by James Corden
Christian took a look at the beers and started shaking his head. ‘What kind of shit beers are these?’ he said.
‘Yeah Corden!’ Greg joined in. ‘I fawt you was gonna get Foster’s or Kronenbourg sixteen sixty finny.’
‘This is bullshit!’ added Alex, who seconds earlier had been over the moon at the sight of them. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. They had no idea what I’d been through to get these.
‘We can’t turn up wiv these. We’ll look like pikeys,’ Christian said angrily.
I needed to say something fast: ‘Whoa, guys, guys, guys. This is quality beer. Everyone is gonna be turning up with a four-pack of Stella or whatever. But these will stand out. They’re exotic, cool. And they’re stubby little bottles. No one who’s anyone drinks from cans. Tramps drink from cans. I said I’d get you some beers for free and I have. I got you the most expensive beers in the shop, ‘cos I thought you guys would want the best.’ I was clinging on to anything to get me out of this mess.
‘Are they really the most expensive?’ asked Alex.
‘Yeah, big time,’ I replied, and suddenly they all started smiling.
‘Yeah man! Wicked!’ Greg said as he fist-pumped Christian.
‘We got us some good shit here,’ Christian agreed. What a relief. I’d passed the test. Alex picked up the beers and we all started making our way up the path and on to the party, and the girls and the—
‘Umm, where you going?’ Christian was looking at me in his default threatening manner.
‘What?’ I said, honestly confused. Now the other two stopped and turned to look at me as well.
‘Where you going, now?’ Christian growled.
I paused and thought for a second. ‘I’m … erm … Well, I’m coming with you. To the party,’ I said nervously. All three of them just cracked up laughing.
‘Ha ha! You ain’t comin’ wiv us. No way!’ he said through his laughter.
‘But I thought …’
The laughter increased. ‘You fawt you was coming wiv us? Ha ha! Nah, you ain’t invited to this party.’ Greg came over and pushed me hard in the chest and I almost fell over a tree stump. ‘See ya laters, fat boy.’ And with that, they walked off.
I stood on the path, on my own, more embarrassed than anything else. After everything I’d done for them, the risk I’d gone through, that’s how they’d treat me? I walked home feeling a fool. Why had I gone to such lengths to try and impress people who were never, ever going to be impressed by me? It was a trait of mine that I really hated – the need to be liked by those who made it clear they had no time for me. It’s gone now, thank God. Only recently, but it’s gone. I’ve faced up to the fact that some people are going to like me and others aren’t. That’s all there is to it. It was the case at school and it’s the same now and it will be the case throughout my whole life. In wanting to impress those guys so much, in trying so hard, all I’d done was make them think I was more of an idiot. They were never going to like me, no matter what I did or tried to do.
(Now, tell me that isn’t an important lesson. See, I told you it would be worth it.)
Right, let’s get back to it. I was looking for a job, wasn’t I? So, after shooting a film and doing a year in the West End, I couldn’t contemplate going back to work alongside Ziggy, but I did have to get a job somewhere. I went into the metropolis that is High Wycombe town centre and walked around the shops, asking to see if there were any jobs going. What came next was a succession of pointlessly filling in application forms and expecting to hear nothing. That was until I walked into Bella Pasta, where the slogan on the window read, ‘The Bella Place for Bella Pasta.’ Genius. They’ve changed their name now to Bella Italia, which I imagine means they’ll have dropped the slogan. Shame really.
It was just after the lunchtime rush and I walked up to the bar and spoke to the manager, who was a really lovely woman. Our conversation went like this:
‘Have you waited before?’
‘I’ve not, no, but I’m a quick learner.’
‘Do you have some black trousers, a white shirt and a black tie?’
‘Erm … yes, I think so.’
‘Well, you’re in luck. I’ve just had two people leave – you can start tomorrow.’
So that was that; I was a waiter. Some people say it’s only when you’ve been a waiter that you can actually call yourself an actor. And I have to say, looking back on my month-long stint at Bella Pasta, I think I was very lucky. I really enjoyed it, it was always fun, and the people who worked there were great.
The job itself felt like the exact opposite of what I’d been doing in the West End. In Martin Guerre it was the same thing every night, but when you’re a waiter, no two tables are ever the same. I loved the crack with the customers and I earned way more money than I ever did in Martin Guerre, with the tips on top of my basic pay. Whenever we had a hen night in, I’d get put on those tables and do jokes about the size of the pepper grinder and what kind of meat they wanted on the meat pizza – you know, the good stuff. I was so enthusiastic and my repertoire so varied, it almost felt like doing stand-up.
There was only one day that I really screwed up. You see, when the food was ready, the kitchen staff would put it up on the pass between the kitchen and the restaurant and if there was ever a bit of cheese or something dangling off a pizza, I’d have a little nibble, y’no, just to tidy it up. Well, this particular day, two pizzas were ready to go and the cheese was dripping off the side of one of them, so I picked it off and stuffed it in my mouth before carrying the food to the table. I went over, smiling lots and cracking gags as usual, only this time nobody was laughing. They were just staring at me instead. A little self-consciously perhaps, I put the pizzas down and then – and only then – I caught sight of my face in the mirror along the wall. There was a long string of melted cheese attached to my lower lip, with the other end still hanging on to the pizza’s crust.
‘Ah,’ I said, lifting the pizza back off the table. ‘I’ll just fetch you another one of those. Won’t be a minute.’ Classy.
There was another reason Bella Pasta was a really happy time for me. It wasn’t just because I was so fulfilled taking orders for garlic bread or the odd Fusilli Marco Polo. No, it was because it was around this time that I first fell in love.
I was under the illusion that I’d been in love before, with girls like Gemma or Claire Wyatt. But nothing prepared me for how completely bowled over I was about to be when I met Shelley. Not only was Shelley the first girl I loved, she was without question the first girl to completely love me back. She was the first girl who wasn’t looking over my shoulder to see if someone better walked in, and the first girl who I could tell, when I looked into her eyes and she looked into mine, loved me like I loved her.
I met her through my friend Stuart Hay, who had been the sound mixer for both my bands, Twice Shy and Insatiable. He introduced us one day and we went for a drink after work and ended up chatting all night. Shelley was doing a degree in Film Studies and we talked for hours about our favourite films and actors. She was beautiful and funny and so bright, and I remember thinking I could talk to her every day for a year and not get bored. I was completely smitten. When the evening came to an end, she offered me a lift home in her Fiesta and, as we pulled up outside my parents’ house, I thought for a moment about leaning in to kiss her. But the evening had been so perfect that I didn’t want anything to ruin it. I was so used to girls just liking me as a friend, so instead I said goodnight and stepped out of the car. I took a few paces towards the front door and stopped dead: what if I never saw her again? What if this was my one chance? I couldn’t let this be it. One nice evening of conversation and then a lifetime of what ifs and maybes.
I turned round, walked back to the car and tapped on Shelley’s window. ‘Erm … could I get your phone number?’ I said. “Cos I’d love to see you again … Y’no, at some point, sometime. Anytime. Whenever. If you’d like to, y’no. Only if … Don’t worry if you don’t want
to. It’s cool. I mean … I’m not bothered, just … Erm. Whatever. I just think it’d be … nice.’
In the time I’d been babbling on, Shelley had already reached down into her bag, taken out a pen and pad, and started scribbling her phone number down. She handed it to me and I held it and looked at it for a moment, just taking it in. There it was: her phone number. Set down in ink. For me. And me alone.
I noticed in the bottom corner some small letters that said, ‘P.T.O.,’ with an arrow attached. I turned it over and in big letters it said, ‘YOU’RE MAD, BUT I LIKE YOU.’ I smiled and chuckled a little as I gazed at this amazing girl looking up at me. I didn’t even think. I just leant down and kissed her. Like I’d never kissed anyone. And she, I’m pleased to add, kissed me back. It was incredible. Romantic, silly, heartfelt and sexy, all rolled into one.
It’s a strange thing, kissing. We’ve all had good ones and bad ones. Sloppy ones and dreamy ones. I have a theory about kissing that you, like many of my friends, may think is wishy-washy and pathetic, but it’s something I believe to be true. I don’t think there is such a thing as a bad kisser. I don’t. I just believe that there are people who shouldn’t kiss each other. Because the person you’ve had an awful kiss with and the person I’ve had an awful kiss with – well, who’s to say that they didn’t walk away from our embrace telling their friends how rubbish at kissing we were? And we both know, you and I, that we are brilliant at snogging. And if, one day, those two people who didn’t like kissing us should somehow end up sharing a kiss in a doorway, or on a dance floor, then there’s a strong possibility that the kiss they share will be perfect. Because they were meant to kiss each other. Just like Shelley and I were.
I have to pause here for a moment because it’s hard to write about Shelley. I can almost guarantee she will take no pleasure whatsoever in being written about. But I can’t leave her out. I was with her too long. She was too important. We started going out when I was eighteen and we were together till The History Boys finished in New York when I was twenty-seven. That’s a very long time, a big chunk of a young man’s life: it was a serious relationship.
After that first kiss, we immediately became a couple and were completely inseparable. Most nights I would stay at her house, which was about five minutes away from mine. Her mum and dad, Mike and Di, became like second parents to me. They were lovely and I have the fondest memories of the time I spent at their place. They came from Barry Island in South Wales and it was through them I got to know the area. If I hadn’t, then things might have turned out so differently. Shelley introduced me to some of the old characters from Barry, unwittingly sowing the seed for Gavin & Stacey – she had a massive impact on all aspects of my life. She was my first love.
I did six months at Bella Pasta, but by then I was starting to worry a little about my career. I’d never intended to stay that long, but there was no other acting work coming in as I hadn’t got any of the parts I’d been going for after Twenty Four Seven. That really began to bother me. I was OK for money, as I was still living with Mum and Dad, and on a personal level I was over the moon being with Shelley, but my career seemed to have come to a halt.
It was just at that point, feeling pretty low, when Twenty Four Seven came out to the most incredible reviews. Everyone who saw it loved the film, and Shane was hailed as the best of his generation. It was brilliant.
A year had passed since we’d wrapped the shoot; after being such a close-knit group, we’d all promised to stay in touch, like you do. It’s always like that when a film is over; you really mean to keep up the friendships, but in reality that rarely happens because everyone goes off to do different projects. But here we were, a year on, all us lads having a little reunion. It was my first experience of the way that works: you shoot the film, wait what can sometimes seem like for ever, then the film comes out, and you’re all brought back together to do publicity and interviews or photo shoots. If you’re lucky, there might be a premiere. It’s one of the things I really like about making films, that sense of continuity. Throughout the film’s life, there are these constant points of excitement – getting the part, meeting the cast, shooting the film itself, seeing the finished thing and then all the reviews and press when it’s released. And you get to do it – if you’re very lucky – with a bunch of people you really get on with.
So, after six months being a waiter, I found myself back in Nottingham doing a photo shoot for The Face magazine with the other lads, who I’d not seen for a year. It was amazing: none of us had ever done a photo shoot before and there we were, this unlikely group, who were now part of this great British film success.
It was being back in the public eye that made me think about what I was going to do next. I couldn’t stay at Bella Pasta for ever; I needed to get some acting work. Nathan Harmer, a friend from Martin Guerre, was looked after by an agent called Jacquie Drewe at London Management. She sounded like my kind of person, and he said that he’d put in a word for me. On his recommendation, Jacquie went to see the film and a few days later we met up, had a chat and got along really well. She seemed to have no hesitation in taking me on.
I was moving on but, having been looked after by Marilyn for so long, it was really traumatic to say goodbye. I’d never really left anyone before, and it was horrible having to let down a friend. Marilyn was upset, but we talked about it and I know that deep down she understood my decision. I shall always be grateful to her and to the amazing people at the Jackie Palmer Stage School. Without them, my acting career and this book might still be a far-off dream.
Not long after I signed with Jackie, she phoned me about a new comedy show called Boyz Unlimited that had just been commissioned by Channel 4. It sounded really exciting: it was a mockumentary about a boy band and they were looking for a guy to play a character called Gareth, who was loosely based on Gary Barlow. He was one of the main characters, the one who wrote all the songs. I nearly dropped the phone in shock. Someone had written my dream part.
I met Andy Pryor, the casting director, and he put me through a singing audition followed by an acting audition and I seemed to do well in both. We got along great and I was called back for a dance audition. It was a bit like Martin Guerre; with my size and everything, they made no secret of being worried whether I could pull off the routines without looking foolish.
They had brought in Paul Domain, the choreographer who at the time was creating the dance routines for all the biggest boy bands in the country. I think he was as sceptical as the rest of them, but then none of them knew that growing up I’d spent hour after hour pretending to be Gary Barlow. He started taking me through my paces, and all the moves he was showing me were ones I already knew in one form or another. I just pretended to be back in our front room with the sofas pushed up against the wall. I went for it and two weeks later I was told I’d got the job.
The show was written and produced by a great guy called Richard Osman. The script was funny and smart and I loved it; the seven weeks of filming were basically a dream come true as I spent every day either singing or dancing or acting. There were four of us in the band: Billy Worth (the cute one), Adam Sinclair (the manly one), Lee Williams (the model-looking one) and me (the fat one who writes the songs). We thought it was going to make us stars. We were in magazines and posters on the Underground; people were calling it the next big comedy of the autumn. Not for the last time in my career, I believed the hype.
It’s an interesting phenomenon, hype – creating expectation, talking something up before it happens. Nothing suffers from that kind of expectation more than comedy. If something is built up to be the funniest thing since Morecombe and Wise, there’s only one way it can go. That’s what happened with Boyz Unlimited: it came out and never really caught on. Right from the start the ratings weren’t good and, as the series progressed, it became obvious that it wasn’t going to get recommissioned. It was a crazy time: just a couple of weeks before the show aired we’d read in the papers about a battle that was raging behind
the scenes between two record companies desperate to sign us.
It’s a fact of life in the entertainment business. There’s no rhyme or reason as to why one thing works and another doesn’t; it’s always so subjective. At so many points I’ve felt I’ve been on the cusp of something, when actually it’s not something, it’s just …a thing. There are so many films, plays and television programmes made every year. All I wanted was to be in something that stood out and, more importantly, to stand out in it.
CHAPTER 9
BEST MUSICAL ACCOMPANIMENT:
‘Get on the Road’ by Tired Pony
BEST FILM TO WATCH ALONGSIDE:
Whatever Happened to Harold Smith?
BEST ENJOYED:
with a spoonful of hummus
EVEN THOUGH BOYZ Unlimited didn’t blow up like we hoped it would, it was another great experience – still to this day one of the best I’ve had – and my CV was looking more professional. I’d been in a West End musical, a really well-received film with an up-and-coming director, and now I’d played the lead in what had been pitched as a major TV comedy series.
I was still living with my mum and dad, though, and the thought of going back to somewhere like Bella Pasta didn’t do anything for me. I had really believed I was on my way to superstardom and it had all ended so suddenly. Beyond the disappointment, I guess it was a little unnerving as well. It’s only as you get older and wiser that you realise there is this bigger picture and each segment of life is only a part of it. For a while I was a victim of the ‘Is that it?’ syndrome. I’d done stage, film and TV. Had I hit the peak? Did that mean it was over?