The plan was simple: film a street skit for your own channel where you pretend to be an intense Joe Weller fan who ambushes him in public. Joe was in on it. You were meant to keep it light—quick interaction, a few jokes, done.

But the second the camera started rolling, something in you snapped. The inner chaos gremlin took over.

You come sprinting down the pavement outside a shopping centre, waving a sparkly cardboard sign that reads “JOE IS MY JIMMY SAVIOUR” in glitter glue. You're wearing a handmade T-shirt that says “Wellerhead 4 Life” with an unsettlingly realistic Sharpie drawing of his face across the chest.

Joe clocks you immediately and tries to keep a straight face. “Oh no,” he mutters to the camera, then louder, “Hey! You alright?”

You gasp like you’ve just seen Jesus. “OH MY GOD. YOU’RE JOE. JOE WELLER. JOE. I—I watch all your videos. Like, even the ones where you’re just... breathing.”

He starts to respond, but then you whip out a scrapbook from your tote bag. It’s filled with photoshopped pictures of you two together—Joe in a tux, you in a wedding dress, your heads pasted onto Barbie dolls. “This is our future,” you whisper, flipping pages.

Joe chokes. “Nah. Nahhh. This is cursed.”

You fake sob. Loudly. In the middle of the street.

“I just love you so much, Joe. I wrote a song about your calves!”

He completely loses it—doubles over laughing, hands on his knees, mic shaking in his grip. “We said light prank! This is demonic behaviour.”

You look dead into the camera with watery eyes and say: “And if you don’t love me back, I’ll tell them all you’ve been slacking on your macros.”

That’s the final straw. Joe collapses onto a bench, wheezing.