Blessing or a Curse?
“Oh my God! Are you in One Direction?” is the stock response I receive whenever I tell people my name, Zain Malik. Over time, I have learnt that there is no dignified response to this question. The questioner inevitably exits the conversation disappointed.
When Simon Cowell scraped together a group of overeager adolescents from a particularly shabby group of X Factor contestants in 2010, and dubbed them ‘One Direction’, my fate was sealed. Zayn Malik, the shy, squeaky-clean contestant from Bradford, captivated viewers across the UK — with his inability to dance.
Found cowering backstage during a dance rehearsal in Boot Camp, Zayn was comforted by Cowell who displayed a rare moment of human emotion. After some coaxing, Zayn’s cute, albeit unsuccessful, attempt to dance won the hearts of X Factor judges, teenage girls and sexually apprehensive young men.
At the same time, elsewhere in London, another, very perspiring Zain Malik was also struggling with his moves on a dance floor in order to win the heart of a girl that had caught his eye. He had somehow mistakenly been invited to a ‘cool’ party and was sure that if he could demonstrate some sense of coordination in front of her, she would swoon.
Unfortunately, my attempted ‘sprinkler’, ‘funky chicken’ and signature move (the Ostrich 3000) were not enough to draw the fair maiden’s attention. As I left the party, sullied but unsurprised by defeat, my phone flooded with Facebook messages from adolescent girls complimenting my dance moves, dismissing my self-consciousness about dancing, and even asking for my number! It was impossible. The Ostrich 3000 had worked!
I could not contain my joy the whole way home; the night had been a success.
Later that evening, as I sat down to catch up on the most recently recorded episode of the X Factor, my dreams crumbled. It became apparent that the torrent of messages was not for me, but for another Zayn Malik — one on the cusp of stardom.
In the subsequent years, his life changed dramatically. He transformed from an awkward dancer to glamorous photo shoots, singles, albums, plush hotels and documentaries.
Fled London
I transformed from an awkward dancer through the usual rites of teenage passage.
He travelled the world, earning offensive amounts of cash. I travelled to work on the Tube with my fellow Londoners to the earn the minimum wage.
Yes, the similarities were ever-present.
My friends, of course, found this endlessly amusing. They would scream his name (my name?) as we would walk down the street, creating a mob of squawking teenage girls wherever we went. Actually, that part wasn’t so bad.
Perhaps, I thought, I could manipulate this unfortunate circumstance to achieve a more positive outcome?
I began to just go along with the mistaken identity. I informed my ‘fans’ that the next album was going to be released very soon, and that the band was on tour in whichever city I was approached.
I’m ashamed to admit, the fake fame got to me. I began to sign autographs when prompted; I began to sign autographs when not prompted. The (lack of) money, the (lack of) women and (lack of) gambling all took its toll.
Like every fake famous teenage star before me, I flew too close to the sun. I crashed and burned.
Ashamed and marred with defeat, I have now fled London to move to LA.
No British boy band had ever shot to fame in America since The Beatles. One Direction was no different, surely? I could keep my head down in America, where nobody had heard of the small, impossibly well-groomed group that was clumsily pieced together like some sort of auto-tune Frankenstein. Right? Wrong.
But boy bands never last … do they?
