Alan Partridge: How I became one of Britain’s best-loved travel writers ‘This humble rambler had learnt a little about his dad, a lot about himself and whole heap of heck about […]

‘This humble rambler had learnt a little about his dad, a lot about himself and whole heap of heck about this land we call Britain’. As his new book, Alan Partridge: Nomad, is published, the broadcaster expands on the inspiration behind it and his writing secrets

Last week I attended a training day for volunteer stewards at January’s London Boat Show and as an ice-breaker we were all asked what we did for a living. Usually, I’d say ‘broadcaster’ or ‘radio chat-jockey’. But on this occasion, something else flopped out: ‘Travel writer’.

And as my fellow volunteers split into groups to practise carpark marshalling or saying “Please don’t touch the boat, sir”, I stood there, luminous bib in hand, suddenly realising that, yes, I (Alan Partridge) was ‘on the road’ to becoming one of Britain’s best-loved travel writers. In this piece, I shall explain how.

Britain loves a travel writer. One thinks of Bill Bryson and his gentle ribbing of these isles, which although affectionate is a little bit if-you-don’t-like-it-Bill-go-back-to-America for my tastes. Or even Charley (sic) Boorman’s Long Way Round/Down/To Tipperary books, which obviously aren’t for everyone but are enjoyed immensely by people who say ‘modorcycle’ instead of ‘motorbike’.

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Travel writing limited to postcards

But travel was a not a genre people automatically attached my name to. While I had done some travel writing before, it was limited to writing postcards to personal assistants, savaging gastropubs on TripAdvisor or emailing sumptuously descriptive directions to my summer BBQ bash (“Turn left at the shop-cum-post office, its jaundiced signage yellowed by the searing Norfolk sun”). But I’d never actually had a travel book published. So what happened? The answer: fate.

Earlier this year I undertook a deeply personal walk in honour of my father. It was a deeply personal recreation of a journey he had undertaken in the mid-1970s, from our family home in Norwich to the Dungeness Nuclear Power Station some 160 miles away.

For him it had been a simple drive to a job interview. For me however, several years after his death, it was a deeply personal attempt to understand why he had been the man and, let’s be honest, git he was.

“My chosen route – Norfolk to Kent – was no Lands End to John O’Groats but, if you picture the British map as a squatting dog, I’d walked Haunch to Heel which is just as iconic” Alan Partridge

So I was stunned when, in the weeks that followed and with word of my journey echoing through the publishing community like whispers on the breeze, the book offers came a-rushing and a-gushing to my door.

And it was only then, after a period of quiet reflection during an extremely slow haircut, that it occurred to me that, by sharing my experiences, I might be able to help others who had endured challenging relationships with their own fathers, particularly if those ‘own fathers’ had tried, and failed, to land a job with British Nuclear Fuels in the mid-1970s.

Steve Coogan pulling up to a book signing in full Alan Partridge mode pic.twitter.com/3vgCMv3N1f — On The Sly Producton (@ontheslyprod) October 25, 2016

‘Humble rambler’

The more I mulled, the more compelling a literary proposition my journey became. Because this humble rambler had learnt a little about his dad, a lot about himself and whole heap of heck about this land we call Britain.

Walking the nation had allowed me to get under the skin of the country like the mosquito larvae that once burrowed under my friend Daniel’s skin and deposited their pupae in his cheek.

Sure, my chosen route – Norfolk to Kent – was no Lands End to John O’Groats but, if you picture the British map as a squatting dog, I’d walked Haunch to Heel which, when put like that, is just as iconic. Indeed, Haunch to Heel with Alan Partridge was later the working title of the book (rejected by publisher).

And so I set to work. Thankfully I didn’t have to try too hard to remember the events of the walk. Purely for my own amusement, I’d scribbled down the odd note in a journal after each day’s yomp.

At the time, I’d thought nothing of these jottings so you can imagine my surprise when I returned to the journal to discover it contained almost 70,000 words of publication-ready prose. Being tidy-minded, I’d also broken the journal down into chapters and provided some options for dust jacket copy, while (for a laugh) it seems I’d knocked up a fairly detailed index too.

“They say everyone’s got a book in them, but clearly that’s not true. I have now had four works published, which means that somewhere out there are three other people whose literary dreams lie in ruins” Alan Partridge

As I say, this had all been for my own amusement since there’s almost nothing else to do on the road. It’s a sad fact that only 1 in 20 UK B&Bs give their guests access to non-terrestrial television.

Slathering feet in E45

So when a walker has napped, eaten his chocolate, napped again, bathed his feet in a cocktail of Radox, Dettol and TCP, slathered them in E45 and wrapped them up in damp towel, what else is he going to do? Watch Emmerdale Farm? Skype a woman? No, he may as well collect his thoughts, jot them down long-hand and email them to a proofreader friend (for a laugh).

Not that I spent every evening of my journey hunched over a type-writer. Much of the wording had already plopped into my mind on that day’s walk. I could often be found writing passages out loud; standing by a field, casually tossing off paragraphs to the cows.

I knew they’d only gathered in the hope that I was the farmer come to top up their feed. But that was okay, because sometimes I’d oblige, hurling a chunk of butty their way, then standing back to watch the frenzy. The cows went absolutely ape-shit. It was hilarious.

The result? Alan Partridge: Nomad by Alan Partridge. At 292 pages it is the second longest book I have ever written. They say everyone’s got a book in them, but clearly that’s not true: it’s meant as an average across the whole population. I have now had four works published, which means that somewhere out there are three other people whose literary dreams lie in ruins.

And my father? Well, I know he’d be too frugal to shell out for a hardback at the Heaven branch of Waterstone’s but, with the paperback due for release just months after the London Boat Show 2017 at ExCeL on 6-15 January (“The best boats, the best people”), I’m sure he’ll be smiling down on me in the early part of next year.

Alan Partridge: Nomad (written by Rob Gibbons, Neil Gibbons and Steve Coogan) is published by Trapeze and available to buy now in hardback and audiobook