It's A Wonderful Corden

Good morning, and Happy Christmas, fuckers! No, wait, that's not right... Merry Christmas, fuckers!

Much better.

Anyway, hope you all have a fantastic day. Continuing a tradition started, um, exactly a year ago today, here's this year's Christmas morality tale. Last year, it was the turn of Noel "Ebenezer" Edmonds in A Christmas Arsehole (if you're on the web version of the site, look down the right hand side to find the link). This year, please welcome lardy ego monster James Corden, winner of Dystopian Fuchsia's Shit Britons 2010 (as voted for by yourselves), in...

It's A Wonderful Corden

by Ian Hewett

High up in the heavens, somewhere 'twixt Uranus and Gliese 581d in the constellation of Libra, two lights sparkled, but these were not comically-named gas giants or disappointing exoplanets 20 light years from Earth, but angels looking down on Earth and its meerkat loving, t-shirt wearing inhabitants. One individual caught their attention, as he seemed to be praying mockingly in a high-pitched whine, whilst wobbling his belly in a vile manner. They were slightly repulsed, but, like all good car crashes, could not help looking back over his life to see how he got to this stage.

James Corden lay on his sofa, scattered with biscuit crumbs and remnants of cake, watching DVDs of Gavin and Stacey. He chuckled to himself. "I really am a fucking comedy genius," he said to nobody. He tutted as the phone rang, and reluctantly heaved his ample frame to a relatively upright position.

   "You're through to James Corden, the funniest man you'll ever meet," he whinnied down the phone. "What is it?"

   "Hi James, it's your agent," began the caller, before adopting a tone that sounded like they were reading from a pre-prepared statement. "The public aren't sick of you yet. Seriously, they all really, really love you."

   James smiled and nodded knowingly, and the caller continued.

   "I've got you a spot hosting the Glamour Awards this weekend. Shall I confirm it with them?"

   He sighed. Or perhaps got out of breath; it was hard to tell. "I dunno..."

   "There'll be an after-show party with free food."

   "Well why didn't you say so? Sign me up, Scotty!" He hung up the phone, and silently cursed, as he realised he'd planned a £100 order from Dominos that day.

   He walked over to his full-length, full-width mirror, lifted his t-shirt, and wobbled his belly. He winked at his reflection. "You've still got it," he said, and wrote down the belly gag he'd just made on the back of a Kit Kat wrapper, which he pocketed.

   

   As the weeks went by, James started feeling a bit under the weather. The Glamour Awards gig had backfired slightly when he publicly berated Sir Patrick Stewart when he shot down another of his belly gags. How dare he? He may be a Knight of the Realm and a highly respected actor, but you just don't do that to the great James Corden. It was now approaching Christmas, and things had dried up slightly. His hilarious sketch show with that one from Gavin and Stacey had yet failed to get another series, and his obviously hilarious football-based panel game was getting a small audience of cunts on late night satellite TV. Where had it all gone wrong? He needed some publicity-friendly good luck. And a kebab.

   He approached a bridge overlooking a freezing river, feeling at his lowest ebb. Then, a little boy walked past with happiness in his eyes at seeing him. Nervously, he approached the star with his mother ushering him on. "C-can I have your autograph, sir?"

   James beamed. "Of course you can, young man." He pulled out his pen just for such an occasion, and began to scrawl on the boy's scrap of paper, now smeared in garlic sauce.

   "Can you do that thing you do?" asked the boy.

   James chuckled. "Of course I can." He pulled up his sweaty t-shirt, and wobbled his belly. The boy screamed.

   "What the hell are you doing, pervert?!" bellowed the mother. "I'm calling the police, you fucking sicko," she continued as she dragged her bawling son away. "Your career's over, Wonga Man. Envirofone'll never employ you again!"

   James began to weep. Then he began to pray. "Hi, God, it's me. James Corden, the world's funniest man. Only, people don't appreciate me any more." He coughed. "You know what, fuck it. They don't fucking deserve me." He took out the Kit Kat wrapper from his pocket containing his hilarious belly gag, and tore it into little pieces. "I'm just going to end it now. That'll teach the fuckers." As he puffed and wheezed his way onto the edge of the bridge, ready to jump, a man fell past him into the river. "Oh for fuck's sake, what now?" asked a breathless James. He was ready to leave the other jumper to his fate, when he realised this could be great publicity. If he saved him, he'd be all over the papers. Something to gloat over as he ate his fish and chips out of them on Christmas morning.

   He belly-flopped into the river, half emptying it on impact. Struggling to stay upright, he suddenly found he was being boarded by the jumper, and guided to the riverbank. Soon, in an old cabin, the two men were wrapped in towels, and a look of recognition flooded onto James's puffy face.

   "Bobby Ball?" he said in a high-pitched cacophony. "I do not believe this."

   The curly-haired annoyance grinned broadly. "I'm yer guardian angel, fatty. You were about to top yerself in a moment of self pity. Me an' Tommy was watching, and it were makin' us sick, yer big jessie. I tell yer one thing for nowt, you make really good ballast."

   "But you're not dead. How can you be my guardian angel?"

   "Well, me career's dead. Has been for years." He stretched his red braces out with his thumbs. "Rock on, Tommy!" he shouted. The wet braces pinged back, whacking him painfully in the nipples. James sat silently. "Anyway," he continued, a tear of pain rolling over his moustache, "if I get to show you that life's worth living, I get me wings. Tell yer what, I'll show you what the world would be like if you were never born. That'd be good for a laugh. I love a good laugh, me!"

   James sighed. "Fine. Let's get on with it."

   They made their way into the city, and passed a nightclub. He saw all the stars going through the neon entrance, from Christopher Biggins to Tim Lovejoy, all of the nation's favourites. "Ee, that looks dead posh, does that," chuckled Bobby.

   "I'll get us in," said James with an air of utter confidence.

   The bouncer pulled the rope across James's path. "Where the fuck do you think you're going, tubby?"

   "I beg your pardon?"

   "This is an exclusive club. Now clear off," he growled, as he let Timmy Mallett through.

   "Don't you know who I am?" shouted an indignant James.

   "Look, pal, clear off, before I fucking cut you." James backed off nervously. "Just a minute," he suddenly said. "Oh my god, it's you!" James beamed broadly.

   "That's better. Now then..."

   "Not you, prick. Can I have your autograph, Mr Ball?"

   Bobby grinned. "Of course, son." He took a pen out of James's pocket, and signed.

   "Oh, and can you do that thing you do?"

   Bobby twanged his braces. "Rock on, Tommy!" James shook his head as his face dropped.

   "That's brilliant. Nice to meet you, Mr Ball!"

   "Unbelievable! How can he not know who I am?"

   "Don't forget, you've never been born. You'll see some things've changed."

   "No, wait. This is brilliant! I can bring my amazing jokes and belly-related fun to a whole new world!" He felt in his pocket for the remnants of the Kit Kat wrapper. "It's gone! My fantastic belly joke's gone! Did you nick it, you little tit?"

   "What would I want with that, dipstick? It's not there, 'cos you never wrote it. You were never born, were you? Keep up, yer silly beggar."

   "No, that's okay, that's okay... I've just got to get on the phone to the BBC, so I can flog 'em Gavin and Stacey."

   "'Ang on... Didn't you co-write that with that... that big girl, Ruth summat..."

   "Fuck her. It's her loss. Give me your phone."

   Bobby shrugged, handed James a brick-like mobile phone, and put his hands in his pockets, adopting an impish pose out of habit. "You're making a mistake."

   "Ssh, it's ringing... Yes, hello, my name's James Corden, and I'm a very talented comic writer and actor. I've got an idea for a show called Gavin and Stacey, a sitcom with a girl from Wales and a bloke from... what? No, this isn't a joke... No, I'm not wasting your time, I'm just... No, please don't hang up. DON'T HANG UP!" His face dropped as he looked at Bobby. "They hung up."

   "Course they did, son. You weren't around to 'old Ruth whatsit back, and she wrote that sitcom off 'er own back. It were much funnier in this world too. See, you were basically writing yerself as a character. Thing is, you're a massive wally. People realised that soon enough when yer started believing yer own 'ype."

   James felt like weeping, as they passed his local kebab shop, boarded up with a sign indicating they'd gone out of business due to poor trade.

   "I've got nothing. I'm fucked in this world, I'm fucked in the real world..."

   "It's never too late, son. Everyone goes through a dry patch. Look, yer sitcom. It were alright, that. Okay, yer sketch show were shit, and yer shouldn't've 'ad a go at Picard and made yerself look like a massive wally, but you've 'ad a wonderful life, and yer voice ain't even broken yet. You could always write yer biography while some people still know who you are."

   A tear rolled down James's reddened face. "You're right, Bobby. Thank you. Thank you so much." He went to embrace him.

   "Ee, keep away," said a retreating Bobby, comedy fists aloft. "I've seen you with yer 'omo bits on yer sketch show, yer big nancy."

   James smiled. "All right. Look, I've learned my lesson. Can you put things back the way they were?"

   "They already are. Look in your pocket."

   James reached into his pocket, and pulled out the torn fragments of his Kit Kat wrapper, still scrawled with his wonderful belly gag. "Kit Kat wrapper! It's my Kit Kat wrapper!" Excitedly, he jogged through the snowy streets, and saw the kebab shop was open once more. "Hello, kebab shop! Hello, you wonderful Greggs!" He slowed his pace as sweat poured down his face. Bobby slowly caught up to him in a casual stroll.

   "Come on, son. Let's get back to yer 'ouse, and I'll 'elp you sort out yer book deal."

   Christmas Day, and James walked into his house a happy man, clutching fish and chips wrapped in yesterday's newspaper. He read the headline in the grease about his autobiography deal, and when he read the word "million", he giggled like a schoolgirl. Finishing off the meal, he took a Christmas dinner for one from the freezer, popped it in the microwave, grabbed some mistletoe, and began snogging his hand. Life was good. As he waddled through his living room, he came across the home-made spit with the roasted corpse hanging from the ceiling from red suspenders. He gnawed at some newly formed wing meat, grateful for the help Bobby had given him. "It's what he would have wanted," he chuckled, as the grease from washed up Northern comedian dribbled down his chin. He collapsed into his crumb-laden sofa, and began writing the best belly-related gags he had ever written. He was back.

Merry Christmas, everyone! I hope you and yours have a great few days. See you before New Year's Day!