s guests, who had stayed the night, are tucking into a cooked breakfast, or rather several cooked breakfasts, i.e. one each. Andrew Castle, Gary Barlow, Liz Kershaw, James Martin, Theo Paphitis and Carole Malone, plus partners – a who’s who of people you’d expect to find eating a fry-up at Esther McVey’s house.
As they cram the greased food into their mouths, they’re having an animated debate about coloured wheelie bins. ‘We used to have one metal dustbin for everything and everyone was a damn sight happier,’ argues Malone, coherently.
‘Yeah! Now it’s one bin for paper, one bin for glass and another for … oh, I can’t remember all the different ones, but I do know it’s completely bloody stupid!’ attempts Martin, who’s less good at this than the others.
‘I blame recycling!’ chortles Barlow.
Everyone agrees that recycling is annoying, while Castle, with one eye on his talk radio show, frantically scribbles notes and mutters, ‘This is gold, this is gold.’
‘If you finished with something, get rid,’ insists Paphitis. ‘Why do we have to bring things we’ve finished with back to life?’
‘I would bring back hanging,’ muses McVey. Oh, absolutely, they all agree. Hanging’s different. No, they’re talking more about things you don’t use anymore.
I am enjoying the conversation immensely. If I had any plans to mount a TV comeback, ‘Esther’s Breakfast Bar’ or ‘Home Truths with Esther’ would be at the top of my list. But since I don’t, I just join in.
‘Mind you, I saw a broken old lighthouse yesterday,’ I smile. ‘You wouldn’t want to bin that!’
‘I would,’ scoffs Kershaw. ‘At least if you do up a cottage in the Cotswolds you get to gut the inside, partition it into a four-bed and turn it into a luxury holiday rental. A lighthouse’ll be conservation this, English Heritage that and Grade II listed blah, blah, blah, and everyone having to tiptoe around the place just because it’s old. This is what I’d do to the lighthouse.’ And on that, she uses the back of a fork to mash a potato waffle into what is left of her beans. I know it is only a waffle, but it feels really mean.
Everyone else is laughing and laughing, their mouths agape like pink cauldrons of laughter and egg and sausage.
‘Well, some people like old maritime buildings,’ I say. The laughter stops. ‘Some people don’t agree with any of you, actually. Some people think we should preserve our national treasures. Some people have a bit of respect.’
Silence. The lump is still there in my throat, but I recognise it now as fury – at the state of the lighthouse I’d seen. How dare the locals let it fall into that state. How dare they care so little for a treasured totem of our maritime heritage?
‘You rebuild it, then.’ This is Barlow.
‘I just might, Gary.’ And I nod at them in turn. ‘Andrew. Liz. Theo. James. Carole.’
‘It’s Carole with an “e”.’
‘I know it’s with an “e”,’ I shout. ‘They’re pronounced the same, Carole! Oh, and the glasses around your neck aren’t fooling anyone: you’re thick and you know it.’32
And I am away, heading for the door.
Esther’s Breakfast Bar! I conclude in that moment that any lingering interest I’ve had in a television career is well and truly gone. I am going to buy and restore an English lighthouse. And I will call it Seldom.
* * *
29 Two realms Esther straddles quite, quite elegantly.
30 Me.
31 Me.
32 I later sent Carole some flowers to apologise. On the note I wrote: ‘I was in the wrong, you’re not thick, you’re just an annoying woman who struggles to be funny. Best wishes, Alan Partridge’.
STASIS
January 2012
By the start of 2012, my TV renaissance had borne as much fruit as my assistant eats – none. With every setback, I would slink back to the restorative bosom of North Norfolk Digital in the same way a joey would slink back to the inside of its mother’s pouch.
One morning, I asked my assistant to compile a list of TV commissioners, including names, phone numbers and other details such as were they gay, were they a man or woman, and did they have an unusual hobby (e.g. were they gay)? The plan? To do my radio show then spend the afternoon hammering the phones – speaking to the commissioners and offering my services.
By the time I’d got in the car, my assistant had emailed through a list of contact details. A worryingly quick turnaround that suggested she had had a list to hand already. But why? Oh God, no …
At lunchtime, I demanded that she hand over her laptop and password.33 A quick scan of her emails confirmed my worst fears. She had been ‘using her initiative’ (something her contract expressly forbids) to offer my services to every TV channel she could think of, and a few she couldn’t.
The missives were peppered with clumsy attempts at formal phrasing: ‘to who it may concern’ [my emphasis] and ‘I trust this finds you well’, but worse – much worse – were her attempts to market me. According to her letters, I was ‘presentable, neat, punctual and good’, I would give most things a go ‘if medically allowed’, and she even told Channel 4 that I could ‘do a young person’s accent’ and ‘was prepared to use any of the following swearwords: shit, penis, twit, ass, arse, bloody and the n-word’. As I read them, I could feel my ass/arse closing up with embarrassment.
Elsewhere, she had culled entire passages from an old online dating profile I’d written so that mixed in with my professional skills were declarations that I enjoyed the company of clean women, preferred ‘real chests only, please’ and was happy to pay for dinner on dates one, three, five and seven. While accurate, the letters when read together by a prospective employer were nonsense.
Sitting in the North Norfolk Digital studio, things felt bleak. But as I stared at the monitor in front of me, scanning a depressing list of shit-sounding jingles (from ‘station ident 1’ to ‘station ident short’ to ‘funky jingle v2’ to ‘news slam intro’ to ‘news slam outro’ to ‘weather sponsor with VO’ to ‘weather sponsor original’ to ‘sexy jingle do not play before 9 p.m.’), I decided to do something.
There and then, I typed out a text message to accept an invitation to do a piece of sports commentary. I was going back to where it had all begun for me. Yes, this was in many ways a degrading backwards step, but maybe it was the kickstart I needed.
* * *
33 Of course it was ‘jesusiscoming’.
MY TRANSITION BEGINS (NOT GENDER)
November 2021
I’m glaring at a man. He’s standing in my bedroom, staring me down, without a shred of contrition. Honestly, the nerve of him. Eventually, I speak.
‘Have you got a problem, mate?’
The man says nothing, but he continues to hold my gaze. I take half a step closer. ‘I said, “Have you got a fucking problem?”’
The man raises his eyebrows, as if amused, mocking me almost. This guy!
‘Because if you do,’ I say, ‘let’s step outside, son. Have a little chat there. Then maybe I’ll give your face a problem, how about that?’
The man shows no inclination to step outside. So I make a sudden movement and he does too. I snort in disdain.
‘Nah, didn’t think so. You know what you are? Chicken shit. You heard. So get your things, and get out.’
Then, with my arms out slightly to make myself look wider, I stand there, cock of the walk. God, that felt good.
That little exercise, a scripted tough-guy conversation between me and my own reflection, was taught to me by Ross Kemp and I’ve never forgotten it. Ross performs a version of this in the full-length mirror in his hallway every time he leaves the house, as a way of reminding himself he’s tough and to pump himself up in the pecs. Me? I only tend to do it when I need to steel myself for an important occasion or a big decision.
And boy, am I facing a big decision now. I’m about to embark on a potentially life-altering change of circumstances, bigger even than going vegetarian for a week back in 2019: it will mean leaving behind the cashmere comfort blanket that is Norfolk for a whole new life by the seaside, where I’ll do my bit for Britain’s architectural heritage. And while my assistant is yet to be convinced, that’s very much her problem and not mine.34
Do I need pumping up? You better believe it. And getting shirty with my own reflection just works. As Ross says, ‘If you wanna be a big boy, you’ve got to act the big boy.’ And now I feel ready.
Ready to raise the funds needed to purchase a ruin, ready to make the necessary arrangements to move (by instructing my assistant to do that for me), and ready to find the perfect building. In one movement, I grab my car keys, gate fob, phone, wallet, jacket, belt and cap. And then off I go to meet a real estate agent – by which I mean an agent of ‘real estate’ rather than an ‘estate agent’ who’s real. Important to make that clear.
‘Can you stop talking about Fraggle Rock now, please?’
I am in a greasy-spoon café on Sheringham high street, for my second mealtime of the day. I’m eating eggs Benedict, which in this establishment comes with chips and baked beans – but then so does everything else.
Opposite sits Edward, an estate agent with a knot in his tie so egregiously fat I want to reach over and yank it to an acceptable size before he can stop me. But I don’t. On the table before me, the particulars for six lighthouses are fanned out. Somerset. Dorset. Yorkshire. Sussex. Cornwall. And Scotland, although I haven’t really looked at that one because I’m obviously not going to move to Fife.
Somerset looks promising. Dorset isn’t bad. Yorkshire has a dollop of Heinz Beans on it because my assistant distracted me while I was putting the spoon to my mouth. The blurb for Cornwall boasts of its many appearances on the small screen in a much-loved children’s show, prompting Edward to launch into a freewheeling and seemingly pointless description of the show Fraggle Rock, which is now entering its tenth minute even though my assistant and I have made clear we’ve never heard of it.
Edward stops talking about Fraggle Rock. I look out of the window. ‘Do you have anything in Kent at all?’ I ask. ‘Maybe in and around, say … Abbot’s Cliff?’
The agent looks surprised. ‘Oh, well. There is one right there, yes. But it’s currently under offer.’
‘Beat the offer,’ I say, dabbing at my mouth with a paper napkin before standing up. I shove the chair back with my legs, forgetting it’s bolted into the floor, meaning the edge of the seat just digs into the back of my knees. ‘Ow.’
The agent finds the lighthouse in question on his phone. Constructed in 1860, for over a century and a half its one giant eye has swivelled this way and that to calmly guide vessels westward towards the port of Folkestone. And though derelict, it has a grace and nobility well beyond the reach of any of the new breed of younger, more fashionable lighthouses that probably have their own social-media accounts. Well, I just fall in love with the place.
Yet my assistant isn’t so sure. As she shuffles from foot to foot, emitting the vague smell of jumble sale, I know she has something to say.
‘Only thing is, Alan …’
Told you.
‘I’m just not sure it’s the right thing to do.’
‘That’s exactly what you said about getting a microwave,’ I shoot back. ‘Now look at you. You can ping and ding with the best of them.’
‘It’s just … if you’re trying to get one over on someone … let bitterness take hold and it will never let go. It’s like Japanese knotweed.’
‘You don’t have to stress the word Japanese,’ I retort. ‘It’s not their fault. And this is nothing to do with anyone else. This is about doing something with meaning, something that takes a rundown ruin and turns it into something special. Look at me, I’ve never been happier! I’m fizzing around the place like a soluble pain killer. I’m like Solpadeine. You know all about Solpadeine, don’t you?’
She smiles and does a little nod. She likes it when she can join in with my similes.
Later that day, I spin around in my office chair, as it helps me think and looks cool. Then to business: I tot up how much I still need to raise using a calculator that’s on the last dregs of its battery. The read-out is incredibly faint and intermittent, but eventually a number swims into view, like a Victorian ghost appearing at a foggy window before disappearing.
I have already begun divesting myself of some of my assets. First to be recalled was the start-up loan of £35k I’d given to two models from Brighton who wanted to start a green-juice business. Next to be recouped was my minority stake in racehorse Northern Ireland Protocol. I only invested in it in the first place because I was trying to impress a group of friends who earn more money than I do. My portfolio of shares was the next to be sold off. Shell – gone. BP – gone. Nestlé – gone. HSBC – gone. Amazon – gone. Uber – gone. Bet365 – gone. Shoe Zone – retained.35
I also agreed to front an advertising campaign for a Chechnya-based hotel chain. Initially I had been hesitant on account of needing to do a photoshoot in just my swimming trunks. But needs must, and by adding a clause to the contract insisting they digitally deflate my stomach, lower back and chin, and inflate my calves, quads, pecs, hands and lips, I felt comfortable I’d emerge with much of my dignity intact.
With some of my assets now liquid, and my pecs and tummy successfully monetised, I have put together a formidable war chest. And while it would be vulgar to discuss exactly how much the shortfall is, I’m not embarrassed to say it is in the medium to high tens of thousands. Am I surprised or upset? No. It’s a figure I could still comfortably raise on my own; I’m very well off and one of the shrewdest investors I know. I have a collection of vintage mobile phones in a shoebox that must be worth a few grand. And I estimate I own at least five thousand pounds’ worth of good quality bric-a-brac. No, I’m not short of a few bob, not even close, and anyone saying I am is either looking at my accounts for 2010–11 or full of shit.
However, something is nagging at me. If I am to pull this project off, I’ll feel pretty damn proud of myself. But then I think: Isn’t that quite selfish, to keep all of that pride to myself? What if there was a way of letting other people feel proud as well? If I was to, say, ask the public to donate money as part of a crowdfunding scheme, maybe then, ordinary people could claim a share of that pride for themselves? It feels like the kindest thing I can do, even though, as I say, I don’t need to do it because I have plenty of dosh of my own.
