Alan Partridge - I, Partridge - We Need to Talk About Alan

Of course there were limitations too, most notably the lack of wheelchair access. And while all of our guests were able bodied, the marriage was still nine months away – ample time for one (or more) of them to be involved in a serious road traffic accident or develop a degenerative brain disease.

In the end we decided to follow our hearts and book it. Besides, we figured that if anyone did end up paralysed come next spring, our two ushers – one taking the feet, the other the hands – could easily carry them into the church in a safe and dignified manner.

The intervening months passed in a blur, until suddenly the day had come. I rose early, breakfasted on an egg medley (one poached, one boiled, one baked), changed and headed off to St Edmund’s. I got there with just two hours to spare. For what seemed like an eternity I wandered around the grounds of the church, killing time, trailed by an almost constant stream of – without wishing to be crude – my own bum gas.

Soon enough, though, the guests arrived. I smiled to myself as I noticed that none had succumbed to any form of disability. And as the clock struck three minutes past eleven, a hush fell over the congregation. There, at the end of the aisle, was Carol. Clad in a pleasant white dress, her lace veil glistening in the sunlight like some sort of semi-transparent burka, she really did look a thousand dinars.

Half an hour later, and despite a ceremony which I felt had been deliberately marred by the vicar’s lisp, we were man and wife. But as I locked lips with my comely bride, tasting her distinctive spittle in my mouth, little did I realise that we would never be this happy again. 37

There’d been girls before, 38 of course there had (look at me for goodness sake!), but no one like Carol. Carol just ‘got’ me.

We’d met in southern Norwich at a local café called Rita’s. I was at polytechnic at the time and had popped in for a bite to eat (Rita made some of the best toast around) on my way back from Scottish country dancing practice.

I placed my order – ‘Toast please, Rita. Just been to dancing’ – handed over my dosh and took a seat at my usual table. As I plonked my aching limbs down on the chair (SCD had been horribly gruelling this week), I saw a young lady/old girl stood nearby. She was fashionably turned out and had brown hair that was so glossy it genuinely wouldn’t have looked out of place at a dog show. Immediately I wanted to know more.

In her right hand, she had a cup of tea. And in her left, she didn’t. But something about the way she was looking at that cuppa didn’t add up. She seemed somehow disillusioned. Yes, the tea had that layer of scum that comes from adding the water before the milk, but something inside me said it wasn’t that. I just had to find something to say to her. But what?

Suddenly my mind, normally so richly populated with premium quality chat, had gone completely blank. She turned to go, the swirl of her glossy hair revealing a neck bejewelled with moles. It was now or never. But just as I thought I’d missed my chance, it was as if I went into auto-pilot. Before I knew what I was doing, I had gone over and started talking to her.

‘Tea and coffee are okay,’ I said, casually. ‘But they’re not the be-all and end-all. Surely there’s room in life for a third caffeinated beverage option?’

Suddenly I came out of auto-pilot. What the hell was I doing?! In the ten years since I’d come up with that view, how many people had ever agreed with me? I’ll tell you how many – zilch. At best it provoked an indifferent grunt, at worst it had cost me friendships. It was chat suicide.

Or so I thought.

‘I know,’ she said, her brown hair even glossier in close-up. ‘I’ve been saying the same thing for years.’

Cha-ching! Instantly my confidence returned to its normal level. Then just carried on soaring; soaring like an eagle that didn’t care if it went so high that it blacked out. Within seconds I found myself sharing another of my ace theories – that it was time to go beyond salt and pepper and begin the search for a third primary condiment.

This time she disagreed (she actually got quite angry), but it didn’t matter. By now a bond had been formed, a bond that nothing – save for 16 years of attritional bickering and one pretty choice piece of philandering (hers, see Chapter 15, the bitch) – would ever be able to undo.

Those first couple of years flew by like a car doing 50 in a 30 zone. Maybe even 60 in a 30 zone. Depends who you ask. We were the principals in our very own Norwich-based Hollywood romcom. She was a thinking man’s Meg Ryan, I was a non-Jewish Billy Crystal.

We soon moved in together, and it was when we did that I took another giant leap into the warm waters of adulthood. A gentleman doesn’t dwell on such things, but let’s just say that when two healthy and hygienic adults enjoy two bottles of wine on an empty stomach, strip naked, lie on the kitchen floor and place their genitals within spitting distance of one another, there are going to be fireworks.

I’ll admit that there was a certain awkwardness to those early romps. Whereas I was flying my first sorties into sexual territory, Carol had been hymen-free for the best part of six years. My caution didn’t last long, though, and within about three months I was able to perform my duties quietly, competently and with a minimum of fuss.

With things continuing to go well, it seemed only logical (I sound like Spock!) to proceed to the next step – marriage. So, in early 1977 I cycled the 26 miles to Carol’s parents’ house to meet with her father and request his daughter’s hand in marriage. But when I got there I was on the receiving end of an almighty curveball.

‘Hello, Alan,’ said Carol’s dad, Keith.

‘Hello, Alan,’ said Carol’s mum, Stella, not bothering to think of a greeting of her own.

Within seconds, I had nodded back at them. I would have spoken, but I’d just cycled the equivalent of a full marathon.

‘What brings you out this way?’

I put my hand up as if to say, ‘Give me a minute, will you, Keith? I’ve just cycled the equivalent of a full marathon.’

Yet no sooner had I got my breath back than I spotted something truly incredible. Sat on the lawn, as bold as brass, was a brand new FlyMo. Now not only did I not know Keith was getting a FlyMo, I didn’t even know he was considering it.

I was completely floored. This machine was science fiction brought to life. It was based, of course, on the original design for Sir Christopher Cockerell’s hovercraft. And you really did get a sense of that – apparently it simply glided across the turf, as light as a feather, as nimble as a ballerina. I’d even heard rumours that owners didn’t mind the back-breaking job of collecting up the cuttings afterwards. And that speaks volumes. Clearly, it was an honour to mow with.

Of course I was so distracted by this turn of events that I never did get his permission. I did make another attempt the following month, though. I faxed through a request to his office. But I’d got the extension number wrong and it went to a different man.

The most profound moment of my life was still to come, though. 39 And I’ll never forget the moment I heard the news.

I was banging about in the cellar, trying to find a pewter tankard that a friend of mine, Pete Gabitas, had suggested could be worth a fair bit of money. Sweaty, angry and pretty pissed off, I was not in the best of moods. Carol approached with a glass of lemonade, but it was homemade and I preferred the bottled fizzy kind so I took it without saying anything. Straight away, she looked hurt and I could tell she was troubled by something.

‘Out with it, Carol,’ I said. ‘I’m trying to find a ruddy tankard here.’