A boy band.
A boy band who are known for having completely fucking insane and batshit fans who stalk them and mob anywhere they're likely to be going in a squeeing Zerg rush. They stalk them on Twitter, mob them outside the hotel rooms, and suchlike. The boys are fairly average pretty bishie boys who pose in ever so slightly homoerotic circumstances (like dressed as sailors) and sing sappy love ballads the likes of which are about as welcome in anyone sensible's life as piles. The writing site Wattpad is absolutely stuffed full of Directioner shite, fan fics, slash fics, and similar.
Why for the life of me people are so obsessed with them I have no idea. They are sweet as sugar and just as likely to give you diabetes.
As such, compared to the average teenage male that the average Directioner is likely to encounter, they're a dream. Five cutesy boys, none of whom have started shaving yet (while Graham Evans from the rugby squad has a regular rugface going on), none of whom have sufficient hormones to fuel acne (while Mark Smith from the IT lab looks like Viz's Mr Logic), none of whom talk about what the boys at school talk about (i.e. which Page 3 model they'd most like to plough, and what a hash Roy Hodgson's making of the England football team). They also have the wisdom of Simon Cowell (who Cassetteboy once described as "the very essence of illegitimate arse cancer," an assessment against which it is hard to argue) and his formidable PR machine and Twitter feeds backing them up with their wisdom in marketing to teenage girls. They don't even need to sing (though I think they probably can, at least passably) because, well, firstly, Antares Autotune, and secondly, recorded music sounds better so let's mime (like they did at the Olympic closing ceremony).
But at the end of the day, there's very little there. Granted, they're definitively not eunuchs unlike a certain floppy-haired Canadian, but if I had to make an analogy, if the world of music was a dessert trolley, they'd be Angel Delight. Sugary and sweet but completely devoid of substance. Placid and saccharine melodies which are calculated to appeal to insecure teenage girls who are all erratic due to said pubescence. "What makes you beautiful," eh? Well, who could argue with that.
So I got to thinking. What if one of these Directioners actually met her idols? What exactly would happen? Realistically, now.
Well... once she'd cracked the requisite moistie, and discretely disposed of the massive drool stalactite that had emerged from her gob, and re-enacted the whole "we're not worthy!" scene from Wayne's World, what would she actually say to them, and what would they say to her? I rather suspect very little. See, One Direction are so image-managed and stage-managed and even Twitter-managed that they probably wouldn't be allowed to say anything to her without a media representative present in case they tarnish their carefully crafted image. If she was to ask their opinion on anything remotely meaty they'd probably take to blindly agreeing with her because it's safest to nod carefully in order to simulate comprehension.
Either that, or she'd burst in on them unannounced and find them all polishing off can after can after can of Boddingtons while belting out The Final Down Down, pausing only to snort cocaine off a stripper's tits and express racist opinions of which a London cabbie would be proud. Upon where she'd tell all her friends about it, and they'd completely refuse to believe her on any level. Hell, even if Niall Horan or Zayn Malik got arrested in connection with Operation Yewtree there'd be a fucking candlelit vigil outside Scotland Yard. And if he pled guilty they'd probably start a lynch mob, for Christ's sake. Yeah. That's the sort of warped mentality we're dealing with.
I would write more but I'd probably have a Victor Meldrew moment. In the meantime, I'm going to go and listen to a thrash metal song about muff-diving that was written by a 6' 7" bloke with an 11 inch penis.