One of my mates said today, “Jungkook is my husband.” 

“Right… I don’t know if he is your husband?”, I replied. 

Ten years ago in New Cross, I could have never imagined Shin ramen or kimchi being sold at Sainsbury’s. Random people on the street used to say “ni-hao” without realising it could be racist, which later inspired my track An-Nyung-Ha-Sae-Yo. Now, some of my local friends speak Korean to me quite fluently, and there is even a K-pop party during Goldsmiths’ Welcome Week. 

Looking back on my early teenage life in Korea, I genuinely imagined I was married to one of the members of Super Junior. The delusion, imagination and romanticism surrounding idols, through content, images and gossip, shaped my days. They fulfilled me psychologically, motivated me to go to concerts just to catch a glimpse, and made cheering them on feel like a meaningful and powerful act. The fandom itself created its own culture, rules and even hierarchy. 

If you have ever watched the series Reply 1997, you can recognise how deeply rooted Korea’s idol-fandom culture is. From my own experience growing up about ten years later, sharing the same fandom with peers meant instant bonding – even though you had to like different members. Liking the same member as someone else automatically created rivalry, while liking different members helped you get along. If a rebellious mate liked a particular member, I would never admit I liked him too. Thankfully, the member I liked never overlapped with their crush. 

As I have grown older that world feels like a trend that has faded for my generation, but for others seems to constantly renew itself with new idols and fandoms. After ‘audition survival shows’ popularised the old genre of ‘trot’ in Korea, even our parents’ or grandparents’ generation formed huge fandoms around new-generation trot singers. 

What is this love towards idols? What makes people spend time and money to support them? Even though we know we do not earn anything by playing games for hours, we still dedicate ourselves to them, perhaps chasing dopamine or reaching the next level in a virtual world. In the same way, if an idol can instantly and directly change a fan’s mood and influence their sense of status in their own world, that seems like a remarkable kind of value. We go to the gym for physical health, so could fandom be a similar investment in our mental wellbeing? 

This psychological honey I once tasted spread across Asia has now come worldwide, ushering in a new era of Korean cultural influence. Those once-different fandom cultures are no longer unique in our globalised society. They offer mental sweetness to fans regardless of age, nation, or race. We can ask what form of attraction this is, but perhaps it is just instinctual to like someone, to feel connected to them, and simply be happy by being there for them. 

Now that I am no longer part of that world, I wonder: will this idol-fandom culture eventually fade, or will it continue evolving into new and endlessly mutating forms?