Candles in the wind for Michael Jackson. Picture from Dreamstime.com
Candles in the wind for Michael Jackson. Picture from Dreamstime.com
How appalling that so much attention has been diverted from important matters to the death of a faded pop singer. Thousands of poor black people die of disease and starvation every day, and God only knows how much talent is wasted because we couldn’t give a toss about Africa. Instead, people get slightly unhinged because Michael Jackson – a man who so desperately wanted to be white that he blamed a disease for his bizarre appearance – fell off the perch.

That Jackson was, for a while, a genius is beyond doubt. However, like all such unusual people, there were more than a few loose screws rattling about in that peculiar head. He had been reduced to just another fragile butterfly, broken on a wheel. Now that Granny has custody of his strangely produced offspring, can we expect a new Jackson Three – and a smaller scale version of the previous awful mess? Let us hope not. Those kids need to be kept well away from Grandfather Joe, architect of the original disaster, and a person you might like to think carefully about before offering a beer.

How embarrassing that New Zealand’s media devoted so much airtime and newsprint to Jackson’s demise, seeking “local angles” in a pathetic attempt to get in on the final act. The DominionPost, for example, featured two Kiwis who had actually been on stage with the King of Pop for a few seconds, years and years ago – as if that had any relevance to anything. Radio New Zealand National also featured somebody who had been in the audience at a Jackson concert in Paris, Heaven knows when. Her description of the event was touching, but she sounded ever-so-slightly touched as well.

Let’s face it, like some other charismatic figures some of us can recall, Michael Jackson was a talented crackpot suffering from arrested development, whose PR and media circus wielded far too much influence in the world for a little bit too long. He does not appear to have made the slightest difference to the state of mankind, instead wasting his time and his vast earnings on toys, playgrounds and frippery, and producing no music of any note for well over a decade. He may have left us at just about the right time.


Oh, such is our unhealthy fascination with freaks. It also extends to a malign envy of almost anyone who is successful. We raise them up, but we can hardly wait for their downfall. We eagerly anticipate the suicide of a Lotto winner who couldn’t handle it, or the ruination of a thick-headed Rugby star who’s up to no good in a hotel most weekends. Once the hypocritical breast-beating and fake praise for Jackson is over, the media vultures will be picking over the bones of his tortured life, and we will take prurient delight at his exposed remains.


It’s Bad.

Unless you’re one of the nitwits who’ve applied for a free ticket to Jacko’s memorial in Los Angeles, the best advice is probably to get over your terrible loss as soon as pos.

Remember: Like the surviving rock stars and all the others who died far too young, Michael Jackson was nothing more than a travelling minstrel.