George, Jon, Mikey and Roy

I’ve got fantastic memories of being 12. That time before teenage hormones and adult expectations start to burden us is a golden time of our lives. It’s the time of unfettered enthusiasm and energy and so many formative experiences – first kisses, crushes and adventures. Horizons are expanding as we seize on ideas and assert our identity.

Anyone who remembers me from when I was 12 will probably sum me up with the words ‘Boy George fan’. I was glued to the radio, TV, magazines, newspaper and records featuring the wonderful George.

Most of my schoolfriends had yet to declare their preference for a particular sort of music or allegiance to a band. This was to be the time of obsessive fandom. Duran Duran, Wham, Spandau Ballet or Culture Club – you couldn't like them all. I was the Boy George girl.

Internationally renowned Boy George fan

As well as all their music, I had badges, posters and stickers galore. I made fabric cases for my complete collection of singles and albums (including some imports and picture discs), and covered my Culture Club scrapbooks with montages of quotes and photos snipped out of magazines.

I regularly wrote to – and even visited – the fan club. A few times I hung around outside George's home where I met up with some of my similarly George-obsessed penpals. I'd work George into conversations, quote his quips in my essays and discuss imaginary dreams of hanging out the Jon Moss and the Duran Duran hunks with my classmate Jo.

Another of my classmates paid tribute to my obsession by dressing as George with a hat trimmed with coloured plaits for a drama performance. We held a fundraising three-legged race along the seafront (actually a 17-legger) and I donned a customised man's shirt with huge coloured letters and symbols, like my idol's. Once I celebrated George's birthday by making a cake decorated as his famous BOY cap.

Inevitably, my favourite band's fame waxed and waned after a few years and the band eventually splintered as George's drug problems became apparent. I continued to follow his every word and went to as many solo gigs as I could. My cunning move to London made it all the easier.

My admiration and love for George has grown and aged along with us both. We've had our ups and downs and have evolved into quite different people from when I first declared my interest in the 'flamboyant cross-dresser who sings blue-eyed soul' back in 1983.

But my love for Culture Club isn't the same. The group reformed for a couple of years at the start of the century and it was wonderful to see them back on Top Of The Pops and in concert. Teenage over-excitement came flooding back and with every heartfelt lyric I was transported back to being 12. Then they disappeared again and George went back to DJing and pursuing various musical and fashion endeavours.

This week, Culture Club played to a packed house at Heaven nightclub underneath Charing Cross station. It’s the very venue where they play their first London gig on their first tour and is an iconic club for anyone who loves the 80s. I was there – as was a poster asking ‘Duran Duran who?’. It made George chuckle when he peered at it.

Culture Club being back is brilliant. Their ‘oldies’ as they call their back catalogue still stand strong and they’ve got some great new tracks for their new album. The enthusiasm with which Roy Hay attacked his guitar and played the rock god all over again was immense. The whole band’s delight at playing together was infectious. As for me, I loved being transported back to my first Culture Club gig in 1984 and being filled up anew with energetic verve, fearlessness and simply enjoying an all-consuming unaffected love.