Several years ago, in a documentary about his comic creation Alan Partridge, Steve Coogan mentioned a letter he had framed in his downstairs loo. It was written by a viewer who, in a tone of abject fury, asked why the BBC had given this incompetent man a job. Partridge’s ineptitude and self-importance are, of course, his calling cards — which makes him a shoo-in as a podcaster.
From the Oasthouse is Partridge come full circle: Coogan’s character made his debut in 1991 on the radio series On the Hour, a spoof current affairs show where he was a sports reporter, and then made his name proper on the chat show Knowing Me, Knowing You. Since then, there have been tours, TV series, a memoir and a feature film. But now he’s back where he began in audio, and it’s glorious.
From the Oasthouse is on its second season and Partridge is worried that podcasting has lost its edge since he made his debut two years ago. A case in point is the true crime genre, which he observes is “limping along, even though all the decent crimes have been done. Now it’s just a killer in Scotland who’s only strangled about three women.” Which is why he’s sitting in a car opposite his old radio station, North Norfolk Digital, hoping to engineer an encounter with the boss in the hope that he can get his old job back. His podcast, he says, is really a means to an end in reviving his radio career.
Whether lurking outside his former place of employment or parked on his own street in the middle of the night trying to catch fly-tippers, much of the series is recorded inside his car, a set-up that allows Partridge’s internal monologue to take flight. The absence of editing, which allows hosts to ramble on unencumbered by schedules, is one of the curses of podcasting; in the case of Partridge, it is precisely what you want.
Which is not to say that nothing happens. In one episode he goes wild swimming, inspired by extreme athlete Wim Hof, who says it has mental health benefits, though Partridge isn’t sure. He notes that Virginia Woolf, who lived in a big house in Sussex, drowned herself in a river — “which shows you that, for some people, mental health has nothing to do with how good your house is”. In another he goes potholing, complete with head-mounted microphone — “as a man of advanced years, I’m deceptively nimble and really quite lithe. A lot like Michael Gove.”
It is an achievement that, three decades on, Coogan’s oldest creation can still summon genuine belly laughs. Much of Partridge’s appeal lies in the familiarity of his obsessions that have become more entrenched with age. In From the Oasthouse, he sounds refreshed, the simple format allowing layer upon layer of self-serving bluster. It is, as they say, pure Partridge.
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