May I Have Your Attention Please?

by James Corden

  So far Harrison hadn’t said anything. He’d just sort of awkwardly looked at me with a nervous smile while Calista hovered around behind him. I was waiting for him to say something – anything – when a security guy stuck his head round the stage door. ‘Your car’s here, Mr Ford,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you,’ Harrison muttered, and without a word to me, he and Calista left.

  Now that was embarrassing. To gush that much and be met with nothing. Oh well, at least they came to see the show. And they weren’t the only ones: one Sunday matinee we had David Bowie, James Taylor, Steven Spielberg and Steve Martin all in the same audience. It was really humbling to have so many incredible people come and watch the play. Steven Spielberg is in my opinion the greatest film-maker of all time and David Bowie and James Taylor are some of music’s biggest names too, but for me, Steve Martin being in the audience was absolutely huge. Planes, Trains & Automobiles and Dirty Rotten Scoundrels are up there among my favourite films and I couldn’t let him come and go without somehow marking the occasion.

  There was a scene in French where I pretended to be a prostitute and I had a line that always got a really big laugh. I’d say the line, look at Dominic and then look away; it was the way I looked away that got the laugh. So, on this particular Sunday afternoon, I could see Steve Martin watching from an aisle seat close to the stage. I gave the line, looked at Dominic and then looked away. The laugh came as it always did – it was a big one that day – and, very deliberately, and totally unprofessionally, I looked straight to where Steve Martin was laughing his socks off and gave him the biggest grin. I mean, come on, I just made Steve Martin laugh and he’d been doing that to me all my life.

  The play went on to win six Tony Awards in the United States, more than any play had ever won until then. That whole time in New York was magical; I just loved being there. Six incredible months living in an uptown apartment with Russell next door and Central Park just over the road. My apartment was on West Seventy-Fifth and Central Park West, number 7½, on the third floor. It wasn’t particularly big or nicely kitted out or anything, but it just felt like a real Manhattan apartment: from the tiling in the bathroom to the sort of half-bath and the a/c unit fixed in the window. Being neighbours, Russell and I became very close. On matinee days, we’d walk the thirty-odd blocks to the theatre and afterwards the eight of us boys would go for a drink somewhere. We’d sit down and, before we could order, the waiter would bring a tray of drinks that somebody had already bought for us. It was nuts. A fan site started up on the internet and every time we’d finish a show, there would be more and more people crowding around the stage door. It was my first real taste of fame, and being someone who likes a spot of attention (check out the title), I revelled in it. It wasn’t just the attention though. Living for six months in a city like New York, away from my family and friends back home, gave me a sense of freedom and possibility that I’d never really had before.

  As the months rolled by, I found myself thinking more and more about that last episode of Gavin & Stacey. Ruth and I still hadn’t finished it, and we didn’t want to keep the BBC waiting any longer than they had to. We were always chatting on the phone, discussing it with each other, but we both knew we needed to be in the same room together to get it done. Ruth had some time in between TV stuff, so I suggested she come out and stay with me to finish it off, which she did.

  We had five days to complete that last episode and, just as we had done back home, we’d sit in my apartment and start riffing, improvising and getting into character. We’d write all day, then I’d go and do the show; when I got back, we’d plough on into the night. It was hard, energy-sapping work and I was nowhere near getting enough sleep. To compensate I started taking a sneaky little nap at work.

  There was around a thirty-minute gap between the last scene of Act One and the second scene of Act Two, where I wasn’t on stage at all, and I used it to catch up on all the sleep I was missing out on. Normally, I’d have been watching that final scene of Act One from the wings because it was my favourite of the whole play. It’s a really poignant moment where ‘Drummer Hodge’, a poem by Thomas Hardy, is being discussed by Richard Griffiths’s Hector and Sam Barnett’s Posner. Hector is talking about writing; how there are times when you think you might be the only person ever to have experienced a particular kind of emotion, only to discover it had been written down, word for word, by someone long ago. Someone you don’t know, even long dead, had experienced every single feeling you were going through and, in writing it down, had reached out across time to clasp your hand in theirs.

  It’s one of the play’s most moving moments but, when Ruth was in town, I was so tired that I’d roll up my blazer to use as a pillow, lie down, close my eyes and nap right through it. Act Two started with this loud burst of music so I wasn’t afraid of not waking up, and there’d be enough time before I was on stage to get my head back in the game.

  But this one Thursday matinee it didn’t quite pan out as I’d hoped. I was so far gone that I slept right through the music. I woke up to hear someone else speaking my lines. I’d missed my cue. Worse than that, I’d missed the entire scene. What a dick! I felt horrible, like I’d let everyone down. There was nothing I could do but wait in the wings until I could apologise to Richard. Earlier I told you he’d played Uncle Monty in Withnail and I, one of my favourite films. I’d never stop asking him questions about it: what it was like filming it, who he’d based his character on – anything you can think of. When I went up to him at the end of the scene, full of apologies, he just put his hands on my shoulders and studied me for a long moment. Then, in his best Uncle Monty, he said, ‘I’m preparing myself to forgive you, boy. I’m preparing myself to forgive you.’ After that, I kept the sleeping to my bed.

  Ruth and I were halfway through the week and making great progress with that final episode, but it was hot in New York that summer, so we ended up writing a fair bit over the road in Central Park. Together we would sit on a bench with Ruth’s laptop, do some people-watching and get the last bit down. That’s where we wrote the wedding scene in which Uncle Bryn gives Stacey a letter her dad had written just days before he died. It’s one of the scenes I’m most proud of.

  At the end of that writing week, Ruth flew back to the UK, but we stayed in constant touch. We’d call each other or text back and forth, but either way, because there was still so much we needed to be on top of, we’d always get back to each other right away. One day, however, I got one of Ruth’s texts as I was carrying my shopping up the stairs, so I couldn’t reply. By the time I’d got inside and packed it away, I’d forgotten all about the message. It was the first time I hadn’t replied immediately, which obviously spooked Ruth, so when I woke the next morning there was another text asking me if I was all right. I smelt an opportunity.

  I texted back, ‘Actually, Ruth, I’m not.’

  ‘Why? What’s up?’ was her reply.

  ‘There’s no easy way for me to tell you this and I can’t believe I’m writing it, but two days ago I was involved in an accident at work. I’ve lost my hand.’

  I even went to the effort of using my left hand to write the text. It’s all about authenticity. I know, I know. It was mean and silly and poor Ruth must have been going totally mad with worry. She was. Another text popped up on my phone: ‘Please, James, tell me you’re joking.’

  I wrote back, ‘I’ll call you in five minutes.’

  Five minutes ticked by, six, seven maybe. Then I called her. She answered before the phone had rung twice.

  ‘James …’ she said, her voice hollow, frightened.

  ‘Hi.’ My own voice was so solemn it was all but cracking.

  ‘Oh my God,’ she said, and at that moment I knew she really believed me. ‘James, what on earth happened?’

  I couldn’t string this out any longer, it would just be too mean, so I burst out laughing instead. Ruth got the joke – only just – and told me that when she’d read the text, she’d run upstairs to her husban
d, David, and they’d both started praying, which made me feel like a right spanner. She was imagining herself having arguments with the BBC about the show: ‘Well, why can’t Smithy just have one hand? So he’s disabled, so what? What do you mean? No. That’s just discrimination.’

  Ruth says that I have a childlike streak in my personality that means that I’m in constant need of entertainment. And so, if nothing fun is happening, then I’ll make something happen myself. I’m not exactly sure why, and I hope I’ve calmed down a bit now.

  After six months in New York, and a one-month extension to the run, the play was finally coming to a close. What we hadn’t realised was that The History Boys film was coming out on the day we got back to London. There was going to be a royal premiere and we were flying out literally after the curtain came down on our last show. It was an incredible way to end the run on Broadway. The rush was perfect too. If we’d had time to sit there thinking about it and discussing it, we’d probably never have left the theatre. We’d been together off and on for so long it was agonising to think it was almost over.

  Our bags were packed, we’d checked out of the apartments, and our dressing rooms had been cleared of all the bits and pieces we’d acquired over the last months: the good-luck cards, the photos, all the other mementoes. Walking in there for the last time, it felt completely alien, as if we’d never even been there in the first place.

  We were determined to make that last show the best we’d ever done. And it was a very special night. We were sure that most of the audience had seen the play at least once before, but just wanted to be there for the very last performance. Their energy and laughter and sheer positivity were totally infectious and pushed our performances up one more notch.

  The last scene, after Hector is killed, the boys all sit at the front of the stage and sing ‘Bye, Bye, Blackbird’ and if you’ve seen the play or watched the film, you’ll know that Frances de la Tour’s character explains what happens to the boys after going to university. One of us is a journalist; another is a property developer; my character owns a chain of dry cleaners and takes drugs on the weekend. Finally, as she gets to Posner, Richard’s character appears at the back of the stage. ‘Pass it on, boys,’ he says, ‘pass it on.’

  That Sunday, that last ever performance, the last time he spoke those words, Richard’s voice cracked. This was an actor who had been on stages all around the world, yet he was so moved his voice just started to go. Pass it on, boys. That line,and specifically that moment, just seemed to capture the spirit of the whole production, and an incredibly special time in our lives. This wonderful, momentous, brilliant play, which had taken us all on such a journey, was finally coming to a close.

  When the lights came up, Russell was the first to go. He started crying and then we all started crying. We did the curtain calls, three or four of them, but the audience just refused to leave. The house lights came up and they were still out there, screaming for more. The stage manager told us that we couldn’t leave them like that and had to go out again, so we sort of ambled back on stage. We didn’t bow, we just stood there taking it all in. Everyone was on their feet. Most of us were in bits; I know I was a total mess.

  Then Richard, ever the professional, stepped forward, put his hand up and eventually the audience quietened down. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Thank you so much for having us in your incredible city. We’ve been blessed to be part of this play, and to do it in your city has been amazing. Thank you for taking us to your hearts. We have to go and get a plane now. We have to be back in London for the premiere of our film. Thank you, New York. Thank you.’

  Zammo did a back flip. I ripped off my tie and, like a pop star, jumped down into the aisle, where I gave it to a girl who must’ve come to see us at least fifty times. Sacha was running up and down like a crazy person high-fiving everyone, and by the time we finally pulled ourselves away, we were all so overcome with emotion, we could barely see straight. I’m never going to forget that night; thinking about it still gives me goose pimples.

  It was time to go home, so we grabbed our bags and bundled into cabs to JFK. We’d flown in from Sydney in economy, but we were flying out first class, courtesy of the film’s distributor, 20th Century Fox.

  I was sitting next to Sam, sipping on a tasty rum cocktail. ‘Sam,’ I said, ‘I’ve got a question for you. I wanted to know, what do you think the difference is between film and theatre then?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I have no idea at all.’ And with that he pressed a button and disappeared from view as his seat turned into a bed.

  CHAPTER 18

  BEST MUSICAL ACCOMPANIMENT:

  ‘When You Wasn’t Famous’ by the Streets

  BEST FILM TO WATCH ALONGSIDE:

  Notting Hill

  BEST ENJOYED WITH:

  cocktails

  WE TOUCHED DOWN in London and were driven straight to the Dorchester Hotel, where we caught up on a little sleep for an hour or two. Then we slipped into the Giorgio Armani suits that had been made specially and out to where a pair of limos were waiting to take us off to Leicester Square. Less than twenty-four hours previously we’d performed for the last time on Broadway, and now we were on our way to meet Prince Charles. This was totally ridiculous.

  As the Gavin & Stacey scripts had developed, I’d asked a few of the boys to play various parts in the show. At the premiere we did that thing where you line up and Prince Charles walks along, being introduced one by one, shaking hands and asking questions. He asked Zammo what he was up to next, and Zammo told him that he was going to be in my TV show. So, when the prince got to me, he said he’d heard I was making a programme set in Wales.

  ‘That’s right, sir,’ I said. ‘We’ve not cast all the parts yet so there’s a part for you if you want it. We’d love you to join us if you’re available.’

  ‘Really?’ he said. ‘Well, if this job ever goes wrong, it’s good to know there’s something to fall back on.’ I liked him, and Camilla. I told her that the dress she was wearing was a triumph and she seemed to like that.

  We watched the film and then headed off to the after-show party, which turned into this wonderful reunion with all our families and friends. Most of us hadn’t seen our families since opening night in New York, so this was our first opportunity to properly catch up. It felt so good to be home. We felt like heroes. Looking back now, I realise that that night was the last time we were all together in the same room. There’ve been various points where all but one or two of us have been together, but since that night, it’s never been all eight of us. The History Boys was such an unforgettable, magnificent and life-changing journey that we all now have a romantic attachment to the National Theatre, and to each other. There’s an unspoken understanding between us that I hope will never leave.

  With the film now out, work-wise I was concentrating all my energies on Gavin & Stacey. While I’d been in New York, Ruth and Henry had been sending over casting tapes of various people to start filling the roles. As soon as I saw their tapes, I knew that Mat Horne and Joanna Page would be perfect as Gavin and Stacey. Ruth had phoned to tell me about Christine Gernon, who she thought would be good as our potential director; the two of them had worked together before and Henry was also keen, but they both wanted me to meet her before we firmed it all up. So while I was in New York, I’d caught a night flight one Sunday that got me to London on Monday morning to grab an hour or two with Christine. She was great, really enthusiastic and full of ideas about how she saw the show and how she’d like to shoot it, all of which I agreed with. We offered her the job there and then, and then I went straight to the airport and back to New York. I didn’t even have time to go home. With Christine on board, she and Ruth continued to send over DVDs of people they liked, and that’s basically how we cast the show.

  We cast Larry Lamb as Gavin’s dad. Alison Steadman had agreed to play Pam, Gavin’s mum, which we were over the moon about. Alison playing that part was all we’d ever wanted. We’d already worked o
ut that Ruth was Nessa, I was Smithy, and we got Rob Brydon to complete the set as Stacey’s Uncle Bryn.

  A couple of weeks after the premiere, we organised a read-through of series one with all the cast. It’s still one of the best I’ve ever been to. I am, of course, incredibly biased, but it was a magical day, particularly for Ruth and me. To hear those words we’d so lovingly laboured over for so long being read aloud was a big moment for the two of us. People at the BBC told us afterwards that they were taken aback by the laughter in the room, that the way all the personalities had just clicked was incredible – and pretty unusual. Ruth and I kept glancing at each other, mouths open, neither of us quite believing that it was actually going so well. There were all kinds of indicators and little moments to let us know we were on the right path, jokes that we’d thought might be a touch subtle, but which worked in the room. For example, someone asked Smithy, who’s in his mid-twenties at this point, where his girlfriend was. ‘Doing her Duke of Edinburgh,’ is his reply. As the series plays out we find out Lucy is young, we just never know quite how young, but the joke got the laugh and on it went from there.

  The read-through honestly couldn’t have gone any better; more or less as soon as it was over, we all went off to Cardiff to begin shooting. So I’d barely been back a couple of weeks – one of them spent travelling all over the country promoting The History Boys film – and I was already leaving again to go off working. Eventually, it took its toll on my and Shelley’s relationship.

  To this day that break-up with Shelley makes me feel so sad. Since I’d got home it had become clear that the relationship had nowhere else to go. There’s no question it was absolutely the right thing to do, but that didn’t change how difficult or painful it was. We’d been together since we were eighteen. I was twenty-seven now and the emptiness I felt after she was gone was just awful. Break-ups are never good, no matter how amicable they’re supposed to be, and ours dragged on a little, which it shouldn’t have done. To be honest, I was so busy that it wasn’t for quite some time afterwards that I actually grieved for what had happened to us. I threw myself into work and it became my entire focus. All I can say is, Shelley, if you’re reading this, I’d like to take this moment to say thank you. Thank you for being the first person I ever loved and the first person to love me. You are one of the best people I’ve ever known. Your love, support, friendship and care have in no small way shaped the man I am today. I’m sorry if it ever felt like I didn’t miss you. I did, though it hit me later. I’m sorry if there were times I wasn’t a good enough boyfriend, if I put work before you. I have so many fond memories of our time together. You will always have a special place in my heart.