Review: I Partridge, we need to talk about Alan

'I, Partridge, we need to talk about Alan' is a magnificent book. Clearly printed on good quality paper and soundly bound, with a pleasingly robust dust jacket, the quality really shows. As a hardback, it's solidly enough put together to cause either a pleasing thump to a desk or table, or injury to a small child, should it be dropped on either. It's also lavishly illustrated with not just one but two sections of pages containing full colour photographs. The publishers obviously believed in this book, or considered it a last desperate throw of the dice to save the non-fiction arm of the company after a difficult year.

With Celebrity autobiographies timing is everything. It's amazing the number of celebrities that are caught up in sex scandals or suffer and untimely demise just as their book is about to be published. After reading this book, I can imagine that the publishers were craving a timely celebrity death to boost sales. Ghoulish, but there it is. Something tells me that prior to publication a publishing executive executive was filing out a 'treat day' form for Alan to go base jumping.

This is a book that's going to be around for a long time, it will be in remaindered bins, charity shops and discount book outlets for years to come. And that colourful front cover will be beautifully preserved as it sits, undisturbed, for years on library shelves until the library is closed down and it and the rest of the stock is incinerated.

I was lucky enough to pick up this book at my local petrol station. Dawdling by the travel sweets, deciding whether to go with 'Maynards' or own brand wine gums, I noticed the books in a wire bin by the till, a fluorescent sign declaring that they were free with every ten litres of petrol. Well I had a full tank and a full of a sense of entitlement. I grabbed my wine gums, a copy of Razzle and the book.

I was so eager to look at it that I actually stopped in a layby on the way home and flicked through it for about ten minutes. Then I drove home and started reading the book.

This is not the sort of book that one reads and re-reads regularly, although I would suggest that it is the sort of book that will regularly be found in the homes of people who have perpetrated a shocking crime on society, or a celebrity, before turning the gun/taser on themselves.

As a general rule of thumb when reading this book, if you find yourself making notes in the margin, step away from the book. If you find yourself nodding and muttering 'fuck yea, Alan', seek help. And if you find yourself underlining passages, especially ones that end in "needless to say, I had the last laugh!"' which you double-underline, mix yourself a sedative and go for a lie down in a quiet room, that locks from the outside.

This then is the autobiography of Alan Partridge, boy, man, media personality, radio presenter and if not quite king of chat then at least minor courtier at the court of the king of chat, the chap who empties the chamber pot, that sort of thing. The story takes us through the medium-highs and the many lows of a broadcasting career that can often be described as breathtaking. The man literally has made a career out of hot air.

What's fascinating is the way in which Partridge uses the book as a platform with which to set the record straight about many incidents in his life, hitherto unknown except to himself and, if they can be arsed to remember, the person Alan thinks slighted him. Alan pulls no punches in letting the reader know exactly what he thinks of everyone from school bullies to BBC executives. Presumably the punches were pulled later in the publication process by the publisher's lawyers, judging from the disclaimers and qualifications surrounding the accusations. Alan is not one to let go of a grudge and this same petty minded tenacity has seen him rise to a career in local digital radio.

What's fascinating about the book is the amount of help that Alan needed to write it. The thing has four other authors! While ghost writing might be an accepted if not acceptable practice in publishing, there is surely a limit. What sort of cack-handed author needs four people to help him write a book, is it one to read the manuscript notes, one to type them up, one to do a spell check and one to make the tea or what? Another major issue is the editing. God knows the book could have used some, it's littered with unfinished passages or drafting notes to have facts checked. Something tells me this proof was approved after lunch.

These petty annoyances aside (and I imagine that Mr P is pretty miffed by this sort of slipshod quality control), this is an entertaining and sometimes surprisingly heartwarming story of an outsider in the world of talent.

So, why was I 'lucky' to pick it up? Well, upon examination of the till receipt that I had been using as a bookmark, I noticed that although the petrol station had been giving the book away free with every ten litres of petrol, I had only bought seven litres (I favour a 'top up' strategy - others might call it the 'Arab Spring' or 'the spread of democracy', to me it's straightforward unrest in the Middle East and we all know what that does to prices at the pump. You don't want to be caught with an empty tank when it all goes tits up in Syria, let me tell you). I had, in essence, got the book for less than free! Needless to say, I had the last laugh.