I once watched José Mourinho’s Chelsea win something called the World Series of Soccer at LA’s Home Depot Center. A member of the American sports press asked the manager whether the achievement meant as much to him as the Champions League. He smiled insolently. “Of course.”
Happily, for sworn enemies of sarcasm in public life, there are the likes of Justin Bieber, whose comments on his current Men’s Health cover confirm that earnestness is always the best policy. “I love the fact that I got in shape the past two years,” enthuses Bieber, “and I’m finally getting recognition for it.”
And if that feels like a slightly snippy reminder of just how hard Justin has had to fight against the system in order to acquire the credit – the long overdue RECOGNITION – his enhanced muscle fibres deserve, do remember the stakes here. We are witnessing the carefully choreographed debut of a new Justin Bieber: older, wiser, and newly apprised of the fact that his adorable Beliebers mostly require adults to drive them to his concerts. And that every time he stars in a police mugshot, a Belieber loses her ride.
We need hardly rehash all the events of the past couple of years in the life of pop’s miscast badboy. Suffice to say that the once squeaky-clean My World auteur appeared to be going to some dark places. There was a lack of punctuality. A boa constrictor was auctioned off. There was a monkey with the wrong papers. Even his trouser waistbands appeared unwilling to work for him.
Eventually, Bill Clinton took the time to intervene, reportedly placing a call to Justin after he was filmed declaring “fuck Bill Clinton” in front of a photo of the 42nd president on a restaurant wall. “Thanks for taking the time to talk Mr President,” tweeted Justin. “Your words meant a lot #greatguy.”
Yet our hero continued to malfunction, even with Clinton acting as his spirit bear. I don’t know how that’s possible – but it is, because it happened. There was some sort of street race in Miami. There was the pelting of a neighbouring property in his gated development with eggs, causing an outlandish $20,000 of damage.
Finally, Justin found himself at a fork in the road. Did he decide to stop acting like a child-star cliche, and accept his responsibility to provide America and the wider world with the soundtrack to the 2020s? Or did he continue on this path, with all the presidential admonishments and undocumented reptiles such a direction might entail?
I imagine all right-thinking earthlings are relieved he chose the former. For the past few months, Justin and his manager have been working flat-out on the task of detoxifying his personage for the second act in his 21-year-old life. First, there was a contrite appearance on Ellen, after which he released an even-more-contrite apology video. Now there is this cover-starring role in Men’s Health “Reinvention Issue”, and next, there will be a “roast” on Comedy Central, in which various pliant celebrities will be licensed to make well-meaning fun of Justin, confirming his readmittance to the herd.
And yet, there does appear to be a 13th fairy. Namely, Mr Seth Rogen, who is steadfastly refusing Justin’s attempts to make him part of the event, his previously stated position that Bieber is a “piece of shit” apparently remaining unchanged.
“Come on man,” begged Justin in a recent tweet. “Check your voicemail. I took it like a man as you blasted a nervous kid fan of yours (me). Now I’m a man. Roast me!”
Silence. “I’m still your biggest fan,” ran Bieber’s next gambit. “Even after The Interview. That’s dedication. Roast me! Sincerely yours … the piece of shit … justin ;)”
More silence. Bieber’s most recent enticement has been to send Rogen one of his songs, entitled Where Are U Now – arguably the actor’s least appealing mail since the North Korean death threats.
Quite how long Seth can go on ignoring the Auto-Tuned overtures is unclear. But self-awareness is clearly Bieber’s new jam. “I wish I had the Batman thing,” he tells Men’s Health, “where people didn’t know I was Bruce Wayne, like I had a costume or something.”
So there you have it: all Justin really yearns for is the secret identity of a brattish young multimillionaire whom no one takes seriously. Let’s wish him well in his quest.
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