Alan Partridge has made his first foray into travel writing - the result is Nomad. Here are a couple of extracts:

Walking with Beefy

Back in ’85, I was sent to cover Ian Botham’s walk from Land’s End to John o’ Groats for Saxon Radio. Alongside a phalanx of well-wishers lining the route, I was there to cheer on and grab a quick interview with the great man (Botham). I saw him come by and, easing a couple of youngsters out of my path with a gentle forearm, I positioned myself alongside the moustachioed cricket ace.

‘Alan Partridge, Radio Norwich. How are you feeling?’

‘Not bad! Bit of a dicky tummy, but otherwise fine.’

‘So that’s what IBS stands for! Ian Botham’s Stomach!’ I would have said, but the line only came to me sixteen years later. Instead, I lobbed in a prepared line: ‘They call you Beefy. But you’re burning 5,000 calories a day. I’ll tell you something, y—’

He’d turned away to sign a girl’s cricket bat, milliseconds before my punchline. No matter. I waited. After a minute or two, the girl effed off and Ian turned back. I continued: ‘They call you Beefy. But you’re burning 5,000 calories a day. I’ll tell you something, you won’t be beefy for long!’

He laughed – everyone did – then replied: ‘Yeah, although it’s more of a nickname. Even if I’m thin, I’ll be Beefy.’

Ian Botham in his pomp

‘Like jerky.’

‘Pardon?’

‘Beef jerky. It’s thin beef. Meat, but hammered meat.’

‘Ah. Like carpaccio.’

‘Exactly, Ian. Or bresaola.’

‘What’s bresaola?’

‘Like carpaccio, but thin and air-dried and red. Basically, if a cow had a scab, it would be bresaola.’

‘Great talking to you,’ he said as he broke into a jog, only stopping when he was about five yards ahead of me.

Why Gatwick is the perfect airport

I love Gatwick Airport. Its elegant perimeter road, its state-of-the-art monorail system, its kerosene-stuffed aeroplanes soaring overhead like aluminium eagles. It’s the London airport it’s OK to like.

Stansted, or Stanstead, or Standstead or Standsted as it’s variously known, is an arrogant upstart. City Airport? Full of bankers. London Luton isn’t in London and is barely in Luton; and Heathrow is just an absolute tit of an airport. No, Gatwick is the place to be.

You can't beat a bit of Gatwick Credit: Nick Ansell

I take a moment to look at the transport hub that surrounds me. I don’t just drink in its beauty, I actually feel like I eat it too. But what’s this? Ah yes, the tell-tale thunder-roar of a plane taking off. At first I struggle to hear myself think, but it’s OK, I just turn up the volume in my mind. And then, almost instinctively, I find myself standing bolt upright, saluting the winged beast above me and yelling up to it at the top of my voice, ‘Good luck, large friend. Take wing and fly. For the skies are yours now and you are free, free to soar and swoop, to glide and gambol across the very face of heaven, until you touch down, weary yet elegant in a land far, far away.’

And with that, Ryanair flight 9853 to Cork is gone.