Gordon in the morning: The Wanted are charmers

Oh, what larks, Pip: The Wanted have taken to pouring stuff onto people's heads:

Victim DR TODD SWIFT called cops after being drenched in champagne from a second-floor window.

He also claims he was verbally abused by the boyband, saying they called him BARACK OBAMA because of his accent.
[...]
“I came out of the gym and was walking down the street.
[...]
“Suddenly I was hit with a lot of liquid. It was not, as the police claim, a glass of champagne. It was a lot of liquid. It went all over my hat, jacket, shirt and face. I looked up to the second floor and there were three young guys laughing at me. One of them said, ‘P*** and beer, mate’.”

The police muttered they couldn't do much because it was difficult for them to know exactly who had thrown the stuff. It's not clear if the cops meant they were unable to tell members of The Wanted apart, or if, like the rest of the world, they struggled to differentiate The Wanted, One Direction and Union J.

Todd Swift is a poet, and has turned the assault into a poem, After The Boy Band Assault:

I became afraid of champagne.
Looked up for signs of spit.
No longer Beliebed.
Went in every direction at once.

Was the new kid on a scooter.
Danced to myself.
Heard my heart beat, beat, beat.
My voice was autotuned.

I walked out of sync.
My arms were full of broken dolls.
I ate scandal for breakfast.
I took it, and that, and that too.

I feared five star hotels.
I feared five star windows.
Sniffed tabloid paper for kicks.
I was a page three boy.

The stories I read came true.
I was in a shocker.
Called Simon Simon, Lou Lou.
I was backstreet frontpage.

I was electronic and empty.
I was hand-picked young.
My life went west.
I smelled like a back seat.

My shadow, my entourage.
My sanity was syndicated.
My doctors and lawyers called from LA.
My dry-cleaning was paid for.

My facebook was not my own.
I was blamed for doing too much.
I was hopped up on capital F.
I was not wanted.

I was a report being made.
I woke in the night screaming hits.
I was 2.30 am stumbling out.
Hit an all-time low.

The Wanted might also turn the incident into something creative, the next time they get the finger paints out.