How Did My Mum Let Me Join the Bubblegum Club?

Filed under: 00s Kids’ Clubs, Glitter Cults, “Mum said it was fine”

I swear there was a time in the early 00s when you could simply fill out a form, lick a stamp, and boom — you were in a nationwide glitter cult. Somewhere between school discos and MSN nudge wars, tiny me managed to join the Bubblegum Club. Membership card. Newsletters. Stickers. The lot. And to this day, my biggest question isn’t “why?” — it’s how did my mum let me join the Bubblegum Club?!

The Memory That Popped (Like Chewing Gum)

It came back to me in a flash: that Bubble newsletter dropping through the letterbox, my name printed like I’d been admitted to a sparkly secret society. I’d sit on the carpet, cross-legged, and read every word like it contained state secrets (it didn’t — it was mostly competitions, cartoons, and sugary vibes). But it felt official. I was a member.

What Even Was the Bubblegum Club?

In kid terms: a pink-tinted passport to quizzes, cartoons, competitions, and the occasional exclusive merch tease. In adult terms: a brand newsletter with great graphic design and even better mind control (the mind being mine, aged 10, extremely persuadable by anything with sparkles).

The Sign-Up Saga (as Remembered by a 00s Child)

See a form in a magazine / catalogue / cereal box (who can say).
Beg Mum for a stamp and possibly a 50p coin for reasons unknown.
Handwriting that looked like a fairy with a gel pen did it.
Post it. Wait. (The hardest part.)
Envelope arrives. I am now legally bound to the Bubblegum Oath (which I’ve forgotten, but I’m sure involved glitter).

The Perks (AKA Why I Was Obsessed)

The Bubble newsletter — colourful chaos you could hold in your hands.
Membership card — proof of identity as a certified glitter goblin.
Competitions — the dream of winning a bedroom makeover I would never, ever tidy.
Stickers — stuck to everything except the designated sticker book.

“Groovy Chick” Brain Scramble

One of my core 00s confusions: how did so many things end up being called Groovy Chick? Bedrooms, stationery, tees — different brands, same vibes. Little me did not care about licensing deals; little me cared that my room was groovy and matched my pencil case. Mission accomplished.

Parental Oversight (or… Not?)

Here’s the thing about 00s mums: they were simultaneously everywhere and nowhere. Mine definitely approved things… but also, the post was involved, so it felt official. If the Royal Mail brought it, surely it was safe? By the time we realised I was subscribed to a sugared-up brand universe, I already had a membership number and a sticker sheet. Case closed, Your Honour.

Daisy says: “Babes, if it came with a laminated card, it was legally binding. That’s the law (of glitter).”

Why It Meant So Much

It wasn’t just merch. It was belonging. A tiny, fizzy thread connecting me to other kids who loved the same colours, the same characters, the same sugary silliness. Joining the Bubblegum Club felt like being seen — in neon pink. Sometimes the smallest memberships feel like the biggest “you’re in” moments.

Relics from the Pink Archive

Membership card: probably still in a childhood tin somewhere, living its best retired life.
Sticker sheet: used “responsibly” (on the wardrobe, the mirror, and the TV remote).
Newsletters: read to shreds, then carefully stacked like treasures.

The Verdict

How did my mum let me join the Bubblegum Club? Because it was the 00s, darling. We mailed forms, trusted mascots, and treated every glossy leaflet like a VIP pass. And honestly? I’m glad she did. It’s one of those funny, fizzy memories that tastes like strawberry lip balm and sounds like a TV ad break.

Your Turn: Confess Your 00s Clubs

Were you Bubblegum Club too? Groovy Chick stans, show yourselves. Did you collect membership cards like Pokémon? Drop your memories in the comments — tell me what you joined, what you won (if anything!), and whether your mum also signed it off with a “go on then.”

P.S. If anyone still has their membership card, I’m prepared to trade one (1) BN biscuit and eternal admiration for a photo.