Last night we took a step back into the land of Hooch, 20/20 and shell suits to make up the only three relatively normal people amid a freak show of revellers who had turned out to cheer on 90’s legendary two-hit wonder three-piece Republica.
Staged at the Islington Academy the fan-base rocketed Newton Faulkner’s appeal to dizzying heights.
One bald midget, with the face of a serial killer, had kitted himself out in a special vampire cape identical to lead-singer Saffron’s trademark accessory. I considered asking if he’d pose for a photograph but, fearing this could well have resulted in a knife to the face, instead gave him a berth wide enough to accommodate James Corden.
Supporting was a low-budget, geriatric double act, who undoubtedly spend their leisure time masturbating furiously while listening to the Pet Shop Boys greatest hits on repeat. Worryingly most people seemed to know their songs verbatim and subsequently sang along with as much gusto as a teenaged girl armed with a hairbrush.
Nearby a longhaired 30-something man, who bore an uncanny resemblance to Nigel Planer circa The Young Ones’ Den Dennis, accompanied by his EBay special-delivery Thai bride, hopped from foot to foot in eager anticipation. Meanwhile a coffin dodger, dressed to kill in a baby pink shirt, tucked into chinos and finished off with a rather pleasant tan leather belt, danced along to some other song audible only to the elderly and infirm.
And two very enthusiastic gig-goers clung to the front barrier for dear life throughout the support and set changeover for fear of getting sucked into the crazed mob when the red-headed one and co finally took to the stage. Despite their determination, and armed with plastic pint cups brimming with flat, lukewarm lager, we still managed to snake our way through the 50-strong crowd to within a stone’s throw of the stage.
As Republica appeared Den and wife were unstoppable, ditching the hopping in favour of full on jumping from foot–to-foot and occasionally even throwing an arm in the air.
A fully warmed up crowd were ready to rock, thanks to the sexual deviant Pet Shop Boys-loving support act, and Saffron could not contain her excitement, making eye contact with the sole shoulder surfer during her rendition of Dance 94 track “Drop Dead Gorgeous.” Rising to the occasion, she had wrenched her 42-year-old body into a costume more suited to her long-gone 26-year-old self.
With a glint of manic desperation in her eye, it did actually bring about some degree of sympathy from deep within. The need to cling on to the short-lived hint of stardom 16 years later, resulting in a smaller crowd than that present at a college Battle of the Bands contest in Grimsby, was truly heartbreaking and on a par with the disparity etched on the faces of most X-Factor rejects.
After Ready to Go and with talk of a new single, we were indeed ready to go, and so we went. It was at this point only that my semi-retarded friend Tom finally confessed that he mass purchased tickets for the gig after confusing the band with Elastica. Thanks Tom, seriously.
I dearly wanted to wrap Saffron in a blanket to protect her modesty, give her a mug of Horlicks and pop her in front of the telly with the Midsomer Murders box-set. She could then begin to embrace the delights of growing old gracefully in the company of John Nettles and his whinging, out-of-work actress, brat of a daughter.
Thursday, 14 October 2010
Thursday, 30 September 2010
Are the Miliband brothers the new Jedward?
Breaking news! Ed Miliband is the first major party leader to live with his family out of wedlock, signifying a change in attitudes of UK voters.
This is the latest revelation in a long stream of banal journalistic reports, which have seen a significant rise in the number of Brits putting pen to paper to seal their future with a cross.
The voter turnout in 1997, which saw Major bow out as the Tory reign came to an end, was 71.4 per cent. Four years later and this figure had plummeted to a shocking 59.4 per cent. However, with 65.1 per cent of voters making the trip to the polling station last May, things are looking up.
Is this the result of the media’s “change in attitudes” as to how it portrays the importance of politics to a nation of dumbed-down soap watchers?
Spinning May’s General Election into a whirlwind celebrity showdown encapsulated the attention of a voyeuristic nation, which seemed more interested in who’s shagging who rather than who could deliver what.
Clegg, Brown and Cameron’s private lives were showcased for the media in what fast became the political equivalent of X-Factor. Sam Cam’s convenient pregnancy, following the death of Ivan, was certainly a clever move by David’s spin-doctors and a sob story so sad that would have tugged on the heartstrings of Ian Brady.
And this week’s exhaustive reporting of the trials and tribulations of the Miliband brothers should earn them the nickname “Deadwood.”
Sarkozy faces the aftermath of riots as the French workforce take to the streets en-masse to protest over their disapproval of pretty much everything.
At the other end of the spectrum, Cameron could commit murder on live television and we’d probably complain a bit, forgive him because he’s got nice hair, put the kettle on and flick over to watch Corrie.
Are people voting because the party leader has the cutest kid, the fittest wife, or was sporting the best tie during a recent appearance on Newsnight?
Straight, gay or a casual lay, as long as they act with the professionalism, integrity and intelligence required to deliver for the British public, does it really matter?
This is the latest revelation in a long stream of banal journalistic reports, which have seen a significant rise in the number of Brits putting pen to paper to seal their future with a cross.
The voter turnout in 1997, which saw Major bow out as the Tory reign came to an end, was 71.4 per cent. Four years later and this figure had plummeted to a shocking 59.4 per cent. However, with 65.1 per cent of voters making the trip to the polling station last May, things are looking up.
Is this the result of the media’s “change in attitudes” as to how it portrays the importance of politics to a nation of dumbed-down soap watchers?
Spinning May’s General Election into a whirlwind celebrity showdown encapsulated the attention of a voyeuristic nation, which seemed more interested in who’s shagging who rather than who could deliver what.
Clegg, Brown and Cameron’s private lives were showcased for the media in what fast became the political equivalent of X-Factor. Sam Cam’s convenient pregnancy, following the death of Ivan, was certainly a clever move by David’s spin-doctors and a sob story so sad that would have tugged on the heartstrings of Ian Brady.
And this week’s exhaustive reporting of the trials and tribulations of the Miliband brothers should earn them the nickname “Deadwood.”
Sarkozy faces the aftermath of riots as the French workforce take to the streets en-masse to protest over their disapproval of pretty much everything.
At the other end of the spectrum, Cameron could commit murder on live television and we’d probably complain a bit, forgive him because he’s got nice hair, put the kettle on and flick over to watch Corrie.
Are people voting because the party leader has the cutest kid, the fittest wife, or was sporting the best tie during a recent appearance on Newsnight?
Straight, gay or a casual lay, as long as they act with the professionalism, integrity and intelligence required to deliver for the British public, does it really matter?
Being unfussy got me dumped by a boy in a tiger jumper
I have long been accused by family and friends alike of being too fussy when it comes to potential boyfriends.
Meeting men under the influence of vast quantities of alcohol, I regularly fall in unconditional, Stella-tinted-spectacles-aided love. On the first date I’m baffled at how lager can screw with one’s perception to such an extent - the man who laughed like a drain and had a voice so loud it could be heard by the deaf, springs to mind.
It is rare there is a second date.
Breaking the news to my gays, that the love has again died so soon, is always tough.
Through utter frustration one of my closest gays, Robert, recently subjected me to a verbal onslaught, of which the general gist was:
“It’s not them Ellie, it’s you. You will grow old, surround yourself with feral cats, children will fear you and the townsfolk will attempt to drown you as a witch.
“The stench of urine from your granny-flat will be so unbearable that a mile-round radius of the area will be cordoned off and not even the spotty carer from meals on wheels will dare to cross the threshold. Subsequently you will meet your end when the bin-bags, crammed full with the charity-shop clothes you have collected over the course of 60 years, tumble down and suffocate you to death.”
These harsh words scared me so much so that I agreed to a second date with the latest social degenerate I’d found myself acquainted with.
Despite the fact he was slightly shorter, slightly younger and was wearing high-top trainers suggestive of a secret boy crush on N-Dubz. But four pints later, we did sort of get on and so the second meeting was set.
To which he turned up wearing a bright green sweater with a picture of a tiger on the front, which was so small it would be better suited to a Build-a-Bear.
My first instinct was to make like Forest Gump, but I’d been spotted. So I stayed, and drank the pain away.
The next day, Robert’s onslaught still haunted me. So, attempting to overlook the fashion horrors that had passed, I considered the possibility of a third date.
Two days later, a text message: “Hello Ellie, hope you had a nice weekend. Just to let you know I don’t think we should see each other again, I’m not looking for anyone right now.”
Dropped
By a short boy
In a green tiger jumper
I had hit rock bottom. It was too late to reverse the years of relationship nonchalance and Robert’s wise words were already a self-fulfilled prophecy.
Destined to a life of smug married women looking at me with pity, issuing such patronising phrases as “aw, you’ll be next” and “you just haven’t found the right person yet.”
Pushing 30, the dust is fast settling and the biological clock is drowning out even the guy who laughed like a drain. I can empathise with geriatric cats in catteries everywhere, who look out with longing eyes at passers by, screaming “pick me, pick me.”
But no one ever will.
It took me a day to get over the sheer horror of the situation.
When I did I took solace from the fact that, with the UK divorce rate rocketing, before long the majority of the aforementioned smug wives will join me, slightly damaged, back on the shelf after discovering hotel receipts confirming their husband’s sordid affair with Debbie on reception.
A shell of their former selves through many wasted years of trying to “make things work” with the man they settled for, they will spend a decade regaining some sort of self-identity.
In the meantime, I will long be over the embarrassment of being ditched by tiger boy and, lesson learnt, have reverted back to fussiness, met my perfect match and the tables will turn.
My verdict?
It pays to be fussy.
Meeting men under the influence of vast quantities of alcohol, I regularly fall in unconditional, Stella-tinted-spectacles-aided love. On the first date I’m baffled at how lager can screw with one’s perception to such an extent - the man who laughed like a drain and had a voice so loud it could be heard by the deaf, springs to mind.
It is rare there is a second date.
Breaking the news to my gays, that the love has again died so soon, is always tough.
Through utter frustration one of my closest gays, Robert, recently subjected me to a verbal onslaught, of which the general gist was:
“It’s not them Ellie, it’s you. You will grow old, surround yourself with feral cats, children will fear you and the townsfolk will attempt to drown you as a witch.
“The stench of urine from your granny-flat will be so unbearable that a mile-round radius of the area will be cordoned off and not even the spotty carer from meals on wheels will dare to cross the threshold. Subsequently you will meet your end when the bin-bags, crammed full with the charity-shop clothes you have collected over the course of 60 years, tumble down and suffocate you to death.”
These harsh words scared me so much so that I agreed to a second date with the latest social degenerate I’d found myself acquainted with.
Despite the fact he was slightly shorter, slightly younger and was wearing high-top trainers suggestive of a secret boy crush on N-Dubz. But four pints later, we did sort of get on and so the second meeting was set.
To which he turned up wearing a bright green sweater with a picture of a tiger on the front, which was so small it would be better suited to a Build-a-Bear.
My first instinct was to make like Forest Gump, but I’d been spotted. So I stayed, and drank the pain away.
The next day, Robert’s onslaught still haunted me. So, attempting to overlook the fashion horrors that had passed, I considered the possibility of a third date.
Two days later, a text message: “Hello Ellie, hope you had a nice weekend. Just to let you know I don’t think we should see each other again, I’m not looking for anyone right now.”
Dropped
By a short boy
In a green tiger jumper
I had hit rock bottom. It was too late to reverse the years of relationship nonchalance and Robert’s wise words were already a self-fulfilled prophecy.
Destined to a life of smug married women looking at me with pity, issuing such patronising phrases as “aw, you’ll be next” and “you just haven’t found the right person yet.”
Pushing 30, the dust is fast settling and the biological clock is drowning out even the guy who laughed like a drain. I can empathise with geriatric cats in catteries everywhere, who look out with longing eyes at passers by, screaming “pick me, pick me.”
But no one ever will.
It took me a day to get over the sheer horror of the situation.
When I did I took solace from the fact that, with the UK divorce rate rocketing, before long the majority of the aforementioned smug wives will join me, slightly damaged, back on the shelf after discovering hotel receipts confirming their husband’s sordid affair with Debbie on reception.
A shell of their former selves through many wasted years of trying to “make things work” with the man they settled for, they will spend a decade regaining some sort of self-identity.
In the meantime, I will long be over the embarrassment of being ditched by tiger boy and, lesson learnt, have reverted back to fussiness, met my perfect match and the tables will turn.
My verdict?
It pays to be fussy.
Monday, 13 September 2010
Guys with guitars are infinitely hot, except for Newton
Last Friday’s Busking for Cancer boat party aboard HMS Belfast rekindled all the burning questions surrounding an unfathomable phenomenon, which has haunted my existence since my early teens.
Give an average man, kitted out with average clothes and an average personality, a guitar and immediately they are transformed from wallflower to Adonis so fine they plummet Casanova to the ranks of Quasimodo.
And as a hot-blooded female, I have an inbuilt and overbearing desire to straddle each and every one of them. Even the new wave of plaid-clad social degenerates, who have so far come into contact with only one vagina, and that was from the inside out.
However I have discovered the exception to this steadfast rule - the one and only glorified cover-singer, Newton Faulkner, whose head looks like a pre-school pupil has hollowed out a lump of wax, carved a face in it and lit it up with a tea-light.
Complete with an ego big enough to eclipse the sun, not even a vintage Fender Stratocaster once strummed by the late Jimi Hendrix can inject as much as a hint of mojo into this ginger lovechild of a mutant pumpkin and a Playskool Gloworm.
Delivering a painful rendition of Massive Attack’s Teardrop, he defied the unwritten law of the unconditional attractiveness of “man with guitar,” producing not even a faint tingle in the nether regions. And that’s coming from a girl who would have had a pop at Jarvis Cocker in his prime.
After three years on the scene Newton should be at his peak and aiming even higher. Instead he is still lost amid a line-up of part-time musicians who’re just out for a bit of extra-curricular Friday-night fun.
But he doesn’t let this deter him. Playing to a 100-strong audience he made failed attempts to emanate an air of arrogance reminiscent of Jagger and Morrison, but without the talent or charisma to match. The crowd, comprising has-been rockers, the friends and relatives of preceding acts and one prune-faced woman who claimed to be 33 years old, fuelled Newton’s unfounded egotism by demanding he play covers of other well-known classics. And so he did. Badly.
The time will come when the failings of Newton are realised, and he must sell his Argos-bought guitar down the local car boot sale, along with all his compact discs and make that long-overdue trip to the job centre.
Give an average man, kitted out with average clothes and an average personality, a guitar and immediately they are transformed from wallflower to Adonis so fine they plummet Casanova to the ranks of Quasimodo.
And as a hot-blooded female, I have an inbuilt and overbearing desire to straddle each and every one of them. Even the new wave of plaid-clad social degenerates, who have so far come into contact with only one vagina, and that was from the inside out.
However I have discovered the exception to this steadfast rule - the one and only glorified cover-singer, Newton Faulkner, whose head looks like a pre-school pupil has hollowed out a lump of wax, carved a face in it and lit it up with a tea-light.
Complete with an ego big enough to eclipse the sun, not even a vintage Fender Stratocaster once strummed by the late Jimi Hendrix can inject as much as a hint of mojo into this ginger lovechild of a mutant pumpkin and a Playskool Gloworm.
Delivering a painful rendition of Massive Attack’s Teardrop, he defied the unwritten law of the unconditional attractiveness of “man with guitar,” producing not even a faint tingle in the nether regions. And that’s coming from a girl who would have had a pop at Jarvis Cocker in his prime.
After three years on the scene Newton should be at his peak and aiming even higher. Instead he is still lost amid a line-up of part-time musicians who’re just out for a bit of extra-curricular Friday-night fun.
But he doesn’t let this deter him. Playing to a 100-strong audience he made failed attempts to emanate an air of arrogance reminiscent of Jagger and Morrison, but without the talent or charisma to match. The crowd, comprising has-been rockers, the friends and relatives of preceding acts and one prune-faced woman who claimed to be 33 years old, fuelled Newton’s unfounded egotism by demanding he play covers of other well-known classics. And so he did. Badly.
The time will come when the failings of Newton are realised, and he must sell his Argos-bought guitar down the local car boot sale, along with all his compact discs and make that long-overdue trip to the job centre.
Friday, 3 September 2010
The only way to look younger is to be born later
Flicking through any glossy magazine, you will find endless advice columns, tailored towards those women (and men) on a quest for their body beautiful.
Every day image conscious readers scour newsagents’ magazine racks nationwide in an attempt to satiate their addiction for feature after soulless feature containing new “secrets” to achieving that sexy skeletal physique.
Needless to say 10 minutes later they will pass McDonalds and the temptation of munching their way through a burger comprising of lips, bumholes and a soggy gherkin, served up by an acne-ridden youth, will see the wise words of the journalist become yet another faded resolution.
Sandwiched between these features you will discover magnified shots of celebrities’ unjustifiable flaws, which are undoubtedly in the public interest. A bra-strap on show, a chipped nail and, worst of all, a stray pubic hair poking through their bikini bottoms as they sunbathe on a private, isolated beach, far from civilisation.
This nip-tuck trend is seeing an increasing number undergoing breast enhancements, botox injections, starvation and countless facelifts, to transform the relatively normal into a race of melted, anorexic Barbie dolls.
Sadly the only person obsessed with that dimply bit of cellulite burrowed away at the top of their thighs is themselves. Men, for example, are far more interested in the hole in between.
So many people in their 40s and beyond are doing everything in their power to look 20. But sadly no matter how much plastic surgery they have, they cannot escape the fact that, scratch the surface and their age is undeniable. Rude bits dry up, rude bits slack up, limbs freeze up and there’s nothing anyone can do about it.
Sadly these victims of jaded media pressure won’t be remembered for the botox-ridden fitness fanatics that they are, who sacrificed their lives in a futile attempt to deny the laws of Mother Nature. They are pointless, failed to make an impact on this rock and won’t be remembered at all.
We all die, and no one gives a shit what you look like in your coffin. So go out, drink, smoke, eat, do whatever you want to do so that on your deathbed you can look back with no regrets, safe in the knowledge that you had a fucking good time on the way.
Every day image conscious readers scour newsagents’ magazine racks nationwide in an attempt to satiate their addiction for feature after soulless feature containing new “secrets” to achieving that sexy skeletal physique.
Needless to say 10 minutes later they will pass McDonalds and the temptation of munching their way through a burger comprising of lips, bumholes and a soggy gherkin, served up by an acne-ridden youth, will see the wise words of the journalist become yet another faded resolution.
Sandwiched between these features you will discover magnified shots of celebrities’ unjustifiable flaws, which are undoubtedly in the public interest. A bra-strap on show, a chipped nail and, worst of all, a stray pubic hair poking through their bikini bottoms as they sunbathe on a private, isolated beach, far from civilisation.
This nip-tuck trend is seeing an increasing number undergoing breast enhancements, botox injections, starvation and countless facelifts, to transform the relatively normal into a race of melted, anorexic Barbie dolls.
Sadly the only person obsessed with that dimply bit of cellulite burrowed away at the top of their thighs is themselves. Men, for example, are far more interested in the hole in between.
So many people in their 40s and beyond are doing everything in their power to look 20. But sadly no matter how much plastic surgery they have, they cannot escape the fact that, scratch the surface and their age is undeniable. Rude bits dry up, rude bits slack up, limbs freeze up and there’s nothing anyone can do about it.
Sadly these victims of jaded media pressure won’t be remembered for the botox-ridden fitness fanatics that they are, who sacrificed their lives in a futile attempt to deny the laws of Mother Nature. They are pointless, failed to make an impact on this rock and won’t be remembered at all.
We all die, and no one gives a shit what you look like in your coffin. So go out, drink, smoke, eat, do whatever you want to do so that on your deathbed you can look back with no regrets, safe in the knowledge that you had a fucking good time on the way.
Friday, 20 August 2010
When I grow up I want to be.......
Tom Baker very wisely once said that “the older we get, the older old is.” And someone as clever as a former time-lord is not a force to be reckoned with.
Speaking to my rapidly ageing social group, the doctor’s haunting words get truer by the day. As the big 3-0 draws closer, I find an impending sense of doom as a multitude of burning questions frequently infiltrate my mind.
At what age does it stop being socially acceptable to wear hot pants?
Will there come a time when I don’t feel just a little bit tired?
What is the point of N Dubz?
At the age of 26, we were in a nightclub when a group of boys started speaking to us. When they asked our age, one declared: “Wow, I’ve never spoken to a 26 year-old woman before.” Charming. They were 19.
But for this reason I have started asking boys for ID before agreeing to speak to them in bars for fear of finding my name slammed down on some sort of register.
A good friend experienced a far more traumatic incident when she was a mere 23. She was in a changing cubicle at the swimming baths when a small child accidentally pulled the curtain back on her. He ran away shouting mummy, I’ve just walked in on an old lady.” Needless to say the friend was mortified, the effects of the incident so far reaching that they have psychologically scarred her for life.
Adding to this, one morning a few weeks back I proudly announced that I was the only one of my social group to have retained a barnett devoid of grey. The very same day my French hairdressing housemate pointed out, amid shrieks of mock-horror, that he had discovered not just one, but a whole patch of silvery strands erupting from my scalp. As confirmation of his discovery, he yanked several out, handing me the stone-cold evidence of a dissipating youth.
Yes we fear the wrinkles and the aches and pains that lay ahead. But we’re trapped in a vicious cycle of clock watching as the minutes of our nine ‘til five monotonous existences tick by, only to spend the evenings and weekends wondering where the years have gone.
Obviously there are some things that demonstrate the demise into middle-aged-dom. Steadily slipping away from Radio 1 and into the realms of “dad rock” Radio 2, and finding ourselves cursing the youth of today for their lack of respect.
But asides for a minor boy-hating lesbian phase at the age of four, when I visualised walking up the aisle with another woman, I have always romanticised the idea of marrying the love of my life moving a cosy cottage, with a dog for our son Radley and a budgerigar for wee daughter Tilly.
We’d eat organic and drink fair-trade and buy all our clothes from Gap and Next.
But the years are definitely getting shorter, there’s not enough time to do everything I want to do while I’m young. I still want all the things that adults have. But when I grow up. When the fuck that is going to happen, I cannot even hazard a guess.
Speaking to my rapidly ageing social group, the doctor’s haunting words get truer by the day. As the big 3-0 draws closer, I find an impending sense of doom as a multitude of burning questions frequently infiltrate my mind.
At what age does it stop being socially acceptable to wear hot pants?
Will there come a time when I don’t feel just a little bit tired?
What is the point of N Dubz?
At the age of 26, we were in a nightclub when a group of boys started speaking to us. When they asked our age, one declared: “Wow, I’ve never spoken to a 26 year-old woman before.” Charming. They were 19.
But for this reason I have started asking boys for ID before agreeing to speak to them in bars for fear of finding my name slammed down on some sort of register.
A good friend experienced a far more traumatic incident when she was a mere 23. She was in a changing cubicle at the swimming baths when a small child accidentally pulled the curtain back on her. He ran away shouting mummy, I’ve just walked in on an old lady.” Needless to say the friend was mortified, the effects of the incident so far reaching that they have psychologically scarred her for life.
Adding to this, one morning a few weeks back I proudly announced that I was the only one of my social group to have retained a barnett devoid of grey. The very same day my French hairdressing housemate pointed out, amid shrieks of mock-horror, that he had discovered not just one, but a whole patch of silvery strands erupting from my scalp. As confirmation of his discovery, he yanked several out, handing me the stone-cold evidence of a dissipating youth.
Yes we fear the wrinkles and the aches and pains that lay ahead. But we’re trapped in a vicious cycle of clock watching as the minutes of our nine ‘til five monotonous existences tick by, only to spend the evenings and weekends wondering where the years have gone.
Obviously there are some things that demonstrate the demise into middle-aged-dom. Steadily slipping away from Radio 1 and into the realms of “dad rock” Radio 2, and finding ourselves cursing the youth of today for their lack of respect.
But asides for a minor boy-hating lesbian phase at the age of four, when I visualised walking up the aisle with another woman, I have always romanticised the idea of marrying the love of my life moving a cosy cottage, with a dog for our son Radley and a budgerigar for wee daughter Tilly.
We’d eat organic and drink fair-trade and buy all our clothes from Gap and Next.
But the years are definitely getting shorter, there’s not enough time to do everything I want to do while I’m young. I still want all the things that adults have. But when I grow up. When the fuck that is going to happen, I cannot even hazard a guess.
Thursday, 22 July 2010
The virtues of the morbidly obese
Once upon a time, not so long ago, the world was a happy, jovial place. The British Broadcasting Corporation aired only the crème de la crème of entertainment and licence payers could rest assure that their fees were being put to the best of use.
But one fateful afternoon a child entered the world. A very fat child and the fate of the future of British entertainment was sealed.
As a foetus, the child’s appetite was so advanced that his mother, one Mrs Corden, could not satiate his needs. To make matters worse she developed cravings for bacon sandwiches during the pregnancy.
Now everyone knows the smell of fried bacon is, not only irresistible, but so powerful a smell that it can be detected from far and wide. The unborn babe was daily tempted by the continuous whiff of porky goodness, which carried all the way up in his womby cocoon.
One day the urge became so unbearable that the tot made like Pacman™ and chomped his way right through Mrs Corden’s stomach and out into the open, snatching the bacon treat straight from her ravenous hand.
Mrs Corden died almost instantaneously, but not before begging her son be called James after her great, great, great, great, great grandfather thrice removed. Who was also rather fat.
Being born drastically overweight and three months premature, James was something of a medical phenomenon. Some said he was the largest newborn baby since records began.
This disposition set him in good stead for life. Several food manufacturers, seeing the potential financial benefits of this unexpected “celebrity,” took to sponsoring him, giving him free snacks for as long as he may live.
And so fat James got fatter. And fatter. He wasn’t expected to live past nine-and-three-quarters. So on his tenth birthday, his stepparents threw him a huge surprise party to celebrate his reaching double figures.
The child stared agog when the blindfold was removed and he clapped his piggy little eyes on his village hall, decked out in banners, bunting and balloons and filled with presents and more food than even he could ever imagine. What a feast it was, with all his favourite snacks laid out on a table big enough to fill a football stadium. Pickled eggs, fried chicken, jam doughnuts, cream cakes and a mountain of cheesy puffs.
After gorging on such a rich selection of delicacies, James simply wanted more. But even his gargantuan belly could not accommodate it all.
It was then that James spotted some youths from his year in school. They were each taking it in turns to suck the helium from his party balloons, which decorated the village hall. Through utter desperation, and for the first time in his life, James put two and two together and came up with an almighty four.
“Helium makes balloons expand and rise,” he thought to himself.
“And stomachs are kind of like balloons………”
So by inhaling vast quantities of the gas, he too could expand so much so that there would be room to eat and eat and eat without ever feeling full in the slightest.
And so on his 10th birthday, James’ helium addiction began. Luckily the amount of food he consumed on a daily basis kept him well and truly grounded. However there was a flipside, he caused permanent damage to his vocal chords and was plagued with sounding distinctly like a hyena for evermore.
One day, some five years later, as he waddled down the street to his local fish and chip shop, James was approached by three members of the production team for ITV drama, Fat Friends. They had been hunting high and low for morbidly obese people to take part in their programme, talent regardless.
Forward thinking James snapped up the opportunity straight away.
“So what if I can’t act,” he squeaked between mouthfuls of battered sausage,“ “the royalties will mean I can buy even more Krispy Kremes.”
So his excessive weight gained him his first acting job and, from then on, for reasons unfathomable, James Corden has spread faster than HIV onto almost every single prime time television programme currently aired on national television.
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