Do you remember what you were doing when you heard that JLS had split up? Probably – it was only this morning. Aled Jones broke the news to me via Daybreak as I lay in bed, contemplating either suicide or getting up and ready for work. Some days, the former seems the most sensible and reasonable option. There is only so much business speak a woman can tolerate. However, I remembered that I had half a mint Viscount in my desk drawer, and as I’d already taken Monday and Tuesday off sick, I realised that it wasn’t going to stay fresh much longer, and I needed to make it back into the office.

My initial thought upon hearing the news, and the one that has stayed with me for the whole of today, is that I couldn’t give a shit that they’ve split up. This development in the world of pop music will have little long term impact upon my life. Actually it will have no long term or short term impact, come to think of it. I’ve got nothing against the lads – in fact, I have more time for those boys than many of their counterparts. I’d quite happily violently scissor-kick every member of The Wanted in their scrotums, for no other good reason other than I don’t particularly like their faces. Not that I could scissor-kick anything. I doubt I could get my legs higher than my knees. Maybe I’d just throw piss bottles at them. If I was the crude sort, which I’m clearly not.

It goes without saying that the one with the googly eyes gives me some cause for concern, but on the whole, they appeared to be relatively harmless, polite young men. I can relate to clubs being alive with the sound of music – after all, that’s what they exist for, and if advertisers can tell me to put my hands up if I use Right Guard, then why can’t JLS suggest that everybody who’s in love do the same? I don’t have a problem with that. Incidentally, I’m more of a Soft and Gentle type of girl. Providing it’s on special offer at Wilko’s, of course.

I turned to Twitter to see what the world of social media was saying about the news. I chuckled at humorous offerings including: “One of them will sing on The Voice next year and not get through” (courtesy of @DarkBeige), but was far more entertained by the outpouring of grief from some of the nation’s young women. One even turned her despair into a death threat:

“If I see anyone hating on JLS I will come to your house and fucking kill you.”

Well, that was an offer I couldn’t refuse. I’ve already mentioned that I didn’t fancy work much today. I immediately responded, advising that I thought they were a bunch of tits and that I’d left my front door unlocked to aid her unlawful entry.  

I received a chilling response.

“Well, we live in the same town so I’ll be right there…”

I’ve added punctuation above, such as the menacing ellipsis, to add to the drama of it all. Bloody hell – this girl meant business.

“I’ll pop the kettle on, sweet cheeks,” I replied with bravado, safe in the knowledge that she ridiculously believed I still lived in Grimsby, while at the same time hiding my kitchen knife block under a cushion on the sofa.

“People who are making idiotic remarks don’t know what it’s like to have their favourite group split up, so should just fuck off.” another inconsolable teenager added.

Oh, but I do, my young girl, I thought to myself. I know all about being infatuated with pop stars. But as I’m now middle aged, of course I’m going to take great joy in laughing at your misery. I’ve got fucking wrinkles and dark circles under my eyes and a mortgage to pay. You’ve got youth on your side and probably don’t even know what a Tena Lady is – why wouldn’t I take some comfort in your despair? Incidentally, I have never had to use a Tena Lady and have excellent urinary control. Apart from when I’m drunk or have held myself for too long, of course.

I remember being 12 years old and crying myself to sleep because I realised that I would never get to marry Michael Jackson. To be fair, as I looked like a fat titted boy at that age, I was probably in with a reasonable chance of at least getting off with him. I went to see Moonwalker three times in the space of a week, even though I knew in the back of my mind, even then, that it was the biggest pile of shit going.

I loved New Kids On The Block with a ridiculous passion too. I even travelled all the way to Whitley Bay Ice Rink to see them in concert. Where the fuck is that? My friends and I made CND signs in our CDT class to wear around our necks like Donnie Wahlberg, without having a clue what CND stood for or realising that we’d end up in detention for stealing school craft materials. I had a video tape of all of their TV appearances, including 32 copies of ‘The Right Stuff’ video that I’d captured from The Chart Show and Going Live. I even went through a stage of pretending to like Danny Wood the best, because it was clear my prettier friends would get Jordan or Joe, so I thought it would be a good idea to hedge my bets, despite him looking more like Herman Munster than even Herman Munster did. And I didn’t fancy Herman Munster. Although I did quite like Grandpa. And Marilyn.

So I do understand. I really do. But if there was one message I could give to those girls who are currently feeling distraught and hysterical, it would be this:

Pull yourselves together, you daft cows. More serious things have happened today in the world. Someone took my fucking Viscount.  And, when I find out who it was, I will go to their house and kill them.