May I Have Your Attention Please?

by James Corden

  In many ways, still being at home was a great thing because it kept me very grounded. My mum was just amazing – she always has been – and I was lucky enough to grow up in this cocoon of love and encouragement that was still there when the TV show failed to live up to expectations. It had been like that all through my childhood: my sisters and I surrounded by so much love that we felt we had total security. We went to school – we went everywhere in fact – wearing this sort of emotional parachute. I see a confidence and resilience in my sisters, Ange and Rudi, that I don’t see in everyone and I’m sure it’s come about because of our upbringing. How can you be afraid of failure if no one’s going to tell you that you messed up?

  Dad was a little different to Mum; in many ways they were the flip side of each other. I wrote a little before about how he could be a mixture of support and a sort of veiled disappointment, and I think that comes from him being so much of a realist. No matter how enthusiastic I was about a job or the potential of one, he’d always be there to add a note of caution. Dad also has a temper on him, and because I could be really irritating as a kid (you’ve worked this out by now, right?), I was often on the wrong end of it. I can’t really blame him. I wonder what it was like for Dad, being told by endless teachers, Cub Scout leaders or members of our church congregation that I was a waster. It must’ve been so hard to hear. My son is just two days old and I can’t imagine those things being said about him or, worse still, realising that they might be true.

  He was as pragmatic about the failure of Boyz Unlimited as he was about everything else, though. I remember we talked a lot about hype and expectation and how damaging it could be. The real successes in British comedy are not shows that have been overly hyped – they’ve just sort of crept up on people. The Office was never hyped, Little Britain wasn’t given a big build-up and Gavin & Stacey certainly wasn’t in your face with billboards or adverts. That’s the way it should be. Comedy is so personal, you want to find it for yourself.

  With no sign of a job, I was kicking my heels again. I’d done a decent stint waiting on tables, so now I stayed at home and waited for the phone to ring. I didn’t do anything much except sit around and play Championship Manager – which is without question the finest computer game that’s ever been invented. I still play it now from time to time, though it’s called Football Manager these days. Let me just take this moment to say thank you to everyone who ever worked on that game. You are all geniuses and I love you all – and when I wasn’t at home, I’d be round at Shelley’s house. I was quite enjoying the downtime actually when, out of the blue, Jacquie called me about an audition for Hollyoaks.

  I’d better explain how the audition process actually works. Unless you’re really at the top of your game, scripts don’t come through specifically addressed to you. Normally, the casting director for a particular project will send agents a breakdown of the parts they’re looking to fill. The agents then submit a CV and photo of the people they think could be suitable. From all those submissions, the casting director, director and producer put together a list of who they want to come in and read.

  With the Hollyoaks audition, about thirty boys were asked to read for the part of Wayne, the janitor at the college. Wayne wasn’t your typical Hollyoaks character. He wasn’t meant to be very attractive; he smelled a bit; he was overweight. I auditioned. A week later I was filming in Liverpool.

  I wasn’t a fan of the show and I remember this being the first time in my career where I was doing something I didn’t truly believe in. But even so, the contract was only for two months, and given it was the only thing on offer, I decided it didn’t matter.

  It’s a soap opera, of course, and as soon as you arrive you realise why so many members of the cast stick around for so long. It’s great fun, like being a student at university, only with lots of money. Everyone is young, attractive and much richer than they’ve ever been before. It’s pretty intoxicating.

  I didn’t particularly enjoy the way the show worked, though, neither the atmosphere on the set nor the lack of care that went into the actual shooting of the show. It never really felt professional and, from an acting point of view, it would frustrate me. That said, I have huge respect for the actors involved and I made some really good friends there. People like James Redmond, Ben Hull and Jeremy Edwards. It was an odd experience really. I’ve done some interviews where I slagged the show off and I know I was quite negative. I don’t mind admitting I regret them now. Looking back, I don’t think it was very fair, because the show doesn’t pretend to be anything other than what it is. I guess I was too young, too naive maybe to understand it. The fact is, when I did slag it off, it was at a time where I thought I could say and do what I liked, and that says more about me than it does about Hollyoaks, doesn’t it?

  There are reasons I felt negative towards the show. My character became popular quite quickly, probably because he was the only one in the show who didn’t have a six-pack or chiselled jaw. It was refreshing in a way. But in one episode, my character Wayne moved in with Nick Pickard’s character Tony, so the art department had to build a new set for Wayne’s bedroom.

  I arrived on set, ready to film about six scenes with Nick, all in the flat, when I saw something that I couldn’t believe. Blu-Tacked onto the walls, in the same way you would stick up pictures of your favourite band or football player, they had placed pictures of food. Not a scene from a bohemian restaurant – actual food. Pictures of fish and chips, or a cottage pie, the odd individual sausage here and there. I was gobsmacked. What were they trying to say about the character, or, deeper still, what were they saying about anyone who was overweight? That fat people worship food in the same way that the other, ‘normal’, good-looking characters worship footballers or bands? I was immediately offended and I told them it was out of order. I remember looking to the crew for some support, though all I saw was a group of shifty people staring at the floor, trying not to be the person who might step out of line. I was adamant, though, and I refused to begin filming until they took the pictures down. I made a stand and to this day I believe I made the right one. I remember telling the art department guy that if he could find me one teenager in the country with pictures of food on his walls, I would go with it.

  One of the producers came down to the set. He was about twenty – there were people in the cast older than him – and told me to stop causing a scene, that it was only a bit of fun, and that time-wise the crew were really up against it today and we needed to get on. I told him that the quickest way we’d shoot the scene was if they just removed the pictures and then I’d be happy and get on and do it. I didn’t say another word; I just pretended to write a text on my phone. The silence went on so long that I did actually write a text to Shelley telling her I might be about to get fired.

  In the end, the producer backed down and asked the art department to remove the photos. It was a strange atmosphere on set that day. I’m not sure many people ever really say things are wrong on Hollyoaks. Not in the cast, anyway. I felt fortunate that I’d worked professionally before and had enough experience to handle a nasty situation. What they like to do on Hollyoaks is cast people who haven’t worked much before so that they can be moulded to their way of working. Like lab rats.

  A month or so later, my contract was nearly up and I figured we’d shake hands at the end and each go our separate ways. Despite some bad moments, I genuinely had enjoyed my time in Liverpool; it’s a great city and I always had fun with the cast.

  I had a week to go until I was due to leave and only had three more days of actual filming on the Wednesday, Thursday and Friday. It was Tuesday night, and I was at home when Jacquie called and said that Hollyoaks wanted to extend my contract. I was shocked. I presumed that after the whole ‘I’m not filming with food on the walls’ thing, they would be happy to see the back of me. I told Jacquie that I wasn’t sure I wanted to do it and she said we should wait for a bit and see what the offer was. Dad thought that was the right way to go too.


  I’d never been in that position before, knowing an offer was coming and sitting around waiting for it. Previously, they’d always come out of the blue and I’d never been in any doubt as to whether I’d want to do it or not. Eventually, Jacquie called and told me she’d got them to the best money she could get. However, there was a condition: they didn’t just want to offer me another couple of months; they wanted to book me for a year. The money – Jacquie paused for effect when she told me – would be £70,000.

  What?! How much? Vividly, I remember going into the kitchen to see Mum and Dad having just got off the phone with Jacqui.

  ‘What’s happened then?’ Dad asked me. ‘What’s the latest?’

  ‘They’ve offered me a year’s contract,’ I told him. ‘Seventy grand, Dad. Seventy thousand quid.’

  He took that in his stride. ‘So what do you think?’

  I shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I’m not sure. It’s such a lot of money.’

  And then Dad came into his own and told me something I’ve never forgotten. He took a breath and said, ‘Well, if you want my advice, I reckon if they’ve offered you seventy thousand pounds for a year, and you’re not sure if you want to do it or not, I’d imagine you don’t want to do it.’

  ‘Yeah, but … seventy gr—’ I replied before Dad interrupted me.

  ‘You don’t need it, James. You don’t need that kind of money when you’re nineteen and living at home. You need it when you’ve got a wife and a family. You’re not in that position, are you? I think if you take that money and get used to all the things that come with it, then the harder it’ll be to leave. So you’ll stay, and stay again, and before you know it, you’ll be Ken Barlow. (He actually said that, I promise you.) It’s totally up to you, mate, and I’ll support you in whatever you want to do, you know that. Sometimes you’ll have to do things you don’t wanna do for money. This isn’t one of those times.’

  I turned it down. I told Jacquie I didn’t want to get stuck in a soap opera – though, to be honest, when I came off the phone I wasn’t sure I’d made the right decision. It was true – I didn’t want to get trapped on any one show, but it was very popular and it was a hell of a lot of cash. I worried about it for a week or so, and genuinely felt sad when saying goodbye to the friends I’d made there. I also felt a slight pang when the train pulled out of Liverpool Lime Street Station. A week or so went by. Just at the moment when I started to wonder if it was too late to go back, Jacquie called me with an audition for a film.

  Whatever Happened to Harold Smith? was a film about a middle-aged man who starts to display psychic and telekinetic energy, causing the deaths of three pensioners when it interferes with their pacemakers. It was a comedy – you didn’t guess that? – and when Jacqui told me the names of the cast, I got seriously excited: Tom Courtenay, Stephen Fry, David Thewlis, to name just a few.

  Careers change direction unexpectedly. Different decisions can set you off on surprising paths. If I’d taken the Hollyoaks offer, that audition would never have come up. But it did and, three days later, I got the part of Walter, best mate to Harold Smith’s son, Vince. If I had accepted the Hollyoaks offer, I’d never have been in the film and there’s every chance I would still be in Liverpool now. Wayne would still be the janitor at the college and would probably have an imaginary girlfriend who looked like a Fray Bentos pie.

  Harold Smith was directed by Peter Hewitt, who made Bill & Ted’s Bogus Journey, and the thought of working with him and the cast he’d put together was totally excellent. When I first arrived at the audition, I didn’t think I stood a chance. Nobody else going for the role looked even vaguely like me. My first thought was that they clearly hadn’t realised I was this big from my head shot. But I really wanted to play Walter; it was such a fun part. Lulu was playing Vince’s mum, and Walter and Lulu’s character eventually became a couple. In all aspects, this was a dream job.

  Oddly, this was one of those situations where my size really helped me out. I stood out as the only big guy up for the part. The ultra-creative Nina Gold was casting the film. Directors use people like Nina because their expertise is in knowing who is around and who is up and coming and who might be best for a certain role. With tight scheduling and budget restrictions, a director might only have one day to sit down and cast a couple of parts.

  When I got the job, I remember telling Peter that I hadn’t thought for a moment I’d be chosen. He admitted that he hadn’t thought of Walter as a big guy either, but that the minute I’d walked in, he realised that a big lad would make the part even better. Walter was Vince’s best mate and Vince was being played by Michael Legge, who had just finished three films back to back. The whole cast was full of people who were seen as the next big things. Matthew Rhys, Charlie Hunnam and Laura Fraser. All of them were in those ‘one to watch’ sections in magazines and newspapers. Again, just like that first day on Martin Guerre, I felt a little out of my depth.

  The first day on any acting job is always the read-through. Everyone involved with the film sits around a table and you literally read through the script, each actor delivering their lines. I remember I was sitting opposite David Thewlis, a real hero of mine. I’m a huge fan of Mike Leigh’s films – he’s been a big influence ever since I saw Life Is Sweet – and David had played the lead in Naked, one of my favourites, a film about a guy on the run from Manchester in London. His performance in that film is unbelievable.

  It was all a little mind-blowing. I was nineteen, I’d just turned down a year’s contract with Hollyoaks and I was in London sitting opposite David Thewlis, who was sitting next to Stephen Fry, who was sitting next to Tom Courtenay. Crazy. I had plenty of time to just sit there and stare in awe because my character didn’t appear until about fifty pages into the script.

  I managed to nervously deliver my lines in the read-through without messing up too much and, afterwards, the producer invited us all to his house in Holland Park for a drinks party. That was the first I’d heard about it; no one had mentioned it before. David Thewlis asked me if I was going to go and I told him that of course I was, I wouldn’t miss it, and he offered me a lift (which was a relief as I had no idea where Holland Park was). He had an old Peugeot 305 and as I sat next to him in the passenger seat, all I wanted to talk about was Mike Leigh. I imagine David had been asked the question a million times before, but I couldn’t help myself. I just came right out and asked him what it was like working with him.

  Mike is unique in British film-making. If you’re lucky enough to be invited to work with him, your acting will be as pure as any performance you ever give. David didn’t mind me asking and he told me in detail about the process: the whole thing is improvised, no script is written down and each character is developed individually with Mike. I remember sitting there thinking how amazing it would be to work with Mike, to be noticed by him. I couldn’t think of anything more fulfilling or more challenging.

  I remember the drinks do after the read-through for two reasons:

  One, it was in the biggest house I’d ever been to – it was an amazing, luxurious townhouse, spread over countless floors.

  And two, it was the first time I’d ever tasted hummus. I didn’t really know what to do with it and at first I was eating it with a spoon, piling it high like it was Ready brek. After looking around at other people, I soon found out this was not a good look, and started using it as a dip instead.

  Aside from the hummus embarrassment, the whole experience of making that film was great, actually. It was a brilliant bunch of people to work with and be around and the whole shoot was a really happy and satisfying experience.

  CHAPTER 10

  BEST MUSICAL ACCOMPANIMENT:

  ‘Perfect 10’ by the Beautiful South

  BEST FILM TO WATCH ALONGSIDE:

  Mona Lisa

  BEST ENJOYED WITH:

  canapés and sparkling wine

  SO, WHAT DID happen to Harold Smith? I’m sure you’re wondering. So am I, actually. No, I’m kidding – when the fi
lm wrapped I was really hopeful it would be a success. It was quite a big British production. It wasn’t a huge budget or anything, but it was big enough, and I’d almost forgotten that when the film came out there was going to be a Leicester Square premiere. It would be my first one. I remember walking down the red carpet with the TV cameras looking on and the fans screaming (none of them at me) and all the gathered press and photographers: people wanted to interview me. Me! I’ve got to admit that I loved all the attention.

  Unfortunately, for whatever reason, the film didn’t set the world on fire, which was a pretty big disappointment. It just sort of came and went, like a train arriving at the station with nobody getting on and nobody getting off. Often, that’s just the way it is – most films come and go, don’t find an audience, aren’t through-the-roof mega-hits. It’s just the occasional film that really breaks through and catches people’s imagination. And who knows what that magic formula is? I find you’re mostly just hoping that you’ve done the best job you could have and, after that, it’s down to the stars aligning.

  So, Harold Smith didn’t quite hit the mark as we’d hoped, but that’s not to say it was a complete disaster. There was a silver lining: because of the calibre of the cast and crew, a lot of influential people in the industry went to see the film and, soon after its release, I noticed a change in the kind of auditions I was going for.

  I was auditioning a lot around this time. I remember one week when I went for six different auditions for six different films. One of them was for a film called Dead Babies, an adaptation of a Martin Amis novel, which an awful lot of people were saying was the hottest film in production at the time. It was going to be the new Trainspotting, and every young actor was dying to get a part in it. Initially, I was reading for the role of an American, but when I got there, both the director and the producer told me they didn’t think I was right for it and asked me to read for another character instead.