Kristin Hall: The painful price of following fame

From  a distance, fame looks nice.

Famous people have cars that smell like cedar, impossibly frizz-less hair and hordes of obsessive fans they will never have to meet.

Since man discovered the ability to banter, it has been directed towards, and about, certain members of society.

Just as you're unlikely to escape from your monthly wash and trim without an update on the exploits of the Kardashian clan, it is just as likely the wives of ancient Spartans spent their afternoon river bath speculating the real origins of Helen of Troy's chest and whether the woman, whose face launched a thousand ships, was in fact 'an over-rated hussy'.

Thus is the sad, cruel nature of celebrity-dom. For every frothing, flag-wielding fan, there is a critic more than willing to circle their cellulite with a highlighter until they burst an artery. It is thus a major comfort to the loaded and famous that their followers are as loyal as a half-starved Husky.

It's a grim but all too immediate reality - for all mere mortals not getting busy with a highlighter on the Sunday tabloids, many of the remainder would trade their favourite limb to get within spitting distance of their chosen idol. They would trade their second favourite limb to preserve any memento from the encounter, keep it in a moist dark space for six months in the hope it will eventually mutate into something that can be bred with.

But really, why the concern, right? True celebrity obsession only happens in mysterious faraway lands like America and the UK. Powerful places where people would rather roll up the Daily Mail and use it to snort their morning espresso for efficiency. New Zealand will never be on that scale, right?

Credit card-holders, be warned. The object of global tweeny obsession has landed. They are youthful, shiny-haired and capable of breaking hearts from 70 miles in good conditions, 65 when cloudy. The five-boy phenomenon go by the name of One Direction and if you're lucky enough to have procreated in the last 17 years, they are going to cost you a lot of money.

For those unfamiliar with One Direction they are musically reminiscent of equally lusted-after teenage sensation Justin Bieber. Imagine Bieber replicated five times and dressed in co-ordinating outfits similar to what Willy Wonka would wear if he was reincarnated as a Cabbage Patch kid.

For those also unfamiliar with Mr Bieber, they look like something Led Zeppelin would be unimpressed with. Tickets to their three sold-out shows in Wellington and Auckland are now going for $475 on Trade Me. Security schools around New Zealand are receiving crash courses in how to safely ward off 3000-strong packs of yelping teenagers. Parents with daughters' celebrating their birthdays around April 21-22 are considering foolproof ways of turning St James Theatre into a smoking pile of rubble.

I am in no place to judge the undeniable pull of fame and beauty. There was a time when I would have committed inconceivable crimes to be kicked in the face by one of the Spice Girls; let alone attend one of their concerts.

I wore my hair in pigtails, donned an excruciating English accent for three months and did the best I could to replicate their wardrobes without being mistaken for a dwarf escort. It was concerning but at least it didn't end in my demise.

Just last week, 24 year-old Sri Lankan Guinness World Record hopeful Janaka Basnayake got famous by trying to get famous. The only unfortunate part was he got there by being buried alive in a 3m grave, and staying there until he wasn't alive. In 2010, amateur wrestler Vladimir Ladyhenskiy collapsed and died of severe burns in the Finnish town of Heinola.

He was trying to top his only remaining competitor at the world sauna champs. Basnayake and Ladyhenskiy are only two of dozens who have perished chasing worldwide glory by doing something completely ridiculous.

Put in this context, a $475 concert ticket doesn't seem too bad.

When it comes to fame, it seems that obsessing with those who have it is a more innocuous way of doing things. When your pre-teen approaches you next month, optimistic and gooey-eyed,saying they need a $500 boost in pocket money for boyband-related necessities, don't despair. You can rejoice in the fact your offspring would rather stand in a sweaty pulsing crowd for three hours to glimpse fame than accidentally kill themselves trying to prove they can do something impossibly dangerous without killing themselves. Even if it does mean shelling out for the Cabbage Patch kids.