You will almost certainly have noticed that Taylor Swift is making her way across the UK. Even in the crowded news marketplace – an election, Euro 2024, poorly royals – she is, just by virtue of playing some concerts, consuming a lot of airspace and column inches. We see endless vox popping of her fans, of all ages, gushing about their idol.
I can relate to an extent. Like any normal young girl growing up in the 21st century, I sought solace in the music of Taylor Swift. When my heart hurt after I’d found out Ed Bentley had told another girl he loved her on MSN, she soothed me on my iPod nano. I’d listen to her song ‘Teardrops On My Guitar’: ‘I’ll bet she’s beautiful, that girl he talks about / And she’s got everything that I have to live without.’
She positions herself as an everywoman and an underdog but the act is increasingly implausible
But in the years that followed, as I grew jagged with heartbreaks and responsibilities, I became more and more cynical about Tay-Tay’s brand.
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