I interviewed the Spice Girls at the start – a reunion would cheer up miserable Britain endlessly
It is 26 years since the then-editor of The Telegraph Magazine, the magnificent Emma Soames, called to say she wanted me to interview the Spice Girls. Politely, I pointed out my clear unsuitability. “I’m the person who thinks Mel B is an affectionate abbreviation of Melvyn Bragg.”
“But you’re the only person I want to read on them,” said Emma, putting down the phone.
With Victoria Beckham celebrating her 50th birthday last week, I was suddenly taken back to that heady whirlwind of a day when I stood outside the Ritz in Madrid with several thousand delirious teenagers (“Spoi Gol, Spoi Gol!”), and later hung out with the famous five themselves.
Spiceworld, the band’s second album, had just shifted nine million copies and all the tickets for their British tour – including two gigs at the old Wembley Stadium – had sold out without ever going on general release. They were the chicks who laid the golden egg, and the men who mocked, and the managers who tried to exert control, underestimated them at their peril.
Individually, Ginger Spice (Geri Halliwell), Scary Spice (Mel B), Sporty Spice (Mel C), Baby Spice (Emma Bunton) and Posh Spice (Victoria Adams, soon to be Beckham) were not especially talented. (Mel C was the only one who could really sing, unleashing a remarkable Tina Turner hoarse-power when it was needed.) They were normal girls, and that was their appeal. But their Girl Power mantra – a sort of feminism lite with platform soles and bum-pinching – captured the imagination of a generation of girls who wanted more than the androgynous pop idols my lot had a crush on in the Seventies.
Geri famously told The Spectator magazine that Margaret Thatcher had been “the first Spice Girl”, although goodness knows what Prime Minister Spice would have made of the Wonderbra-tastic lyric “Chicas to the front!”
Back then, the band members were still unspoilt and agog with their good fortune.
Mel C: “If you want to fly home tonight you can have a private jet for eight grand.”
Mel B: “Eight grand? Fook that. I’ll go in the morning for 200 quid.”
Time has certainly smoothed their rough edges. Mel B had a thick Leeds accent and swore like a trooper. Sporty, who was born above a chip shop, told me she came over all hot and awkward when she met famous people. Baby was as sweet as her name. Posh was the least bright bulb, already obsessive about her weight, eating a dinner plate of peas to which she’d liberally applied salt, pepper and vinegar. “Yeah, I’ve got a pea addiction. Christ, you don’t have to write that, do you? It’s not very rock ’n’ roll.”
Geri was the red-haired dynamo, the “bossy bitch” daughter of a cleaner; a self-described “little street rat” who had done anything and everything to get on. With her hourglass figure, she once gyrated in a cage above a nightclub dancefloor in Mallorca, and everyone said she was older than she claimed. It was Geri who turned down a “boring” outfit for the 1997 Brit Awards and instead wore a Union Jack mini as short as a text message. That iconic dress belongs to an era so optimistic and self-confident it’s hard to believe we live in the same country.
Fiftieth birthdays can be tough, particularly for famous women who have traded on their youthful good looks. Victoria’s bash at Oswald’s private members’ club saw the famous five reunited, despite relations not always having been cordial. They even briefly lined up to mime along to their own appallingly catchy Stop, complete with all the actions – captured by a gleeful David Beckham on his phone. Although, things between Geri and Mel B were said to be “frosty” because Mel, never the diplomat, had claimed Geri lies about her age.
Mel C, who has been admirably honest about the depression and eating disorder she suffered while still in the band, looked most at ease in her own skin – the best present you could want for your half century. Emma also looked lit from within. You can see Mel B has had a rough old time after alleged domestic abuse (which her former partner denies). All the Middle-aged Spices have clearly had work done, while making the obligatory protestations that they look good because of applying “daily SPF” moisturiser. Yes, darling. That plus what looks like several-hundred-thousand-quid’s worth of lifts and tucks and fillers. Boobs have risen and fallen (as a fashionista, Victoria couldn’t squeeze hers into a Size 0).
Funnily enough, the most upwardly mobile and successful of the group – Geri and Victoria – look the least happy. A lesson there, perhaps. Geri has been going through well-publicised marital tensions after her husband, the Red Bull F1 team principal Christian Horner, was caught up in a flirty messaging scandal with a woman at work. All that cashmere-clad, Cotswold chatelaine stuff seems to have cramped Geri’s naughty nature. What a pity. The elegant, upper-class life the “little street rat” lives today has masked her once cheeky, now sculpted face.
Victoria clearly took a vow two decades ago never to smile in public. Nor did the silly thing break it when David gave her a piggyback to the limo at the end of her party. Such an adorable gesture from her husband (she broke her foot and couldn’t walk in heels), which should have had her in fits of giggles, not trying to look cool.
At 50, cool is very overrated. Laughing at the passing years (Botox permitting), and having the best time with old mates is the thing. Victoria and Geri would probably veto it on grounds of taste and reputation, but I reckon a Spice Girls reunion would cheer up this drizzly country no end. Geri could ditch the classy white cashmere and wriggle into the Union Jack dress. A blast from the past: Menopausal Spice Women – now that I would pay to see. Chicas to the front!
