Bros: When the Screaming Started ( The story of a Brosette )

I’ve only just got round to watching Bros: After The Screaming Stops,  in the last couple of weeks.

Back in the band’s heyday – the late 1980s seeing Bros reach the  peak of their success – I could never have imagined waiting weeks to  watch something starring my idols. 

As I touched on briefly in in The Soundtrack of my Life: Bros came along and I was smitten… The full shebang, the whole  teeny-bopper cliche, that was me in spades; once those pretty boys  burst onto the pop scene I was a goner.

I was nothing short of obsessed. And I was far from alone. Hordes of teenage girls around the globe were as dazzled as I by the dashing  Goss twins from South East London, and their one-time sidekick, Craig  Logan.


The song that started it all off, When will I be famous reached number  two on the UK singles chart in 1987. I can clearly recall hearing it  on the radio for the first time when on a sleepover at a friend’s  house. All I can remember, from that day, is thinking that the lead  singer sounded like a girl. Perhaps I was listening to the backing  vocalist’s part at the time…


I can’t actually remember anything in between that first time I heard Bros first hit, and falling for them hook, line and sinker. Matt  Goss, in particular. As I touched upon in my musings on Missing George  Michael: I’m not exaggerating when I say that I felt, then, that if I didn’t  meet, marry and live happily ever after with Matt Goss, I might as  well die. To my eternal embarrassment now, I do – really clearly –  remember thinking that (*hangs head in shame*).

I loved all three, though. I really did, and can actually recall  sobbing my heart out when I heard that Craig wasn’t going to be at the  upcoming concert at Whitley Bay Ice Rink. My mam asked me what was the  matter – and I snapped at her for not knowing. Of course it was the  end of the world – and Craig wasn’t even my favourite.


It’s difficult to picture now, as a forty-something wife, mother and  homeowner, the sheer levels of hysteria that Bros induced  at the very height of their fame.

Their late mother, Carol, deserved a medal for what she put up with.  You would hear whispers, through the fan network, that someone had got  hold of their home phone number. There were no mobile phones to speak  of and no internet then, all fans could do was camp out by their  mother’s house – and they did just that. Armies of them. Apparently  Carol simply smiled and served up cups of tea and bacon sarnie. What a  woman. No wonder those boys miss her so.

Then, one day, it was announced that Bros were coming to the North  East, to play Whitley Bay Ice Rink. I was going, of course. My cousin  and I spent all out free time listening to, talking about and  generally obsessing over Bros, so it was a foregone conclusion that we  had to get tickets.


With no online sales in those days, our only option was to queue  outside Newcastle City Hall from the early hours. We were up at some  insane hour to make our way to the box office, yet the queue was still  already so, so long. When it did finally start to move, Chinese  whispers made their way back along the line, filling us with fear that  the tickets would be long gone by the time we made it to the front.

Enter our knight in shining armour. I’ll let him remain anonymous, but suffice to say he knew just the right people. He plucked our wads of  notes from our fingers and disappeared through the throng ahead. A  little later – though it certainly seemed like an eternity – he  returned and wordlessly withdrew us from the line, trying not to  attract any attention.

He’d secured us our two tickets. We were finally going to see our  darlings. In the flesh.


As well as dreaming of the day Matt would finally turn to me, smile  and get down on one knee, I spent a lot of time (and a considerable  sum of money) tracking down rare 12 and 7 inch records. Ah, those  halcyon days of vinyl. What pleasure there was to be had, rifling  through the racks at Grainger Market or Pet Sounds in Newcastle,  unearthing a hidden treasure like a limited edition sleeve, special 12  ” remix or complete, sealed 7″ badge pack.

I’d take my precious finds back home on the bus, clutching the carrier  bag tightly. When I was back in my room, my fortress, I’d play them on  my record player, revelling in the heady sensation of possessing  something rare.

If they were badge packs, however, they stayed intact, and still do to  this day. Somewhere, up in our loft, they are stashed, waiting for  that day when they might see daylight once more.

If the latest Bros news is anything to go by, they might even be worth  money. Rumour has it that the brothers are in talks with a huge record  company, with a brand new deal in the offing. If they prove true, who  knows. I might be digging out that vinyl and giving it another spin.  Or a first spin, even, in the case of the sealed packs. If it’s not  worth a mint, that is…


Fashion was all part and parcel of being a Bros-ette (or Brole as the  males were known, though they seemed to me to be few and far between).  The uniform was a faded, ripped Levi 501s with funky belt buckles,  worn with black Doc Martens. No ordinary DMs, though – they had to be  fastened with a Grolsch bottle top instead of laces, just like Matt,  Luke and Craig’s were. No, I’ve no idea why, either.

I did the 501s, I did the shoes, I had Bros t-shirts – but I drew the  line at the bottle tops. Or perhaps I just didn’t know anyone, then,  who drank dutch beer…


It didn’t last forever, of course. I saw my heroes Bros live – and was  lucky enough to get to go again (yep, that mystery knight delivered  once more). I screamed myself hoarse, happy just too have been in the  same room as the twins. Even though, before the concert, I’d been  plotting how to meet them and wondering how on earth I’d cope if that  didn’t happen.

My letter was printed in the fan club newsletter – no I’m not sharing! Thank you the ‘Bros Front’. Battlelines were certainly drawn. Fans  could get very competitive where their boys were concerned, and  Shirley Lewis, Luke’s now-wife, was an object of huge hate and  derision. Just borne from jealousy, that’s all.

By the time the second Bros album was released, my interest was starting  to wane. University beckoned, along with my first real love. Life went  on, and I don’t think I even bought the third album, Changing Faces.

It wasn’t just me. Sales of Push, their first album, were  stratospheric. (Not surprising perhaps, as I, like many fans bought it  twice: as part of a Limited Edition ‘Christmas Box’ second time  round.) The Time plummeted in comparison, then 1991’s Changing Faces  sold far fewer than that. In 1992, Bros went their separate ways.


I didn’t get tickets for the Bros Reunion gig at the O2 in 2017. I didn’t  really want to. Whenever I’ve tried to relive some sort of glory days  in my life, it’s just never been the same second time around. I didn’t  want to sully the memory of those happy, late 80s days.

When I watched When The Screaming Stops, though, I did feel a pang of regret. What must it have been like, to stand there before the boys  once more, at the mighty O2? ‘totes emosh’ is the modern-day adjective  that springs to mind. The crowd certainly looked like they enjoyed it.

I’ll always have a fondness for Matt, and Luke – and Craig too. Will I  ever see them perform again, or finally open up those badge packs I so treasured? Who knows. They do seem like lovely, humble individuals. Damaged, too? Unquestionably. A little intense, perhaps in Matt’s  case; while Luke appeared a little too cool.

They sure did pay a price for their fame, and I only hope this return  works out as they hope. If it repairs the brothers’ fractured  relationship, then I’m sure they would consider it worthwhile.


This article was written by our guest blogger Polly Taylor @

Check out Polly’s very eclectic blog……There are some very entertaining and informative articles on a diverse range of subjects & topics. For instance her home made recipes are mouth watering and delicious!!


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