Some people hate James Corden. They want the ground to break open and swallow him right up, with all the “stupid” “comedy” things that he says. His amiable, cheeky chappy demeanour just rubs people up such the wrong way that not only would they not piss on him if he was on fire, but they would probably light sparklers on his burning corpse and start a carnival.
Imagine the things you’d see. The sights and sounds of burning fat spitting on possibly e.coli contaminated hotdogs. Lovely.
Whereas on the other side of the coin, there’s people who adore the ground that he walks on and will happily tune into whatever he does. These people would probably not piss on him if he was on fire. They would probably phone the fire brigade and stand idly by and bite their nails waiting for Dennis the Fire Engine to turn up. Maybe taking a picture and uploading it to Twitter, or that fancy new Google Plus. Technological mavens that they are.
Us, well we wouldn’t say one way or another how we feel about James Corden. You don’t come to Hecklerspray for angry reactionary prose about things. Imagine, right? Right.
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Hello! Welcome to the hecklerspray liveblog of the Brit Awards 2011, sponsored by someone or other. Tonight, we’ll be growing increasingly weary and angry at all the goings-on at The Brits.
Your Mick Fleetwood and Sam Fox for the evening are tiresome ‘spray editor, Mof Gimmers and ravishing bombshell JustRestingMyEyes (not her real name of course). They’ll be fluffing their cues (and each other) and drinking heavily throughout each hammy link from James Corden. Click over for the descent into hell… AND KEEP HITTING THE REFRESH BUTTON!
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Mathew ‘Hold the T, Extra E’ Horne and James ‘HA HA HA HA HA!’ Corden are true pioneers in the field of experimental entertainment.
In only a few short years, they have broken boundaries that lesser scientific performers could only possibly consider dreaming about far, far in the distant future. Let us pause for a moment in our busy lives and consider their achievements. Their feature film, Lesbian Vampire Killers, still holds the world record of largest gaping hole between title-prompted expectation and viewing disappointment. And, of course, the Horne and Corden sketch show on BBC3 managed to create the hitherto only theoretical comedic vacuum; a place where even the most gag-stuffed idea can have every last trace of humour squeezed out of it to leave a small, calcified pebble of misery, rattling painfully around in an empty space between a documentary about racist dogs and Family Guy.
But they’re not resting on their laurels. They have now managed to completely discredit the entire discipline of statistical research.
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Some good and some bad for this week.
Folded:
- Mary Portas (if nothing else you’ve got to respect her for sticking with that same bowl hairdo for the last forty years)
- Little Scarlet jam (so unbelievably moorish you can eat it straight from the jar, just like Joey, the mental one from Friends)
- That new iPhone everyone is banging on about (FaceTime video calling! Nope, no clue either)
- England (please beat Germany. Many thanks)
- Anchor butter‘s ‘Paradise City’ riff (crap advert, obviously, but country Guns ‘n’ Roses is a winner)
Creased:
- James Corden’s World Cup Live (as good as we expected, i.e: worse than eating your own foot batter)
- The world’s longest ever tennis match in the history of the world ever (pat on the back for the players, but still less fun to watch than an explosion in an abattoir)
- Ticket offices (any ticket office, anywhere, for anything. All manned by utter cretins)
- Frank Sidebottom’s gone (if you don’t remember this legend from Saturday morning TV, clearly you should be doing your homework right now and not wasting time here)
- Watching Dressed to Kill (sellotaping our eyelids shut would have been a better use of our time. Thanks a lot, Fiver)
The best thing about Simon Cowell is that he makes a success of everything he does. Music. Television.
Legitimately dreadful haircuts. And now football. Yesterday, the bizarre Simon Cowell-masterminded World Cup mash-up of Shout and No Diggity featuring James Corden and Dizzee Rascal reached number one in the charts. It has single-handedly brought the nation together thanks to its uplifting message, its arbitrary scattering of the world ‘England’ and the fact that it’s still only about a tenth as awful as that Terry Venables song.
But is Simon Cowell happy with the song’s success? No – he’s not going to stop until Fabio Capello has played Shout for the players in the England dressing room before every match. Presumably with a threat to play it at them again at full-time unless they can convincingly win.
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What’s in and what’s out for the cool kids this week.
Folded:
Creased:
