I've been thinking recently about shit Irish boyband Westlife, who were switching on the lights at Oxford Circus last night. Looking at the cover of their new number 1 album the other day (all their albums are number ones. I wouldn't be able to name a single one of them) you can see that they're not the sprightly young things they once were. "You're growing old, boys," I thought to myself. Then cruelly added, "And you've wasted your lives." If I woke up age 35 and found myself in Westlife, I'd wire the nerve endings in my right hand up to the Christmas lights, then get Bryan McFadden to flick the switch. That's how to spread true happiness to the world and his son this Christmas.
But speaking of waste, now I'm imagining one of my old teachers browsing the internet and somehow stumbling across this blog entry. He reads, sighs heavily at the sheer unoriginality of ridiculing Westlife. He remembers the promise I once showed as a young boy, and the words "what a waste" resound in his head; a solitary tear rolls down his mottled cheek. And another image springs to mind too: my girlfriend Sarah looking expectantly into my eyes, guessing at the complex and beautiful thoughts that are dancing around my head like delicate figurines. She reads this and weeps.
Unbelievable: by spending time thinking on the utter mediocrity of Westlife, I'm brought down to their level. That's how dangerous they are.