Corden Blew Off

This is the face us English are presenting to the world these days and it’s terrifying how quickly things have collapsed since science and whatnot and this dumb fuck.

Twitter suggested I follow James Corden.

I just think if you WERE following him, he’d be the kind to time a silent and quite deadly fart you’d have to heave your way through just to keep up.

He’d cup it in his hand Korean-style before slamming it right into your nostrils, bellowing, “Smell that! Smell THAT!”

Through tears streaming with Corden’s English Mustard Gas you will gasp out raspingly “But. I. Was. Only. Checking. My. Twitter. F-feed.”

In the gaps he claps, slowly and mockingly before he grasps in both hands a hefty, gelatinous buttock- thankfully his own- and lets rip with such a massive trouser trumpet that, were he stood a long way away, like in a field somewhere, might sound like the fabric of his suit pants ripping.

Unfortunately for Mr Corden, he is about to go live on that telly those Americans have got and while they’re counting down (from five, so it’s not that long at all really particularly as ‘three, two, one’ are just done with fingers) it becomes obvious to all that the horrific sound was neither trump nor trousers but reality itself being ripped straight- but not clean- through.

That last thing anyone would call this particular view is clean.

Lovecraftian, perhaps.

The band plays as directed and the steadicam man follows his cue to track in on, not the expected soliloquy, but Corden’s blood and tubes and semi-digested crisps and a suffocated intern, all tumbling out over the studio floor in pulsing waves of sticky, maroon-coloured bum blood.

It is the kind of sight that tempts nobody to upgrade to 4K.

“That limey sack of shit!” screams an Executive Producer. “He was our only hope!”

As the last of the retching audience stagger and swoon into the chill Fucktober air, a harried Floor Manager is speaking into a phone on speaker phone: “We’re gonna need some caustic soda or something on Corden. Something industrial to properly dissolve that lard-ass.”






The BBC’s new series of the award-winning Carpool Karaoke is set to film all drizzly Summer long!

Widely-regarded as the Jewel in the Crown of British TV shows (except for ITV’s actual Jewel in the Crown), there’s no way The Beeb can drop the ball on this one.

And as the floor crew set about their thankless task in a CBS studio on that side of the Big Apple But Mainly Water Pie, a right old Pea Souper is falling on Old London Town tonight. Outside the BBC Television Centre, only the discs that crown the top hats of gentlemen can be viewed above the murk while meanwhile, inside the BBC, and now shifting his focus from the fog outside to the room and its gathered BBC undignitaries is none other than The Brilliant Technocrat Mr Lee, former Sektor Comptroller of Region 118/B, Grandmaster Flash and- more recently- honorary Grandmaster Melle Mel (13i  Division).

How the BBC managed to hire such a visionary is something of a mystery (i.e. I can’t be bothered to make it up right now), but this: soon after the last living thing was dead in his Sektor and the last living things that lived on that last living thing were also dead, Mr Lee’s telephone starting ringing and didn’t stop until he picked it up and answered it. They explained that they were the Beeb and wanted their people to set up something with Mr Lee’s people and was there a window?

(He hadn’t told them that he had fired his secretary (from a huge cannon with a Go Pro camera trained on her terrified features) and that he had been reduced to doing all his poos out the window since the plumbing had mystifyingly stopped one morning. )

“Mr bloody Corden gone bloody bang!” he snarls, smashing a Children in Need mug full of scalding coffee into a poster of a Dolphin and a Rainbow Unicorn with the team-building slogan ‘YES, WE CAMP!’

Shaking splashback from her straggly hair, Janet Street Porter tries joking that she thought Mr Lee wanted everyone dead and so Corden should be regarded as quite a coup what with him being so huge a star. And morbidly obese.

“Mr bloody Corden do show! Get his agent and scoop up the bits. He still signed for two more series!”

And that’s pretty much the inside story behind the format changes to Carpool Karaoke this coming season. The celebrity guests are back, the hilarious singing and antics too, as we watch dead famous people relaxing in the company of someone who is quite literally dead and famous.

Celeb in the front of a hearse- like some chauffeur who just WILL NOT SHUT UP, chatting to a pinewood coffin that holds what remains of Corden’s remains.

Thankfully, not too much Corden escaped the CBS studios and made it back to the Beeb intact- just a couple of ever-congealing puddles that will soon be little more than stains.

Don’t ‘scratch and sniff’ yeah and by next year even ‘sensitive to smells’ celebs like Barry Manilow or that guitarist with the massive conk will be bookable and even perhaps remark on what an improvement Corden’s death has made both to the show’s format and his TV presenting.


“Fuck it. Switch ‘Macabre Pool Karaoke’ or whatever to Sundays. You could bump Songs of Praise off the schedule and nobody’ll bat an eyelid.” – Alan Yentob, BBC ‘Trust’


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1 Comment

  1. I know – what a complete berk. I often wonder why we are force fed these completely unfunny imbeciles?

    If you’re reading this, James – sorry mate, no offence. But you’re shit – get off the telly!

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