May I Have Your Attention Please?

by James Corden

  We would rehearse every week in the junior hall at the Salvation Army (the scene of my Round John Virgin embarrassment). We started out doing cover versions, a lot of Take That, obviously, but we’d throw in some other huge hits to mix it up a little. I’m talking classics like ‘Deep’ by East 17, ‘Bodyshakin” by 911 and ‘I’ve Got a Little Something for You’ by MN8. (I never really understood why MN8 were bragging about how little the something was that they were offering potential girlfriends.) We started trying to form a fan base and would play in schools or at local discos. We got the routines incredibly tight, to the point where I truly believed we were going to make it. There wasn’t a doubt in my mind. Once again, we had to decide on a name for the band. Gavin was gunning for Full Frontal but he was outvoted when we heard James Wilson’s genius suggestion: Insatiable. We would tell everyone who’d listen that we were going to be huge; that the reason we were called Insatiable is “cos you just can’t get enough of us’. I’m literally cringing while I type this.

  I was the youngest in the band, but I was also the one who cared the most and most wanted to make us a success. Doing cover versions was fun, but I knew we needed original songs if we were going to get noticed. I went back to Matt Lanchester, the keyboardist from Twice Shy, and asked if he’d like to write songs with me for Insatiable. If he went for it, I promised him that he’d be on the cusp of making millions; everyone knew that all the money was in writing songs. Once again, he got on board. From then on, weekends became about either rehearsing with the band or writing songs with Matt. We wrote a total of three songs together: the floor-filler ‘Girl, Are You Ready?’; the smoochy love ballad ‘Lover’; and the summer-time sing-a-long ‘I Miss My Time with You.’ With those three hit records, I knew we had what it took to make it. But, just to be sure, we also worked out a Take That medley that incorporated all of their biggest songs into one, which we knew would go down a storm live. Looking back on it now, I wonder if the songs were strong enough lyrically. Lyrics were my part of the deal and I’ll hold my hands up and say I’m no Bernie Taupin. At the time, however, I thought these songs were better than anything anyone had ever heard. You be the judge.

  GIRL, ARE YOU READY?

  It was all done in a sort of chant. I remember saying to Matt at the time that we needed a huge hit like PJ and Duncan’s ‘Let’s Get Ready to Rumble’. The chorus went like this:

  Girl, are you ready?

  Just tell me when ya ready.

  Girl, are you ready?

  I ain’t gonna rush you.

  Girl, get ready.

  It’s about to get steady

  Girl, are you ready?

  I ain’t gonna rush you.

  LOVER

  ‘Lover’ was a killer of a ballad. I remember thinking we should release it at Christmas, with a black-and-white video and some jingling bells in the background. These are the lyrics that, in my head, would change music for ever:

  Lover, lover, do you see?

  Lover, you and me

  We are dying.

  Lover, lover, can’t you see?

  Hold me close

  And stop the crying.

  And the chorus went:

  Don’t hide what you want me to see

  ‘Cos I can be everything that you want me to be.

  Together we’ll make it,

  Together we’ll stand

  The test of time

  Hand in hand.

  (We can make it hand in hand.)

  After reading those lyrics it probably won’t come as a shock to hear that after a year and a half, the band broke up. It never really happened officially; there was no public announcement, which is why you’re only hearing about it now. I was so disappointed. I had honestly believed that, when the day came that Insatiable finally broke up, after the millions of record sales and the record-breaking tours, ChildLine would have to set up a special call centre to deal with the traumatised, distraught girls all over the world. Instead, we broke up after six gigs, one of which was at James Wilson’s sister’s wedding, while another was at Gavin’s family barbecue. So, not really gigs at all – more like favours to us. It wasn’t how I’d pictured it panning out.

  The strange thing is that my being a fan of Take That, and my interest in all things boy band, has stood me in good stead to do lots of things since. Later on, you’ll read about how my first lead on television was in a fake documentary about a boy band called Boyz Unlimited, in which I played a character called Gareth, the fat one who wrote the songs. And in the last year I’ve co-produced an ITV special on the group JLS and, for Comic Relief, along with Alan Carr, John Bishop, Catherine Tate and David Walliams, I was part of Fake That, the ultimate Take That tribute band. Actually, it was during the recording of that video, when I was standing on a stage, sharing a microphone with Gary and singing one of his songs, that I really became grateful that Insatiable had never worked out. Deep down, I’d never wanted to be in a boy band – it was more an extension of my impossible dream of being in Take That. And, for a brief moment there, I guess I sort of was.

  So neither of my bands had worked out and I still wasn’t getting any of the auditions I was going for. In fact, I wasn’t auditioning much at all at this point. I was almost fifteen and school was getting incredibly boring, so much so that I started bunking off. It was so easy: I would head off out the door to school, leaving the house and saying my goodbyes to Mum and Dad, walk up the road, get to the top and hide between a bush and a tree on the corner. Then I’d sit there and watch as Mum left in her car, followed by Dad a few minutes later. I’d wait a good five minutes and then head back home. And that’s what I’d do. Once I was back, I’d lie around the house, watch TV, play computer games: anything to pass the time – often, if I’m being honest, close to nothing. Back then, I could waste three hours just staring at a rug – not even the whole rug, just a particular corner. When Mum and Dad got home, I’d tell them various untruths about my day and spend the evening forging a letter from one of them telling my teacher I had a sore throat and, that was that, I was home and dry. Well, almost …

  For it was on one such bunked-off day when, unbeknown to anyone, I made my first television appearance. I was sitting, or rather laid out, on our sofa watching This Morning with Richard and Judy – a staple watch for any child off school – and eating my third bowl of Coco Pops, when the agony aunt Denise came on and said that today’s phone-in would be all about bullying. She went on to say, ‘Do you know someone who is being bullied? Are you worried your child might be in danger? Are you a bully and don’t know how to stop? Are you being bullied and need help? If so, call this number …’

  Without even thinking about it, I put down the Coco Pops, went into the kitchen, picked up the phone and dialled the number she had just read out. I didn’t get through at first, but then, still not thinking, I redialled over and over again, until I finally got through. What was I doing? What was I thinking – or not thinking? I have absolutely no idea. Within minutes I was telling the researcher on the other end of the line about how I was being bullied, and that my parents thought I was at school but I couldn’t go in for fear of being beaten up again. I told her my name was Chris and she said someone would call back if I was going to be on the show. And that was that. I put the phone down and went back to the sofa and the Coco Pops. I don’t know what possessed me; I suppose it must’ve been my aching desire to be on TV. Never in a million years did I think I’d get on the show. There must be thousands of people calling in, I thought to myself. There’s no way.

  I was just about to lift the bowl to my mouth to slurp down the chocolatey milk when the phone rang. I picked it up and it was the researcher I’d spoken to. She asked me some more questions, to which I gave confident answers, every single one of them a lie. And then she said, ‘OK, Chris, I’m gonna pass you over to Denise, who’d just like to talk to you before we go on air.’ What? Exsqueeze me? Baking powder? Put me on air?! Talk to Denise?! What the hell was happening?!

 
Before I could hang up, I heard a new voice say, ‘Hiya, is that Chris?’ It was Denise, with her lovely, calming Geordie accent.

  ‘Yes, this is Chris. Hi Denise,’ I answered nervously. We spoke about the atrocities that were happening to me at the school I attended in High Wycombe. How I was too terrified to speak out. How my parents didn’t even know that I wasn’t at school today. (See? I wasn’t completely lying.) And then Denise told me to stay on the line because, in less than five minutes, I would be the first caller on air.

  I sat there, the phone pressed to my ear, trying to get my head together, Someone would come on every now and then to check on me. ‘Are you still there, Chris?’

  ‘Yep, yep. Chris is still here.’

  I was starting to get nervous now. Live-television nervous. I had to remember what Denise had told me, that I should just speak calmly and clearly. Thank God for Denise. She knew exactly how hard it was for me to call in with everything I was going through … Maybe it was the only way I could handle what was about to happen, but I genuinely started to feel as though I was the victim of bullying. I was waiting on the phone and kept being counted down. ‘One minute till we’re back on air … forty-five seconds … thirty seconds … ten …’

  And then down the phone I could hear the famous This Morning theme music and Richard Madeley welcoming everyone back. Then he turned the discussion over to today’s phone-in. There I was, standing in the kitchen, wearing just my school shirt, my pants and socks, about to tell a massive lie on national TV. After Denise and Richard had introduced the bit, Richard said, ‘Well, let’s go to our first caller, and it’s Chris from High Wycombe. Hi Chris.’

  I paused briefly, took a short breath and said, in a small, shy voice, ‘Hi Richard, hi Denise.’ And that was that. We were off.

  ‘Chris, you called in to tell us you were being bullied,’ Richard said.

  ‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘I am.’

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Fourteen.’

  ‘And you stayed away from school today because of what’s happening to you?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘My mum and dad don’t know I’m here. But I can’t face going into school any more.’

  ‘Can you tell me what’s been happening?’ Denise asked.

  ‘I’m being bullied. Picked on all the time, you know, by the other boys. I’m bigger than them, fatter. They call me names all the time because of it. Last term one of the kids broke my arm, but I told my teachers I’d slipped over.’

  And so it went on, my best performance to date, and I couldn’t even hear it because the TV was in the other room. Denise talked to me for a while, advising me about what to do and being very sympathetic, then Richard told me that he really respected me for coming on. ‘I think you’ve been very brave, very brave indeed,’ he said, ‘but I also think you need to talk to your parents about this. You need to talk to them about what’s happening to you, Chris. And you need to do it soon.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘Yes, you’re right. Thank you, Richard. Thank you very much.’

  ‘I’m sure they’ll be able to help, and perhaps there’s something they can do about the school, I don’t know. But it’s very important that you speak to them as soon as you possibly can. Don’t store this up, Chris: it won’t help. You really have to talk about it.’

  ‘Thank you, Richard,’ I said. ‘I will. I will speak to Mum and Dad.’

  And then I was off the air. I put the phone down and just stared at it. That was weird, I thought to myself. Was I just on TV? I then smiled to myself, one of the wryest smiles I’ve ever had on my face. If I was Ferris Bueller, I would’ve looked down the camera and winked. However, if I was Ferris Bueller, I would never have done what I did next. I was so swept up in my new television status as Chris the bullied teenager that when the phone started to ring again, I just presumed that it was This Morning calling me back for some reason. Maybe it was Denise thanking me for calling. Or, better still, maybe Richard Madeley was so impressed with Chris that he thought he should be a regular feature on the show. So I picked up the phone, waiting for good news, only to hear, ‘What on earth are you doing at home? Why aren’t you at school? And why the hell has Auntie Marilyn just heard you on the television saying you’ve broken your arm?’

  It was my mum. I didn’t even think. It’s the number one rule: if you’re bunking off, you never, ever pick up the phone. Rule number two should be: don’t call live television phone-ins and pretend to be someone else while talking in your own voice. But how many people would that apply to?

  To this day I have no idea why I did it. Why I felt the need to carry on with such a lie. When Mum got home, she told Dad and he went mad. Not a little bit cross: a proper, full-on, red-in-the-face, Malcolm Corden rage. It’s never nice being on the end of one of them.

  Recently, Richard Madeley very kindly agreed to be in the latest Smithy sketch for Comic Relief, and he was absolutely great. But all the time we were filming together, I had this huge urge to tell him what I’d done all those years ago. How this wasn’t actually the first time we’d spoken. But alas, the opportunity never arose. Even if it had, I wouldn’t have had any idea how to tell him. God knows where you start with something like that.

  To be honest, though, I mostly feel embarrassed by it. I was sent to my room that night without any dinner. And though I felt bad, and it was never nice when Dad shouted, deep down I was pleased that people knew. I’d been on television and, even though it was wrong, and even though I’d been lying the whole time, I wanted the whole world to know. The truth is, I loved it.

  CHAPTER 4

  BEST MUSICAL ACCOMPANIMENT:

  ‘School’s Out’ by Alice Cooper

  BEST FILM TO WATCH ALONGSIDE:

  Ferris Bueller’s Day Off

  BEST ENJOYED WITH:

  two hours of detention

  THE ONLY TIME I ever really enjoyed school was when we were doing the school play. It’s a time I look back on with fondness. We would rehearse every Tuesday and Thursday after school and, as the show got nearer, we would start doing evening rehearsals, until suddenly it got to a point where school didn’t feel like school any more – it was a theatre.

  I loved the nerves and excitement that buzzed around the place. The very same geography and history classrooms that were boring and dull in the day suddenly became dressing rooms or makeshift costume storage units full of life and purpose. The whole place changed, and if you had one of the leading parts, you would, without question, start to get treated differently. By teachers and pupils alike. You’d get let off the odd homework task as you had ‘lines to learn’, and everyone would constantly ask you about the play and want to know how you were feeling. All in all, for that week when the play was happening, you were seen as special. I loved it – every aspect of it – and I’m sure it won’t come as a shock to hear that when there was a play on, I never bunked off.

  We’d often do musicals and I was lucky enough to have a good part for most of the shows. One year, when we did Zigger Zagger, a musical about football hooligans, there was a review of our show in the Bucks Free Press. It was the first time I’d ever been mentioned in a newspaper of any kind and I remember what it said to this day, word for word:

  ‘James Corden excels as the sergeant major. This lad is a natural and I feel sure he has a future in the acting profession.’

  I couldn’t believe it. I cut it out of the paper and stuck it on my bedroom wall. I would read it every night before I went to sleep and every morning when I got up. Here’s the thing, though – and I’ve literally only learnt this in the last two years – the only thing worse than a bad review is believing a good review. If only I’d listened to our drama teacher, Mrs Roberts, when she told me not to let it go to my head. But it was too late for that. I walked around school like I was De Niro or something. So embarrassing. It was because of this behaviour and my appalling record of attendance that when the next year’s school play came around, Mrs Roberts called me to the school
hall to have a serious chat over lunch. She started by telling me that the show we were going to put on that year was called Dazzle, and that it was a musical set on a spaceship. She then informed me that she wanted me to play the lead, the captain of the ship.

  When she told me, though, she looked at me in that particular Mrs Roberts way. ‘James,’ she said, ‘don’t get too carried away with this because there are some serious conditions. I’ve talked to other teachers and I have to tell you most of them think I’m making a mistake. You’re so disruptive, so utterly disinterested in almost all your other lessons, they—’

  ‘I’m not that bad,’ I protested.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘actually you are.’ She pointed a finger at me. ‘I’m sticking my neck out for you here and I promise, if you step out of line in any lesson with any teacher between now and the school play, not only will I take the part away from you, you won’t be in it at all.’

  She didn’t have to say any more. The play was all I lived for and, once warned, I didn’t so much as breathe in a lesson without permission. I was the model student really. I even let Mr Hopkins have some peace in European Studies. And that’s saying something because Mr Hopkins was my nemesis. A strange man, to say the least, who was probably better suited to lecturing at a university than teaching in school. You see, he didn’t so much teach as stand at the front of the class and pontificate endlessly in a monotone. But there’s plenty to come on him. Best to give it a proper lead-in, so I’ll tell you how I ended up in his class.

  As you probably know, it’s the fourth year at upper school where you have to make the choices about what to do for your GCSEs. At Holmer Green we had to pick three options to take as well as Maths, English, Science and a language. I made my choices immediately: Drama, of course, Music and Home Economics. I wanted to be as creative as possible, so these seemed like the right subjects to choose. Suddenly things had changed; for the first time I had made my own choices and I felt really energised at the thought of spending large chunks of the day creating things, instead of being told to sit down, be quiet and listen.