My happiest memories as a child are of long, endless holidays to Mayo, in the west of Ireland, in the days when there were only B roads and it was an odyssey getting there. We would be crammed into my mum’s Morris Minor Traveller and I’d be wedged between the luggage in the boot.
I grew up in Middleton, a suburban town north of Manchester where I had a happy childhood. It was a noisy household – I’m the third of six children and there were two more kids because my parents fostered as well. Meal times were boisterous, happy occasions with plenty of robust banter across the table and we loved playing on the pinball machine in the kitchen. One day, a policeman called round to take a witness statement after a car accident outside; he came inside and thought it was some kind of government-funded community centre because of all the activity going on.
It wasn’t difficult being part of a large family with foster children. But there was little time for one-to-one molly-coddling. I felt my parents were more tolerant of misbehaviour from their foster children, who could be from troubled backgrounds, than us. I thought there should be one rule for all.
My parents are quietly moral. They are church-going Catholics who imparted Christian, social values on us, but didn’t crow about it. We were brought up to care for the disempowered and disenfranchised; those who are neglected, forgotten and living in poverty. They taught me to think about those people; not to be selfish or self-obsessed and to be kind to others. I felt part of a solid family unit and I never doubted the security of where I was. It wasn’t pious – there was a lot of laughter at home and a love of comedy. We sat down as a family to watch television – current affairs and shows like Dad’s Army and Porridge.
My mum, Kathleen, was raised in Ireland, but you never heard her Irish accent – except when she was on the phone to someone in Ireland. I used to run home from school at lunchtime to spend an hour with her. After lunch, we would watch the afternoon news together. She made sure family and friends could just turn up unannounced; they were made to feel comfortable and welcomed. It was an open-door policy.
Dad, Tony, is a retired engineer who is fascinated by science. He worked to give us a decent lifestyle. He never disappeared down the pub – didn’t drink or smoke. After work, he’d change into his boiler suit to do improvements around the house.
The knowledge that my family has always been there for me brings authenticity to the world that I live in, which can be tough and unforgiving of failure. I have an identity now because of what I do but, growing up, I was always one of the Coogans – and that meant a lot to me. I knew I was part of a family and today they help me by knowing they are still there.
Becoming a father to my daughter Clare is the most important relationship of my life. At the time, I probably wasn’t ready to become a father because of the instability of my existence. I’d had lots of personal problems and went through some difficult times. Clare was the one authentic part of my life that kept me sane. She’s 19 now and has a good heart. I see in her someone with a sense of fairness, kindness and humour, which she gets from her mother – and I hope from me.
My parents have been married for 58 years and live in the same house I grew up in. When I go back to visit, I sleep in the same room where I was born. Even now, at 50, it all feels like a touchstone because nothing much has changed; it remains a constant in my turbulent life, which I feel fortunate to have.
• Alan Partidge’s Scissored Isle is on Sky Atlantic, 10pm on 30 May. Easily Distracted, by Steve Coogan (Arrow Books, £8.99), is published on 14 July
