How I feel back in love with cheeky rude girl Ri-Ri
RiRi and I had a bit of a falling out. You see, despite my better judgement, I have been a fan since those early days when she used to Pon de Replay and tweet in something that resembled English.
In fact, I'd say my official ranking in the Rihanna Navy (yes, unfortunately this is an actual thing) was at least Commander.
But then things started to change.
The captions were worse. Not even our picture editor would let them through. And that's saying something.
"Got a thang for a King, but chu ain't a King!!!", "'Im so #CCcertified u aint een know it!!" and, my personal favourite, "Bandz make yo gurl go dooown!!!".
Well, quite.
The final straw came when she uploaded a picture of her bum. Not an accidental hint of cheek while wearing some short shorts, just a close up of her bottom in a denim thong. The cheek of the girl.
The sledgehammer sexiness had finally broken me: "Oh RiRi, it's all too easy." And with that, I retired my red lipstick and officially declared us "on a break".
Only one problem, I'd completely forgotten about the 70 quid I'd already shelled out for tickets to her Birmingham gig. Hmph.
And it was at said gig that I found myself on Monday night, in no way cheered up by recent reports of her being two hours late to stage, miming all the way through and going through the motions like some stoned cyborg.
However, you guys on the message boards and Twitter were right all along, I really don't know what I'm talking about.
Rihanna. Was. Amazing.
She looked amazing, she sounded amazing and she put on a show so amazing, even the most hardened of haters would struggle to turn their nose up at it.
She transformed the outskirts of Birmingham on a mundane Monday into a near two-hour carnival of fashion, music and dance.
Ignore what you've read elsewhere, she wasn't two hours late, it was a mere 50 minutes because her support act just kept on going. And the crowd were hardly bothered – a few Mexican waves and two drunk lads dancing in the middle of the arena saw to that.
Far from being a detached pop puppet, she was warm, she was friendly, she was 100 per cent on it.
She even managed to say Birmingham correctly. There was none of this Bir-ming-ham nonsense, it was Burmingum all the way.
Within seconds of her opening the show in her custom-made Givenchy couture ensemble, my girl crush had reignited. No one can strut and execute those Bajan dancehall moves quite like Queen Ri.
By the time she slinked off the stage following encore Diamonds, dripping in Lanvin, I'd even forgiven her for the bum pic such was the good mood I was in.
But that's the power of pop, isn't it? It just makes everything better.
So often downgraded and dismissed as "not real music", a good pop song is a tonic for the soul.
A catchy hook and shake of the booty can work wonders on even the most morose of moods.
Don't believe me? Ask any of the drivers on the NEC car park after the show. Sure, we may have been stuck there for more than an hour gone midnight, but there was laughing, there was silliness, there was communal happy horn beeping.
There wasn't a Rude Boy in sight. And we had Rihanna to thank for that.
