by James Corden
So, in many respects, I have a lot to thank the Army for, and all of the important things I learnt whilst in Sunday school or in various worship groups have been beneficial to me in one way or another as I grew up. However, it’s only now, with hindsight, that I can look back and recognise that some of the people who were part of our church were hypocrites and fakes. So many of the people within that building every Sunday, praying and playing in the brass band, were pretty much some of the least Christian people I’ve ever met.
Going to church every week certainly doesn’t make you a Christian, in the same way that not going to church every week doesn’t stop you being a Christian. All I’m saying is, religion and the Church couldn’t be more different. A religion is about faith, a hunch if you like. Whereas the Church is both formed by and made up of people – and when people get involved in organising anything, they will make mistakes. If those people happen to be idiots, as many were at the Salvation Army in High Wycombe, you end up with a mess of a place masquerading as something it most definitely isn’t. It’s a bit like FIFA.
Sundays were a nightmare: three services – morning, afternoon and evening – with a rushed roast dinner and a march in between. I vividly remember the frantic journeys back and forth into town with Dad picking up various old ladies who needed a lift to get to the afternoon and evening services. It was the complete opposite of the Commodores song ‘Easy’. But, I suppose, it was a big part of what brought our family together and what made it such a close-knit group.
I’ve always been incredibly grateful for the loving and supportive family I grew up in. We were and are still incredibly close. In many ways I feel closer to my two sisters now than I ever have. Andrea, being the eldest, was the responsible one, and often put in charge of looking after me and our younger sister Ruth whilst Mum and Dad were at work. She’s now a terrific mum looking after two children of her own, Joel and Ellen, who I’m sure are easier to look after than Rudi and I were. (Who’s Rudi? I hear you ask. OK, this could be confusing, so we might as well get it out of the way now. Her whole life my little sister Ruth has rarely been referred to as Ruth. In fact, I imagine the last time she was officially called Ruth was on the platform during her christening. On the whole she’s called Rudi, and that’s how I’ll refer to her in the book. It’s what we call her the most, but over the past few years she’s been named: Muller, Rudi-Muller, Reeyads, the Vamulle, Gbronehead, Sabina, Gbronio … There are plenty more but I figure you get the point.)
I’d like to say now that Andrea and Rudi are without question two of the best people I’ve ever met. They are funny, bright, caring and incredibly supportive. In many ways I would go so far as to say that when it comes to performing, whether it be acting or singing or anything else (but maybe not dancing), they are probably more gifted than I am and ever will be. Andrea has an incredible singing voice and Rudi is one of the funniest people you could ever have round a dinner table. But I guess what sets me and them apart is desire.
I have this need – a burning ambition – to be in the spotlight, whereas with Andrea and Rudi it’s something they can take or leave. For me, growing up, it was as vital as oxygen. Many hours of many days were spent dreaming of stardom; ridiculous things like taking the final bow on the West End stage or writing my life story at a crazily young age like thirty-two! Andrea and Ruth didn’t need it. They have enjoyed the limelight at different times, but it’s not something they crave.
I’ve often wondered why it is that I do what I do. Why I have this lust for people to pay me attention? And why they, two very talented people in their own right, are happy without it? The strange thing is that pretty much every aspect of fame has changed since I was a kid. When I was young, saying you wanted to be famous wasn’t what it is now. These days, fame is seen as a dirty word, and the world seems fuller than ever of people who are famous for doing nothing.
That wasn’t what I was dreaming of. My dream was always to be an actor, and I knew that if I ever did become famous, it would be because I’d done something memorable – played a part so well that people would talk about it, and want to talk to others about it. Fame was a by-product of having done something.
Ever since Rudi’s christening, I had been first in line to put myself forward for any kind of chance to perform in front of an audience. The first one that really sticks out comes when I was seven years old. It was the Christmas of 1985, and my Sunday school was casting the nativity play. I, of course, wanted to play Joseph. Joseph is the part you want in the nativity. No doubt about it. He’s front and centre for the whole ten-minute production. It takes a seven-year-old actor of great skill and deep emotional truth to really convince the audience that he’s a middle-aged man taking his pregnant wife to Bethlehem for the census.
But I wasn’t chosen to play Joseph. No. Matthew Peddle was chosen to play Joseph. As you can imagine, this was a kick in the teeth for me as a young, up-and-coming seven-year-old, but I did understand why Hazel, the casting director/Sunday school teacher chose Matthew. He was ten – three years older than me – and I couldn’t argue with the fact that Joseph himself was probably older than both of us, so going with the older boy seemed fair. I stepped aside, and immediately set my sights on the next best part.
The only problem was, I didn’t know what the other best parts in the nativity were. I knew about the shepherds, the three wise men and a few animals, but I knew I needed more info if I was going to beat my two main rivals: Spencer Wells and Barry Dobson. They would also be sniffing around the best parts and, like Matthew, were older than me too. Maybe we could be the three wise men? Hmmmm, I didn’t mind being a wise man, but I knew if it was between me, Spencer and Barry, I would be the least important wise man. You know, the one carrying a box of Terry’s All Gold chocolates with the words ‘Terry’s’ and ‘All’ scribbled out with a black felt tip. I’d take a wise man, but it wasn’t ideal. But it’s better than being a shepherd, definitely. You don’t want to be a shepherd. No way. That’s the last thing you want. If you’re a shepherd, you’re basically set-dressing: a seven-year-old boy wearing an old dressing gown, a tea towel on your head, holding – if you’re lucky – a toy lamb and a big stick. I had my limits. How could I find out for sure what the best parts were in the nativity? Where else would a seven-year-old turn? His mum.
So, travelling home from Sunday school with Mum, I put the question to her:
‘Mum, in the nativity, who was there in the stable?’
Mum thought for a while and then said, ‘Well, you’ve got Joseph and Mary, baby Jesus, the three wise men, the shepherds …’ She went on and told me about the characters I already knew.
‘But what about other people? Was there no one else there?’ I asked.
‘I’m not sure, James. Why do you want to know so much?’ I couldn’t tell her. She might think it was silly to want a part so desperately. We drove in silence for a while before Mum turned to me and said, ‘If you think about the Christmas carols, they’ll tell you all the people involved.’
I pondered this for a second. Yes! She was absolutely right. The Christmas carols! That’s how I’d find out what the best parts were. I started singing ‘Once in Royal David’s City’ in my head, but there aren’t many characters there of any real note. ‘O Little Town of Bethlehem’ isn’t so much about the characters, it’s more about the – you guessed it – little town of Bethlehem. Then I happened upon the perfect song, ‘Silent Night’. I started reciting the lyrics in my head. And then it happened … Bang! I knew the part I wanted to play, a part I could call and make my own. Not some guy holding gold or frankincense; a real part; a character who was there throughout, who would, if I played my cards right, steal the show. I kept the name of the character secret all week. I couldn’t wait to see Spencer’s or Barry’s face when I pulled this peach of a role out of the bag.
Sunday came around and, after the first part of the Sunday morning church service had taken place, us sixteen or seventeen kids made our way to Sunday school in th
e junior hall. Once there, we sat around in a circle on the floor and our teacher, Hazel, led us in prayers. I pressed my palms together, shut my eyes but, instead of following what was being said, made my own silent prayer that no one else would steal the part I had my heart set on.
‘Amen,’ went the chorus of young and unbroken voices. Hazel, or Auntie Hazel as we called her, for reasons I’ve never been quite certain of, started to speak. ‘OK, listen up kids, everyone? Everyone, please? Simmer down. From now on and for the next three weeks we’re going to rehearse the nativity for the carol concert. We’ve got a list here of who is going to play who. Matthew Peddle, you will be Joseph, Hayley Dobson will be Mary—’
Before she could get any further with the list I raised my hand and shouted out, ‘Erm, Auntie Hazel, I already know which part I’d like to play.’ Silence fell in the room. I looked over at Spencer and Barry and gave them a knowing smile.
‘OK James, we did have you down as innkeeper number one …’ Innkeeper number one?! INNKEEPER NUMBER ONE??!! He’s not even the best of the innkeepers. If you’re gonna play an innkeeper, you want to be innkeeper number three. The one who has no room at the inn but takes pity on Mary and Joseph and gives them the stable to sleep in. Innkeeper number one is the worst of the innkeepers – he literally doesn’t give a shit. He’s happy his rooms are full and, as far as he’s concerned, Mary and Joseph should’ve booked online if they wanted a room (and while we’re on the subject, it is sort of ridiculous that with his unconsummated wife pregnant, Joseph didn’t try and book anywhere for the pair of them to stay).
Auntie Hazel continued, ‘We have already worked out who’s playing who, James. It’s not—’
I interrupted Auntie Hazel and rose to my feet, pleading with her. ‘I know which part I’d like to play, though. I’ve been thinking about it all week.’
‘OK, James, which part would you like to play?’ Hazel said with a sigh.
I took a pace forward and said in the most confident voice I could find, ‘I’d like to play Round John Virgin.’
‘Who?’ said Auntie Hazel.
‘Round John Virgin. That’s the part I’d like to play.’ Spencer Wells started to snigger, as did a couple of the other kids.
‘I’m sorry, James, I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.’
I could feel the heat turn up in the room, the sniggers begin to build into full-on giggles.
‘You know, from “Silent Night”?’ I then made the huge mistake of trying to sing in front of everyone.
‘“Silent night, holy night. All is calm, all is bright …”’ Then to emphasise who my character was I said the man’s name extra loud. ‘“ROUND JOHN VIRGIN, mother and child. Holy infant so tender and mild …”’ But it was too late. I couldn’t sing any more because my voice couldn’t be heard over the laughter. Even the adults were trying to contain themselves. I felt so embarrassed; I just wanted the ground to eat me up. The correct lyric is of course ‘Round yon virgin, mother and child’. I’d got so excited because I’d thought the character of Round John Virgin was so central to the plot, he would spend most of the play standing in front of Joseph.
Once the room had calmed down, I was told I would be playing innkeeper number one. Which I did to the best of my ability. I really did. I shook my head in that doorway like my life depended on it. But not even Matthew Peddle’s Joseph got the praise that day. No, the star of the show was a three-year-old shepherd called Jeanette who managed to upstage everyone by blurting out that she needed a wee just as the wise men arrived. Perfect improvisation if you ask me.
My experience at the nativity play only made me more desperate to get up in front of people and perform and, as I turned eight, I wondered when my next chance would come. Luckily, I didn’t have to wait long, and my next appearance on stage was about to change everything.
CHAPTER 2
BEST MUSICAL ACCOMPANIMENT:
‘Do-Re-Mi’ by Rodgers and Hammerstein
BEST FILM TO WATCH ALONGSIDE:
Three Men and a Little Lady
BEST ENJOYED WITH:
a tasty bus ticket
FOR THE FIRST time ever, our headmaster Mr Cox decided that the Park County Middle School was to put on a summer concert. Children from each year would showcase various talents, and each class would perform a song or dance number too. Our class went for a song called ‘I Wear a Red Sombrero’. It’s one hell of a tune – I’m still waiting for it to pop up on The X Factor – but, for the performance, I was put on the back row in a poncho and sombrero, and stood in between Richard Cleeves and my oldest friend, Richard Shed. (He’s still a friend now is Sheddy and the table I am sitting at this very moment in my kitchen was made and designed by him.) As much fun as it was doing the song, and it was a lot of fun:
I wear a red sombrero.
It is a big sombrero.
I only wear it
Because the sunshine
Gets in my eyes and I cannot seeeeeeeee at all …
I wanted to be able to do something on my own. Luckily, one of my teachers came to the rescue and told me that I’d be reciting a poem called ‘Nibble-Nibble, Munch-Munch’. It was an incredible poem. I mean, it’s not up there with Auden or anything, but for an eight-year-old at a school summer concert it was the best possible thing to be reading. It was all about a guy on a bus who is so hungry that he eats his bus ticket. Throughout the poem he would eat the ticket at various points and then, when finally the bus conductor comes round, he gets thrown off the bus for not having a ticket:
Nibble-nibble, munch-munch, nibble-nibble munch.
Nibble-nibble, munch-munch, a bus ticket for lunch …
I loved performing it. It was both fun and funny – always a good mix – and for that one beautiful night in the school hall, it brought the house down. The reaction was so good that the next day, one of the mums who lived over the road from us, Sonia, suggested to Dad that he try and get me in to the Jackie Palmer Stage School. It was an after-school dance and drama club with an affiliated professional agency that would send kids to auditions.
We already knew all of this because Sonia’s daughter had been going there for a while. Her name was Laura Sadler. I knew Laura really well; she was two years younger than me but she was the star pupil at Jackie Palmer’s. She had been going to the school for what seemed like ages and kept on turning up on television, so to someone like me who was dreaming of making it, she was an amazing person to have around.
She was always working. One minute she’d be in a fish fingers advert, the next she’d be in Children’s Ward or Inspector Morse. She went on to make films with Julie Walters and play a regular in Holby City until, tragically, she passed away in 2003 at the horribly young age of twenty-two. She fell from a balcony in the early hours of the morning and never recovered. It became a big story at the time and dominated a lot of the front pages, with much of the accompanying speculation being completely unfounded. What I felt was never focused on enough at the time was what an incredible actress she was. There is not a doubt in my mind that if Laura was still with us today, she would be lighting up stages and screens all over the world. She was the sweetest, kindest soul, and growing up over the road from her, and being able to watch someone who was working in so many wonderful and varied things, made me believe that all my dreams were possible. She gave me hope that extraordinary things could happen to people from our ordinary little town. Without Laura or her wonderful mother, Sonia, I wonder if my life would’ve panned out the way it has. Sonia putting a word in with the board at Jackie Palmer’s had a massive effect in terms of what I’m doing now and as I’ve become more successful in the last few years, I’ve often thought about Laura. In some small way a part of me has always thought that maybe I was doing it for both of us.
Andrea, Rudi and I all joined Jackie Palmer’s at the same time. I was nine years old and stayed there until I was seventeen, whereas Rudi and Andrea didn’t last past the first two terms. The afternoon tap classes, filled w
ith pushy mums and screaming stage-school brats, weren’t for them. They weren’t really for me, either, and to be completely honest I didn’t make many friends for a long time; but I didn’t mind – I just loved being in those drama classes.
Auditions became a fact of life; getting a part in a show was the reason I was there, after all. It’s what Laura did all the time and she’d got dozens of jobs. I got so into it that I reached the point where I would be auditioning for something every week, sometimes three or four times a week. It was Dad who always took me along to them. But although Laura and lots of the other kids at the stage school were getting jobs, no matter how many auditions I went to, no matter how hard I tried, I just couldn’t seem to make the breakthrough.
My dad actually remembers that time better than I do. I was a young kid and none of it has really stuck in my memory, probably because I didn’t want it to. But for Dad, to have to watch his son being turned down again and again and again must have affected and wounded him far more deeply than it did me.
There was one particular audition at the Sadler’s Wells theatre he talks about, where I was going for the part of one of the von Trapp children in The Sound of Music. I was twelve then, but I’ve always looked younger than I am and I was going for a much younger part. Theatre directors often like older kids who look young because they’re more mature and can take direction a bit more easily. A group of about seventy kids had been called back for a second audition and it was a very big deal for me because Christopher Cazenove (the puffed-up English guy in Three Men and a Little Lady) was playing Captain von Trapp. I loved Three Men and a Little Lady. Who didn’t? Rudi and I used to watch it all the time. That and Grease were our favourites. So for me, the thought of playing alongside him on stage as one of his children was really exciting.