Image via WikipediaSo Michael Jackson's dead. I had to switch off the television to stem the tide of grief. It doesn't seem more than ten minutes ago we were all being entertained by the sight of him dangling children over balconies, facing charges of child molestation and struggling to cope with a mountain of debt from an insane lifestyle that his ailing career could no longer maintain. The world gasped as his increasingly macabre visage leered out at them, caked in make-up and scarred by surgery after surgery, a grotesque mannequin piping platitudes in a ridiculous, squeaky-soft voice.
He died two weeks before the massive series of 'comeback' concerts, a 50 year-old man rehearsing, no doubt, to push himself through punishing routines that would defeat a 20 year-old as he put everything he had into that all-consuming gamble to try and win over the world that had turned its back on him. We can only wait and see if it's confirmed that he rehearsed himself to death.
The villagers chanting 'Kill the monster' as they marched on the castle with their burning brands are now clamouring to get in front of the cameras and wail about how they missed the monster and how he wasn't a monster really, but a globe-spanning entertainer that brought joy to millions and whose loss will be felt by the whole world.
And I sat there wondering why these people who had so much love for Michael had stood by as he sank into penury, turning away from him and tutting at the freak show. The outpouring of saccharine grief was, indeed, too much for me to bear.