Michael

Well – he made it to Greenwich once – to wave – which is my excuse for being sad on here today. But fifty gigs was always going to be too much for someone so very weak. I didn’t have a ticket for the tour. I assumed the chances of my actually seeing him were slim – that he’d just pull out after a couple of dates through exhaustion – I didn’t expect the guy to die. No one expects superstars to die.

Hell. I grew up with Michael Jackson. Not literally, of course. That would be silly. But I don’t remember a time in my childhood without him. My sister bought the presciently-titled Off The Wall and she seemed so grown up. It’s still my favourite Jackson album.

This is off-topic so I’m going to stop before the Michael-isn’t-really-dead conspiracy theories begin. But however nutty he was in later life, whatever he may or may not have done to others – and himself, however dodgy one or two of his later songs might have been, he was an important part of my younger childhood. I’ll remember him as the happy little black kid from the Jackson Five, not the sad little ‘white’ kid walled up in Neverland.


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