I was with Lady Glenconner when the Girls Aloud reunion tour tickets went on sale. I remember distinctly as - while I prepared to talk to ’s lady-in-waiting about the incredible history of the stately where she grew up, - I was also trying to discreetly navigate the typically patchy rural Wells-next-the-Sea 5G hotspots as I routinely refreshed the o2 pre-sale page, desperately attempting to secure my spot at this Noughties nostalgia extravaganza before conducting a video interview in the Reubens-adorned walls of the sprawling 18th century Neo-Palladian estate. I was not successful.
Weeks earlier, it was announced that Chery Tweedy, Nadine Coyle, Nicola Roberts and Kimberley Walsh would be embarking on a tour for the first time since 2013. On the official Girls Aloud page, the group shared snippets of music videos from their heyday, injecting a boob-tube-clad bevy of visceral reminiscence into my feed as the buzz built around their riotous return. Memories flashed before my eyes set to the tune of their impressive near-forgotten-for-some-but-certainly-not-for-myself catalogue of inarguably infectious hits.
As a child, I recall recording the entirety of the album onto a cassette so that I could play it during long drives in my mother’s old Toyota following their 2002 win. Girls Aloud had instantly enraptured little me with their black leather and baby pink ensembles as they swayed their hips in a grungy basement scene for the music video of the titular single. The beats wer.
