Steve Coogan confessed in a recent interview on BBC1’s The One Show that he is morphing into his alter ego Alan Partridge. ‘There’s almost a complete overlap in the Venn diagram,’ he admitted, ‘by this time next year I will have completely become Alan.’ Maybe he was joking, but I suspect he kind of meant it.
At a recent drinks party, I discovered to my horror that I’d come dressed exactly like every other midlife man in the room
The comedian has spent years trying to distance himself from the boss of Pear Tree Productions, firstly by creating ‘other less successful characters’, his words, not mine, and then by retreating to Hollywood. With freshly capped teeth, designer jackets and long tousled hair, he immersed himself in a variety of movie roles from Stan & Ollie (‘back of the net’) to Night at the Museum 2 (‘saaaaaad’). But no matter how hard he tried, the glamour of his newfound film career couldn’t banish the ghost of Norwich’s finest.
And now here he is again, ‘bouncing back’ to promote yet another Alan Partridge memoir, Big Beacon, his third to date. Later in the year, he is set to return to our screens in And Did Those Feet… with Alan Partridge, a six-part series that follows the broadcaster as he settles back into life in Norfolk after a year working in Saudi Arabia. I sense a parallel.
It’s important to remember that Coogan was in his late twenties when he first took on the Partridge mantle, meaning he had to age 20 years to play the embodiment of midlife cringe. Coogan recalls thinking how ancient men in their late forties seemed to him at the time. He’s now ten years older than his creation and judging by the sheer volume of new material appears to be resigned to his fate or, as Alan might have put it, ‘the Partridge has come home to roost’.
But there’s something touching about Coogan’s willingness to acquiesce. I think he now gets why his greatest achievement lives on, not just in the man himself but in all men of a certain age. Alan’s beguiling ineptitude and lack of self-awareness touch on the inherent tragedy of men’s middle years where nothing makes much sense anymore. In time we all become a version of Partridge with varying degrees of naffness – ah-ha Ed Davey.
Reaching that tricky midlife milestone must have been particularly hard for Coogan who spent so much of his early career mocking the petty concerns and embarrassing faux pas of gauche middle-aged blokes (see also, deluded roadie Saxondale).
Twenty years ago the actor had to apply layers of slap to play Alan, but these days the crow’s feet are real and the hair is naturally thinning. So while his nemesis will remain forever 47, Coogan has the further indignities of old age to look forward to. Take that, Dorian Gray.
Yes, middle age doesn’t have to be one long humiliation; the tragedy only hits us when we try to resist. It’s natural to want to stay relevant but as midlife engulfs us the opposite is true. The world no longer cares what we think as we enter the realm of the has-been, a frightening place for anyone who feels they have more to offer the world than mere youthful exuberance.
All those comforting little certainties that kept us grounded through our twenties and thirties – music, politics, culture – no longer pertain to us. We are set adrift in a world that’s moved on. Like Alan, we may rail against the ‘ruddy’ injustice of it all. Some may wallow in nostalgia, others in endless rants. Many more of us will retreat into an insular, slightly barmy world of our own where we stop caring what others think. You see elements of the latter in Alan’s deranged midlife obsessions: the joy of a 12-inch dinner plate, the mysterious contents of that drawer, a strange addiction to Toblerones, and a visceral dislike of Rover Metros.
I have taken to air guitaring in my undies and, like Alan, have a growing fondness for owls although I’ve yet to visit an actual sanctuary (if anyone can recommend a good one, please let me know in the comments). And yes, I believe the Best of the Beatles is the band’s greatest album; I mean, the clue’s in the title, right?
At a recent drinks party, I discovered to my horror that I’d come dressed exactly like every other midlife man in the room. There was a definite whiff of Partridge about us as we paraded around in our sensible blazers, beige chinos and comfy slip-ons. All we needed were Alan’s matching tie and badge combo to complete the look. Still, I have tried to stop engaging in idle chit-chat with my local petrol station attendant and I am no longer trying to get down with the kids. And while I’m still plagued by some excruciating Alanisms, I tend to keep them hidden away in a top drawer.
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