Move over Dire Straits, stadium pop is now fashion, fabulous and gay

I CONCEDED that this week belonged to one woman, on waking up Monday morning to be greeted by every news channel -leading with concurrent Taylor Swift stories.

- Paul Flynn

I found myself unknowingly adjudicating their sincerity on the subject. Kay Burley was the only believable Swiftie. Lorraine laid it on a bit thick. Yes, this was definitely going to be one of those weeks, when pop culture temporarily swallows the grim news agenda, offering a flighty young reprieve.

By Tuesday, the Daily Mail was running commentary from the auntie of one of Swift's brief ex-boyfriends, Matty Healy. The one who looks like Harry Styles if he'd never taken a bath. Not the pin-up new American footballer one.

Debbie, a perfectly lovely, bluff Northern woman was suddenly, inexplicably quote-worthy. It was impossible not to get caught up in the froth and madness of it all.

Soon after, Ms Swift clocked a billionth stream for her new album, a bitchy piece of work that betrays her inevitable positioning into full, grudge-baring Bette Davis/Norma Desmond/Stormy Daniels mode, called The Tortured Poet's Society. Its thematic threads are constructed from the offcuts of her relationship with Auntie Debbie's nephew.