IT has come to my attention that despite my concerts, my vinyl and my merch some of you have not yet exhausted your parents’ resources. I have a new film out.
It is a film of my tour, opening in cinemas this weekend, and your children want to see it. How much can that be? Nine of your English pounds, you imagine? Oh no.
No, this film is a Taylor Swift film, you see, so it costs £20. That’s twice as much as a regular film, justified by the sublime privilege of seeing me perform for three exhausting hours.
Going with two daughters? That’s 60 quid you won’t be seeing again. Unfortunate enough to have a daughter with an October birthday? You could be down £200.
Still, that’s cheaper than two tickets to see the greedy sow on tour, you mumble darkly as you hand over the cash. Oh, sweet guileless Britain, is it any wonder you’re home to so many of my naive boyfriends?
Do you not know that I am yet to tour your country? That your children, perhaps even yourself, will only be whipped into a frenzy by my expertly-shot movie? Do you not know my marketing is as precise as a military campaign?
After this they’ll demand tickets. You’ll be scouring Britain for the privilege of paying £800 to see something you’ve already seen, robotically live and with a far worse view. You will pledge a monthly tithe just to touch the hem of my sparkling raiment.
This is my era. Would you not be part of it? Would you condemn your children to be outsiders even unto their old age? No.
And 1989 (Taylor’s Version) is released on October 27th. You get paid then, right?