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. Seeing her receive an honorary degree from Sheffield Hallam university for a quarter of a century of campaigning for the rights of women and children, I felt like a proud parent.

Halliwell was always the one who drew the eye, and not just because of her outrageous clothes and pin-up body. The daughter of a Spanish cleaner, she grew up on a council estate and was a nude model while still a teenager, going on to boldly declare Mrs Thatcher ‘the first Spice Girl’. David Sinclair said that ‘Ginger, Posh, Baby, Sporty and Scary were the most widely recognised group of individuals since John, Paul, George and Ringo’; their first single, ‘Wannabe’, was Number One in 37 countries, Spice, the album it came from, the best-selling album by a female band ever, followed by merchandising deals worth more than $500 million by 1998. They took five Brit Awards, four Billboard Awards, three American Music Awards and were the youngest ever recipients of the Brit Award for Outstanding Contribution to Music. Fame is a wonderful thing, especially for working-class women, allowing them to live a luxe life which otherwise could never be theirs – but knowing when to step away is the icing on the ginger cake. And Geri seemed very happy having done so –  until the present kerfuffle.

I can imagine the glee of Halliwell’s detractors; there’s a certain sort of no-mark male who on hearing the words Spice Girls will sneer ‘Friendship never ends, eh?’ Certainly Geri made a sharp exit two years after their first hit, but since then, they have reunited for two tours, both of which were the highest grossing of each year. So, in a way, friendship didn’t end – it just evolved, as friendships must if they want to avoid being boring. The fact that five ordinary girls made all that money from only 130 minutes of recorded material remains a remarkable commercial feat; they were the ultimate Lottery winners of fame. Geri, ever the opinionated one, had a pleasant shock in store for Spectator readers when the girls were interviewed in 1996: ‘We Spice Girls are true Thatcherites. Thatcher was the first Spice Girl, the pioneer of our ideology – Girl Power. We don’t have to agree on politics – it’s bigger than that. Support a woman doing the best she can and that’s it… everyone’s politically different and that’s OK.’

The private school-kids have taken over now

Everyone’s politically different and that’s OK – such a throwaway remark in 1996, but it sounds so daring now. Remember when Kate Bush said of Theresa May in 2016 ‘We have a female prime minister here in the UK. I actually really like her and think she’s wonderful. I think it’s the best thing that’s happened to us in a long time. She’s a very intelligent woman… it is great to have a woman in charge of the country’? This was too much for many sensitive flowers, who had suffered previously when Bush refused to wet herself with indignation over Brexit like any good snowflake should, saying instead ‘Change is such an important part of life. It’s such a different world from even five years ago.’

After a certain age – probably 15 – there’s something pathetic about being so invested in a pop star that they can cause you actual grief; the hysteria that greeted Morrissey’s and John Lydon’s Brexiteerism was another example, especially considering that it was entirely predictable they’d both be Leavers, being rebels and contrarians. (Like me.) Setting oneself up as judge and jury of the politics of one’s nearest and dearest is unreasonable enough but when the grudge is between fan and idol, it becomes tragic. I’ve noticed, too, that women are expected to ‘behave’ politically far more than men; like Bush, Taylor Swift has also been harassed into denying she is conservative, while no fan ever turned their back on David Bowie because he once spoke well of the Nazis.

Could Geri wear her Union Jack dress today without getting monstered by Bed-Wetters Inc? Probably not. Both this and their early anti-EU cheek – ‘All those countries look the same – only England looks different’ said Ginger with magnificent insouciance–- reflected the fact that the Spice ethos was was rooted in working-class girl-chancer culture, from vaudeville to glamour modelling. They were the last gasp of chav triumphalism, which now seems such a glorious thing surveying the current political scene in which the Left openly hate the working-class for no longer being easy to corral, control and count by head like cattle as they pour into the voting sheds and the Tories have totally betrayed those Red Wall constituents who favoured them so open-mindedly.

Popular music itself – always the creation and escape of the British working-class – has been utterly colonised by the liberal bourgeoisie. Will we ever again have a pop star who can remember, as Halliwell did, ‘when it was time to leave junior school, I demanded to go to Watford Girls’ Grammar School and threatened to run away if Mum didn’t send me there. It was full of middle-class kids whose parents couldn’t afford private schools. I was the token poor kid – a fact I was never allowed to forget. One teacher enjoyed using me as an example of the school’s noble policy towards the underprivileged, saying ‘Geri, you’re very, very lucky to be here.’ No wonder I had little confidence.’? Yet from this sad little girl emerged the glorious red, white and blue striped butterfly that was Ginger Spice.

The private school-kids have taken over now: the Last Dinner Party (Bedales); Arlo Parks (Latymer Upper); Jessie Ware (Alleyn’s). Is it a coincidence that music is also more boring than it’s ever been? Comparing Ed Sheehan in his prime to Geri Halliwell in her pomp, I think of Clough Williams-Ellis great line: ‘I would rather be vulgar than boring – especially to myself.’

There is precious little vulgar about the mature Mrs Horner, who has proved the very model of dignity and decorum during this scandal. Whatever decision she makes about her future, I’m sure she’ll carry it through with verve and nerve. If she stays with her husband, she’ll do so with her customary flair, and if she doesn’t – well, so long as she remembers that there can be no half measures. Because – as with another bold project of which she was once the most vampish and vivacious supporter – Leave Means Leave.