Now, I’m not adverse to cheesy pop. I’m not a music snob like Teflon Man. To be honest, I haven’t got time for challenging rhythms and in-depth lyrics that need dissertation-level analysis to be appreciated. So if five pretty boys want to sing simple ditties about love and stuff then it’s fine by me if Boo wants to listen to them.
I’m even happy for some of the songs to get stuck in my head. Well, it makes a change from sodding Frozen songs.
And yet I felt I was taking one for the team taking Boo to the cinema today to watch the One Direction concert movie.
Where we were, as it happened, was sat in our normal cinema, surrounded by other tweens and their parents, paying over the odds to watch those five pretty boys sing their little ditties in front of a crowd of 80,000 screaming Italian teenage girls (and possibly a couple if Italian teenage boys). £12.00 for my ticket alone?! If I hadn’t charged the whole thing to Teflon’s card I would have choked on my popcorn.
And they made us listen to the five pretty boys not just sing but also talk. Couldn’t we just get on with the songs already? Still, I can now differentiate between the pretty boys beyond Harry (the very pretty pretty one) and Niall (the blond baby-faced pretty one). I learnt that Liam (the unshaved pretty one) is the only one who can get through a concert without going for a wee and Louis is really bloody annoying and has a squeaky little talking voice that Boo didn’t appreciate me laughing at. Zayn I could probably still walk past in the street without recognising who he was. Which is a shame because I’d like to ask him why he can’t spell his name properly like a normal person.
Not that he’d probably hear me anyway. To spend so much time surrounded by so many thousands of people screaming at you, it’s got to do something to the hearing.
It’d do my nut. An hour of Dolby 7.0 surround sound was enough. So much screaming. So much crying.
How exciting to be picked from the crowd by the camera, to have a moment on the big screen, testament to your devotion to the five singing pretty boys. But as a blubbering wreck? Mascara-streaked and snot-nosed because Harry may have glanced in your (one) direction? Seriously, girls, play it cool.
(And, yes, maybe it’s just sour grapes because I never got to see Bros in concert in 1989 or whatever.)
And there the younger generation were at the cinema, in all their innocence following in the footsteps of the screaming girls, singing along and jiffling in their seats with excitement.
To be honest, it could have been worse. Everyone under the age of 20 looked like they were having a good time and it was1-D Lite. To have actual concert tickets would have been a bigger experience, but it would have been a pain in the arse too. And a heck of a lot more expensive. Hopefully Boo will be happy to wait until she can go to such things unchaperoned, or I’d be in the crowd screaming for a completely different set of reasons. Not that anyone would hear me.
And surely it’s only a matter of time before this:
I’d bet an admission ticket on it being a different group of five pretty boy singers to scream at by then mind you. Which is a shame as I think I’ve finally learnt the lyrics to Best Song Ever (even over all the screaming).