My fingertips once brushed the hand of Mark Owen and I swear to God if my friend hadn’t been there to catch me, I might have passed out.
Like millions of others, I spent the 90s in a haze of Take That adoration, and although I didn’t quite call the helpline when the band split up, I was bereft.
Being a Take That fan is not just a teen memory, it lasts a lifetime. I may have stalked Robbie Williams at the Mirror’s Pride of Britain Awards (sorry, boss) and my friends and I still scrabble for concert tickets and scream crazily.