by James Corden
The ground could’ve opened up and swallowed me. Please God, let me not be here suffering this bollocking from Mike Leigh of all people. I don’t know if he meant to humiliate me that badly, or if he was turning my mistake into an advantage, thinking that a dressing-down would only make me – and thus Rory – angrier. Well, if that was his motivation, he was spot on. By the time we did the next take I was really angry.
You might be sitting there now with a furrowed brow wondering what the difference is between ‘What’s she doing?’ and ‘Well, what’s she doing?’ But in the context of the film it was massive. The word ‘well’ sounded as if Rory was apologising for his actions, and Rory didn’t apologise for anything. By the time I’d finished working with Mike, those kind of subtleties were becoming much clearer to me. In fact, tough though it was, it was the best education as an actor that I ever had.
CHAPTER 12
BEST MUSICAL ACCOMPANIMENT:
‘Club Tropicana’ by Wham!
BEST FILM TO WATCH ALONGSIDE:
A Cock and Bull Story
BEST ENJOYED WITH:
baked Alaska
I‘D HAD A leading role. In a film. My name was on the posters alongside those of Timothy Spall, Lesley Manville and Alison Garland, and it all looked very promising. When they showed the film at Cannes, it received a five-minute standing ovation that sent shivers down my spine. I remember Sting coming up to me afterwards and telling me he thought my performance had been amazing. I couldn’t believe it. I was so shocked I don’t even think I said thank you; I just stood there open-mouthed. I remember telling myself that Sting wouldn’t think I’d been rude – he was probably used to that reaction from people by now.
Critically, the film polarised opinion. There was nothing lukewarm about anyone’s reaction: they either loved or hated it. But that’s often how it is with Mike’s films and I’d wanted to be part of it for the experience, not for where the film might take me.
He’s such a phenomenal director that everyone who works with him yearns for another opportunity. There are a chosen few, I suppose, actors who get invited back: Alison Steadman, Timothy Spall, Ruth Sheen, Lesley Manville, people like that. I’ve got a feeling that All or Nothing might’ve been my one and only shot, though. The way my career has gone since, I’m not sure I’m what Mike’s looking for.
Mike doesn’t want people who pussyfoot around him and I pussyfooted around him a lot. He doesn’t want people who laugh at his jokes all the time – I definitely laughed at his jokes all the time. He wants actors who challenge him and I don’t know that I did that. I’m being hard on myself, maybe, but coming away from a shoot like that, you’re always going to ask yourself the tough questions.
Sometimes I wonder if I might’ve done better if I’d gone the traditional route and spent some time at drama school. The thing about training properly is that it gives you confidence, the kind you just can’t get from anywhere else. Maybe I’d become a better actor if I took a year off and went to RADA or LAMDA or somewhere, though there’s always the chance I’d end up in a class full of people desperate to be in a Mike Leigh film. And that would be weird for everyone.
After the film released, nothing happened for a few weeks. I would pick up a magazine and read an article about the latest young acting sensation – the hot one to watch, you know. Generally, it would be someone I’d never heard of … and still haven’t, come to think of it. That’s the trouble with being ‘hot’ – what happens if you don’t catch fire? So I definitely wasn’t on any hot lists but, on the whole, I got good reviews for my part in All or Nothing.
A month or so after it came out, I went for an audition for a TV film called Cruise of the Gods. It was written by Tim Firth and starred Steve Coogan and Rob Brydon. Steve is one of my comedy heroes. Growing up, my mates and I would spend hours trying to out-Partridge each other, battling one another with the most obscure quotations. Instead of saying hello, we’d just say, ‘AHA!’ So this was a big deal for me.
The premise of the show revolved around two stars of a hit eighties TV show called The Children of Castor. Rob was playing the guy who’d been the lead, while Steve’s character had played second fiddle. But, since the show ended, Steve’s character had gone to LA and become a massive star; by contrast, Rob’s had ended up working as a doorman in a hotel. He was broke, depressed and living on his own in a bedsit. Out of the blue, he’s asked to be the guest of honour on a cruise in the Adriatic organised by the fan club. The part I was going for was a boy called Russell who was the fan club’s chairman’s assistant and, unbeknown to anyone, Rob’s long-lost son.
I think maybe they had been looking for an actor who was a little better known than me, but I wanted the part so badly that I guess my enthusiasm must have shone through. Here was a chance to work with Rob and Steve and, not only that, but with David Walliams too, who was playing the chairman of the fan club. Three of the best comedy actors in Britain. Finally, they did call to say I’d got it.
I was totally over the moon. (I realise at this point I’ve said this a few times and it may sound as if I’m just saying it because I have to, but truly, every job I get, I still can’t believe that people are prepared to pay me for something I enjoy so much. It feels as if I’m doing something illegal.)
This job, more than any other, felt like a new chapter of my career. It was the first time I’d ever had to go abroad to work. The whole shoot would take place on a cruise ship that would be sailing around the Greek Islands. I kissed Shelley goodbye and headed off to the airport. The shoot would be the longest time we’d ever spend apart since we’d been together, and I felt incredibly sad at the thought of being away for so long. This was the first time I realised that I’m someone who gets quite homesick. I love travelling, don’t get me wrong, so maybe homesick isn’t the right way to describe it. I get people-sick, I guess. I miss my family and my friends a lot when I’m away. (Right now, as I write this, I realise it’s been six months since I’ve seen my mates from home – Gav, Jason and Anthony – because I’ve been so busy. That’s something I need to remedy. They are such great friends to me and I hope I am to them, in spite of all the craziness.)
My sadness at leaving Shelley was soon at the back of my mind, though, as I was seated next to David Walliams on the plane. Pretty much instantly, I thought he was one of the funniest people I’d ever met. Within minutes, he had me in stitches. I’d never been around such naturally funny people before and it was totally thrilling.
We got off the plane and headed to baggage reclaim. I remember, as we all stood there waiting, watching David, Steve and Rob stand around together, bouncing off one another absolutely hilariously. It was pretty obvious that they shared an easy rapport and a similar mind-set and had real respect for each other. I so wanted to be a part of that. I was standing about fifteen feet away from them, but it might as well have been fifteen miles. I had this burning desire to be included in this special band of comedy musketeers about to take to the seas.
We all collected our bags and then walked over to the coach for the three-hour trip to the port. My bag had been the last off, so I was trailing a little behind everyone else. Up ahead I could hear everyone roaring as Steve and Rob tried to outdo each other with Michael Caine impressions. Damn, I thought to myself, I don’t do any impressions. I mean, the only one I could do was the same one everyone could do – the woman from Coronation Street who says, ‘I don’t really know.’ I couldn’t pull that out of the bag. Not in front of these guys. Not yet, anyway.
I was the last to board the bus and, after putting my bag in the hold, I walked up the steps and immediately felt as if I was back at school. Steve, Rob and David had taken the back seat – of course they had, they were the cool gang. But where was my place? I stood at the front and looked down the aisle. I started taking some tentative steps down the centre of the coach and then thought to myself, Screw it. Just go and sit with them. I had to let them know that I wanted to be in their gang; I couldn’t wait for an invite th
at might never come. So I strode right up and sat down on the seats just in front of the back row, and from that moment on, and for the whole three-hour journey, all I did was laugh. I don’t think I offered a single word to the conversation; I was more than happy to sit, pissing myself laughing, and be their audience. They all seemed so confident and I remember thinking that this is what it’s about – creating and performing your own stuff. All three of them had created and starred in their own shows and so they weren’t at the mercy of casting directors or agents if they didn’t want to be. Just being around people like that made it all seem so much easier, and so much more achievable – straightforward, somehow.
We set sail on the ship and began filming the very next day. It was a great shoot. What made it so special was how confined we all were. The crew and the cast, all mixing together day and night. We filmed as we sailed, in and out of dock, down the coast and all around the islands. Whenever we had a day off I’d spend it with David or Rob, or both. Steve was only in the film sporadically so he came and went quite a lot. Russell Brand joined the cast for a while, another amazingly manic talent. I’d seen him on MTV and thought, Is this guy for real? Well, yeah, actually he was.
I’ll never forget Istanbul. Not for the city so much – well, yes, actually for the city – but mostly for Russell. Istanbul is a weird place; in fact it’s not like any other city I’ve ever been to. One minute you’re in a bustling modern high street full of designer shops, and then you go round a corner and enter what looks like a war zone. One second there’s all these yuppies, dripping in jewellery and leather, the next you’re surrounded by ramshackle, broken-down buildings with people begging for the price of a meal. The poverty is unbelievable.
We docked for a night and stayed up drinking on the boat as we did most nights. The sense of togetherness on that shoot was fantastic. We’d work together, eat together, have a few beers together, and then, if you were Russell Brand, hit the town at three in the morning and hunt down whatever adventure you could find. That night it was around eleven when he decided he wanted to go to town. He wanted some company.
‘Come on, come on,’ he said. ‘Gentlemen, consider. Istanbul in the dead of night. Darkened streets and dimly lit taverns where men sup and women stir.’
Russell’s got a way with words, and after a few beers I wasn’t going to stand in the way of Brand doing his thing.
‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘yeah. Let’s hit town and find a nightclub. Let’s do it.’
A couple of hours went by and we were still on the boat, a little drunker and sleepier than we had been. But Russell wasn’t finished. No bed for him (not his, anyway). I was pretty far gone by this point and the thought of leaving the boat, climbing into a taxi and heading into Istanbul wasn’t doing much for me. By 1.30 a.m., Rob and David had gone to bed and Steve was about to head off. I was done too, but that didn’t stop Russell trying.
‘Come on, James,’ Russell said, gesticulating wildly, eyes flashing, long, black hair bouncing. ‘Streets black as soot, alleys lit by nothing more than the wispy flame of a gas lamp, misted windows and murky women: an adventure. Come on, come on. Come on.’ Forgive me, Russell. I’m doing my best here.
I wasn’t moving. Nobody was. Nobody except Russell. It was almost 2 a.m. and bed was calling us normals. But Russell Brand is just sort of, well, Russell Brand. Not normal. So out he went into the night, alone and intrepid.
He talks about that night in detail in his book, so I won’t repeat what happened here. Suffice to say he showed up at breakfast having not been to sleep and looking in pretty good shape. He sat down to a coffee and began telling us, in a manner that nobody can replicate (and so, don’t worry, I’m not going to try), how he’d gone looking for and found a prostitute. I remember listening to him describe the whole thing in lurid detail – how he’d gone to this squalid little room that was rented by the hour; how he and the brunette had been in the throes of lust when her mobile rang; how he’d been so furious that he’d thrown and smashed it against the wall.
As I sat there listening to him tell the story, half of me was thinking, Oh, man, this is awful, really horrible. I shouldn’t be listening. I shouldn’t even be in your company. But the other half of me was there, hanging on his every word, mouth open, eyes alive. ‘Yeah, Russell. And then what happened? What did you do then? No. Really?’
He is, without question, the finest storyteller I have ever met. I don’t know him that well, but I remember our short time on the boat fondly. He was the first person I’d ever met who was properly rock and roll. I say our short time on the boat because, well, Russell got fired. Not because of that night specifically – it was more like a football match, you know, where the ref gets irritated by a player who’s constantly niggling away. It’s nothing malicious – just an ankle-tap here, a shirt-hold there, a little trip now and then. On their own, they’re all fine, but after a while, they build up, until the ref has had enough and breaks out the red card. In Russell’s case, he was ankle-tapping too many women on the boat.
It was a shame to see him go. I kind of knew how he felt after what had happened to me on Dead Babies. I liked Russell. He was warm and calm yet crazy and outrageous. A great mix. No one really knew him in those days but, as we said our goodbyes and watched him off the boat, none of us had any clue that in a few years’ time, Russell’s mayhem would make him just about the most famous person in the country.
As the shoot continued, I carried on – as I had on the coach from the airport – basically following Rob and David around. Some days I felt like a nephew they’d been told to look after. But they are both such lovely guys that they always looked after me and included me in everything. Whenever Steve came out with us, I’d retreat back into my shell slightly. As I’ve said, his work as Alan Partridge had meant everything to me. Like many people my age, I was totally in awe of him. I couldn’t begin to understand how he’d created a character that people would talk about and love that much. So he was already instrumental in my life before I met him, and now he was about to become even more so.
One night, when we were docked in Greece, Steve suggested we head out for a lap dance after we’d finished our dinner. I’d never been to a lap-dancing club before. Unsurprisingly, the experience with Sapphire and Danny in Soho had put me off somewhat. David said he was well up for it and started making arrangements for a taxi. Rob, ever the gent, said it wasn’t for him and he was gonna turn in for the night. Steve then turned to me and said, ‘James? You up for it?’
I looked at him, this hero of comedy, smiling a cheeky grin from across the table, and said, ‘Well, I’ve never been before.’ On hearing that, Steve leapt up, instantly excited.
‘Never? Well, in that case we’re definitely going, and you’re definitely coming.’ He then shouted across the dining room to David, ‘David! David!’ (In my head, all I could hear him shouting was, ‘DAN! DAN!’ If you like Partridge, you’ll know what I mean.) ‘David, he’s never been before!’ David giggled a bit and, as he came over to join us, looked at me and said, ‘Well, you’re gonna have a good time.’ And with that we were in the taxi.
I sat in the front, with Steve and David in the back, talking about mutual friends. I was so out of the loop. All I could think about was the fact that I wasn’t 100 per cent sure of what I was walking into. Did I have enough money? How would we get back to the ship? What if there were no cabs? Steve and David didn’t seem that bothered, so I told myself that all I had to do was stick with them and I’d get back safe.
We got to the club. It was a nondescript black door with a white neon sign above it. I can’t remember the name of it because I barely had time to look around: we were past that door in seconds. We paid the doorman and he led us down the corridor towards the club. As we got nearer I could hear the bass getting louder and louder, until suddenly we passed through some swinging doors and we were inside.
Girls in their underwear were everywhere, hanging from poles and sitting in corners chatting to guys. It was so lou
d I thought my ears were going to pop. I was standing in between Steve and David, who were both smiling broadly.
We saw some empty sofas and went over and sat down; within seconds we were joined by a gaggle of girls. Steve and David instantly started making them laugh. David pretended to give one of them a lap dance, which had them all cracking up and, before I knew what was happening, Steve was telling them that I’d never had a lap dance before. And that was that. Three of them jumped up and starting giving all three of us a dance. It was at that point, with three very attractive girls writhing in front of us, that Steve leant in to me and said, ‘You’ll never forget this.’ And he’s absolutely right, I haven’t. Though I suspect not for the reasons that Steve was implying. I couldn’t tell you what the dancer looked like, or what song was playing. No, all I can remember is thinking that I couldn’t wait to tell my mates about this when I got home. And the whole thing was made ever more unforgettable because, about thirty seconds into the dance, just as the girl in front of me was lowering her ample breasts into my face, I looked over at Steve on my right and he looked back at me and shouted, ‘AHA!’
I don’t remember a time when I’ve laughed that much. In fact, the whole job was like that, just laughing all the time. Working with those guys really made me want to be part of British comedy. The way they talked about getting television shows off the ground, commissioning pilots, investing in new talent, all that had a huge and lasting impression on me.
The time I spent with David and Rob was totally invaluable, and I remember one conversation in particular that I had with Rob that stayed with me just as much as the lap dance. Part of the shoot was filming at this really tacky resort, where the only decent place to eat was a family-run taverna at the end of a dirt track. One evening Rob and I were on our way to grab some dinner there as the sun set over the sea. We were talking about our careers and what each of us was aiming to do in the future.