Watching the current scandal around Christian Horner play out, I didn’t feel any of the glee I usually do when tabloids dissect the private lives of well-known people. (To be fair, I had zero sympathy for myself when the Daily Mail did it to me, twice – if you dish it out, you’d better be able to take it.) Rather, I felt an emotion that I rarely feel: protectiveness for my adored Ginger Spice – a.k.a Geri Hallwell Horner, wife of the Red Bull boss.
It’s a weird one. We’re used to feeling various emotions towards pop stars – lust, love, loathing – but it’s not often that we feel protective of them. I’m not being ‘O, poor you!’ pass-agg patronising here, either; I felt protective of Geri at the height of her fame, when she was young and gorgeous and fantastically successful. She just wanted it so, and she didn’t have any visible talent. More than Victoria, yes – but that’s not saying a lot; Brooklyn Beckham’s got more talent than Victoria. Lusted after and laughed at in equal measures, Geri was even mocked by her confidante Robbie Williams, her boyband equivalent: ‘She turned into a demonic little girl playing with dolls and a tea set, speaking like a psychotic child….it was genuinely scaring me.’ Throw in an eating disorder and a love-life that made Bridget Jones look like Zsa Zsa Gabor and things seem set to end badly for Ginger Spice.
But the Spice Girls all grew up to defy their stereotypes; Baby turned out to be sensible, Posh the earth mother, Sporty the sensitive one, Scary the alleged domestic violence survivor while Geri – previously defined by ambition and bad love choices – found herself at 50 married to a handsome and wealthy man, transformed into a gracious and graceful society matron and philanthropist.
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