May I Have Your Attention Please?

by James Corden

  Richard Curtis had been in touch about doing something, and Ruth and I were thinking of doing a Gavin & Stacey special. We had this idea where all of the characters were heading to BBC TV Centre in White City to watch Bryn hand over a cheque for £45 that he’d raised from doing a sponsored swim. All the characters would be there, but in one way or another they would all get lost whilst walking around TV Centre. This is easily done, I might add. I’ve been lost in there for hours before. The idea was that Bryn would end up on the set of Strictly Come Dancing, Gwen would show Jamie Oliver how to cook the perfect omelette, Gavin and Stacey would try and have a quickie in the Blue Peter garden, Nessa would keep bumping into famous old flames and Smithy would walk onto the Match of the Day set, meet the England team and give them a team talk.

  Richard loved the idea and we tried to put the wheels in motion, but it soon became clear that logistics would make it too difficult. Getting everyone together in the same place at the same time would be impossible. I was still really passionate about trying to do something for Comic Relief, though, so I suggested we concentrate on Smithy and the England team – make it bigger, do it with the whole squad. Smithy could say to the England team what every fan would dream of saying if they were face to face.

  I remember Richard shaking his head. ‘James,’ he said, ‘I’ve got to tell you there’s no chance of getting anywhere near the England team. We’ve tried to do stuff with the FA before and got absolutely nowhere. It’s a no-go. It’s a bit like trying to do something with the Royal Family – it just never happens.’ But I was insistent, and Richard came around to the idea that asking again wouldn’t do any harm. He also asked if I had any preference about who should direct it. I knew instantly. Remember the runner from Teachers, Ben Winston? Well, we had stayed friends and he’d since gone on to become one of the most exciting directors/producers you could wish to meet. I told him about the idea for the sketch and he got it immediately, but he too had his doubts over whether the FA would go for it. There was one way to find out: I picked up the phone.

  I guess it was a matter of timing, because Richard Curtis is right: normally, it’s an absolute no-no. But, as it turned out, just as we were asking the Smithy question, the FA was trying to think of ideas to reconnect the England team with the fans. They felt the gap between the players and the average supporter had been getting too big, and it wasn’t healthy for the country as a whole. So, amazingly, and without much prodding, they said yes to the sketch idea and told us they’d guarantee us a minimum of four players.

  Richard, Ben and I were stunned: it was more in hope than anticipation that I’d called them up. We had to strike while the iron was hot. It’s not often the England squad is together and, when they are, their time is precious. Ben brought in the legend that is his producing partner, Gabe Turner, who knew exactly what to say when it came to speaking the fans’ minds, and we all worked together on trying to find the time to do it.

  It was the perfect production team with the perfect opportunity and all we had to do now was come up with the perfect sketch. The truth is, we had plenty of ideas, but had nothing written down, which was largely because we didn’t know which players were going to do it. We had to deal with the fact that it was probably going to remain that way right up to the last minute, so the different elements of the sketch would have to be fluid and flexible.

  The day got nearer and nearer and the guys from the FA were being very supportive, but we still didn’t know who the players would be. We arrived at the hotel on the day of the shoot and the FA told us that the players would, at most, have twenty minutes to spare after a team meeting and before dinner. That was it, twenty minutes, which with the faffing around and sitting down when they got there, meant more like eighteen minutes if we were lucky.

  We all took a sharp intake of breath: eighteen minutes is not a lot of time to shoot anything. With an episode of Gavin & Stacey, for example, it takes six days to shoot the twenty-eight minutes that end up on the TV. Still, that’s what we had, so we sucked it up and got busy: we filmed the background stuff – Smithy arriving in the car, lying on his back fixing pipes in the corridor before hunting down the toilet – and, when that was done, Gabe, Ben and I worked on the lines we had about different players, hoping as many as possible would show up.

  The big problem was we’d had no access to them beforehand. They were kept in a separate part of the hotel and nobody was allowed to see or speak to them. Fortunately, Rio Ferdinand had become a bit of a mate. A couple of years before that Comic Relief day, he’d got in touch with me to say he was a fan of Gavin & Stacey and we’d stayed in touch off and on. So I was texting him, trying to get an idea of who was going to show up, and he was texting back. He was totally instrumental in persuading lots of the players who eventually did come along. He told me that he’d be there, together with John Terry and Ashley Cole, and one other who he thought was going to be Shaun Wright-Phillips, but he couldn’t say for sure. At least I knew who three of them would be, so I got working on the script. But I was desperately hoping Rio could come up with a few more because the sketch would be hard to do if there were only the four of them.

  As the time drew closer, he sent me another text telling me that Peter Crouch was coming now as well. Then he mentioned that some of the players were coming down to reception where there were a stack of shirts to be signed. Bingo! That was my chance to grab a word with a few of them before the actual filming began and see if I couldn’t persuade a couple more of the squad to join in.

  The only problem was that we’d been told under no circumstances were we allowed to approach any of the players or even talk to them beforehand. This came down from the team management, and Franco Baldini (Capello’s number two and the second scariest man I’ve ever met after Capello) was making sure that was how it was. You know Franco, the grey-haired, good-looking guy who sits next to Capello and looks like he might be a mob-enforcer – not the kind of man you want to cheese off.

  But this was Comic Relief, so I put aside my fear of injury/ death and hung around reception as the players came downstairs for the shirt signing. Franco was there, too, watching like an angry hawk. He didn’t look happy. I kind of hoped that one or two of them would recognise me from Gavin & Stacey and maybe, just maybe, wander over to say hello. But no one really did. I was getting a little desperate when I saw Frank Lampard come down. Frank was a big name and I knew that if we got him, a couple of others might come along too. So, risking Franco’s wrath, I walked over to where he was standing on the other side of the table. Franco moved in close – for the kill? – and was right there, breathing all over my left shoulder, but this was my chance and I just had to go for it.

  ‘Frank,’ I called. ‘Frank!’

  He looked up and smiled. Franco was there, hovering, but Frank didn’t seem to notice.

  ‘Hi Frank,’ I said, shaking hands. ‘I’m James.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, James,’ he said.

  ‘Listen, have you heard about this sketch we’re doing today?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘Rio’s trying to get some of the lads down.’

  ‘Great,’ I said. ‘Are you going to be in it then?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s not my thing really. I’d feel a bit silly.’

  ‘Frank,’ I said, ‘I promise you, mate, we’re not going to make you look silly.’

  Still he was shaking his head. ‘It’s not about you making me look silly. I’m no good at that kind of thing. I wouldn’t be any good in a sketch.’

  ‘Look,’ I said, ‘you don’t have to worry about that. You don’t have to do anything. You just need to sit there and listen.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said.

  ‘Frank,’ I said, ‘this sketch will save people’s lives and your involvement will help us raise so much more money. People love you, Frank, they love you. It won’t be the same without you.’ It was real, savage emotional blackmail. I didn’t want to go there, but this was Comic Relief. ‘Frank,’ I said, ‘I
promise you, if you come down, you won’t be asked to do anything stupid.’

  And then I shut up. I didn’t say another word. I just kept on looking at Frank and he stood there with a kind of half-smile that told me he knew just how badly I was guilt-tripping him. ‘OK,’ he said finally, ‘all right. If it’s for Comic Relief, of course I’ll come.’

  ‘Thank you, Frank,’ I said. ‘That’s great. And please do me a favour and just bring as many of the other players as you can.’

  So we had Frank now, which was huge, but there was still the one name we wanted to get, the Big Kahuna: Beckham. Becks was in the squad, but he’d played for Milan the day before, flown in late and had been training all morning. We’d asked about him, of course, but they told us his schedule was really hectic and he needed that twenty minutes for a bit of downtime.

  A bit of downtime we could understand, of course we could, but we still had a cunning plan to get him there. Ben Winston was – still is – really good friends with Simon Oliveira, David’s agent. We’d been talking to him on the phone, begging him to get Becks in the sketch. He’d told us that David was keen to be involved but also how tired he was, so we would just have to wait and see when the time came whether he was up for it.

  So we waited and waited and finally word came down that the players were on their way. One by one they arrived: John Terry followed by Frank and Rio. Peter Crouch and Shaun Wright-Phillips. Michael Carrick took a seat, as did David James. Ashley Cole came in and then last – and I couldn’t believe it – the door opened and in walked David Beckham. Forgive the man-love here but the guy is so beautiful I didn’t know whether to shake his hand or lick his face. As soon as they were all in, the clock started running. Twenty minutes and counting. Ben gave his instructions to the players and was about to call action but, just before he did, I stopped and said, ‘Sorry, Ben, quickly, can I just talk to you for one moment?’

  ‘What’s up?’ he said, rushing over and taking his headphones off. ‘Is everything OK?’

  ‘Nothing’s up,’ I said. ‘Everything is fine. But listen, let’s just enjoy this moment. I mean, you’re the runner from Teachers, remember, and I’m Jeremy the geek, and this is the England team. Can you believe it?’

  He smiled and patted me sweetly on the shoulder. ‘Yeah, you’re right,’ he said, ‘but, James, we really have to get on.’

  So we got into it. The only bit that worried me came at the very end of the sketch when hopefully Smithy had the players all fired up. We hadn’t told them about that bit, as we really needed them to be spontaneous and just go with it. But, hey, we were here and doing it, and if they didn’t come with us, then what could we do? What I wasn’t prepared for was how amused the other players were going to be when one of their team mates was getting laid into. It was so hard to concentrate with Ashley Cole trying not to crack up as I ripped David James about his hair.

  Apart from that, the whole thing just flowed. Each and every player took whatever Smithy dished out on the chin, and then, at the end, when we really needed them to get up for it, all I can say is, God bless Peter Crouch. As I finished the rap, Crouchy went with it and was the first to shout, ‘Go on, Smithy!’ The others followed his lead, clapping, cheering and punching the air, and then one by one I patted them on the bum as they left the room, until it came to Rio. ‘Ssshh,’ I said, kissing him on the head. ‘You do your talking on the pitch.’

  CHAPTER 20

  BEST MUSICAL ACCOMPANIMENT:

  ‘Stop Crying Your Heart Out’ by Oasis

  BEST FILM TO WATCH ALONGSIDE:

  any episode of Lost

  BEST ENJOYED WITH:

  toast and Marmite

  THE SKETCH WENT down brilliantly when it aired. I had been totally unprepared for the reaction to it. People were calling it the highlight of the night. I know, me making a good sketch. Who would have thought?

  The next thing I had to do was write series three of Gavin & Stacey with Ruth. As the show had got more and more successful, writing time with Ruth became more and more precious. As before, we would often write in hotels so we could basically just lock ourselves away and concentrate. Being back in a room with Ruth was just what I needed at the time. It was good for the soul to be laughing with her again.

  We knew before we started writing that this was going to be the last series we’d make and when it came to us writing the last ever line of our last ever script, it was around midnight in the Soho Hotel. We both stopped, stood up and hugged each other. That was it. This series that had meant so much to us, that had been such a big part of our lives – we’d finished it. Ruth and her husband, David, had been my only real constants over the last topsy-turvy couple of years. Ruth, in particular, had always been there for me, and was the first person I’d pick up the phone to speak to in times of triumph or despair. As I left her room that night, I couldn’t help but wonder who, or what, would be my constant now that the show was finished.

  After finishing writing, I shot Gulliver’s Travels for seven weeks in the late spring of 2009, which was a fun experience. Working on something with such a huge budget was so different to anything I’d ever done before, and I had the added bonus of doing all of my scenes with Billy Connolly – a real dream come true. But however much I was enjoying the shoot, the turbulent relationship I was in still hampered my mood. In fact, it had gone way beyond hampering it – it dominated me. I was so preoccupied with myself that it can’t have been fun to work with or be around me.

  After Gulliver’s Travels I went back to Cardiff to shoot the third and final series of Gavin & Stacey. As with the other two series, the shoot was wonderful and I loved every single minute of it. Well, almost every minute. During the last week of filming, my relationship with Sheridan finally ended, in a manner that meant there’d be no going back. Once and for all, after so many back and forths, it was over.

  Only a couple of days after that came the final day of shooting. I was incredibly upset, both for the end of the relationship and for the loss of the show. The last scene we ever shot was the scene in the final episode when Smithy meets Nessa at a service station. It’s a scene that has one of my favourite moments in all three series – it’s Nessa’s line when she says to Smithy, ‘There’s only one of you, isn’t there?’ Ruth delivers it perfectly and I think their relationship changes in some way during that scene. With everything that was happening personally, filming that last scene took it out of me. I cried my eyes out all day long. Everywhere I looked there were endings. I couldn’t help but wonder what would be left of me after Gavin & Stacey. Where would I go from here? What would I do next?

  I got back to London and within a few days Dominic and I began renting a flat together in Primrose Hill. Dominic has always been an incredible friend to me and I remember our time together in that flat with great fondness. We had the top two floors of a five-storey house and to my shame I have to tell you that we were probably the worst neighbours you could ever wish for. That flat could have been lovely, but we never made it a home. I didn’t bring any of my clothes or personal things from Beaconsfield to London, so it continually felt like somewhere I was just crashing in; on top of that, there was never any food in the house: no milk, no sugar, nothing useful. I remember at one point, for about two weeks, all Dom and I had in the fridge was some vodka, a bottle of pink vitamin water and a Lindt chocolate bunny.

  We rented it furnished – which meant it had one tiny two-seater sofa in a corner, Dominic’s black velour chaise longue (don’t ask) in another room, the two beds and that was it. In a way, it was handy that we never really furnished it properly because it meant there was room for all the dancing that would regularly take place. I once got dropped in a cab four or five streets away from our place and, as I was paying the cab driver, I could hear this thud of a dull beating bass coming almost through the air. ‘God, someone’s having a party.’ Said the cab driver.

  ‘Yeah!’ I said, taking my change. As I walked up and over the hill towards our flat, the bass just kep
t getting heavier and heavier. Until, as I arrived outside the front door, it was clear the party was in our flat and all of the windows were wide open. I climbed the stairs, passing people on every other stair and walked into the hallway. ‘Where’s Dominic?’ I said to one guy who I’d never met before.

  ‘Who?’ He replied.

  ‘DOM.IN.IC?’ I shouted, trying to spell it out. He just looked at me blankly. I walked up the small staircase to the open plan top floor and there, in the middle of the room, was Dom, playing a drumkit. An electric drumkit that he’d threatened to buy for a long time. He was giving it all he could, like Animal from The Muppets, playing along to whatever music people were selecting on the iPod. There must’ve been twenty-five people in the flat that night.

  Dominic looked up at me. ‘LEVINE!’ He shouted as he went round the tom-toms for the thirtieth time in as many seconds. I couldn’t help but smile. I went over to him and said, ‘Who are all these people?’

  For some reason he chose to reply in an Australian accent. ‘I’ve no idea mate, now grab ya’self a beer and loosen up, me old mucka!’ So I did, and we went on to have a great night. I woke up in bed the next morning with someone I’d only just met. I wish I could tell you that nights like this were once in a blue moon but they were probably once or twice a week. They got so bad that one morning we woke to a note on the door from Camden Council saying that they’d been called out the night before but couldn’t make themselves heard at the door. It also said that if they were called out again, they would fine us £25,000! This went on for a good couple of months, so I’d like to take this moment to apologise to our neighbours (although I’d be amazed if they’re reading this book), who would regularly ask us to keep the noise down. Dom would blame me or I would blame Dom and that’s how we’d get away with it. But, aside from the parties, there were plenty of other times when Dom would have to go to America for work, and it was at those moments, sitting in the barely furnished flat on my own, that the reality of my situation would start to hit home. I just wasn’t moving on.