Other: The idea for this just sort of hit me one day. Part of the inspiration came from a lame Bond pun I heard in one of the movies, which works well since we all know how much Alan Partridge likes James Bond. By the way, it was not my intention to insult, so if you are somehow offended by this fic, I apologize...but that's Alan Partridge for you, right:-p
A Very Touching Poem
"...So anyway, that's how Gary died," Lynn finished seriously, her normally serious face seeming even more serious than usual.
Alan Partridge grimaced at his PA in understanding. "Pneumonia," he sighed with a click of his tongue. "What a way to die, eh? Your lungs filling with all that nasty liquid--it's like you're drowning, but you're on land." He paused for a moment before adding, "Well, hopefully. Mind you, if you decided to have a leisurely swim after being diagnosed, you'd be pretty stupid. So you'd sort of deserve to die, then. But Gary--Gary sounds like a clever chap. He stayed put in bed like he ought to. He shouldn't have had to go, Lynn, that's quite sad, I agree. ...But oh, that bloody pneumonia!"
Lynn looked away uncomfortably. Alan wasn't the best person to turn to in times of despair. But he was her only option, really. So she just kept talking. "At the church, we're going to have a memorial service for him."
"A memorial service," Alan nodded. "Very good. That's brilliant, Lynn, actually. Devout Christian man dies of pneumonia, you should certainly give him what he deserves. Which, if I'm not mistaken, will be a group of old people eating cheese and saying 'Oh, do you remember the time he was praying in that spot right over there'..."
"Yes, well, I've written a poem about him," Lynn said quickly. "I want to know what you think about it."
"Oh, do tell; there's nothing I'd rather do more than listen to some good classic poetry by Lynn, my PA." He grinned.
She cleared her throat and retrieved a piece of paper from her purse. She unfolded it and then began to read it aloud.
"Gary Aldaine was a fine and bonny man. He was very pious, and did all that he can."
"Uh, Lynn," Alan interrupted, "it really should be 'could', you know. Not 'can'. Because, well...he can't do anything anymore, really. Er...except lay there and let bugs and worms devour him...but that's besides the point. He's dead. It just shouldn't be 'can'. It's the wrong tense."
"Then it wouldn't rhyme," she insisted. Then she went back to her poem. "He prayed every day because he wanted to go to heaven. Let's all hope he is there right now. His name is not Kevin."
As she read on, Alan couldn't help but make a face. Poetry was obviously not one of Lynn's strong suits. Grammatical errors were everywhere, and the rhymes were utter crap (and that was an understatement). But he kept his mouth shut. Let the chaps at the memorial service tell her how bad it was...
"...and that is why, in our hearts, Gary Aldaine shall live on," Lynn concluded. She looked up at Alan hopefully. "How is it?"
He drove his fist into his chest. She just stared.
"That...represents the poem," he pointed out. "It broke my heart." He laughed painfully, knowing this was such a lie.
Lynn still wasn't doing anything.
"Don't you get it?" He repeated the hand motion. "It's a symbol! The dagger pierced my heart, therefore, in a sense, breaking it. And in this instance, your poetry was the dagger."
"Aren't you ever serious?" she huffed suddenly. She put the paper away and picked up her purse. "If you want to talk about this later on when you're feeling better, then we will."
She walked away in a big hurry. Alan's brow furrowed. That wasn't her job, to just walk away on him!
"I was being serious!" he cried after her. "Pneumonia is a serious subject, you nutty old bat! Your poem encompassed the seriousness! You brought it to life! ...Oh, and I don't mean that spitefully, because I know the old bloke is stone dead!"
Lynn didn't look back. She was already very far away.
"Oh, bloody hell," Alan muttered resignedly. "Suits her anyway--I thought it was rather clever."