So we all knew Rihanna was batshit insane, right? And frankly, she was harmless. She would sit in the corner, shaking her booty, tattooing her boobs and smoking a massive joint, and it was fine. She was over there. We could just let her be, knowing that she wouldn’t harm anyone else.
But then she set off on the #777 Tour. She dragged along 150 fans and journalists for the ride, and suddenly you realise that the harmless person over there in the corner is a real and present danger, and she is fucking shit up for everyone.
Like a deadly pathogen let loose into the wide world, Rihanna’s craziness quickly spread. And because those 150 people with her on the tour were in a confined metal tube (the Boeing 777 they were flying around on), breathing recycled air, the thing quickly became a pandemic.
It started off with Rihanna commandeering the intercom system and saying perhaps the last thing you want anyone to say on a flight:
There’s an emergency!
Of course, this being Rihanna, it was a harmless but edgy jape. She went on:
Code 777. Everybody buckle up your seat belts! LETS GET DRUUUNK!
So that’s that then. First flight of the tour and you’re misled into believing you’re in peril at 20,000 feet. It seems Ri-Ri really liked the whole “OH SHIT IT’S AN EMERGENCY OH NO WAIT PSYCHE!” trick because she kept going to that well:
This is an emergency. WHO’S READY FOR TEQUILA, MOTHERFUCKERS?
Because if there’s one thing that aviation lessons have taught me, it’s that alcohol and complicated machinery almost defying physics goes really well together.
At some point it seems that the crazy had taken a firm hold on the rest of the passengers, and maybe that they were getting tired of being psyched out by Rihanna shouting that there was an emergency all the time. Because they mutinied.
That’s right. It’ll go down in history. Mutiny on the Bounty, Mutiny on the #777 Tour. Those two things are basically the same.
Except that the Mutiny on the Bounty lacked naked Australian men. This an actual, godforsaken journalist, whipping off his clothes and running through the cabin of a plane. Which is interesting.
Thankfully, it turns out that some people aren’t yet infected with the crazy pathogen. Someone’s realised that actually, the trip wasn’t that great. That Rihanna didn’t really interact with people beyond the first day and a bit. And that she is so crazy stoned that she can’t make it on time to her own gigs.
She barely does any of her own singing, which isn’t a huge pearl-clutcher, but at least Britney danced a little. For Rihanna, just licking her lips during a song constitutes a taxing, elaborate physical routine that deserves a couple of mid-performance tequila shots. […] picture what it would be like going to your job if there was no toilet, kitchen, water fountain, faucet, or lunch break, and instead of going home at the end of the night, they made you wait standing up in an airport while the person responsible for determining when you go home laid around getting fucked up and wearing European money like pasties.
Maybe we stand some chance of surviving the Rihannapocalypse. God willing.