LET'S GO TO JUSTIN BIEBER'S BIRTHDAY PARTY!

Cool! Justin Bieber is 22 years young today, and you have been invited to his exclusive VIP birthday party!

Better still - the invitation specifies "No gifts", so you don't even have to buy him a toy! After all, what do you get the boy who has everything - even his own super-sci-fi robot butler, probably!?

You don your best party smock, slip on your dancin' shoes, brush your hairs, do three farts against a perspex sheet, and apply some theatrical glitter to your thorax. You want to ensure you look your absolute best for Justin!

Quickly now - you don't want to be late, for what is sure to be the party of the century!

---

You arrive at Justin Bieber's house just before 3pm - the time indicated on the invitation. Without even needing to press the doorbell, the gate swings open, granting you access to the magical compound.

As you head up the drive, the front door opens with a pneumatic honk, and you are greeted by a two-foot tall robot. It waves at you enthusiastically, and blows seven air kisses.

"Robo-hello," fizzes the robot. "I am Mr Sweet Biscuits, Master Justin's personal robo-assistant and butler."

"Ok," you say.

"Please come inside," continues Mr Sweet Biscuits, as it topples against the door frame, and attempts to reattach its arm. "Master Bieber is expecting you."

"This is the trophy room," reveals Mr Sweet Biscuits, as he leads you through the mansion, shedding smouldering circuitry as he goes.

You can't help but be awed by the amazing collection of Justin Bieber memorabilia.

After passing through a number of other rooms - an abattoir, The Egg Zone, a 1/6 scale replica of the Oval Office made out of silt - you arrive at a white void, in the heart of the mansion. 

"I'll come and check on you later," barks Sweet Biscuits. "Do be certain to have fun."

"Hi," says Justin Bieber, beckoning you with his hand, as he materialises out of thin air, with a funny shimmering noise. "Welcome to my birthday party. Why don't you come a little closer so that I can see my party guest properly?"

"Closer, please," says Bieber, still gesturing.

"Little closer please," he continues.

"Keep coming closer please," says Bieber.

"No, that's too close now," says Bieber. "Back up please. Time to back away."

"Thank you," he gasps. "Would you like some of my birthday cake?"

​"Yes," you reply.

"Too bad," he cackles. "It was so delicious that I ate it before you got here."

Bieber reaches into his pocket.

"This is all that's left," he sighs, pulling out a few crumbs of cake. He extends it towards you, snapping abrasively: "Now eat it!"

Reluctantly, you do as you are ordered, eating the crumb of cake from Bieber's sweetly-scented hand.

"Would you like to play some party games, Master Justin?" asks Sweet Biscuits, as he shuffles into the room, with a loud beep, and a puff of smoke from the top of his eye.

"You bet I do!" squeals Bieber, as he grabs Sweet Biscuits by the head. "I'm gonna play some games... WITH YOU!"

"Please, Master Justin," begs Sweet Biscuits of his laughing master, "Do not do this to me again. It causes terrible strain on my hydraulics, and it is not how I want to spend my life."

Justin Bieber either doesn't hear, or chooses to ignore, Sweet Biscuits. Against the protestations of the butler's robotic joints, Bieber forces him to perform a shameful dance that is both lewd and suggestive, and quite possibly illegal in most US states.

"Ha ha!" laughs Justin Bieber. "I think Sweet Biscuits likes you."

"I do like you," concurs Sweet Biscuits, "But not in the way that Master Justin is implying."

By the time Bieber has finished forcing his robot butler to dry-hump your shoulder, Sweet Biscuits lies in a sparking, oil-oozing heap on the ground, broken and deactivated.

​Justin Bieber looks at him, shocked, as if he can't believe what he's done.

"You saw what happened, right?" says Bieber, breathless. "He tried to kill me. Right? It was self-defence.

"No," you reply.

"Shut-up, man!" shouts Bieber. "You gotta help me hide the body. Now!"

"Ok," you say.

"Let's put him in here," suggests Bieber, opening a cupboard. "Nobody will ever find him in here."

"JUSTIN HORATIO BIEBER!!" bellows a voice from behind you, making the both of you jump. "What are you doing? What happened to Mr Sweet Cheeks?"

You turn to see a man with familiar hair.

"Nuh... nuh... nothing, d-d-d-dad," stammers Bieber. "I mean, er, he tried to kill me. I had to defend myself. That robot went plum loco!"

He turns to you for support. "Isn't that right, my party guest?"

"No," you reply. 

"I'm ending this party now," crows Justin Bieber's father, Bustin Jieber. "Your friend has to go home."

"Awwww, dad," groans Justin.

"Don't you 'aw, dad' me," replies Bustin Jieber. "Give your friend a party bag, and see him out."

"Sorry, man" says Justin Bieber. "My dad's a real asshole. He hates it when I murder the staff and that."

"Here," says Justin Bieber as he hands you a sweet party bag. "This is for you. Thanks for coming to my party. Sorry loads of weird stuff happened, and my dad turned up. Maybe I could come round to yours for a sleepover sometime?"

"No," you reply.

You head outside into the bright sunshine, and reflect upon the fact you could't have spent more than ten or fifteen minutes inside Justin Bieber's house. You open your party bag to see what kinds of goodies guests take away from a billionaire pop star's birthday party.

The answer: 47lbs of raw prawns.

FROM THE ARCHIVE:
LET'S GO TO SIR CLIFF'S HOUSE!
OMG! LET'S SELL SOME SECOND-HAND GAMES!
HOW MUCH IS THAT DOGGIE IN THE WINDOW?