Recently, I’ve found myself in the unfortunate position of defending Taylor Swift. It’s quite hard to defend someone who is overwhelmingly rich, immeasurably famous, and as agonisingly omnipresent as Swift. Her fame is invasive on everyone – between news headlines, sports coverage, social media bickering, or that club that always plays ‘Cruel Summer’ when your body is susceptible to pop earworm possession. I’m talking to you Two Brewers in Clapham. You have my soul Two Brewers in Clapham. 

The problem with defending Taylor Swift is she is certifiably irritating. She’s released seven albums over the past decade, not counting the four re-releases to reclaim the ownership of her back catalogue. That level of productivity is already annoying as hell, but the irritation is amplified because she’s always, just, there. There’s no breathing space away from her presence in the zeitgeist. No chance to anticipate, or even consider, her next move. The surprise announcement of The Tortured Poets Department at the Grammys wasn’t so much met with jubilant enthusiasm, but a chorus of “Christ, again? Already?”

I have my own hang-ups with Swift. For every blinder like ‘Don’t Blame Me’, ‘All Too Well’ and ‘Out Of The Woods’, there’s a dramatic quality tumble which threatens every turn of the track list, where you’re mingling with ‘ME!’, ‘I Did Something Bad’, or ‘Bad Blood’. Her albums are pretty consistent, but there’s always a loitering fear you’re about to step on a cringe landmine – the kind where she tries to make a gay anthem, or when she skips through Brixton, Shoreditch and Highgate in the chorus of ‘London Boy’. 

In these embarrassing moments though, I sense we’re seeing the real Swift. Someone who is talented as a songwriter, but can’t help herself when there’s an opportunity to activate her worst indulgences. At the age of 34, she’s still writing about her ex-lovers on The Tortured Poets Department. It’s a universal theme, of course, but aren’t you over this by now? I’m 32 and I’m exhausted by the idea of saying ‘“Hey, how are you? :)” on a dating app. Why are you giving so much oxygen to a two-month fling with Matty Healy? 

The crux of Swift’s relatability, I believe, is her manic, messy desire to overshare every part of her life. A cynical individual might argue she’s made bank by writing songs filled with nods to her love life that make headlines. You might be right, I don’t know her. Nobody here does, really. She could be a calculating mastermind, the kind of persona she skewered in ‘Look What You Made Me Do’. Maybe I’m overthinking this entirely. The point is I think there’s an insecurity in her complete, utter inability to vamoose for even a hot minute. 

The double-edged sword of Swift’s intense productivity is that, even when she succumbs to her worst tendencies, you’re never far from a reminder of why she’s the biggest popstar on the planet. A self-proclaimed Swiftie then, in my opinion, isn’t so much proud of their fandom, but is someone who has evaluated the pros and cons of this devotion in the face of public scrutiny. An acknowledgement that, to bask in gold, sometimes you just need to eat the proverbial shit.