Oh God. Oh God oh GOD. The Biebs is outta control yo’. First, he’s a bit late to one of his own shows and voms up a ton of milk on stage. No biggie, right? Next thing I know he’s smoking doobies, scrapping in the street with paparazzi and hocking up loogies all in his neighbour’s grill. But the final straw came when I found out that Justin had gone and got himself a monkey.


A MONKEY, you guys.

I can handle milk vomit; I can forgive the paparazzi punch-ups. I can just about tolerate the obscene amount of swear words that keep tumbling out of his pretty little mouth. But this? This I cannot take. If we have learnt anything from the life of Michael Jackson – besides the fact that you are actually allowed to wear your pyjamas to court – it’s that acquiring a monkey is like sharpening that knife edge called sanity that Justin has obviously been teetering on for a while now. They’re not just cute little pets that you can dress up in matching gold gloves, Biebs. They are animals that can break things very easily; like your delicate, maidenly little face.

Who knew this would happen? Who knew! That kid who inspired the number one haircut for lesbians around the world; that kid who had girls running after him on the street, jumping on the hood of his car like he’s a baby-faced Rick Grimes in the midst of some pre-pubescent zombie apocalypse; that kid who was driving one of these…..


…when he should have been driving one of these….

little tikes

Honestly, who bloody knew!

Oh yeah, WE ALL DID.

Scooter Braun, you promised us you wouldn’t let this happen to Justin! You promised us you’d never let him do an MJ! NOW LOOK, SCOOTER, YOU TWAT. He’s almost on par with a man who used to walk around his creepy theme park with a parasol and wore his jimjams to court! (Although I’m pretty sure MJ did something else that was inappropriate…) But alas, it was Justin himself – wise, beautiful Justin – who once told us you can “Never Say Never.” At the time that song just seemed to be about Jaden Smith learning karate with Jackie Chan, but now I realise it’s about more. So much more. Like, I will never say never to leather harem trousers, or smoking a blunt.

I feel that Britain may be partly to blame for the recent fall of JB. What he doesn’t understand is that spitting on others is like a traditional pass-time for the average Londoner, and starting a fight is pretty much a standard greeting. (You haven’t truly experienced London until you’ve been punched in the eye by a burley cockney twat who, when you start crying like a baby, tells you “I was only jokin’, ya cunt!”)  I worried that Justin was becoming too accustomed to our bad habits. Yeah, it was definitely time for him to return to the Hollywood Hills before he could get the chance to develop a beer belly and started crushing cans of Special Brew on his forehead.

So, what can we do for the lost soul that is Justin Drew Bieber? I think an intervention is desperately needed. A Biebervention. An interJustin. And as no one else seems willing to do it, I’m taking one for the team. It’s ok, guys. I will be the one to valiantly face his puny, infantile wrath as I gently prise that sippy cup full of crazy from his leather-clad fingers and say “No Justin, no more crazy for you today.”

Now, we all realise that the first documented outbreak of teenage rebellion was when Usher let Justin house-sit in the video for One Time. I mean, what the fuck were you thinking, Usher? Justin was just a child! He was not capable of looking after such a big house efficiently. He could not adequately glue back together your best china. There is no guarantee that he wouldn’t go looking through that draw in your bedside table that should be padlocked at least twice. Besides, everyone knows if you give kids an inch, they take a mile. Two miles. The whole fucking M6. A party should have been the least of your worries. Think of all the premature ejaculations seeping into the fabric of your cashmere cushions; used as a makeshift bed in your walk-in wardrobe for an unsupervised game of Seven Minutes in Heaven. Seriously Usher, this is basic parenting.

But blaming everyone’s favourite collar-popper just seems all too easy. We must track down the root cause of Justin’s newfound thuggish insanity. And who could be considered more of a root than the very woman who birthed Biebs? One of these days (if Canada somehow managed to float over and park itself next to Britain) I’m going to march right up to Pattie Mallete and say “Y’know what Pattie? Now is not the time to be making weird, unnerving anti-abortion movies; now is the time to tell your son to put his shirt back on, pull his up his trousers and just CALM THE FUCK DOWN.”

Pattie doesn’t strike me as someone who would be up for punishing her dumbass son, unlike me. So to help Pattie along in her new role as strict disciplinarian, I have come up with a few ways she can teach Justin a valuable lesson:

1. Revoke his right to use the word “swaggy” for at least week.

2. If Lil Twist comes round, sternly tell him that Justin cannot come out to play. Redirect him to Drake’s house.

3. No more wearing hats indoors.

4. No spitting in his neighbour’s face unless he has a genuine reason (for example, a bug flew into his mouth).

5. Limit his weed intake.

6. Get three lesbian Justin lookalikes from the “Lesbians Who Look Like Justin Bieber” Tumblr to sneak into his room one night and teach him a Dickensian life lesson. (I’m thinking future Justin could potentially be Ellen Degeneres.)


8. Confiscate his car keys until he learns to stop letting marijuana-fuelled rappers drive his Porsche.

9. Ban all dairy products three hours prior to a show.

10. Sit him down and force him to learn what and where Germany is.

11. An indefinite ban on pop-and-lock-athons. 

12. Give him a crash course in how to put trousers and hats on properly.

13. No more vests that show a gratuitous amount of nipple.

14. Limit the amount of topless selfies allowed per day.

15. Sit on the naughty step and wait for Usher to get home.

They will work, belieb me. Good luck and Godspeed, Ms Mallette.