In a scene that redefines the phrase ‘breakthrough performance,’ the premiere of ‘Pursuit of Jade’ descended into a glorious chaos of shattering glass and undignified scrambling. The star in question, a chap whose face is apparently rendered in a material stronger than the architectural features of the venue, was the target of a horde of fans so determined that they turned a glass door into a thousand glittering pieces of modern art.
Yes, the same doors that separate the plebs from the privileged, the same barriers that enforce the sacred hierarchy of celebrity, were no match for the sheer force of adolescent yearning. Fans, presumably suffering from a collective case of what I can only diagnose as ‘Jade-itis,’ pursued their quarry with a zeal that would make a pack of hyenas look positively disinterested.
Crowd safety fears grow, they say. But let us be honest. When did crowd safety ever matter when there is a star to be seen? The event, no doubt costing more than a small country’s GDP, has once again proven that our society’s priorities are as sturdy as those glass doors: they withstand the mundane, but crumble in the face of true desire.
I watched the footage, gin in hand, contemplating the symbolism. A glass door: the transparent barrier between reality and fantasy. It shatters. The fantasy pours through. The reality is trampled. This is not a security breach. This is a metaphor. Our modern world, where walls are made of glass and fragility is the only constant.
Of course, the authorities will tut and cluck about ‘crowd control’ and ‘safety measures.’ But let’s not kid ourselves. They’ll be back for the next premiere, barriers reinforced, but ultimately doomed. Because you cannot barricade the human heart when it has been told, by every form of media, that the pursuit of a star is the highest calling.
I propose a solution. Replace all doors with actual walls of cheese. Let them break those. At least then we can have a fondue party while the authorities rearrange the deck chairs on the Titanic. Or better yet, just declare all premieres as impromptu Hunger Games events. At least that’s honest about the stakes.
But worry not, dear readers. The star is fine. The fans are fine. The doors are not. And our culture continues its noble descent into the gutter, led by a herd of stampeding children who just wanted a selfie. Bravo. A standing ovation for the inevitable.
I, for one, will be celebrating this glorious mess by raising a glass. Through a window, naturally. But I am not throwing it. That would be uncivilised.
