Michael Jackson is dead.
He was only 50.
He was arguably the worlds most famous man and he changed the face of popular culture and music. His death was sudden, unexpected and only a fortnight away from starting the first of 50
( count them ) gigs at the O2 arena.
A few weeks ago, I predicted that Michael wouldn't fulfil his obligations to the O2. The most recent sightings revealed a frail man; alabaster skin, sunken eyes, destroyed nose. But more importantly was the empty, expressionless face, partly created by surgery, partly by unknown psychological hurts created a lifetime ago when a sweet faced little boy from Indiana was already being primed for superstardom whether he wanted it or not. Any chance of a normal childhood was dashed against the wall.
He was never found guilty of any of the claims levelled against him. But ever since he opted to pay Jordan Chandler 18 million dollars instead of stand up in a courtroom and defend himself, the way he was forced to do later with Gavin Arvizo, his career was over. And with it, the weight of public opinion pointed towards his guilt. It's a cliche, but also an eternal truth. Mud sticks.
And on Thursday evening, when the news broke on SKY, I remembered the Michael I loved in the 1980's. He was a very precitable idol. The most famous man in pop ! But I happily jumped on the Jackson bandwagon and listened to his music for hours and hours, day after happy day.
I saved for weeks so I could go out and buy everything Jackson related ( all on cassette not CD !) and can vividly remember walking into Woolworths ( another dead icon ) on Victoria Road West in Cleveleys with a stash of coins ready to hand over in exchange for BAD, Michael's newest record at the time when my adulation was at its height. I thought he was utterly gorgeous back then, despite the fact that the beautiful black man from the Thriller era had transformed into a much paler version with stretched caucasion features. My Mum, sisters and friends mocked my teenaged crush asking how I could fancy 'that weirdo', but I did. I loved his eccentricity, his damned untouchable starriness and those sexy as hell dance moves.
I adored Michael and spent hours on the phone to my friend Gavin
( who later became my husband !) boring him with the ever more flowery details of my irrepressible fixation.
A fortnight ago, I spent a couple of hours organising a memory box from my teens, which was crammed full of MJ memorabilia, including the huge BAD poster which adorned my bedroom wall for many months. These items had sat untouched in a box for years.
I cried when Michael died. I don't care if this is insincere, silly, misplaced or another example of so-called 'misery porn' a term the media uses to describe collective grief on an inordinately grand scale. I know my feelings were authentic, heartfelt and sincere. What makes me the saddest is that this man, who brightened my teenage years beyond measure, seemed so utterly heartbreakingly miserable. He lived in a sealed world, a lonely world, a judgmental world.
He never seemed easy with the global adulation which was the inevitable byproduct of his immense talent. He always had a haunted expression, a distant air about him. He was a wreck, in the end. I can't believe he died so young. I can't believe I never saw him in concert. I can't believe that his children will grow up without a Dad.
And I am angry at some sections of the popular press, who have decided that it's macabre and inappropriate to express sadness at the death of someone we have never met.
They can kiss my ass.
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