‘Madonna.’ Now a name now so prominent in popular culture that it has more than earned its inclusion into the Oxford English Dictionary.
In the early Eighties though, for teenagers like me the name evoked a paradoxical naughtiness; simply because of the imagery which it conjured up and the personality who had laid claim to it.
Standing confidently inside the Gondola in the now iconic Like A Virgin video, Madonna epitomised what the Eighties had in store for all of us – excessive celebrity marketing, overt sexuality and unparalleled consumerism.
Madonna stormed through the charts as unexpectedly as her persona exploded through my consciousness. One tabloid pointed out that Madonna was ‘a little too round’ to make it in mainstream pop. She looked positively svelte-like to me – I was outraged that anyone could think of her as ‘round.’ My own puppy fat was still a long way from disappearing. Madonna’s influence on me was to be enormous. We were of a similar age, although with her fastidious, macrobiotic diet and non-alcohol regime you wouldn’t have thought so. I was a slave to her brilliant commercialism and blissfully unaware of the monster ‘styling’ that was subtly drip-feeding me.
My ongoing attempts at trying to be Madonna did have a few unfortunate consequences. Like the incident in the ‘Blue Note’, I was radiant in my red leggings (first time round) and enormous fake-silver crucifix – unstoppable I thought; so trendy I knew. My naive narcissism was swiftly checked in the ladies during an interchange with a group of stiletto-wearing Abba fans. I was reminded that I wasn’t Madonna.
“Who the hell do you think you are? Do you think you’re special?”
I certainly didn’t look very special as I hobbled out with a black eye, a suspected broken nose and charcoal eyeliner seeping downwards, which met neatly with my crimson lipstick.
“Told you you’d put too much eyeliner on.” My mate Carmen said obtusely.
Around the time Madonna was snogging Sean Penn and beginning to hone her body to within an inch its fit life; I fell in love. I like to think with as great a passion as Madonna had done.
She fell in love with an actor; I fell in love with a would-be rock star. I thought of myself as the epitome of hip. My eyeliner got thicker, my skirts became shorter and I categorically denied all knowledge of Madonna. But still, I furtively listened to her music and copied her look.
My new lover’s band slowly became moderately successful, “We’ve been offered the support act to Duran Duran’s tour of the States, I’d love you to come but you have to finish school and pass your exams.”
He was a very sensible rock star. And he was right, I did.
He returned on the day of my last exams, ”… with something special to give you.” I was thinking an engagement ring or a surprise trip to Ecuador. He produced a photograph of Madonna; her name was scrawled across the bottom with the message, “Good luck in your exams.” Not quite what I was expecting, to say the least.
He looked at me knowingly, “I know you love her.”
Time for a change, Madonna and I realised simultaneously.
The Eighties turned into the Nineties. Madonna was exercising herself into un-Italian-like proportions. Proportions she was to share not only with Warren Beatty, but also with the rest of the world in her coffee table book Sex. Not to be out done, I finished university with a massive sigh of relief and went out into the world to find some fun. I still hadn’t found a gym but was by now semi-starving myself into a body worthy of a Jean-Paul Gautier bustier.
Around this time, a few steps behind Madonna, I became a Material Girl. My left-wing aspirations (which in all fairness were always a bit suspect) moved quickly to the right of centre whilst working as a waitress – I was supposedly funding my trip to Ecuador. It was in this horribly themed restaurant where I met I thought at the time, the answer to all my problems – ‘The Older Man’. Not exactly Warren Beatty I must admit: Iranian actually, but gorgeously rich. I may not have been a world famous pop star, but I was determined to keep up with my idol’s colourful love life.
However, whereas Madonna dumped Warren for her personal trainer, my love affair with the Iranian had a much more interesting outcome – namely a visit from the C.I.D and the very quick arrest of my Middle Eastern lover. Apparently, (I found out later) he had been subsidising his mystical income by supplying arms to an Eastern European oligarch. Dreams of a glamorous, cocktail-swigging lifestyle were shattered.
It was time to take stock of my life, as Madonna was taking stock of hers.
In the mid Nineties as Madonna was contemplating motherhood: I was contemplating my future. I needed a vocation. I needed to focus. So off I went to University to study for a proper job.
A physiotherapist I would be and then off to Ecuador to help the poor and re-establish my tenuous leftist leanings. I would become the altruistic, non-materialistic person I really was – long before Madonna began adopting non-orphaned Malawian’s and wearing long flowing dresses.
The year Madonna gave birth to her first child, I collected my degree to the relief of both my parents. At last they breathed in unison, a daughter with a proper job. However my dream of visiting Ecuador was as vivid as it had been at sixteen. A few years clinical experience in my chosen field and I would be ready to go and help the world. My dreams of designer handbags and sun-drenched cocktail parties were by now, well and truly behind me.
However I hadn’t banked on meeting the man of my dreams. By now I was eating properly and running like Forest Gump. Madonna had taken up an alternative form of Yoga, and was being introduced to Guy Ritchie by Tantric Trudie and her ex-teacher husband, Sting.
Madonna’s romance formed itself alongside my own, with the man who turned out to be the real love of my life. The two men were roughly the same age, height and hair colouring. And I suspect the same down-to-earth approach to life.
Guy tamed Madonna as surely as my soon-to-be husband had tamed me.
I actually beat Madonna to the aisle, but we managed to have children in the same year. My daughter slid slowly into the world in June 2000, Rocco was born several months later. Madonna looked fantastic at her wedding to Guy four months after giving birth.
The thought of organising and being the main participant in a wedding, four months after having a baby was anathema to me. Four months after producing my own daughter I was still unable to even wash my hair on a regular basis.
Maybe Rocco didn’t cry. I bet he slept through the night two days after being born, I told myself. The urban legend of Madonna’s controlling nature was most probably true, and Rocco knew all about it.
Things and life began to settle down. I got the hang of the nappies just in time for potty training and was uncharacteristically jealous to read in the Daily Mail that Madonna never changed nappies. For a moment in my sleep-deprived state, I thought, “What, Madonna’s children don’t poo?” It was only after my first glass of wine that I realised the journalist meant Madonna didn’t change them. It was true then, I pondered as I blended yet more carrot, she really does have a massive I.Q. – to realise without guilt, that changing nappies does not help you bond with your baby. My husband is living testament, he never changed one and our daughter adores him.
Madonna cracked on with her career, winning three Grammy’s for the superlative Ray of Light album, and I spent my time making the coffee at toddler groups. But I did manage to get to the hairdresser and revamp my wardrobe, still attempting to emulate my heroine.
I took in a picture of the newly morphed Madonna, with flowing blonde hair and long Boho dresses. I instructed the teenage stylist to “make me look like this.” Although bemused, she did a great job and suggested helpfully, that I try Top Shop for the clothes.
Which of course I did. I looked rather fragmented when I blustered into the old church hall for the weekly toddler group. I resembled the local bag lady, not my supremely in-control, earth-mother mentor.
I suspect my adoration of Madonna has now subsided; not because I don’t think she’s wonderful – I do. She’s been a great role model: innovative, daring and intelligent. But it’s also true that for commercial effect during most of her career, Madonna has taken every creative idea to the extreme. It can be argued that by doing so, she has pushed the boundaries of good taste to the absolute limit, sometimes negating her real contribution to modern female identity.
Just as we think she is about to settle down and grow old with the rest of us; Madonna surprises again. Love her or hate her: you can’t help but admire the sheer energy, her unsurpassable desire to be different and constant inclination for perfection. These are all powerful characteristics of any gender.
But for me the love affair has ended.
I read that she’s dumped poor Jesus – sensible girl. But too late for me. Madonna’s divorce from Guy signifies my own little ‘divorce.’ I have at last, parted ways with my idol; it’s time to live my life as my own. I understand I can’t keep up – don’t want to keep up. I intend to grow old with my soul mate and forget about the odd wrinkle and extra percentage of body fat.
Honestly.
Anyway I don’t think I can afford Botox…well, not until we’ve stopped paying the school fees… then who knows?
Maybe the old habit of Madonna will return and simultaneously we can attempt to grow old gracefully.
Julie-Ann Corrigan is a writer, mother and physiotherapist.
She first studied History and English at university, then changed direction to become a practising physiotherapist. She has since returned to her real love – writing, with the ambition of having ‘Novelist/Writer’ printed inside her passport. She is currently penning her first novel, which is set during the Spanish Civil War.
Julie-Ann lives in Berkshire with her husband Steve and daughter Rhiannon, and has a short story being published in October in the Anthology ‘Devils, Demons and Werewolves’ (Bridge House Publishing). In her (limited) spare time she loves running, cooking and good wine – but not necessarily in that order.
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