Jock's Jocks

It started one morning two years ago when you were propped up on the couch in front of the telly, eating soggy corn flakes and slurping down a cold glass of killer hangover. Sick of watching cartoons about cute creatures you’d love to strangle with piano wire, you switch over to a music video show. The instant sight of the hunk of rough-hewn man meat belting out a predictable rock tune melts your heart like hair gel in the rain.

“Gosh,” you think to yourself, “After all this bible reading I’ve finally found god, and there he is on channel ten.”

The cliché doesn’t stop there, and over the next year or so you start collecting their entire back catalogue of crap albums, and raid news agencies on a never-ending quest to get every different picture you can find of this Adonis and his firm arse. Before you know it you have an obsession with a rock star and his band, although you had some clues about your pre-occupation on the way. Camping overnight on a turd-encrusted pavement to be the first to get those precious tickets to their tour, and punching people to get up the front of the crowd to see his shopping center appearance, where you not un-predictably cried.

You dump your boyfriend and replace his photo in your wallet with our Rock Star, and his photos are even stuck inside your underwear drawer, and you start drinking whiskey out of the bottle because he does; except you replace it with cola cordial.

Now we zoom over to the other side of the world to our cool, swaggering Rock Star. He’s getting loads of fan mail, none of which he reads, and countless marriage proposals from complete strangers - and not just females either. Then something strange happens, he reads one marriage proposal and decides in his north-end English accent, “Fuck it, I’m a Rock Star and I’ll do something edgy and cool, I’ll marry this Australian bird and see what all this marriage shit is about.”

What you might not ask? Someone actually taking one of those marriage proposals seriously? People send marriage proposals to their ‘idol’ because it’s all part of their celebrity fantasy, not expecting it to actually happen. But what if it does?

Before this obsessed fan knows it, her life is turned upside down, and her plans for opening a tea-towel store are put on hold. She finds herself stepping out of a stretched limo onto the doorstep of a posh English manor. She still can’t believe what has happened to her, and after the door is opened by Jeeves, she is led through ye-olde palace past twenty toilets and loads of nude paintings. She’s so excited and shaking and is predictably uttering “Oh my god, oh my god” over and over again.

Then as she walks through the double doors to the observatory, she sees Rock Star lying prone on a chesterfield couch, surrounded by beer bottles, shaving cream, and vixens in varying states of undress. It becomes clear to her that he doesn’t eat vegetables, as carrots, cucumbers and sweet potatoes are all in various spots, which we don’t need to go into (they’re already there).

However she sees through the vegetables, shaving cream and passed out women, seeing only our Rock Star, rugged and handsome. Rather, his liver is getting a prolonged workout and his veins are pumping with methadone. Oblivious, she takes a few furtive steps toward him and softly whispers his name.

“Rock Star,” she breathes gently. This is her fairytale moment, one that she’s dreamed of for ten months, and he opens his eyes, looks over to her general direction and sees the blurred outline of his bride. He smiles and the burps out an “Ullo gorgeous” then promptly passes out.

Fast-forward two months, and she is on a plane with beer-stained divorce papers in hand. What happened you may ask? During their short marriage, it slowly dawned on her that Rock Star is in fact, Cock Star. She also realizes he isn’t perfect either. He leaves the toilet seat up on the odd time he bothers to use it, sleeps in until 4 in the afternoon, and when he is awake, he just eats cereal and watches racing cars on the telly. He doesn’t really talk about much except for being mashed up, and Obsessed Fan is nay to happy.

So let this be a lesson to all of you obsessed fans. He may be sexy, but you’re probably better off saving the obsession for the spotty mailroom boy at work. Maybe you can photocopy your respective arses, then send them to each other in the internal mail system. And at least he won’t sleep in until 4 in the afternoon, as he has to be at work by 9am.