One Direction caused panic amongst their devoted ‘Directioners’ recently when members Zayn Malik and Louis Tomlinson were pictured puffing on a roll up cigarette.
Forgiven for releasing last year’s most disturbing audio experience in the shape of charity hit One Way Or Another (Teenage Kicks) – an emasculated cluster fuck that achieved the seemingly impossible by victimising two legendary tracks in the space of three horrible, gut wrenching minutes, it seems that the boys have finally alienated a section of their legion of followers with this latest heinous act.
In a paean to the war on drugs, it appears that after inflicting several years of agony upon the music industry and having their deeply irritating pastiche forced into the weeping eyeballs of the 99.6% of folk who find them torturous, it is the act of smoking a cigarette that has provided the straw to eventually break the camel’s back – with some speculating that, get this, these adults may have been smoking mari-joo-arna and not regular tobacco!
Bloody pot heads, Johnny Cash and his gashed veins must be rolling around the afterlife in disgust.
This story is a tabloid editor’s wet dream – false idols, alleged drug use, an opportunity to shoot down two guys in their twenties that have been placed on a lofty perch in order that their inevitable plummet be from the greatest possible ceiling.
As a music fan I find myself repulsed by the behind the scenes puppetry of the One Direction experience and most of what their officially branded personae stand for.
Their music is soulless, they don’t appear to have the talent of boy bands such as McFly and their existence as a faction serves only as a glorification of superficial substance trumping desire and hard graft, I’m certainly not an advocate for these kinds of manufactured, polished turds.
Despite those views, I do sympathise with the actual beings behind the collective. 18-22 year old boy-men faced with constant scrutiny, as a result always in danger of affecting the sensibilities of anally retentive busybodies, with any action that doesn’t fit the criteria for their particular mould a fractious one.
Tomlinson would rather be playing football week in and week out for his beloved Doncaster Rovers, while Malik, his cohort during ‘rollie-gate’, would dearly love to spend more time collecting cloth shoes to add to his current assemblage of 188 pairs – there are only so many Topman stores one can visit when touring the planet.
Harry Styles has always desired an opportunity to work for the United Nations, indeed he penned an entire album with his MENSA colleagues about the plight of those afflicted by the Apartheid government of Zimbabwe, questioning the strict dictatorship of Robert Mugabe, whilst considering whether the nonagenarian possesses retrospective contrition regarding some of his most stringent bills.
Instead Styles is compelled to lip sync gawky ditties selected by 54 year-old matriarchs with haunted faces, who have somehow managed to capture the spirit of 14 year-old girls.
Inevitably the five members eventually rebel – it begins with a cheeky toke on a roll up cigarette, evolves to Mary-Jane, then what? Intercourse with older ladies? Public potty mouthed outbursts? Writing their own songs without permission from above?
It’s Britney Spears all over again unless Cowell and co can get to grips with the boys and strangle the individuality out of them, laying down the law to an unshakable manifesto to conform or perish.
Alternatively, perhaps it was just a couple of young guys having some fun on a boat and escaping the stereotypes they’ve had to deal with for the past few years.