THE GREAT ORANGE DISASTER: WHY SCOTT ROBINSON IS OFFICIALLY BANNED FROM MY LIBIDO (A MANIFESTO OF WAR)
Warning: I have completely lost the plot.
What started as a normal, functioning middle-aged woman with healthy boundaries and a very strict two-man lane has descended into full feral chaos.
One orange-tinted, boxer-wearing disaster walked in and burned my entire sanity to the ground.
This is not a cute little crush post.
This is a nearly 30-year-old obsession being held at gunpoint.
This is me screaming into the void!
Welcome to the unhinged manifesto. God help us all.
Read this at your own risk.
THE TANGERINE TERROR AND THE BOXER-TUG SEEN 'ROUND THE WORLD
I am writing this from the floor. Not because I want to be here, but because my legs have officially declared a strike and refused to support the weight of my own poor decisions. I am declaring ALL-OUT WAR on Scott Robinson. This isn’t a spat. This isn’t a "bit." This is a scorched-earth policy against the man who has single-handedly dismantled nearly thirty years of my fandom identity with one bottle of St. Tropez and a pair of boxers.
Let’s get one thing straight: I am an Abz Love girl. Period. Full stop. End of discussion. Since 1997, Abz has been my sweet, cheeky, beautiful angel. He is the first love that never ends. My eyes have been glued to him for decades, and even when J came back looking like a literal tank—aging like a vintage wine that could bench-press a house—I managed to balance it. I became a J and Abz girl. It was a stable, two-man system. I had a lane. I was staying in it. I was safe!
THEN CAME THE #SCOTTDAY VIDEO.
Five, what the actual hell are you doing? Is this a boyband or a psychological experiment designed to see how fast a middle-aged woman can lose her entire mind? I’m watching the #5iveDay run-up, minding my business, expecting some harmless nostalgia, when Sean appears in a doorway looking like he’s just seen a glitch in the Matrix or a horrific supernatural event. The camera pans, and there is the source of the absolute horror: A BRIGHT. ORANGE. SCOTT.
He is glowing. He is radioactive. He looks like he fell into a vat of Cheeto dust and emerged as a god of chaos. And he’s just standing there in his boxers, laughing that high-pitched Scott laugh—“You know it washes off, right?”
NO, SCOTT. IT DOESN’T WASH OFF THE INSIDE OF MY EYELIDS. IT IS BURNED INTO MY RETINAS.
The side view was enough to end my menopause for good. My hormones didn't just wake up; they staged a violent, screaming uprising. I felt my internal clock reset to 1997 with the force of a physical blow. But then—as if the side-profile of a neon orange man wasn't enough to kill me—he turns. He gives us the full frontal. And then? HE TUGS UP HIS JOGGERS.
Excuse me? Hello?! Where has that six-pack been hiding this entire time? Since when has he been concealing a structural masterpiece under those stage clothes? And don’t even get me started on the bulge. I am calling the authorities. I am calling the internet police. I am calling the UN. You can’t just drop a "rather large" situation like that into a casual social media post and expect me to go about my day as a functioning member of society! I am a mess! I am a puddle!
I am traumatised. I am horizontal. I am currently staring at my Abz Love posters and apologising to his beautiful face because this orange menace has breached the perimeter. He really went from "I'll have your daughter home by 9" to "Your daughter calls me Daddy too." and I am NOT OKAY.
I survived the passing fancy of the Invincible tour—the way he sang back then was angelic, sure, and I’ll admit his voice did things to me, but I fought it off! I was strong! My eyes slid right back to my beloved Abz where they belonged. I was a loyal soldier! But this? This isn't an angel singing. This is a bright orange demon in underwear trying to drag me out of my lane and into a ditch.
This is war, Scott! You’ve ruined the peace, you’ve ruined my biology, and you’ve ruined my "only two members" rule. I HATE YOU FOR THIS.
THE "SKINWALKER" GRUDGE AND THE AUDACITY OF TMI
I need to emphasise just how much I DISLIKE SCOTT ROBINSON. This unwanted crush is a violation of my soul, my history, and my dignity. I have spent decades perfecting the art of ignoring him, and I won't let a bottle of fake tan and a six-pack erase the sheer bitterness I’ve cultivated since 2013.
Let’s talk about why he’s been on my "Do Not Fly" list for years. Specifically, let's look at the 4ive era. While the rest of the fandom was cheering, I was watching a crime in progress. The man was a literal skinwalker, stealing my beautiful Abz Love’s singing parts right from under his nose on stage! It was like watching someone steal Abz’s creative soul in real-time, right in front of my eyes. I was there for Abz—my sweet, sweet angel—and Scott was up there acting like a vocal kleptomaniac. I haven't forgotten, Scott. Butterfly remembers.
And don't even get me started on his absolute lack of a filter. He is a total tit who desperately needs to learn how to keep his mouth shut on the A to Z of Men. He’s out here sharing the most graphic, intimate details about the rest of Five’s sex lives like he’s reading the morning news.
ESPECIALLY MY SWEET ABZ.
Scott, we do not need you to tell us—yet again—how Abz taught you how to edge. I was perfectly fine not having that mental image, thank you very much! And then you have the nerve to admit you actually spoke about it with your darling wife, Kerry, while you were balls deep in her?! GET OUT. JUST GET OUT, SCOTT. I am trying to maintain a shred of respect for my first love, and you’re treating his "lessons" like a casual Sunday brunch topic while you're mid-act. It’s disgusting. It’s uncalled for. It’s treason.
So, I’ve been fighting this crush. I’ve been building a wall. And I’m winning... honestly, I’m winning, I promise! I have my lane: I am a J and Abz girl. J is the muscle, Abz is the soul. That is the limit.
THEN LAST WEEK HAPPENED.
I’m watching the new drop of the A to Z of Men, ready to roll my eyes at whatever nonsense comes out of his mouth next, and holy fuck. Scott is sat there looking... fine. BAD DILFY SCOTT. He’s slimmed down a bit thanks to all the juicing, and he’s sporting a “just fucked” messy hairstyle that has me horny as fuck.
I had to give my head a physical wobble. I told myself it was a fluke. He just has messy hair because he’s lazy and couldn't be bothered with a comb, right? NO MORE FANCYING SCOTT… STOP IT!
But then he has the absolute audacity to walk on stage at Perth—the actual stage, in front of actual people—sporting the EXACT SAME HAIR. And to make matters a thousand times worse, he’s singing with a raspier voice than usual. NOOOOOOOO. I can’t take it. The way he hit that high note for his “BAAABBBY NOOOOW” part in Until the Time is Through... my legs didn’t just buckle, they turned to liquid.
The rest of the fandom is tail-spinning, worrying about his singing voice going? NOT ME. I WAS WORRIED ABOUT THE PUDDLE UNDERNEATH ME!
BAD BAD BAD SCOTT.
THE FINAL ULTIMATUM (GET BACK IN YOUR LANE, ROBINSON!)
This is it. The line in the sand. I am officially calling for a ceasefire on my nervous system because I cannot live like this. I will NOT be dragged away from being a J and Abz girl. I have spent too many years, too many posters, and too many fanfics dedicated to my two kings to let a messy-haired, orange-tinted menace in boxers ruin my brand.
Listen to me, Scott Robinson, and listen well: J IS ALREADY MY ONE ALLOWED "MORE THAN ABZ" CRUSH.
I only have so much room in my heart (and my ovaries) for the men of Five. J is the designated tank. He’s the muscle. He’s the fine wine. I made room for him because he earned it by coming back looking like he could bench-press the entire UK. That’s my limit! My lane is full! There is a NO VACANCY sign hanging on the door, and yet here you are, Scott, trying to kick the door down with your six-pack and your raspy high notes.
It’s an absolute disgrace. You are a bad, bad man.
You think you can just wander onto a stage in Perth with that "just fucked" hair and think I’m not going to notice? You think you can hit that "BAAABBBY NOOOOW" note with that new grit in your voice and not expect me to turn into a literal puddle on the floor? I SEE WHAT YOU ARE DOING. You are trying to break me. You are trying to dismantle the Abz Love supremacy that has reigned in my life since the 90s.
Well, I’m fighting back. This is war, mate! I am issuing a formal decree to save what is left of my sanity:
STOP JUICING: Whatever you are doing to look that fit—stop it. Go eat a kebab. Wear a baggy jumper. Hide that six-pack immediately.
GET A VOCAL COACH: Not for your voice (because let’s be honest, the rasp is lethal), but to make you sound more like a normal human and less like a siren calling me to my doom.
COMB YOUR DAMN HAIR: I am sick of the "messy" look. It’s too much. It’s unfair. Find a brush, find some gel, and make yourself look like the "daughter home by 9" Scott again because I CANT TAKE IT ANYMORE!
I am reclaiming my time. I am going back to my Abz Love videos. I am going to stare at J’s biceps until my brain resets. I will not let the Orange Disaster win.
So, Scott... get back in your lane. Stay there. And for the love of everything holy, PUT SOME TROUSERS ON AND KEEP THE BOXERS TO YOURSELF.
WAR OVER. (I hope. Please God, let it be over.)