How did that song go after that anyway? Something about how I could grind coffee every time we touch? I could never figure it out.

In 1985, I went to the Just Seventeen magazine open day at the editorial offices on Carnaby Street, with my best friend Jane. We were eleven at the time - though as anyone who’s familiar with teen girl publications (that’s for, not about) will confirm, the average age of readers is generally about five years lower than you pretend it is. So Just Seventeen (known as J17 these days) should really be called Just Twelve, while 19 magazine is read by fifteen and sixteen year-olds, and so on. See, no self-respecting fifteen year old would want to read a magazine called Fifteen - they want to seem older, more sophisticated, so they read a magazine supposedly aimed at girls a few years older - though in fact, targeted squarely in terms of advertising and editorial at precisely those who read it. Aspiration is everything, then as now.

We climbed three flights of stairs to the editorial office, collected a goody bag (which, as I recall, contained the latest issue of the mag, a sticker set, and some surplus covermounts from the last few issues - crappy tin mirror, ugly hot pink lipstick, you know the kind of thing) from a minion by the door, had a three-minute makeover (typical eighties style - too much pink blusher and a swathe of electric blue mascara) and joined the queue.

The queue was what we had really come for, or rather, what was on the end of it. We didn’t read the magazine religiously - we preferred Smash Hits and No.1 and (at a push) Mizz because they had lyrics and better free gifts, variously, and when we did read the mag, we giggled over the cringeworthy problem page, and that’s about it - but still, the open invitation to the Just Seventeen open day was pretty difficult to turn down, seeing as we were in London, just down the road practically, and there was going to be a special appearance by none other than Philip Schofield, who was the new big thing in children’s TV links between after-school programmes.

We hadn’t met anyone famous before, or at least famous and relevant - like, someone that people at school might have heard of; Michael Rosen simply didn’t count - and so we stood in line, with autograph books purchased specially for the occasion. Mine was green leatherette, and it slid in my sweaty hands as we approached the front of the queue.

Mr S sat at a trestle table surrounded by used polystyrene cups and editorial types in batwing sleeves, more keen on hanging out with the pseudo-celeb than manning the makeover table (work experience girls weren’t so lucky). I thrust my green leatherette autograph book in his direction.

“What’s your name?” he asked, for the thousandth time that day, probably.

I don’t know what came over me in the split second between processing the question and opening my mouth, but something clearly did, because I heard myself say, quite clearly “Maggie” which was not - and never had been - my name.

I can only assume that in that, my twelfth summer, I was making the difficult transition from primary to secondary schools, and was perhaps bothered by the prospect of another five years of dealing with Meg - Egg - Peg - Leg - and/or Mog type jokes. Time for a change, to something more sophisticated. Meg was a name for a little girl, while Maggie was a name for a teenager. In fact, a couple of weeks after the open day, I started secondary school and told everyone my name was Maggie - a rash action which sadly stuck, and meant that I spent four and a half years trying to get rid of the nickname again. A politically charged child I may have been, but I somehow managed to miss the fact that we were in Britain in the mid eighties, and public enemy number one was also called Maggie. Oops.

Philip obligingly scrawled his autograph in my little green book - “To Maggie, love Philip Schofield xx” - and that was the last autograph I ever collected. The book remained empty, except for that one scribbled page in the middle, which I was too embarrassed to show anyone - even my mum - because they would have quite rightly pointed out that it was very nice, only it wasn’t actually made out to me. I threw it away a few years later, but my cheeks still glow hotly when I think about it.

I did not have a crush on Philip Schofield. This story is tangential to the subject I intended to approach, which is the true subject of my teenage crush. Where were we?

For a short period between 1985 and 1987, Just Seventeen contained a photo feature page called Hillier’s Hunks, named after then-editor Bev Hillier. Every week, there would be a full-page headshot of a hunk, as requested by all the girls whose names appeared threaded across the bottom of the page. Rob Lowe. Jon Bon Jovi. Morten Harket and Mags Furuhurhurrhurrhurrholmen from A-Ha. Simon Le Bon. Ben Volauvent-Perrier or whatever his name was from Curiosity Killed the Cat. Michael J Fox. Dolph Lundgren. Dolph Lundgren?? Who suggested him, for goodness’ sake?

Regardless, I carefully tore them out, and blu-tacked them in a row to my bedroom wall, in a long row above the bed, not because I fancied Rob or Morten or *shudder* Dolph, but because I thought I ought to. Jane dared me to snog Rob Lowe once, and I did, standing on the bed with my tongue against the wall, even though I didn’t know what I was supposed to be doing. I even had the Hillier’s Hunks pull-out-double-sided-calendar for 1987, though there was a staple puncture-hole in the middle of Stuart Adamson’s forehead, which was sort of unfortunate, though on reflection it could have been a portent of bad things to come. Who can say?

I never bought into any of those pre-packaged hunks, though. They brightened up the room, but they didn’t make me feel anything.

And then there was Larry.

Everything changed on my thirteenth birthday. With a record token I received from some kind relative, I went out to Brent Cross shopping centre to buy a copy of The Joshua Tree, though I forget on whose recommendation. I was transfixed. The music, yeah yeah, that was moving and amazing and all that - but I was thirteen. I loved the music, but I also thought that Larry Mullen Jr was a total hottie.

For a little over a year, my bedroom wall resembled a shrine. I consumed everything I could get my hands on about him and the rest of the band. Posters, articles, pieces torn from magazines and papers, blutacked to the flowered wallpaer, the newspaper edges curling up from where my hands had run over the images and words. Larry. Phwoar.

Of course, at this stage, I hadn’t yet heard him speak, hadn’t yet realised that he wasn’t the sharpest tool in the box. None of that mattered - he was blonde and fit and lovely.

As a byproduct of having a big girlie crush on Larry, I came to love the music. When my feelings for him faded, as they were bound to do (to be replaced briefly by Matti Nykanen and Stefan Edberg in the sporty summer of 1987, and then the darker charms of Morrissey and Robert Smith), my love for the music remained - and for that I am eternally grateful.

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Who was plastered on your walls? Who made your heart dance when they appeared on telly? Whose poster did you pretend to kiss? Who seemed attractive but untouchable?

I’m not talking here about idols or sexual fantasies - but the time before them (if such a time existed), or the person who seemed so appealing for some reason that you could never quite figure out, but beyond posters ripped from Smash Hits (or wherever), you never actually did anything about.

I’m not talking about teachers or classmates either, though you may have fancied them. It’s like innocently fancying without ever being able to have, but not being offput by their unattainability. Idolising without worshipping.

Who was your crush?